I headed for the highway that ran between Etonville and its next-door neighbor, Creston, a larger city with a variety of neighborhoods from upscale to blue collar. I had gotten to know its downtown shops—a café for out-of-Etonville getaways, a jewelry store that played a part in one of my early investigative adventures—as well as its soup kitchen, where the Windjammer had donated food. Older, run-down areas with small, single-family homes and faded apartment buildings were mere blocks from multimillion-dollar houses. Creston included it all. I also knew that Halloween Costumes Super Store, the location printed on the bag in the foyer of the Villariases’, boasted hundreds of outfits to buy or rent, suitable for any dress-up occasion.
I left Route 53 and drove to Gardiner Avenue, two streets over from the central shopping area. I found a space a few doors from the costume business and marched briskly to my destination. I had no time to kill.
I entered the store, nearly empty this morning, and scanned the aisles of costumes. Racks of movie-inspired clothing, zombies, vampires, ghosts, and traditional pirates, cowboys, and nurses outfits. There were also heaps of clothing scattered around the place. No one was at the checkout counter, so I ambled down an aisle until I found a young man with a clipboard, taking inventory. He counted sailor uniforms, gave the costumes a once-over, made notes, and moved on to the next items.
“Excuse me.”
The clerk looked up and swept one hand over his half-shaved head, then tugged on a large gold hoop in his ear.
“I’m looking for a Phantom of the Opera costume.”
He studied me skeptically. “Halloween’s over, lady.”
“Right. But I have an event…a theater thing, and I need to go as a famous stage character. I figured the Phantom was a great idea.”
He frowned. “What about a princess from Frozen or a witch in Wicked?”
“I’m kind of set on Phantom,” I answered.
The young man gestured for me to join him at the checkout counter. He tapped keys on his computer, tugged on his earring some more. “We had four full costumes. One bought, three rented, all of ’em out.”
I knew where one of them was located. “What a shame. My good friend rented one from here and we were going to wear them together.” Did that even make sense?
“Two Phantoms?” he asked, confused.
“Maybe you remember him? Carlos Villarias? Tall, dark-haired, handsome. In fact, he’s playing Dracula at the Etonville Little Theatre right now. Maybe you’ve heard about it?”
“Nah. Not into theater.” He typed on his computer again. “Carlos Villarias. Phantom costume. Still outstanding.”
“Did Carlos pick it up or did you ship it to his office?”
“Picked it up.”
“I thought maybe he gave you his work address…he has a lot of stuff delivered there.”
“No work address. Do you want to see other costumes?” he asked, getting impatient.
“I’ll wander around.”
The clerk pointed off to the left. “Show costumes are in aisle three.” He stepped from behind the counter, then stopped. “You said Etonville?”
“Yes.”
“If you know the guy who rented the Grim Reaper costume, tell ’im I need it back this week.”
Yikes. That train had left the station, seeing as it was locked up in an evidence box in Bill’s office. It wasn’t my place to remind the clerk of that fact.
“We’ve got a Walking Dead party we’re doing and I have to pull together the wardrobe.”
My instincts kicked in. “What’s his name?”
He consulted his computer. “Mr. Smith.”
Guess the kid had no reason to be suspicious about the name. “Did he give you an address?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Said Etonville and threw a coupla hundreds on the counter.”
“He bought the costume?”
“Nah. Said he didn’t want it beyond Halloween. Said he’d bring it back. Go figure.” The guy tapped a few computer keys. “We don’t usually do cash transactions, but he was okay. Said he didn’t have a credit card. Left me a huge tip.” The clerk finally smiled.
My mind calculated as the kid kept explaining how the store was responsible for some high-end shindig next weekend and was attempting to collect the inventory they’d rented out for Halloween.
“Do you remember what day Mr. Smith rented the Grim Reaper costume?” I asked casually.
He once again consulted his laptop. “Halloween morning. Had it in stock because somebody returned it. Changed their mind.”
