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I stepped on the gas pedal of my Metro and eased out onto State Route 53. On the seat next to me was the
Etonville Standard
with Jerome's picture on the front page. I hadn't gone a mile when large beads of rain, like teardrops, splashed down on my windshield. The beautiful morning had turned into a damp and depressing afternoon. I flipped on the wipers, and the monotonous
flap-flap
of their rhythm was soothing.

On the periphery of Creston, I slowed to twenty-five and turned onto the main drag. I dashed from my parking space to the sidewalk and shop awning to shop awning to keep dry. As I reached the entrance to Sadlers, a flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a crack of thunder. I scooted inside and brushed moisture off my jacket.

A clerk, thirtyish and very neat, wearing a dress shirt, creased jeans, and a rust-colored sweater tied around his shoulders, was busy with a customer, so I sauntered around sizing up earrings and necklaces and matching bracelets. Gold was going for nearly a thousand dollars an ounce these days, so trinkets were on the expensive side. I computed the cost of a diamond ring.

“Can I help you?” The clerk hovered at my elbow.

“I hope so. May I speak with the manager?”

“I'm the manager,” he said.

I pulled the newspaper from my bag and produced the front page. “I'm trying to get some information about this man.”

He examined the photo, then scanned the headlines. “I heard about this. Terrible,” he said, genuinely concerned.

“Do you recognize him? He might have made a purchase here recently.”

The manager took off his glasses and stared at the picture. “Yes. I've seen this man,” he said cautiously.

“Jerome? You recognize Jerome?” I could feel an adrenaline rush. Never mind that that meant almost nothing, only that Jerome had bought the ring here.

He studied my outfit. “Are you from the police?”

I hesitated. “No. I'm not. But Jerome was a good friend and I just want to help find out what happened to him.”

The manager studied me for a moment, then nodded. “I didn't identify him at first. But now I remember.” He put his glasses back on. “It was maybe . . . a month or so ago.”

“You're sure it was him?”

“Yes. It was him. I remember because he mentioned the theater and some play it was getting ready to do.”

Must have been
Romeo and Juliet
. “Do you remember anything else about him? Anything he said or did that seemed strange? Or interesting?”

“He said his purchase was for someone special. He was very happy. Smiling a lot.”

Oh, poor Jerome
. “Did he mention a name?”

The manager shook his head. “No.”

He must have realized there was no sale here because he moved toward a display case in the rear of the store.

“Do you have a receipt? Could you tell me what he paid for the ring? Some way I could confirm the date?” I thought I was skating on thin ice, but there was no harm in pushing the envelope a bit.

The manager stopped. “Customer purchases are confidential.” He lowered his voice. “Anyway, he might have bought a ring here from another employee. But the day I met him, he purchased a gold bracelet. Fourteen karats.”

T
here was definitely someone in the picture and Jerome was wooing her with jewelry. Expensive jewelry, from the look of things. I wondered where he'd gotten the money and if Chief Thompson had sorted through Jerome's bank accounts and credit card statements yet.

I called Carol on my way back to Etonville. I offered to pick up Pauli at Snippets and bring him to the Windjammer and set him up in a back booth to work on the website, which reminded me I had to confirm a price with Pauli. But first I had one more stop to make.

* * *

As I described my visit to Jerome's home, Chief Thompson's expression conveyed surprise and suspicion. He rolled up the sleeves of his pale blue shirt and loosened the matching tie. Guess he'd come straight to the station from the funeral.

“It's not really a crime scene, right? There was no yellow tape and the landlady's father was very accommodating.”

He ran his hand through his hair for the third time in fifteen minutes. “What did you find? I assume you found something or I wouldn't be hearing this.”

I dug my hand into my purse and withdrew the velvet ring box.

“What the—?” He looked up at me, then down to my palm and tentatively reached out.

“Open it.”

The little black ring case looked miniscule in the chief's muscular hand. He slipped a thumbnail in the opening, pushed gently, and let out a sound that wasn't quite an actual word.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?”

He snapped the box shut. “Where did you say you found this?”

