Show Time (7 page)

T
he salon was a cacophony of sound, as usual: telephone ringing, dryers whirring, laughter rising and falling, and Carol, talking over it all to a customer getting her hair colored. She motioned to me to join her.

“Dodie, this is Monica Jenkins. Rita's cousin.” Carol daubed a brownish mixture on Monica's roots and around her hairline. She must be graying early. She couldn't be more than late thirties.

“Hello,” I said politely.

“She lives on Ellison,” Carol said.

“So you're Jerome Angleton's neighbor?”

Monica squinted and held her glasses to her face, careful to avoid the hair dye on her forehead as she stared at me through the mirror.
“Was.”
Her voice was raspy. A current or former smoker.

“Right. He was a friend of mine.” I paused. “Did you know him well?”

“I only lived on Ellison for the last year. But I saw him come and go.” She shifted her attention to Carol. “Don't forget that spot on the top of my head.”

Carol nodded patiently.

“I miss him.”

“I didn't know him well enough to miss him. Said hi now and then.” Monica dropped her glasses into her lap.

“Carol mentioned that your cousin”—we all turned to see Rita massaging the scalp of a customer, lather up her arms—“said you'd seen a woman visiting Jerome last month.”

“That's right.”

“You were on your porch?” I asked.

“That's right. I get home from work about five. This was probably... five-thirty or six. I like to have a beer and sit in my swing at the end of the day.”

“Uh-huh. And you saw this woman arrive?”

“Pulled up in her car and went into the house.”

“Can you tell me anything about her? Had you ever seen her visiting Jerome before? What did she look like?”

“Nope. Average.”

Hard to believe Monica lived in Etonville, where everyone had something to say about everything.

“Can you describe her?”

“I'd say seventy, gray hair, done up in a ...” She made a swirl with one hand.

“A bun?”

“No, higher up her head.”

“A French twist?” Carol said.

“Yep, that's it. With glasses around her neck.”

I supposed that could describe quite a few folks in Etonville.

“Kind of like a librarian,” Monica said.

“And you hadn't seen her before?”

“Just that once.”

“What kind of car was she driving? Did they leave together?”

“Dark. Maybe ... black or blue. I don't pay much attention to brands.”

I smiled. “Me neither. My car's nine years old.”

“She was in Jerome's place for maybe ten minutes. Then they came out and got in the car and left.” Monica picked up a
People
magazine.

Then it occurred to me that Jerome was a renter. “Did you know Jerome's landlord?”

Monica looked up from a two page spread on Lady Gaga. “Landlady. Betty Everly. Kind of a pill. But her father's a friendly old guy. Waves hello in the morning when he picks up the newspaper. He spends the whole day staring out the front window while his daughter's working.”

“Well, thanks for the information.”

Carol scraped the last drops from the dye container, and Monica rotated in her seat to face me directly. “Know what I think? There's a new element moving into Etonville. I think maybe it was a gang member from New York who committed the murder,” she said.

“Really?” I loved this town, but sometimes it was just too wacky for words. “Well, that's a theory.”

* * *

I hustled to get to the Windjammer. Business was booming so I helped Benny cover the bar and seated folks and answered the phone for take-out orders.

By one-thirty there was a lull in the traffic and I hid in the kitchen to grab a bite to eat and get a break from customers. Today's lunch special was Henry's secret burger: one part barbecue sauce, one part avocado and cilantro, and one part who-knew-what. It was delicious.

I put my hand on the door to the dining room and peeked out the tiny window. At the bar was Chief Thompson, taking off his cap and running a hand over his bristly brush cut. He smiled as he gave an order to Gillian, who tilted her spiky streaked head and leaned provocatively across the bar in response.
Geez
.

I pushed open the door with authority.

“Chief Thompson,” I said brightly, though businesslike.

“Ms. O'Dell. Nice to see you again.”

“Get you anything to drink?” I put one hand possessively on the beer tap.

He shook his head. “On duty,” he said ruefully. “I'll take a club soda.”

“Coming right up.” I handed him his drink and watched him take a sip.

“So how goes the investigation?” I asked.

“Nothing new to report so far,” he said evasively.

“I hear they're planning a funeral service soon. Lola Tripper at the ELT is arranging it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Thanks. I hadn't heard.”

Henry stuck his head out the kitchen door, plate in hand.

“I'll get it,” I said to Gillian.

I placed Bill's secret burger carefully in front of him, edging his club soda to one side. “There you go,” I said and noticed that he had no rings on his fingers. The girls at Snippets were probably right: no attachments.

“Thanks.” He positioned his napkin on his lap.

“Good idea. They're a little bit sloppy.”

He nodded and took a bite.

“But tasty. Let me know if you need anything else.” I started to head to the kitchen.

“Listen, I know you were friends with Mr. Angleton. I'd appreciate it if you could clue me in on any personal information you might hear. It could shed some light on the case.” He fixed those laser-like eyes on my flushed face and stretchy knit top.

My heart skipped a beat, and a warm sphere glowed in my chest. I debated. Was now the time to share what I'd learned? “Well, now that you mention it, I have been hearing a few things. . . .”

“Oh?” He studied my face. “Why don't you stop by the office later today. What time do you get off?”

Was he making a date or setting up a business meeting? “I take a break around three. How's that sound?”

“I'll be there.”

* * *

At three o'clock, I coasted down Amber Street and stopped in front of a one-story red brick building dating from the late 1700s, tucked between JC's Hardware and Betty's Boutique, which featured high-end women's lingerie. It was a mini version of Victoria's Secret, minus leopard-skin thongs and red lace bustiers. The R
ESERVED FOR
C
HIEF
parking space was occupied.