So Daryl Wolf got his costume at the last minute. What did that mean? He didn’t know about the Halloween party until…when? “Think I’ll pass on the costume for today,” I said.
He tried to convince me to look into the witch from Wicked, but I waved him off and left.
I dashed back to the Windjammer in time to open the door to a crush of Etonville folks. You’d have thought it was coupon Monday, the way customers scrambled for their favorite booths, bumping the competition aside to claim their territory, settling arguments by pointing to other tables.
“What is going on?” I asked Benny.
“Beats me,” he said. “Could be the change in the weather? Everybody out and about because the mercury hit seventy?” He chuckled.
Or maybe it was the slider specials that had lured patrons out of their homes. Today’s menu featured the seven-layer, Tex-Mex version. On top of the mini burger, Henry had piled refried beans, guacamole, tomatoes, spicy sour cream, salsa, and a smattering of olives. Only a couple of inches wide, the slider was stacked tall.
I spent the next two hours gliding around the dining room, seating customers, riding herd on the servers, and accumulating compliments for Henry’s mini sandwiches.
“Henry’s outdone himself with these.” Right.
“It’s so high I can’t get my mouth open wide enough.” Yep.
“Like a burger and a taco all in one.” Kind of.
“And no garlic.” Oops!
“I’ll sit at the counter,” said a voice behind me.
Gillian handed a menu to Mr. Chicago. He plopped onto a bar stool, asked what the special of the day was, and made the same decision as most everyone else in the restaurant. The Tex-Mex slider.
“Still in town,” I said, leaning against the bar.
“Kind of like Etonville. Nice people.”
“True. No place to get back to?” I asked, trying for total nonchalance.
Mr. Chicago tore the paper off a straw and slowly took a sip of his soda. Equally nonchalant. “Not at the moment. So…what else do you do besides manage this place?”
“I help out next door sometimes. At the theater.”
“The theater. Yeah.”
Two could play this game. “What do you do? Besides eat at this place?”
Mr. Chicago laughed, appraised me like an expensive piece of jewelry in a glass case. “I’m in regional sales. Plumbing,” he said.
“Plenty of that action in North Jersey. Enjoy the rest of your stay. I hear Chicago can get slammed with icy rain and sleet this time of year.” I was sure I’d read that somewhere. Which made me think about Bill…I wondered how he was doing and what he had unearthed, if anything.
Mr. Chicago stirred the ice in his drink. “Can it?” As if he wasn’t aware of the Windy City’s weather patterns. As if he didn’t live there. Hmmm…
Benny delivered his lunch, and he fell on it like a starving man, wiping the salsa and sour cream from his mouth.
My cell pinged. I peeked at the text. Bill: how are u? brrr cold here. productive trip. C u in two days. miss u. Bill’s simple, heartfelt message made me think of my great-aunt Maureen’s assessment of romance: Love is a lot like a backache…it doesn’t show up on X-rays, but you know it’s there. I missed Bill too. I needed to tell him that more often.
“You do?” asked Mr. Chicago.
“Sorry?” I said, noticing Benny was bobbing and nodding. “What?”
“I told him what an excellent detective you are,” said Benny. “Solving murders in Etonville.”
I didn’t mind the town nattering on about my investigative instincts…that was a given. Total strangers? I hated to throw shade on Benny’s supportive accolades, but I had to put a plug in this leaky boat of a chatfest.
“My fiancé’s the police chief. Sometimes I give him a few opinions.”
“Now you’re selling yourself short,” Benny said.
Mr. Chicago scrutinized each of us. “Must be nice having a private private eye in the family.” He kept one eye on the contents of his slider and the other one on me.
“Benny, could you check with Henry about the soup special?” I asked.
“Sure thing.” He sauntered off.
Before I could walk away, Mr. Chicago said, “Any hunches about that guy who died in the cemetery? Read about it in your paper.”
