I practically dragged Lola to my MC. Once we’d slammed the doors and I eased away from the curb, the old woman watching us make our escape, I said, “I can explain.” On the ride back to Etonville, I filled Lola in on the digital forensics work Pauli had done with the obituaries.
“I can’t believe it. Pauli got all this information on those seventeen, then you happened to find that one of them…Barbara Mercer…made regular trips to New Jersey. We come here on a whim… and now the ‘Johnsons’ might be…?”
“The Villariases?” I said.
“And Barbara Mercer was Carlos’s mother.” Lola was bewildered. “What does it all mean?”
When you put it that way… “Not a clue,” I admitted. “It started with that sheet of newspaper we found in his bedroom, and then it kind of mushroomed from there. Especially when I found out that he had the same name as that Spanish actor who played Dracula.” I apologized for deceiving Lola about the purpose of our trip to Lennox.
“When I asked you to look into Carlos’s background, I was hoping for an uncomplicated explanation for his meeting with the guy in the Grim Reaper costume. Who turned out to be a hitman from out-of-town.” She tugged on a strand of hair. “But this…”
“I know you’re worried about Carlos and the show. The cause of death of the mob guy has been made public...” I had no intention of sharing Bill’s concerns about the tox screen and his intention to delve into Daryl Wolf’s blood tests. “…so there’s no need to worry about Carlos’s meeting with him Halloween night.” I fervently hoped that was true.
“It’s so bizarre. Carlos with the same name as the Spanish actor. Carlos and his supposed mother, Barbara Mercer.” She paused. “And his real name is…”
“Mark Johnson.”
“But you said the obit listed her son as Ethan Mercer,” Lola persisted.
“Maybe she had two sons?”
“With different names?” Lola asked.
We rode in silence until we’d arrived at the periphery of Etonville, the Lennox experience having disturbed both of us.
“What happened to Mark Johnson’s son,” Lola said.
“You mean Carlos’s son.”
“Why would Carlos and Bella change their names?” she asked. “If they did.”
That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.
Lola turned in her seat to face me. “What do you plan to do with what you discovered?”
“Nothing. It’s not a crime to change your name. There might be a ton of good reasons the Johnsons became the Villariases.” I wondered about that.
“Can we keep this between us for now?” Lola asked.
I took Lola home, then stopped at the Shop N Go to pick up salad fixings for Bill’s chili dinner and cruised the streets of Etonville. Pauli’s digging had resolved one issue—the probable significance of the Daily Herald—but had raised another huge one. The true identity of the Johnson/Villarias family. It had no bearing on Bill’s investigation of the victim, so there was no harm in honoring Lola’s request. But the accumulation of “data points,” as Pauli would have said, was unsettling. The name change, the Chicago connections, the Grim Reaper on Halloween… Never mind, I told myself. I needed to refocus my energy on wedding plans and leave the Villariases to work out their past and present.
* * * *
By the time I got back to Bill’s place, he was already settled into his favorite recliner, beer and chips in hand. The delicious aroma of chili bubbling in a pot wafted out of the kitchen.
“Hey, it’s kickoff time. Where’ve you been?” he asked.
I planted a kiss on the top of his head. “Chili smells delicious. Lola and I did a little reconnaissance—”
“Don’t tell me. A wedding venue, right?” He chuckled. “You two have had your heads together on this.”
Wow. That was easy. I was prepared to tap dance around my disappearance this afternoon. Lola and I did have our heads together today…just not about our nuptials. “How’d you guess?”
I perched on the arm of his easy chair. “We should decide how big we want this thing to be. Fifty people? A hundred? A hundred and fifty?”
Bill hit the release arm on the recliner and popped forward. “A hundred and fifty? We’re not inviting the entire town of Etonville, are we?”
“Nope. And I’m good with a small affair.” I ruffled the spikes of his brush cut, now standing at attention. “If it wasn’t for my mother, I’d be into a trip to Vegas. And we need a date.”
Bill peeked over my shoulder. The game was underway. The New York Giants had taken the field against one of their archrivals, the Philadelphia Eagles. Bill was a convert to Giants fandom, having lived in Philly for many years. New Jersey was his home turf now. I’d lost his attention until halftime.
