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“I'll take it under advisement.” He put a somewhat possessive hand on Lola's arm.

I
slept fitfully, waking every hour until I finally passed out around 2
AM
. Then I awoke with a start. My landline was ringing and the digital alarm read seven o'clock. I closed my eyes and pulled the pillow over my head, hoping the caller would go away, and waited for the voice mail to kick in.

“Dodie? It's Lola.” Her voice cracked as if she'd been crying.

I was wide awake now. My hand searched for the receiver and I lifted it off the base. “Lola? Are you okay?” I said, an octave lower than I would speak in an hour.

“I'm sorry to call this early. There's been some . . . trouble at the theater.”

“What's going on?”

“The police are here.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, Dodie, I don't know how to tell you. . . .”

“Just say it quickly.”

“Jerome is dead.”

“Oh my God. How? Where?”

She started to cry. “I went home at midnight, but Walter stayed to finish casting the play, you know. . . .”

“And so?” I desperately wanted to believe that her story was a nightmare that I would awaken from.

“He said he left at one.”

“When did they . . . ?”

“It was horrible. The garbage men came to empty the Dumpster on the loading dock this morning . . . and found him.”

I could hear her breathing deeply and I felt my eyes tear up. Jerome was only a Windjammer acquaintance, but I felt like I'd gotten to know him. Besides, he was such a nice guy.

“What was Jerome doing on the loading dock? Was it a heart attack or something?”

“Dodie, Jerome was murdered.”

* * *

I elicited a bit more information from Lola before she broke down completely. According to Walter, who had gotten it from the garbage guys, Jerome had been lying face down on the cement. They'd thought he had fallen asleep out there at first, but when they'd seen a patch of dried blood on the left side of his torso, they'd called the police, who had notified Walter, who had called Lola for moral support.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and my Irish knit sweater, grabbed a hoodie and car keys, and sped out the door. A glimmer of sunlight peeked tentatively from a layer of clouds, as if asking permission to shine. I drove to the theater and considered my last conversation with Jerome. Who in the world would want to hurt him? Jerome was a real gentleman, in the old-fashioned sense.

I stopped my Metro a few doors down from the theater as the spaces in front were occupied: two Etonville black-and-white police vehicles, a police van, and an ambulance. A small group of townspeople had gathered to check out the excitement. I made my way through the crowd and approached an officer who was working security.

“I need to go in,” I said.

“Sorry. This is a crime scene,” Officer Suki Shung said, putting up one hand to prevent me from entering the theater. I knew Suki was new, the first woman to join the force.

“I spoke with him last night. I saw him a few days ago.” I gulped fresh air. “I was a friend of his. I'm part of the theater group.”

She studied me some more, asked me my name, then spoke into a walkie-talkie. Within seconds, Lola burst out the front door and threw her arms around my neck. We hugged tightly.

“Dodie knew Jerome. She needs to speak to the chief.”

Officer Shung's walkie-talkie crackled, and she turned her back on us. She listened, then nodded. “Go ahead.”

We scuttled past her, opened the door to the theater, and had barely taken a step into the building when we were accosted by Penny. “Can you believe it? Jerome? “I'll be in the theater if anybody needs me.”

“How did Penny get here so soon?” I asked as she scooted away. Penny had a way of always being where the action was, like a GPS system that tracked trouble.

“Walter must have called her.”

I knocked on Walter's office door, and we slowly pushed it open.

Two desks, piled high with papers, scripts, assorted props, and a few costumes, sat facing each other like boxers squaring off for a match. One was Walter's; the other was generally occupied by Penny or Lola. A fax machine hummed, then spat out a sheet of paper. Birds' nattering floated in through an open window, but otherwise, stillness.

Lola joined Walter on the sofa, next to a box of Kleenex. His head was in his hands as he faced an officer, apparently answering questions.

“Excuse me. Officer Shung told me it was okay—”

The officer pulled out a desk chair and offered me a seat. “Chief Thompson,” he said abruptly.