“Heart attack, from what I read,” I said politely and moved away. Something about the man set my teeth on edge. What was he doing, meandering around Etonville and its environs anyway? Managing the sale of plumbing supplies in the Northeast?
I pushed the stranger out of my mind. I had bigger things on my agenda. I texted Lola: grim reaper info.
Benny brought me a seltzer. “Hope I didn’t blow your cover with that detective talk,” he said apologetically.
“No problem.”
“I think you’re too modest. Nobody else in this town could have done what you did these last years.” He walked away.
Except the Etonville Police Department, right?
Lola rang my cell, and I brought her up-to-date on my visit to the Halloween Super Store.
“So the victim rented the costume Halloween morning. Last minute,” she said. “And paid cash.”
“Bill said the hood was draped around Daryl Wolf…”
“Creepy name. Sounds like a hitman. I saw this show on TV last week—”
“Lola! Focus!”
“Okay.” The line went silent.
“The victim wasn’t actually wearing the hood. Maybe somebody put it around him…” I said. “Like the kids?”
“Why would they do that?”
“That’s the puzzle. A Grim Reaper and a vampire stake. What was someone trying to say? After the guy dies from a heart attack?”
“Dodie, I think we might be in over our heads with this one,” Lola lamented. “I know I asked you to dig into Carlos’s background. Now I’m sorry I did. It’s all too complicated. Maybe the Villariases will leave town after the run of Dracula, like they did in Lennox.”
Possibly. What would send them on the run again?
Before Lola ended the call, we agreed to meet later tonight at my bungalow to catch up and have a drink. She had a meeting with Walter and Penny earlier in the evening to hash out budget issues, now that the box office was flush. She clicked off, and I hauled myself out of my booth. After I checked on inventory with Henry, I planned to take a walk during my break. To the Municipal Building. I needed some fresh air and a tête-à-tête with Edna.
* * * *
Main Street’s sidewalk was noticeably busier than usual. It had to be the weather. I sidestepped a sniffing dog and a meter maid writing out tickets. Good thing I’d parked in a spot around the corner. I inhaled and exhaled deeply, letting the scents of late fall fill my lungs and clear my head. The walk to the Municipal Building was only twenty minutes. Already I felt invigorated as I pulled open the front door.
Edna was speaking into her headset, punching buttons on a console. She stuffed a pencil into her bun. “Hey, Dodie! The Tex-Mex sliders were dee-licious. Ralph brought back a sackful. It’s a shame the chief had to miss them.”
“He’ll be back in time for Thursday’s special,” I said.
“What is it?” Edna whispered.
“Wait and see!” I laughed.
Her console lit up, and she raised one finger. “Etonville Police…Ralph? Where are you? Suki’s been on the warpath. You were supposed to handle the 11-84 after that 11-66.”
It was difficult for me to imagine the serenely om Suki on any kind of a “warpath.” However, I knew Ralph’s antics often drove Bill to distraction. Suki was human after all.
Edna lowered her voice. “You better get your daughter’s birthday present on your own time.” Edna listened. “I know. I know…and you’d better get back here by five. 10-4.” She ripped off her headset.
“I was wondering about something,” I said. “During the Halloween party, while you were choosing prize winners…”
“We had a ball! The mayor’s wife and myself. It wasn’t an easy task, what with all the bea-utiful costumes,” she said.
“Right. Do you remember seeing a Grim Reaper wandering around?”
Edna frowned. “You mean like the vic?”
“I guess so. It was Halloween, and practically the whole town was there. Maybe the victim had come too. I mean, why else have a costume?” I hoped my logic made sense to Edna.
“Hmm…can’t speak for the mayor’s wife, but I can’t say as I saw any Grim Reapers.” She crossed her arms and leaned forward into the dispatch window. “What are you thinking? Does the chief have you working under the radar on something?” she asked eagerly.
Edna, like everyone else in Etonville, now thought of me as a part-time detective.
“No!” I said quickly. That’s all I needed…Edna spreading the word that I was “under the radar.” Bill would not be pleased. “Got to get back to the Windjammer.”