“Let’s decide this week? And make Lola’s life easier.”
“You got it,” he said and smiled at me. “C’mon, get a drink and join me.”
I had an unexpected thought. “Bill, what happened with the stake?”
“That was interference,” he cried to the television. “Did you see that? The Philadelphia guy had his arms all over the wide receiver. Where’s the refs?” He looked at me. “What did you say?”
“I asked about the stake.”
“What stake?” He groaned as the Giants missed a crucial third down completion.
“The one at the crime scene. Any fingerprints? Any idea how it got there? Why someone planted it on the victim?”
A car commercial came on, and Bill muted the game. “Why are you asking? Not getting the investigative itch, are you?”
“I’m curious, that’s all.”
Bill pulled me onto his lap and wagged a finger in my face. “I recognize that look. So…here’s what you want to know. One, no fingerprints. Two, don’t know why it was at the crime scene. Other than it fit a Halloween vampire theme. Three, it’s a standard metal spike. Could have been bought at any hardware store. The kind used on construction sites or landscaping. I don’t need to tell you to—”
“Keep it quiet,” I said.
“Especially from Etonville’s ears…and from your teenage high-tech authority,” he added with a knowing look.
Pauli. Based on my escapade down the shore in September, Bill knew what my digital forensics expert was capable of.
“Anyway, I’m heading to Chicago tomorrow.” Bill munched on a potato chip.
“Chicago?”
“I’m meeting with an organized crime unit of the Chicago Police to get a handle on this Daryl Wolf. Probably an alias. Lots of fake IDs out there now.”
Tell me about it. “Can’t you talk over the phone or email?” I asked.
“Possibly, but Chicago has a model for police chief mentorship and I’ve been tasked with observing their process. I’ll be back by Wednesday or Thursday. Hopefully with more information on Wolf or Smith or Johnson. Whatever his actual name is. Anyway, whatever I find will help me unlock the victim’s last hours. Where he went, who he might have met. Who saw him. What he was doing in Etonville.” Bill unmuted the game. “Can you check the chili?”
“Yep.” I headed to the kitchen.
I could hear Bill yelling at the television again. I busied myself at the center island with the salad. What if Bill’s trip to Chicago revealed something about Etonville’s star actor, and Mark-Johnson-aka-Carlos-Villarias might be about to have his identity changed from a “data point” to a “person of interest?” Bill would be away three days. Three days until Dracula hit the stage again. I’d intended to stay out of the investigation business and here I was, back in the middle of the mess. Why? One, I wanted to ease Lola’s fears about Carlos. Two, my curiosity about the actor had gotten the better of me. Three, I had to admit I might have something to prove. If, as Lola suggested, my identity might change as Bill’s wife and I was about to wrap up my investigative career, I was going out in style.
In the future? Whatever life threw at me, I was ducking.
* * * *
It took all of my considerable performance skills to spend the rest of the afternoon and evening pretending to share Bill’s joy as the Giants beat the Eagles by five points. I complimented his culinary talents and praised his taste in expensive red wine, all the while I, distracted, fielded a mental flurry of questions. Why did Carlos change his name? Did it have anything to do with Daryl Wolf? What if Bella knew more than she was saying? Who else had been interrogating the super in Lennox about the Villariases?
Bill was on his way to Newark Airport by seven a.m. I’d awakened to see him off and there was no way my head was hitting the pillow again. I made a pot of coffee, grabbed a legal pad and pen, and wrote. Even though Daryl Wolf’s death was not a homicide, there were too many loose ends. Maybe we should have a conversation with Carlos….
I texted Lola, who was in the middle of a mani/pedi at Snippets, and offered to pick her up for a late breakfast. She agreed and added a string of emojis that featured a thumbs-up, a smiley face with one eye winking, and a cup of coffee. Next, I took a long, hot shower, shampooed my hair, and rummaged through my half of Bill’s closet for clean jeans—laundry had to be a priority later—and pulled on a T-shirt and hoodie. The weather in New Jersey in the fall could be anywhere from the low forties to the high seventies. Today it was a mild seventy-one.
