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“So the chief's not in?” I asked.

“Nope. It's a 594 over on Route 53. He had to take the call.”

“594?”

“Malicious mischief. Some kids skipped school and were hitchhiking on the highway.”

“Doesn't sound too malicious.” I remembered some of my escapades in high school.

“Well, there's no code for truancy and the chief figured if they weren't up to mischief now, they would be soon.”

“Oh. Okay.” I considered my next move. “When do you expect the chief back?”

“Is it urgent? Officer Shung is inside.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of the station's outer office.

“No, no,” I said hurriedly. “It can wait.”

The radio crackled again. “Ralph? Are you en route? You'd better get a move-on before Mrs. Parker calls in again. 10-4.”

All dressed up and no place to go
, I thought. The day was too beautiful to spend at home so I opted for a corner booth in Coffee Heaven.

“Here you go, hon.” Jocelyn, my waitress, plopped my caramel macchiato and a warm cinnamon bun on the table in front of me. I was drowning my disappointment in sugar.

“Don't know if you read this rag, but just in case.” She handed me the
Etonville Standard
and stepped to the booth behind me.

I sipped coffee between bites of the warm roll and opened the newspaper. I scanned the front page for anything new on Jerome's murder. Below the fold was a short piece that recapped the investigation and summarized the funeral—complete with references to the pallbearers and Walter's Shakespearean antics. Essentially, there was nothing new.

I flipped to page two. The Etonville High baseball team was going to the state championships, and pothole filling was scheduled for the north end of town.

“Were you looking for me?”

I glanced up, right into Bill's dazzling eyes. Hands on his hips, a pair of sunglasses perched atop his blond hair.

“The regular, Chief?” Jocelyn called out.

“Thanks. May I?” he asked. When I nodded, he slipped onto the bench across from me.

“You were out on a call. A 594 according to Edna,” I said.

He accepted the steaming mug of black coffee and shook his head. “Edna likes her codes. It was a couple of kids fooling around on the highway.” He watched me over the rim of his cup. “Did you want something?”

I'd felt so confident this morning when I'd decided to come clean with Bill about my trip to Sadlers and let him know about the SUV, but now I was a little gun-shy. How did he really feel about my participation in the search for Jerome's killer?

“I had some information I wanted to share with you.”

His eyebrows shot up as he took a gulp of his coffee. “About the jewelry store in Creston?”

Uh-oh. “Sadlers. Yes.”

Bill downed the rest of his coffee and stood up abruptly. He dropped a ten on the table and put on his sunglasses. “Come on.”

I had to hurry to keep up. On the street Bill leaned against his black-and-white police cruiser, while I stood opposite him.

“I can't talk in public about the investigation,” he said and looked up and down the empty sidewalk.

“Of course.”

“Suki went to Sadlers yesterday,” he said.

“She did?” I tried to keep my voice as bland as possible.

“But you already know that the manager recognized Jerome. . . .” He frowned.

“From the
Etonville Standard
. Right. That picture of Jerome and Elliot and Walter.”

“And that he bought other jewelry there,” Bill said.

“A gold bracelet,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Bill shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“That gold bracelet was not cheap. Jerome lived on a fixed income. Maybe he was coming into money? I wonder what he had in his bank account. Or what he put on credit cards—”

“Look, Dodie, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I had to pull Suki off other work to send her to Creston only to find out that you'd already ‘interviewed' the manager. Who thought we should all be talking to one another as well as with him.”

I gulped and brushed my bangs out of my eyes.

“I can't have you snooping around playing detective while my office is coordinating an official investigation.”

“Sorry,” I said.

He scratched his head. “I shouldn't even be talking with you about . . . everything.”

“Oh.”

“But you found the ring—”

“And the mystery woman,” I added.

“You do have insights,” he admitted.

“Thanks.”

He hesitated. “And we are doing a forensic check on his finances.”

“Okay.” I paused. “Maybe he fell in love,” I said.

“What?”

“The engagement ring. Jerome met someone and it became serious. At least on his end. We don't know about her.”

Bill drummed his fingers on the hood of his car. “From what you told me about him, it doesn't sound right, especially at his age.”

“Relationships will do that to you,” I said.

“Maybe.”

What did that mean? Had I hit a nerve? I could feel heat moving up my neck and flowing into my hairline. “Little warm today.” I unzipped my jacket.

That corner of his mouth inched upward. “Feels kind of cool to me.”