Edna stuck her head out the window. “I did see a Star Wars Yoda and a Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.”
“I saw them too.” I waved goodbye.
“You know who we didn’t see?” Edna added.
I turned around. “Who?”
“The chief!” She winked at me.
“Copy that,” I said.
* * * *
I sat on a bench in front of the theater. I had half an hour to kill before I had to return to work. I rested my head on the seat back and closed my eyes. I knew I’d seen a Grim Reaper at the punch bowl on Halloween night, and that same Reaper receiving ocular death rays from Carlos. I visualized the party, creating a mental snapshot of the church basement…the bobbing for apples, the candy corn count, the pumpkin carving, the palm reading.
Snapshot! That was it. My head popped up, my eyes flew open. Pauli had come to the party dressed as a newspaper reporter. He’d spent the night interviewing people and taking photos for an article in the Etonville Standard. Maybe he had captured a Grim Reaper… I texted him immediately: could I see your pictures from Halloween night?
* * * *
I had arranged with Lola to meet at ten o’clock. By then, she’d be finished with Walter and I would have closed down the dining room. Henry intended to work late in the kitchen and offered to lock up tonight. The sliders had been such a lunchtime success—attracting a huge crowd—that Etonville had chosen to stay home for dinner. Gillian sat at the bar texting, Benny worked on a New York Times crossword puzzle, and I reviewed inventory sheets for the meat and seafood for the coming week. At nine, Gillian cleaned tables, Benny prepped the bar for tomorrow, and I decided we’d close the dining room at nine thirty because there hadn’t been a customer in the restaurant in over an hour.
“You might as well head home,” said Benny.
“I’ll close for you tomorrow.”
“It’s a deal. Going to the princess’s recital tomorrow night.”
Benny described his daughter’s dance performance as a flurry of pastel tutus with kids streaking on and off the stage. He loved it.
I pulled my jacket off the wall hook and walked out the door. The mild day had morphed into a chilly evening, the sky a blanket of clear black dotted with bits of light. Hopefully, it would be another sunny day tomorrow. I turned up my collar. Might as well hang out in the theater. There was always a chance Lola and Walter would blast through the budget decisions quickly and my BFF and I could enjoy some girlfriend time earlier than planned.
The street was deserted. I had the same unnerving sensation I’d experienced on other nights after closing the Windjammer during the last week. As if I was being watched. I shivered and walked quickly to the theater. In the lobby, a strip of light was visible under Walter’s closed office door—the location of the meeting. Not wanting to bother them, I slipped into the theater. The house was dark, the stage lit by Penny’s “ghost light” and a large scoop. Behind the night lights, much of the furniture from Dracula had been stacked and arranged against the back wall of the set. Prominent was the coffin used in Act Three.
I wandered down a side aisle and sat in the front row. The trick door in the bookcase was open. Possibly JC was tinkering with the mechanism. The trick chair was turned on its side. Ditto there as well. The walls of the set had been covered with flocked paper and a series of framed period photographs. Once again I marveled at JC’s artistic talent; he had created a beautiful backdrop against which the actors of the ELT could present Dracula.
As I stared at the scenery, I mused on the stake-stabbing scene. Penny had said there was a dummy version of Dracula in the coffin so that when Romeo, as Lucy’s love interest, Harker, pounded the stake, it was being driven into a hole in a sandbox. As if drawn by a magnet, I got up from my seat and crept to the lip of the stage. The scoop light caused my shadow to loom large behind me. This might be my only opportunity to examine the inside of the coffin.
I’d always been fascinated by caskets. Not because I had a death wish. When I was about seven years old, I had accompanied my great-aunt Maureen to the viewing of a dear friend of hers. My parents were at work and I was spending the day with my aunt, so her visit to the funeral home meant I was going too. She asked if I had a problem with this, and being the adventurous type—who’d never seen a dead body before—I saw it as a lark and told her I was in.