I studied my hair in the bathroom mirror. It was curlier and bouncier than before, and I was relieved that Etonville had ceased to be fascinated by my appearance. Still, I had doubts about my wedding hairdo. By the time Bill and I settled on a date, my hair could be down to my shoulders again. Or gray, for that matter.
Benny had agreed to open the restaurant, and I assured him I’d be in by noon. I climbed into my MC and cranked the engine. As it purred, I reviewed my plan of action. Lola and I were going to visit the old Hanratty place to speak with Carlos. Tell him that he was seen with the Grim Reaper, arguing; that we discovered Carlos Villarias was a twentieth-century Spanish actor; that Bill and the Chicago Police were decoding the last hours of the victim. If he had anything to confess about his relationship with Daryl Wolf, at least one of those disclosures should rattle Carlos’s seemingly agitation-proof cage. No need to mention Barbara Mercer or Mark Johnson or Lennox. Yet.
I hoped Lola was on board.
I eased my MC to the curb on Anderson, where I could see into Snippets salon. Carol was on the telephone, handling appointments, while her assistant manager trimmed Penny’s bangs. Edna was having her hair styled. The Banger sisters waited patiently in the reception area, riffling through magazines. It was a cross section of Etonville’s gossip machine. I had to be careful what I said.
I pushed open the door to the loud whirring of hair dryers and the chatter of customers.
“Dodie!” called the Bangers.
I waved. “Morning, ladies.”
“We’re thinking of getting our hair cut like yours, dontcha know,” said one of them.
I stopped in my tracks. What did their beaming faces mean?
“We like your curly, short bob.”
It wasn’t that short.
“Or else we’re thinking of going Jane Fonda.” The other sister flipped the magazine to show me a layout of the actress in a variety of hairstyles. “A layered look or a sassy shag with curvy side bangs.”
“It’s kind of sexy, don’t you think?” They looked at me expectantly.
I studied their gray permanents. “Sure. Go for it.”
Edna motioned to me. “Heard the chief is off to Chicago. Code N,” she whispered, loud enough for Penny to hear her.
Code N. A newsworthy event. “A quick trip,” I said casually. How did she find out so fast? I only learned about his travel last night.
“That’s a euthanasia for ‘police biz,’” Penny snickered.
“A…euphemism?”
“Whatever. That dead hitman is going to put Etonville on the criminal map, O’Dell.”
Geez. I hurried to the back of the shop. “Hi, Lola. Almost ready?” I said, my widened eyes signaling that we had to make our escape.
“Got my last coat of lacquer.” She studied her nails. “I’m not sure about this color. Afternoon Delight.”
“It looks great.” I cocked my head toward the door.
“Hi, Dodie,” said Carol. “Any more thought about your wedding hairdo? I can lend you some magazines with ideas if you want.”
“Thanks. I’ll get back to you.” I returned to Lola. “We’d better get going. I need to stop at the Shop N Go for floor wax.”
Lola stared at me.
“Johnson and Johnson?” I said meaningfully.
I could see the light bulb flicker on. “Oh yes!” She withdrew bills from her wallet.
“Dodie, are you all right?” asked Carol. “You look a little tired lately. Planning a marriage ceremony and reception can be exhausting.”
It would be if I was doing that. The other ladies agreed. I thanked Carol and hugged her, and gently escorted Lola out the door. “We’ve got about two hours.”
“That should be enough time for break—”
“Here.” I handed Lola a cup of coffee. “Breakfast.”
She removed the lid. “Aren’t we going to Coffee Heaven?”
“Nope. I brought you a jelly doughnut from Bill’s fridge. Might be a little stale.”
Lola regarded the coffee and days’-old doughnut. “What are you not telling me? We’re not taking another road trip to some unknown part of New Jersey, are we?”
Been there, done that yesterday. I explained my plan of action and promised Lola a free lunch at the Windjammer if all went well. If it didn’t…I shuddered.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do? Asking Carlos to explain his past and his actions on Halloween night?”
“It’s either this or wait till Bill shows up and questions him about Daryl Wolf. Someone is going to find out that the Johnsons are the Villariases. Unless they have already.”