His radio crackled. “Chief?”

Bill reached into the vehicle and hit a button. “Go ahead, Edna.” “We got a 10-26 on Pinter Drive behind the Dumpster at Lacey's Market.”

He sighed. “Thanks.”

“10-4.”

“I suppose you need to get back to work; 10-26 and all.”

“A 10-26 is an abandoned bicycle.”

I started to laugh, then caught myself: I shouldn't make fun of police codes. “This is new for you? Police chief in a small town?” I asked.

“I was a deputy chief in Philadelphia before I came here. I have an urban mentality.”

“I did an internship in Philadelphia during college.”

“Yeah?” he said.” What in?”

“Business management. I—”

The radio sputtered again.

“What is it, Edna?”

“Ralph wants to take an early lunch.”

“Okay but tell him to check the . . . 10-26 on his way.” Bill slid his eyes in my direction.

“10-4,” she said cheerily.

He opened the door and had one leg inside his cruiser.

“Did his autopsy reveal anything?” I asked.

Bill studied me, then made a decision. “He died from the gunshot to his chest. Saturday night special..38 caliber, cheap and easy to purchase. Back in the day, on a hot summer night in North Philly's Strawberry Mansion neighborhood, I could take half a dozen of them off kids hanging on a street corner.”

“Not much help, I guess,” I said.

He shook his head. “Various bruises on his torso.”

“Well, good luck tracking down the owner of the bicycle.”

“Yeah,” he said drily. And as an afterthought: “Any more ideas—”

“I know. Keep you in the loop.”

B
ill's squad car was already down the block when I realized I had forgotten to mention the SUV. That would need to wait until later. I didn't want to overstay my welcome as far as the murder investigation was concerned. And, besides, I had arranged for Pauli to come by my place later to explore Jerome's password and email account.

“It's really not that hard,” Pauli said. He sat down at the computer and cracked his knuckles as if attempting a safecracking gig.

Choosing a password for email was like a Rorschach test. It revealed one's personality, likes, dislikes, etc. I'd read an article a few months ago that listed the twenty-five most common email passwords. It warned readers to be vigilant lest hackers take advantage. I glanced at Pauli sitting at my kitchen table concentrating on the keyboard of his laptop. He didn't need me to run down the list for him—password, Seinfeld, qwerty, 123456. I was dealing with an experienced computer whiz.

He started with the obvious: Jerome's name, birth date, address, age—all compliments of his obituary in the
Etonville Standard
. Pauli's fingers flew across the keyboard. Nothing.

Pauli raised his head. “Did he have a job?”

“He was a retired English teacher. Etonville High, but before you enrolled. He spent a lot of time at the Etonville Little Theatre.”

“Favorite colors?”

I frowned. “I don't know.”

“Family?”

“Just his sister-in-law, but I don't know her name.”

Pauli sat back in his chair and took a snack break; then he attacked the keyboard again, Toaster Strudel in mouth, Coke in hand.

“How about friends?” he asked.

There was Elliot, me, Lola, and who knows who else at the ELT or in town. Maybe old students? Maybe the mystery woman? Pauli tried variations on Elliot's name and we ran through a few more categories of connections to the theater. It had been an hour and a half, and I was afraid Pauli was stumped. “Maybe we should—”

He stuck one finger in the air. “Like what did he do for fun?”

I suggested his work with the Etonville Little Theatre and reading mysteries. I gave Pauli a list of authors and titles that Jerome and I had shared, but nothing popped there either.

“You know, like in the future, people won't have passwords,” Pauli said.

“Why not? How will we protect our email?”

“Biometric security.”

I stared blankly at him and Pauli nodded, his eyes gleamed. “Sensors that read your fingerprints. Facial recognition software,” he said excitedly.

The kid was really into this computer stuff. “I guess you want to follow in your dad's footsteps?” I asked.

He frowned. “Sort of.” There was a pregnant pause.

“Oh? You have something specific in mind?”

“Digital forensics,” he said quickly.

“Wow, that sounds cool. What would you do?”

Pauli launched into his topic and attempted to school me on the differences among computer forensics, mobile device forensics, and network forensics. He lost me ten minutes into his lecture, but I was impressed by his apparent depth of knowledge and mature evaluation of potential career options. Did Carol have any idea about all of this?

