LITMIR.BIZ

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my hair into a ponytail and leaned my head against the back of the booth. I couldn’t help it: my eyes closed.

      “Any food left?”

      I lurched upright. I could sense rather than see the corner of his lip tick upward. A quirk I was used to by now. Bill was swathed in his official bomber jacket and winter cap. A muffler was wrapped around his head, partially concealing his mouth. “Hey.”

      “Hey yourself. Can I join you?”

      “Have a seat.” I tried to play it cool. But there was no way I could avoid my pulse rising in the presence of his ruddy face. I nonchalantly flipped off the scrunchie that held my hair in place.

      Benny set a cup of coffee in front of me and handed Bill a menu. “Hi, Chief.”

      “Benny.”

      “How’s it going out there?” Benny asked.

      “Let’s see… I had three minor collisions, two dead batteries, and the Banger sisters got locked out of their car.” He removed his cap and monitored me over the edge of his menu. “Winter in the northeast.” His cheeks were redder than usual and his spiky hair was matted to the surface of his head.

      “The soup’s gone,” I said apologetically.

      “That’s okay. I’ll have the chili.”

      “Good choice. It’s extra hot today.” Benny grinned and ambled off.

      “Maybe the Banger sisters shouldn’t be driving in this weather,” I said.

      “You want to be the one to tell them?” he groused. “So…sorry again about—”

      “Saturday night. Yeah. Me too.”

      He unzipped his jacket and threw it onto the bench of the booth. “Look, Dodie, it comes with the territory. Job conflicts.”

      “Seems like a lot of job conflicts lately,” I said, pretending to study an inventory sheet.

      Benny set a bowl of chili and crackers in front of Bill. “Take it easy. I think Henry said it’s three-alarm.”

      “Good. Just what I need.” Bill picked up his spoon, and Benny gave me the eyeball before backing off.

      “I’d like to make it up to you. How about dinner Thursday night? Maybe Benny can cover? Something fun.”

      I’d have to work out the concessions at the ELT, but once we got through the opening Wednesday, the front-of-house crew should be comfortable with the cakes, pies, and mulled wine. “Sure. It won’t involve seat warmers, will it?” In December Bill had suggested we do “something fun.” Our date consisted of sitting in the freezing rain for three hours watching the New York Giants battle the Washington Redskins. It took all night to thaw out.

      Bill relaxed against the seat and grinned. “I have something special in mind.” He seemed pleased with himself.

      “Okay…how special? Dressy?” I stopped. “Not La Famiglia special? Because the last time we ate there, Henry sulked for two days. It was like me eating with the enemy.” La Famiglia was the Windjammer’s primary competition and nemesis. Mainly due to its receiving four stars from the Etonville Standard compared to the Windjammer’s three. Of course, it was only the local rag, but still…

      Bill held up his hand. “It’s not La Famiglia. In fact it’s not even in town.” He smiled sphynx-like.

      “You’re being very mysterious.”

      “Pick you up at six thirty.” He dug back into the chili. “Kind of dressy.” His lip curved again.

      Usually I took a break at three o’clock for an hour or so and did some paperwork, ran errands, or, lately, held Lola’s hand. Eton Town was taking its toll on her. But today I stayed in and worked from my back booth. I made a list: cider, cinnamon sticks, orange and pineapple juices, honey, cloves, nutmeg, anise seed. And of course red wine. That should do it for the concession drinks. I scribbled in the margin of the order form. “Kind of dressy…” Bill had said. What exactly did that mean? I had my little black dress…and my Jimmy Choo knockoffs. Both of which Bill had seen before. That particular night, a nor’easter was threatening Etonville, the Windjammer had lost electricity, the ELT had to cancel its tech rehearsal, and two criminals were at large. But that was last October…

      Still, it was a killer outfit.

      My cell pinged. It was Snippet’s ID. “Hi, Carol.”

      “Uh…hey. It’s me. Pauli.”

      My eighteen-year-old Internet-and-all-things-computer guru. And Carol’s son. “Pauli! What’s up?”

      He cleared his throat. “Like, I did the website updates. You know with the photos from the baking class.”

      “You did? You’re the best. Really on top of things, kiddo,” I said.

      I could almost hear him blush. “Yeah. Well…like, no big deal.”

      “I’ll log on and check it out.”

      “Okay. Gotta bounce.” A note of pride crept into his voice. “Like, I’m taking this photography class…and so I’m like the uh…official photographer for the ELT production.”

      “Wonderful. Talented guy,” I said.

      “Yeah. I’m watching the rehearsal tonight.”

      “I’m stopping in too. I’ll see you there.”

      “Sweet.”

      He clicked off and I smiled to myself. Pauli was coming into his own. It was nice that his activities were all legal now. At least I hoped so…

      3

      “Hey, O’Dell.” Penny Ossining had been the ELT stage manager for twenty-five years. She fancied herself the linchpin of the volunteer theater troupe when she wasn’t busy at the Etonville post office. Not much got by her, or so she said.

      I looked up from my cell phone. I was checking out the Windjammer website with Pauli’s new updates. He’d added interior shots of the restaurant that highlighted the nautical-themed décor, based on a nineteenth-century whaling vessel, complete with central beams, floor planking, and figurehead of a woman’s bust above the entrance. Penny stood, arms akimbo, in the left aisle of the Etonville Little Theatre, fairly oblivious to the chaos around her. As stage manager, it was her job to keep things moving and in control. Good luck with that. “Hi, Penny. Are we about to start?” I checked my watch. It was eight p.m. I’d been sitting in the house for half an hour. “Things are running late.”

      Penny gave me one of her world-weary expressions. “O’Dell, we’re now on tech time. In the theater, there’s—”

      “Theater time versus real time. I know.” I’d already been schooled in that particular bit of theatrical practice.

      “Tech time is different.”

      “You mean eight o’clock in real time is actually seven o’clock in tech time?” I asked innocently.

      Penny tapped her pencil against her clipboard and hooted. “O’Dell, you crack me up. Anyway we already did a cue-to-cue. Walter likes to do a stop-and-go after the dry tech.”

      Cue-to-cue? Dry tech? Theater jargon was still like a new language to me.

      “Penny!” Walter called from the stage. “It’s time to start!” He slapped his tricorn hat on his white wig.

      Penny tooted her whistle and the entire theater winced. “Move your butts for the opening of Act One,” she yelled. The actors trickled onstage from the house, from the backstage green room, and from the lobby where a handful were drinking coffee and chatting. “No drinking while in costume,” she bellowed again. Though the full dress rehearsal was tomorrow night, most actors wore bits and pieces: skirts, hats, shoes, coats.

      Lola sat in the last row of the theater

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