Lola removed the lid of the container.
“Remember, if all else fails, I say ‘Johnson and Johnson’—”
Lola giggled. “That was so smart, Dodie. You are one clever detective.” She patted my arm and sipped her lukewarm coffee.
I smiled my appreciation. “—and we see his reaction.”
I drove alertly to the other end of Etonville, slowing as I approached the turnoff to Carlos’s rented home. Even on a sunny day like this, the Hanratty house loomed large and eerie, ghostlike, as if it held secrets that had never been divulged. Curtains fluttered at upstairs windows. There was a dark green Subaru parked in the gravel driveway, and the front door appeared to be open. I came to a halt and switched off the engine.
Lola had finished the jelly doughnut and was now downing the rest of her coffee. She smoothed her hair and adjusted her denim jacket. As usual, she looked like she belonged on the cover of Cosmopolitan, her leggings topped by a light knit sweater, her blond hair in a casual ponytail.
“Ready?” I asked.
Lola slipped on her designer sunglasses, completing her model-like ensemble. We walked across the porch and approached the front door. Which was, indeed, open. Only the screen door blocked our entrance. From within, we heard classical music playing and smelled the rich aromas of herbs and spices.
“He must be home. The car’s here, the door’s open, and something smells in the kitchen.” I peered through the screen and rapped on the doorjamb. “Hello?”
No answer. I knocked again, more firmly, and we waited.
“I guess they must be busy. We should go,” said Lola, and turned away.
I plucked at her arm. “Don’t you want to see an end to the Carlos mystery?”
“If it means going back in there, then no,” whispered Lola.
“Come on. No guts, no glory.”
She got a lungful of air and repeated: “No guts, no glory.”
I tapped on the door a third time, then gently twisted the handle. It wasn’t locked. I opened it a smidge and surveyed the entrance hall. No activity in the parlor or dining room. Only the music originating from somewhere else. The kitchen? “Carlos?” I called out, taking one step into the house.
“Where are you going? This is trespassing!” Lola said.
“I’m not breaking in. The door’s open,” I rationalized. A windy gust caused the bare branches of the trees in the front yard to clack against each other.
“I’m staying on the porch,” Lola said.
I poked my head in farther. A plastic bag on the chair where I’d left my purse the night of the cast party had “Halloween Costumes Super Store” written in gold lettering across the front of it. I recognized the name of the shop, which was located in Creston. “Keep a lookout and let me know if anyone approaches—”
“Can I help you?”
Startled, my hand flew into the air and slapped the open screen door as Lola jerked upright, backing into the doorjamb. We collided. Bella, a basket in one arm, a shears in the other, stood in the front yard and regarded us warily. “Can I help you?” she repeated.
My face flushed crimson, embarrassed. Why hadn’t I anticipated Bella being in the house? Lola lowered her eyes, equally mortified.
“Hello,” I said as offhandedly as I could manage. “We were looking for Carlos.”
Bella laid the shears on the pile of greens in the basket. Her curly hair fell freely, her eyes open and inquisitive. An apron covered her T-shirt and jeans. “I see,” she said quietly. The two words spoke volumes. “Would you like to come in?”
“No! We need to be going—” Lola stuttered.
“Yes, thanks,” I said.
Bella brushed past me, indicating that we should follow her. “Have a seat.” She pointed to the parlor. “I need to take these herbs to the kitchen. The last of the season.”
Lola and I sat uneasily on the worn velvet upholstery of the chairs.
“Now what?” she hissed.
I shrugged. I had to think of something.
By the time Bella returned a few minutes later with a tray holding a steaming teapot, cups, and a plate of cookies, Lola and I had calmed down and I had gotten my bearings.
“I don’t think I thanked you formally for hosting the cast on opening night,” Lola said serenely, accepting a cup of tea and an oatmeal cookie.
“It was our pleasure.” Bella eyed Lola and me over the rim of her cup.
“This is delicious,” I said.
“Rose hips. From my herb garden. I keep a pot brewing all day long.”
“That must be the pleasant smell coming from your kitchen,” I said.