My cell phone binged. It was Lola texting, wondering when I would be at rehearsal. According to the schedule I'd prepared, the cast would be focusing on Act I tonight. Meanwhile, I would be focusing on the cast. Who among them might have some information on Jerome's mystery woman?

* * *

“Dodie?”

I looked up at Enrico, who was smiling apologetically. “Yeah?”

“I think there is a problem with the delivery.”

I followed the sous chef through the swinging doors.

Henry stood in the center of the kitchen surrounded by crates of broccoli, carrots, squash, and cucumbers. But no turnips. He was adamant about having roasted turnips on the menu tonight. I promised to make a call and dashed away. I heard him turn his attention to lecturing Enrico on Spanish versus Hungarian paprika for the roast chicken. Enrico, patient and attentive, nodded frequently.

This was the second foul-up of the food delivery in a week. The foodservice distributor—Cheney Brothers—was becoming a pain, what with late deliveries and incomplete orders. I wanted to change companies, but Henry hated change and simply wanted me to straighten them out. I phoned and gave them a mild tongue-lashing for mucking up the order again. I was assured that the turnips would be here first thing tomorrow morning. I broke the news to Henry and listened to him carry on about how he “couldn't change the menu on short notice” even though he'd done it any number of times.

It was three o'clock. “Benny, I'm taking my break.”

“No problem.”

Benny was happier of late. Extra evening hours a couple of nights a week meant a little more cash in his pocket and fewer hours driving the UPS truck.

When I called Bill and told him about the SUV that had cruised down my street two nights ago, he asked me to stop by so that we could talk. The day was overcast and cloudy, and a fine, intermittent mist sprinkled anyone who wandered the streets of Etonville. I could have jumped in my car and been at the Municipal Building in three minutes. But a walk in the light rain fit my contemplative mood and would take all of fifteen minutes. The sidewalk in front of the Windjammer was virtually empty; folks were staying in and avoiding the weather. I pulled the hood of my jacket over my head and tramped down Main and onto Amber. I mulled over my impending meeting with Bill. I was so preoccupied I walked right past my destination.

“Power walking in the rain?” a voice yelled to me.

It was Bill, negotiating his black-and-white into its assigned space. I stopped in my tracks and raised a hand in greeting. Even on a rainy day, his hair seemed to glint as if in golden sunshine. I jogged back to the Municipal Building. “Just deep in thought.”

He slammed his door shut and grabbed my arm just as the skies opened. We ran to the cover of the overhang above the door. “Thanks for coming by.”

I followed him past Edna's dispatch station. “Hey, Dodie. I meant to tell you. Great first rehearsal.” She bobbed her head enthusiastically.

“I didn't really do—”

“You're in the play?” Bill's right lip curved slightly.

“Well, getting that rehearsal schedule on email? That was something.” Edna announced.

I turned to Bill. “I'm helping Penny.”

His left lip joined the right one. “I see.”

“Listen, I've been in ELT shows for twenty years, and this is the first time I got a whole week's rehearsal schedule ahead of time. Well done, Dodie,” Edna said.

“I'm impressed,” Bill said, clearly amused.

“How's your back?” Edna asked.

“What's wrong with your back?” he asked.

“We were doing the circle of light at the first rehearsal—” Edna started in.

“The what?” Bill asked.

“—and somebody,
I won't say who
, slipped up and dropped Dodie.” Edna was
not
amused.

“Are you okay?” he asked seriously.

I'd experienced a twinge or two today, but I'd just stretched and shaken it off. “I'm fine.” The bubble bath helped.

Suki had silently left her inner office and joined us in the hallway. “I know a great doctor if you think you need to see someone,” she said solemnly.

“Suki does Chinese medicine,” clarified Edna.

“Oh, okay. Well . . . if it still hurts next week . . .”

Suki nodded, our interaction complete, and handed Bill a sheaf of papers.

His eyes ran down the top sheet and he nodded. “Thanks.”

“See you at rehearsal, Dodie,” Edna said.

* * *

I let my attention wander around Bill's office as he took a call. I mimed my offer to leave, but he shook his head. “Ralph, you need to follow up with Mrs. Parker. . . . Yeah, I know she's a little silly, but she's a citizen of the town and deserves our—well, Bull's no longer in this office. Yeah. Okay.” He slammed the receiver into the cradle. “10-4 to you too,” he grumbled.

I noticed a ball cap, with the Buffalo Bills insignia, peeking out of a gym bag, and I remembered the chatter about his NFL career.