I swung my bag over my shoulder and opened the front door of the Municipal Building, coming face-to-face with Etonville's Hall of Fame: a wall of photos, trophies, and certificates honoring past and present citizens for memorable feats. There were statuettes for the town's winning softball teams and certificates of merit from the state police, and in the middle was an eleven-by-seventeen of Chief Bull Bennett, smiling from ear to ear and showing off a thirty-pound bass that he had reeled in at Elmwood Lake.

“I guess he was quite the character.”

I whipped around. “Oh, h-hi,” I stuttered as though caught in an illicit activity

One side of Chief Thompson's mouth ticked upward in a crooked grin. Those eyes were mesmerizing.

“Let's go to my office,” he said, and strode off.

To our left was a hallway that led to the town clerk's office, which dispensed everything from dog tags and yard sale permits to marriage and fishing licenses. I followed the chief to the right, past the dispatcher's window.

“Hi, Dodie,” dispatcher Edna May called out. Being responsible for 911 calls, she knew everything and everyone in Etonville. “I hear you're going to be running rehearsals. Good thing. Penny is the most—”

“I'm not really—”

“You know, I'm a Lady-in-Waiting,” she said, pleased.

“Congratulations.”

“No lines yet, but Walter said, ‘Wait and see.'”

Whatever that meant.

“What's Henry's special tonight?” She shoved a pencil into the brownish bun perched atop her head. Edna was downright skinny and had an appetite that was legend. Half the women in Etonville were jealous of her. She had been the most efficient aspect of the police department under Bull's watch. But I had the feeling things were a little different around here now.

“It's a surprise,” I answered and kept Chief Thompson's frame in sight: broad shoulders, slim hips, and a uniform that fit like a glove. We entered the outer office of the department, where an officer sat at a computer terminal, head bent over a keyboard that was surrounded by three monitors. Floors gleamed and Lysol freshened the air.

“Suki, bring in that file on Jerome Angleton, please,” he said, and a young Asian woman lifted her head. I recognized her from the crime scene. Suki Shung.

I nodded and smiled at her. She responded with an enigmatic expression that cut off any attempt at pleasantries. The atmosphere had changed noticeably at the station. No trace of Bull's bonhomie and good-natured clutter.

We entered the chief's inner office and he indicated that I should sit in a chair opposite his desk, which was as neatly arranged as Suki's. “So . . . you've been hearing some things? About Jerome Angleton?”

A knock at the door. “Enter,” he said.

Suki appeared, file in hand. She silently placed the folder on Bill's desk and turned to leave. “Thanks. Let me know when Ralph returns.”

She nodded and quietly closed the door.

“A woman of few words,” I said lightly. “Almost . . . serene.”

“She's a Buddhist.”

“A Buddhist cop. Wow.”

“Also a martial arts black belt. Suki's a solid professional.”

Unlike Etonville's other full-time officer. Ralph had been Bull's fishing buddy, drinking partner, and poker pal. His attitude was laissez-faire and his work habits less than professional, but he was an agreeable guy.

“I can see that,” I said.

“We worked together before.”

I waited for him to continue, but he sat back in the desk chair and crossed his arms. “So, Jerome?”

“Right. Well, you know small-town life.”

“I'm beginning to,” he chuckled.

“It turns out that one of the shampoo girls at Snippets—that's a hair salon . . .”

“Got it.”

“She has a cousin who lives on Ellison Street. A few doors down from the place where Jerome lived.”

He nodded politely so I filled him in: Monica Jenkins on the front porch swing drinking a beer and a mystery woman dropping by to pick Jerome up. I couldn't offer much by way of description of either the woman or the car. But Chief Thompson frowned as I spoke, nodding occasionally. When I finished, he wrote down Monica's name.

“Do you think finding this woman might help the investigation?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I drove by his house the other night.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I'm not sure why.”

Chief Thompson opened Jerome's file and studied its contents. “You were close to him?” he asked softly.

When he looked up again, after a minute, my eyes were full. “Just a good friend. I don't want to get in the way, but I'd like to help. If I can.”

The chief tapped his index finger against the file, then carefully closed it. “Okay. Thanks for stopping in. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

As an afterthought, I added, “The other night when I drove by, another car also drove down Ellison and stopped near Jerome's place. It was an SUV. A big one.”

Chief Thompson made a note.

“Maybe it was just a coincidence.”

He nodded and I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and walked to the door. At least I
thought
it was the entrance to the hallway. I entered a tiny room that had served as Bull's office kitchen; I'd delivered dinner here once and it had been chock-full of pastry boxes, take-out containers from fast-food joints on the highway, and dirty dishes. And Ralph stuffing his mouth. But all hints of Bull's epicurean excesses had been replaced with neat piles of stationery, a fax machine, and evidence cartons.

“Oops,” I said and backed away from the door.

“Been a few changes around here,” the chief said. I could hear, rather than see, the corner of his mouth sneak upward again.

I shut the office door behind me.

* * *

On my days off, I liked to sleep in, do my laundry, catch up with errands, and maybe get in a chapter or two of my latest thriller. But today I decided to clean house and invite Carol and Lola—and Pauli, who was dropping by after school to show me his ideas for the Windjammer website—for an early dinner.

By five o'clock, I was facing Pauli and his laptop at my dining room table. “Wow. Looking good. I like what you've done with the menus.” I perused various pages while he basked in the glow of my praise.

The doorbell rang. “That must be your mom.”

Carol bustled in the door. “I hope you're hungry,” she announced. “I made lasagna.” She went to work heating up the food and scrounged around in my refrigerator for the makings of a salad while I set the dining room table with my great aunt Maureen's silver and my most elegant paper napkins.