“That and a few other herbs for my business,” Bella said.
“You grow herbs for…?” I asked.
Bella’s face expanded in a smile. “I make lotions, shampoo, healing salves, tinctures.”
“That’s ambitious. You sell online?”
“Certain products. I have a list of customers.” She sipped her tea. “Herbal beauty products and healing remedies are very popular now.”
“I’m hooked on chamomile,” Lola said. “In the morning I need my caffeine, but there’s nothing like a cup of herb tea for a pick-me-up midafternoon.”
A momentary pause, while we all nodded agreement and swallowed the hot liquid. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather in New Jersey this time of the year, no hint about anywhere else they’d lived, about Dracula and how well it was going. About Bella’s tarot card reading and Walter’s over-the-top reaction. We laughed, and once again there was a momentary pause.
“You said you wanted to speak with Carlos?” Bella asked.
“If it’s not inconvenient.” I glanced around the parlor as if he might appear out of thin air.
“I’m sorry, but he’s at work.”
“Work?” Lola asked, surprised.
“Of course. He left early this morning.” Bella looked at me, then at Lola. It was a Monday morning after all, she seemed to be saying.
“Of course,” I echoed her. “Carlos never did say where he was employed.”
Bella frowned. “It’s a new job. At an office in Clifton. Management.”
“That’s nice,” Lola said.
“What did you want to see him about?” Bella asked.
I hesitated to ask her the same questions I might ask Carlos about the Villariases’ name change and Carlos’s mother and Lennox.
“We are considering changing the time of the brush-up rehearsal Wednesday,” said Lola in a rush.
I could have kissed her for coming to our rescue. “Earlier,” I said.
“Later,” Lola chimed in simultaneously.
We were dangerously close to becoming the Keystone Kops. I set my cup on Bella’s tray and rose. “We’ve kept you away from your garden long enough. Thanks for the tea and cookies.”
Lola followed my lead. “Please tell Carlos that Penny will be emailing the revised schedule.” She paused. “Oh, I forgot. Carlos doesn’t have email…”
That was news to me.
“Penny will call him.”
“I’ll let him know,” Bella said, ushering us to the door.
“Thanks again.” Lola’s relief was palpable.
“By the way, has Carlos ever played Dracula before? In another theater?” I asked.
Bella’s warm smile dissolved into a thin, tight line. “Why do you ask?”
Lola’s features displayed the same question. “He plays the role so…naturally. It fits like a glove,” I said.
“Carlos had a lot of acting experience in college. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
We moved down the front steps and into my car, Bella watching our progress. As the engine of my MC came to life, she closed the door. And locked it, I imagined.
I backed out of the driveway, Lola shivering. “Talk about uncomfortable. And what was that about Carlos playing Dracula before?”
“Trying to pry some backstory out of Bella. Where he went to college. Where he acted before. He is a natural when it comes to Dracula.” Lola herself had said the same.
“Yes. He’s very realistic.”
Lola never said acting was “natural,” only “realistic.” It was a Walter thing. Naturalism involved mumbling and stumbling around the stage, according to the director. Realism required the actors to incorporate the details of life with precision and planning. I didn’t see much difference. Any way you sliced it, Carlos inhabited the role of the vampire as if he was born to it. “No email? Who doesn’t have email these days?” I mused. “It’s almost like he doesn’t have a past, doesn’t want anyone to trace his whereabouts.”
“Except for his mother,” Lola reminded me. “Surprised he has a job in management.”
I knew “management” was the generic term for positions in many different kinds of businesses. I’d had a degree in management and I ended up in restaurants. Bella might have been deliberately stonewalling us. “He’s gotta work somewhere. Somebody has to pay the rent on the Hanratty place.” I had a sudden brainstorm. “Rent!” I shouted.
“What about it?”
“Maybe the rental agent knows something about the Villariases. I remember Walter saying someone in his office found it for them,” I said.
“I suppose I could ask Walter who the agent was.”
“Perfect!”
I dropped Lola off at Snippets to retrieve her car. I had about an hour before the lunch rush and another stop to make. I was determined to flush out the Villariases/Johnsons….