“Two years,” he said.

“You played for Buffalo? I'm impressed.”

“Don't be. Before that, two years for the Browns and a year with Oakland.”

“You moved around,” I said.

“The last season, I was on the practice squad,” he said.

“Why did you give it up?”

“Well, let's see. There was a broken tibia, a dislocated shoulder, and a rotator cuff that wouldn't even speak to me by the end.”

“I heard you were a running back?”

“Yep. Undrafted free agent out of Temple. So I know from sore backs,” he said sympathetically and tapped his pen on the sheet Suki had handed him. He shoved the cluster of papers into a folder. “So you saw the SUV again.”

“Right. I was sitting in my driveway.”

“What time was this?”

“About eleven. Elliot had just said good-bye and took off down the street and coming in the opposite direction was the SUV.”

“That would be Elliot Schenk?”

“Yes.”

“He seemed torn up about Jerome,” he said.

“Yeah. I guess they were better friends than Jerome let on.”

“As for the SUV . . . without a license plate number . . .”

“Sorry.”

Bill shook his head. “There are a lot of unanswered questions in this investigation.”

This would have been an opportune time to mention the date written on the inside of the ledger Lola had found. “Did you ever speak with Walter about the missing money?” I asked casually.

He blinked. “You mean the theater money?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Walter claims he knew nothing about it. He was hinting that Jerome might have made an accounting error.”

Nothing like besmirching the reputation of a dead man
, I thought.

Bill cocked his head and leaned back in his desk chair. “Anyway I wanted to talk with you about the night of auditions.”

“I think I told you everything I could remember.”

“You said Jerome seemed excited.”

“Right. Like he knew something great was about to happen.” Like getting engaged to the mystery woman?

“But he didn't give you any hint about what it might be?” Bill asked.

“No. I just had the feeling he wanted to talk to me, and then we got interrupted.”

“Okay. Let's say you are correct. What
might
he have needed to talk about? Family issues? Theater problems?”

“Sorry. I don't have any idea. Unless it had something to do with the engagement ring.” We sat in silence for a minute. “It would help to know where he went after the auditions or why he was killed at the theater.”

“I'm going to tell you something that I expect you to keep quiet,” he warned. “Of course, in this town, between the gossip and the
Etonville Standard
, I'm surprised it hasn't leaked yet.”

“Okay.” I waited.

“Jerome wasn't killed at the theater,” Bill said quietly. “Forensics said he was killed elsewhere and deposited on the loading dock.”

“How do they know?” I asked.

“No significant amount of blood at the crime scene. When the heart stops, no more blood is pumped,” he said matter-of-factly, as if investigating a murder were an everyday occurrence for him.

“But his car was still parked at the theater the morning he was found.”

“We had it scrubbed. Nothing in it to help us.” Bill ran a hand over his bristly hair. “There's just not a lot to go on. Could have been a robbery gone wrong. His wallet and cell phone were missing.”

“Like someone assaulted him on the street? That doesn't sound like Etonville.”

“Even small towns like Etonville can be susceptible to crime. And when someone is intoxicated . . .”

“Intoxicated? I never saw Jerome drink more than one at a time,” I said.

“His blood alcohol content was .08. Just at the legal limit.”

“No way. I mean, I did smell alcohol on him when he arrived at the theater, but not so much that he couldn't audition.”

Bill snapped his head up. “He was drinking before he got to the theater? You didn't mention that.”

“I didn't? I guess it slipped my mind,” I said.

“Anything else ‘slip your mind'?” Bill asked.

After I said my good-byes, I paused outside his door to read a text from Lola, who was checking in. Suki brushed past, glancing quickly at me, the faintest hint of irritation on her normally Zen-like face. Could it be about her goose chase to Sadlers? She knocked and entered Bill's office, leaving the door slightly ajar. I overheard her say “the substance on his trousers . . . a resin of some kind . . . synthetic latex . . . still working on it.”

* * *

There was no point in arguing with Bill over Jerome's blood alcohol level. Facts were facts, but I still had a tough time with it. Just didn't seem like Jerome. The courteous soul who loved to read thrillers, left the Windjammer after one double Scotch, and patiently waited on lines of ticket holders at the theater, even when they badgered him for better seats. The random robbery-and-murder theory didn't sit well with me. It was possible he'd met the murderer after auditions and had a few more drinks and then . . . what?