Chief Bill Thompson was new to Etonville, having arrived only three months ago. I'd met him briefly when he'd stopped by the Windjammer a few times for lunch. His predecessor, Chief Angus “Bull” Bennett, had died with his boots on—literally. At sixty-eight, he had dropped over dead while fishing, knee deep in waders, in the old Ridgewood Reservoir. Bull had been well-loved. Of course, the worst things he'd had to handle were wrangling a few rowdy kids from the high school on Saturday night as they trolled through town looking for fun or keeping Etonville's two meter maids from killing each other over territorial disputes or investigating the odd accident down on the highway.

“She said you knew the victim, Ms. O'Donnell, right?”

“O'Dell. Yes, I did.”

I sized up the new chief: a ruddy complexion with a golden brush cut and tight-fitting uniform. He was attractive and built like a running back. In fact, I'd heard that he had had a short-lived career as a professional football player before he entered law enforcement in Philadelphia.

“We all did.” Lola nodded. Walter was now resting his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

“I understand he was here last night at auditions. Can you tell me what time he came and when he left?” His deep blue eyes looked right through me. I had to blink a few times.

Penny's explanation of theater time versus life time sprang into my head. “He arrived a little late, about eight-thirty. I didn't see him leave.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“Briefly. I gave him a scene to take a look at. He read for the Prince of Verona. . . .”

“Uh-huh,” he said and jotted a note in a pad he was holding. Was it significant that Jerome would have probably been cast as the aristocratic head of the Italian state? “How did he seem? Was he disturbed? Agitated?” Chief Thompson asked.

“Not really. Well, maybe a little.” I glanced at Lola, who was holding Walter's hand, and shrugged. “Jerome was . . . pleasant. Gentle.” I paused and remembered our conversation that night at the Windjammer. “We both liked mysteries and thrillers. We traded books back and forth. In fact, he brought me the latest—”

“Agitated how?” the chief asked, getting back to last night.

I had to tell the truth. I related as many details as I could recollect from that night before at the Windjammer. Walter looked guilty and nervous. Chief Thompson fixed his steely eyes on him and stated firmly that he should have filed a police report if he hadn't found the money within twenty-four hours.

Walter shifted from guilty to sheepish. “I understand. We have these kinds of bookkeeping issues periodically. I'll search one final time and come by the station if I don't find anything today.” He smiled weakly.

Lola crossed her arms and watched an early spring fly that was zooming around the office looking for a way out. Probably how Walter felt.

“I'll need you to stop by anyway to go over a few details,” the chief said.

“I could get together a list of people who were here to audition,” I offered. “We have sheets on—”

“Thanks, but I'll have one of my officers follow up with Walter.” He frowned at his notebook. “I guess that's it for now.”

* * *

I let myself into the Windjammer, put on the coffee, and plunked down into my “office,” the back booth by the kitchen door. It was 9
AM
. The restaurant wouldn't be open for two hours yet; the staff wouldn't even show up for another half hour or so. I was grateful for the quiet time alone. Jerome. My eyes welled up. It was the first time since Lola's call woke me that I could actually sit and contemplate the enormity of the morning's events. It was all so shocking.

I sipped from the scalding mug and closed my eyes. I could see Jerome's face, strangely lit up, as he confided that he was not all that concerned about the missing money.

My cell clanged and I jumped. I checked the caller ID. “Hi, Carol.”

“Oh, Dodie, it's just terrible. Poor man,” she said.

Word traveled faster than the speed of light in Etonville. “I guess you heard from Lola?”

“Lola? No. Snippets is buzzing with the news. I heard Bill Thompson interrogated you.”

I could hear the hum of hair dryers in the background. “Well, he asked me a few questions.”

Carol lowered her voice. “Do they have any suspects? You know there hasn't been a murder in Etonville since . . .” She paused to think. “Maybe 1980, '81?”