I can remember vividly the face of the elderly woman in the casket. Her gray hair, her face made up with bright-red lipstick. I was anxious as I approached the coffin with my aunt, my hand inserted firmly in hers. She had told me I could sit in the back and wait for her, but I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I’d considered how they’d gotten the woman tucked into the box, which was lined with shiny white satin. I didn’t bother to ask my aunt; I simply let my imagination go to work. In fact, I visualized myself in the casket.
Now I stood by the open box that JC had constructed, its outline suggesting the shape of a body. The dummy and sandbox had been removed for safekeeping; the missing stake incident had probably forced the set crew to lock up props. JC had lined the coffin with black duvetyne, a cotton material with a velveteen nap on one side, which I’d seen him use to build curtains for the wings.
I climbed into the coffin and sat down, as if I was in a grotesque bathtub, my arms dangling over the sides. There wasn’t much room in here. Romeo’s aim when striking the stake had to be good to avoid hitting the wooden sides of the box.
I couldn’t resist…I scooted down until I was lying flat on the bottom, staring overhead at the lighting fixtures on battens in the space above the stage. So this is what it felt like lying in a casket. Of course, by the time someone did lie in a casket they wouldn’t be able to feel—
Instantaneously, the scoop light went dark. Before I could react, the lid of the coffin closed with a sharp snap, the latch clicking into place. I was stunned. Was someone playing a joke on me? I pushed on the cover of the coffin. It didn’t budge. The ghost light went out.
“Hey! Knock it off,” I yelled, slamming my hand on the bottom side of the lid. I knew the latch on the coffin had given JC trouble. Lola had revealed that the day before the dress rehearsal. Because no one was in the coffin during the play, the latch was basically a minor issue. Until now.
I continued to thump the lid of the coffin. Might I run out of oxygen? I forced myself to calm down. There had to be a simple solution. The seam between the body of the casket and the lid was not a tight fit. Some air could squeeze in there. And surely someone would do a final check of the stage before leaving the theater, right? Walter or Penny would have to notice that the scoop light was burned out—or unplugged. I wasn’t normally claustrophobic. But the lack of air and the tight fit sent me into panic mode.
My heartbeat accelerating, I panted as I banged the lid of the coffin, bruising my hand, shouting until my throat ached. “Help!” I screamed.
Minutes later, light leaked in around the seams of the coffin’s lid.
“Who’s there?” Penny demanded.
“Get me out of here! The lid is locked!”
A jangling of the latch was followed by a creak as the lid was raised and overhead light poured onto the box.
“O’Dell? Funny place to take a nap,” Penny said.
“Penny, help her out,” insisted Lola. “Are you okay? We thought we heard noises from the stage, and I’ve been so on edge ever since this show went into production that—”
“I’m fine.” I sat up, my pulse throbbing, my ego taking a beating.
Walter stood apart, glaring at me. “No one is supposed to be playing around with the props and furniture.”
“I wasn’t playing around exactly.”
Penny stuck out a hand. “C’mon, O’Dell. Time to go home. Not Dracula’s home. Your own home.” She guffawed at her joke.
Geez. I would hear about this for a while. I stepped over the side of the casket. The whole experience had left me shaky and apprehensive, my legs wobbly, my voice raspy.
“Someone shut the coffin. I couldn’t raise the lid. Something must be wrong with the latch,” I said, borderline hysterical. “It must be broken.”
Walter crossed his arms. “There’s nothing wrong with the latch. Except for the fact that you shouldn’t be messing with it.”
“What about the scoop light?” I asked.
“I think the lamp burned out,” said Lola.
Too convenient.
“Next time, try the couch in the green room,” Penny chortled.
“Next time, stay off the stage!” Walter added icily.
“Come on, Dodie.” Lola put an arm around me. “You need a drink.”
I nodded numbly, trembling. Yes, a drink would help. What would really help, however, would be discovering who had tracked me into the theater, turned off the lights, and locked the lid of the coffin.