“In the closet. In a suit jacket pocket.” I waited for him to react. “I assume officers searched the room, but I guess they just missed—”

Bill laid the ring box on his desk. “It should have been Suki, but we were up to our eyeballs in paperwork so I sent—”

“Ralph.”

“Yeah. He said there was nothing out of the ordinary, just clothes and bathroom toiletries.” Bill gave me a cool appraisal. “Pretty clever of you, doing police detection. Got anything else planned?”

I blushed. This was the moment to tell him about the visit to Sadlers Jewelry store, but instinct made me stop. TMI for one visit?

“Not really.”

“Okay. I'll have Officer Shung stop by Sadlers later,” he said.

“Oh! Well . . .”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No . . . uh . . . I . . . was just wondering if you were able to pinpoint the time of death?” I asked quickly.

“Why?” he asked warily.

“I was gone by eleven-thirty. Only Lola and Walter were still there. I just wondered . . .”

“Between about three a.m. and five a.m.,” he said. “Anyway, sometime before six a.m.”

“When the garbage men discovered his body,” I said. “Chief Thompson, did the police take a computer out of Jerome's room?”

“No. Why?” he asked again.

“No reason.”

“Sorry to cut this short, but I have an appointment.” Chief Thompson rose and picked up his jacket. “You've been a big help.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Bill,” he said.

“Oh, okay. Then it's Dodie.”

“You'll let me know if you have any other ideas?” he said.

“Sure.”

His lip turned up at one corner in what was becoming a recognizable facial tic. He wanted to smile but controlled himself. “I admire your ingenuity.”

I wondered if he'd still feel the same way once Suki Shung had visited Sadlers.

* * *

In my back booth, Pauli was creating a menu page for the website, choosing fonts and graphics and arranging the layout. I set him up with a plate of nachos and a large Coke. He ate and typed and grinned at me from time to time. I envied the simplicity of Pauli's life. Of course, being a teenager was no piece of cake either. I remember battling my parents about my clothes and boyfriends and staying out past my curfew.

“Do you have a logo?” Pauli asked.

I popped up from behind the bar, where I was unpacking a carton of cabernet. “A logo for the restaurant? Do we need one?”

“Yeah, like something for the home page. A picture of something.”

“How about a picture of the front of the restaurant? Would that do?”

Pauli nodded. “That works.”

He ambled out the door, crossed the street in front of the Windjammer, and proceeded to take shot after shot on his digital camera.

“We're going to have a Web presence,” Benny said and smiled as he watched Pauli, standing, kneeling, and catching the restaurant from different angles as though he were a fashion photographer.

“It's about time. Hey, have you checked the schedule for the weekend?” I had rearranged a few evening hours to accommodate my dropping in at the ELT.

“Yep. Looks good. I can cover Friday night. Hey, what are you going to do over there?” he asked.

“Not sure. Organize things once rehearsals start. The place could use some shaping up. ”

“Jerome's murder probably doesn't help.”

“Benny, let me ask you something. Did Jerome ever strike you as a flashy guy? You know, money to burn?”

“Jerome? No way. He told me he lived on a modest pension and Social Security. One time, he was invited to take a trip to Europe with a group from the theater and he couldn't afford it. I kind of felt sorry for him. I liked him.”

“Me too.”

Pauli loped back in the door. “Got some good ones,” he said and brushed the hair off his face. “Hey, you know what you need?”

I shook my head.

“An email address so people can make reservations online.”

“Great idea. The last place I worked had that capability.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“Will we need a password?”

“Yeah, but I can set something up.”

Those little dancing hairs started to tingle. The mystery woman might have contacted Jerome through email and it's probable he had an account—Lola said the ELT often sent out messages to its membership. Though no computer was found in his room, the library was available and he was known to have visited there. If I could find his email address . . .

“Pauli, how hard would it be to check someone's email?” I asked on impulse.

“No problem,” he said and closed his laptop.

“What if you had an email address but not the password?”

“Why don't you have the password?”

“Because it belongs to someone . . . else.”

“Can't you, like, ask him. Or her?”

I paused. “I wish I could, but he isn't around.”

“Oh.” He gawked at me. “Like to hack it?”

“Well, you know, just to check on things . . .” I tried for my most professional voice.