I'd heard about that one. A hold-up gone awry and the owner of the gas station on the edge of town bludgeoned to death. A pretty grisly affair. “I know. It's just hard to imagine who would want to hurt Jerome.”

Silence on the line for a moment.

“I didn't know him. According to the gals in Snippets, no one really knew much about him. He never married. He had a great reputation as a teacher.”

“He always wore sneakers. Weird for a man his age,” I said.

“Okay . . .”

“That's not much background. He liked Chivas Regal . . . and mysteries,” I said.

Was that all I knew about him? We'd spent hours talking about books and writers, but nothing else.

“Is Lola okay? She must be devastated.”

“She's pretty upset. Walter is too.”

The front door opened. “Carol, Henry's here. Got to run.”

She paused. “Did you get a chance to ask Henry about the website? Pauli's ready when you are.”

“Not yet.”

“He's really terrific on this website stuff. It forces him to talk to people.”

Not the nerd herd he usually runs with
, I thought.

“I'll have to get back to you. Bye.” I clicked off and I took a breath before easing out of the booth.

Henry stood by the bar and took a ball cap off his bald head. “Heard about Jerome. Bad business,” he said.

That was as demonstrative as Henry was going to get. Unlike Etonville.

* * *

Jerome's murder was all anyone in the Windjammer could talk about. Benny hopped from the bar to tables to back up our server Gillian, and I rode shotgun on the kitchen to keep the crowd from getting testy. In between, I picked up strands of conversation:

“... he was shot three times ...”

“... he was robbed of hundreds of dollars ...”

“... he was found lying on top of the Dumpster ...”

The rumors were bouncing off the walls like bumper cars at the state fair. So many rumors it was impossible to take them all in. I gave up even thinking of trying and focused on today's specials: grilled Caesar salad, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes. I hated to admit it, but Jerome's murder was good for business: everyone was out and about and, apparently, hungry.

“Dodie, we heard you were the first person Chief Thompson interrogated,” a lady said and speared a chunk of meat loaf. I recognized her as one half of the elderly Banger sisters duo. I knew their reputation for being a little dotty and Etonville's most enthusiastic gossipmongers.

“Well, I wasn't really the first—”

“I heard Jerome was drunk,” her sister whispered.

Who in the world was spreading that bit of gossip?

“Do you think it had anything to do with the casting of
Romeo and Juliet
? After all, the competition was fierce,” the first sister said. The other nodded and both of them looked at me expectantly.

I gritted my teeth. “I'm pretty sure the play had nothing to do with Jerome's death.”

* * *

I was worn down to a nub by the end of lunch, tired of fending off ridiculous theories on Jerome's murder, tired of soothing Henry's ruffled feathers when a patron sent his meat loaf back to the kitchen because it was too salty. In addition to helping organize the menu and managing staff, I also made sure Henry stayed away from customers on his grumpy days.

Henry planned to serve French onion soup for dinner. I knew he had a dentist's appointment—he'd been complaining about a toothache all week—so I offered to help Enrico with the prep work and sent him off to seek a cure. Benny had the dining room in hand so I wrapped myself in one of Henry's aprons, picked up his prized tool—an eight-inch chef's knife—and faced a mound of red onions. Normally, I never lifted a utensil in the kitchen, but this wasn't a normal day. I began to peel and chop, and before too long, streams of water coursed down my cheeks. I stopped to blow my dripping nose and wipe my eyes, but the tears were undeterred, running down my chin and dropping onto my neck. Unexpectedly, I began to feel really bad, sad for Jerome, sad for my loss, and I cried—not just because of the onions, but because I had lost a friend. Enrico glanced my way discreetly and then went back to marinating chicken.

After about twenty minutes of crying and mincing, I calmed down. All of Etonville's theories on Jerome's death got me thinking. What if the missing box-office money was connected to Jerome's murder? Could he have discovered the culprit, who then killed him to keep him quiet? Did any of it involve Walter? I wondered. I was beginning to discover that Jerome's death was like a gnat bite that required scratching.