LITMIR.BIZ

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refugees: The ELT’s loss was the Windjammer’s gain. Gillian was helping out behind the bar and Enrico’s wife Carmen was picking up the last few tables.

      “Set us up, Benny,” Lola said.

      “Tough night. Sorry about the play,” he said as he poured red wine for all three of us.

      I never drank on the job, but technically Benny was closing tonight and I was in the restaurant in a purely advisory capacity. Like advising Benny when to refill our glasses. “That’s the first homeless guy in Etonville in a long time,” he said.

      “Homeless?”

      “That’s what I heard. A homeless guy wandered into the theater and got himself killed,” Benny said.

      Now who was spreading that piece of information? “I don’t think they confirmed that he was homeless.”

      “What else would he be doing in the ELT?” Carol took a drink of her wine. “Strange that he chose opening night to come in. Of course, with the weather we’ve been having, I’m not surprised someone wanted out of the cold. But too bad he had to die on the set. Now if it had happened in the lobby…”

      I eyeballed Lola over the rim of my glass: Mum’s the word on Sally. She responded with a faint nod.

      “How did Henry take the news that we’d be housing what’s left of the concession desserts?” I asked Benny, to change the subject.

      “You know Henry. Grumble. Groan. Then it blows over.”

      “I hope we can put the show up next weekend,” Lola said and twirled her wine glass. “We need an audience. And we had the Star-Ledger reviewer coming Saturday!”

      It was quite the coup. After years of sweet-talking and downright begging, the Etonville Little Theatre had finally gotten the attention of north Jersey’s primary newspaper. With the caveat that the reviewer be able to see Eton Town before he went on vacation.

      “I suppose it depends on how long it takes the Etonville PD to solve the murder,” I said.

      “Once they identify the guy, we should be good to go. I mean, he had no connection to the theater,” Carol said.

      “He was murdered in the theater. There was a knife sticking out of his chest!” Lola said, a trifle too dramatically.

      Carol paused, glass halfway to her mouth. “What?”

      I swallowed a mouthful of wine, choking lightly. That bit of data was not known to the theater at large. Only Walter, Lola, and I knew the details of the man’s death. Bill wanted to keep a lid on things for a few hours until he could identify the deceased. As if.

      “That’s privileged information, Carol. You can’t repeat it,” I said in a hurry.

      Carol’s salt-and-pepper curly head bobbed. “Sure,” she said, her voice a little shaky.

      Lola mouthed “sorry” and I shrugged. It was only a matter of time—hours rather than days—before the whole story ricocheted around Etonville like the eight ball on a pool table. One, Sally’s distress, how she ran off with blood spattered on her hand, two, how the dead man had the knife protruding from his body, three, how—

      “Another murder at the theater,” Carol said, sotto voce.

      We sat in glum silence for a moment.

      Lola stirred. “I’m going home. Dead on my feet. Oh, bad choice of words.” She stood up. “Call me?”

      “Sure,” I said.

      They left and I finished the last dregs of my wine. I was done in, weighed down by the night’s events. I couldn’t begin to think what would happen next with the investigation, the show, Sally… My usually overactive imagination was on furlough. “’Night, Benny.”

      He dipped glasses in soapy water and rinsed them in the bar sink. “Something about that guy next door. Do you think the chief has any evidence?”

      I had no clue. But now that Eton Town was indefinitely on hold, I was available to work evening closings and give Benny some time off this weekend. “No idea. I can cover for you this weekend.” I knew he also worked shifts at UPS.

      Benny gave me a thumbs-up. “Appreciate it. But take your day off tomorrow. You look like you could use it.”

      The icy drizzle had ended by the time I’d hit the street and walked down the block to my red Metro. I was numb and didn’t even mind the drop in temperature in the last two hours. I turned the engine over along with ideas on Sally’s whereabouts. I drove slowly through the slick streets; the mist had frozen into a thin layer of ice, coating trees and sidewalks and roadways. I pulled into my driveway as my cell binged. I desperately hoped it wasn’t anyone with a problem. I’d had my fill of crises for one night. I checked the screen. I couldn’t identify the number but the message was loud and clear: Need to talk. S.

      I stuffed the cell in my bag and walked into the house. I stripped off my colonial clothing, pulled on my favorite sweats, and flopped down on the bed. I stared at my cell, a part of me hoping the message had somehow disappeared. No such luck. I contemplated my options. If I texted back, I might be abetting a possible murderer. If I pretended I hadn’t seen the message, I might be leaving an innocent acquaintance stranded. I closed my eyes and saw her face—the terror, the tear-stained cheeks. I made a decision. Acquaintance trumped murderer. Besides, in my heart of hearts I knew the Sally Oldfield in the cast of Eton Town could not have killed anyone. At least not on purpose. Maybe in self-defense?

      I tentatively tapped out a message: Where are u? What’s going on? Then I added: Did u know that man? Of course she did. Maybe if we talked, I could convince her to visit the Etonville Police Department. After all, at the moment she could only be considered a person of interest. Until I told Bill that she’d seen the man days ago. Though my body had conceded defeat to the sheets, my mind got a reprieve and started whirring. I closed my eyes to think and was dozing in minutes.

      * * *

      I woke early—strange dreams of a spinning turntable that no one could stop—but intended to take it easy today. Time for me to contemplate my potential outfits for dinner tonight. I had a couple of dresses and a cream-colored silk suit with a V-neck jacket and slim slacks. It had been a Christmas gift from my parents and hugged me in all the right places. Given the predicted temperature tonight, low twenties, I opted for the suit. It was sophisticated and sexy; neither of which I was feeling at the moment. I squinted into the bathroom mirror. I was past the sore throat, sneezing, and stuffy nose, but my eyes were rimmed in red.

      * * *

      I’d spent the day checking for Sally’s return text, pampering myself with a bubble bath, and snatching an afternoon nap. By the time Bill picked me up, I was relaxed and excited about the evening.

      “So…you’re okay going out with the murder hanging over your head?” I asked as he backed out of my driveway.

      “Been doing a lot of grunt work today and Suki is following up. We’re trying to ID the man,” he said.

      “Still not telling me where we’re going?” I asked, teasing.

      Bill smiled and ran a hand over his blond brush cut. His aftershave—a minty, woodsy aroma that I was used to—wafted across the front seat as he turned away. “Sorry, it’s a—”

      “—secret. I know.” I smiled back. We passed a young woman bundled up against the cold, head tucked into her scarf. I inhaled abruptly.

      “Something wrong?” Bill asked.

      Could it have been Sally? “No. All good.” Why hadn’t she texted me back?

      He glanced at me sharply, then veered onto Route 3 East, diving into traffic, crossing lanes to avoid the back-up of cars. I had assumed we were eating at a restaurant in Creston, four miles away from Etonville. A city of twenty thousand with a range of shops and services and socioeconomic areas, from high end to low income. It had a variety of eating establishments,

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