He gazed at me as if seeing me in a different light. “I could probably do it.”

“You can find someone's password?” My heart thumped.

“It's not that hard.” He reopened his laptop.

I put a hand on the lid and slowly closed it. “Not now. I'll let you know.”

“Okay.”

* * *

The restaurant was calming down for the night so I knew I could slip away for a bit. I stepped outside onto the sidewalk. The air was brisk, but low-hanging clouds threatened rain. I turned to face the theater. The lone light in Walter's office flicked off and I hurried to the entrance just in time to see Penny exit the building.

“Working late?” I knew Penny was often the last one standing. Doing who knew what.

Her head bobbed. “Been handling a reporter from the
Etonville Standard
—they're doing a follow-up, you know.” She cracked her gum knowingly.

“On Jerome's murder, you mean?”

“Duh,” she said and rolled her eyes. “Walter's falling to pieces, what with the rehearsals starting soon and the murder investigation.”

“It's a lot to handle.”

“Whatever. Too bad about the money.”

“What . . . money?” I asked carefully.

“The missing box-office cash.” Penny buttoned her jacket. “Walter told me. But I'm not buying it.”

“Why?”

“Jerome wasn't the type,” Penny said.

“Jerome? Walter thinks Jerome took the money?”

“Anyway, Walter loses things.”

“Even money?” I asked.

“Especially money. We've had box-office cash go missing before. Sometimes he even borrows a little bit,” she said confidentially.

“Penny, I wonder if you could do me a favor?” I asked amiably.

She looked suspicious.

“I know you're on your way out, but I was wondering if you could take one more minute? I'd like to borrow the sign-up sheets from auditions. Just overnight?”

“Sorry. Walter doesn't let paperwork leave his office. Under lock and key. Good night.” She started off.

“I could look them over in his office,” I said.

Penny put her hands on her hips and squinted at me. “Why?”

“Well, there were a few folks who auditioned that I need contact information on.”

“Why?” she asked again, planting herself squarely between me and the theater.

My mind ran through a catalog of possibilities before coming to rest on a surefire Penny-motivator. “Chief Thompson asked me get the names and addresses of anyone who left the theater after ten p.m.” Did that even make sense? “Maybe you could help me? In case I don't remember who auditioned early and who stayed later.”

The mention of the chief was like a shot of adrenaline for Penny. Before I could say anything more, she had the door open, lights on, and audition forms in a stack on Walter's desk.

* * *

We'd been at it for twenty minutes. I suggested she start with the women and I do the men; each audition form had the actor's name, address, phone numbers, and email.

“Some sheets aren't complete. They don't have cell numbers and email addresses,” I said.

“Yeah. Some of the older actors are still living in the twentieth century,” Penny chuckled. “Like Jerome. He just got an email account a few months ago.”

I wrote down names and information and, when her back was turned, I stuffed Jerome's sheet in the pocket of my jacket.

Penny held up a form. “NOYL,” she read from the paper. “Abby.”

“Huh?”

“Not On Your Life.”

I was so fixated on finding Jerome's sheet that I'd neglected to read Walter's handwritten comments on each actor's audition. I had noticed that he coded them with a plus, minus, star, double star, or a series of letters such as NOYL or HWFO—Hell Will Freeze Over, Penny had explained.

“I feel sorry for some of them.” I was ready to call it a night.

“Hey, O'Dell, that's show biz.” Penny grinned.

“I think we have all the names we need. Thanks for your help.” I stretched and checked my watch. “I need to get back to the Windjammer.”

“Go ahead. I'm almost done.” She gathered my sheets and tucked them into her pile.

“Thanks, Penny.”

“I'll run these names down to the station tomorrow. The chief can check—”

“I can deliver them,” I said quickly.

Penny held the papers close to her chest. She was not going to surrender her authority easily.

“Okay. Bye,” I said.

I'd created a potential problem. Bill would wonder why Penny was delivering a list of auditionees; of course, he might chalk it up to her general enthusiasm regarding Jerome's murder. I doubted she would mention me; she was saving all of the glory for herself. Meanwhile, I had exactly what I needed. Jerome's email address.