Read Show Time for Free Online

too.”
    The front door opened. “Carol, Henry’s here. Got to run.”
    She paused. “Did you get a chance to ask Henry about the website? Pauli’s ready when you are.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œHe’s really terrific on this website stuff. It forces him to talk to people.”
    Not the nerd herd he usually runs with , I thought.
    â€œI’ll have to get back to you. Bye.” I clicked off and I took a breath before easing out of the booth.
    Henry stood by the bar and took a ball cap off his bald head. “Heard about Jerome. Bad business,” he said.
    That was as demonstrative as Henry was going to get. Unlike Etonville.
    * * *
    Jerome’s murder was all anyone in the Windjammer could talk about. Benny hopped from the bar to tables to back up our server Gillian, and I rode shotgun on the kitchen to keep the crowd from getting testy. In between, I picked up strands of conversation:
    â€œ... he was shot three times ...”
    â€œ... he was robbed of hundreds of dollars ...”
    â€œ... he was found lying on top of the Dumpster ...”
    The rumors were bouncing off the walls like bumper cars at the state fair. So many rumors it was impossible to take them all in. I gave up even thinking of trying and focused on today’s specials: grilled Caesar salad, meatloaf, and mashed potatoes. I hated to admit it, but Jerome’s murder was good for business: everyone was out and about and, apparently, hungry.
    â€œDodie, we heard you were the first person Chief Thompson interrogated,” a lady said and speared a chunk of meat loaf. I recognized her as one half of the elderly Banger sisters duo. I knew their reputation for being a little dotty and Etonville’s most enthusiastic gossipmongers.
    â€œWell, I wasn’t really the first—”
    â€œI heard Jerome was drunk,” her sister whispered.
    Who in the world was spreading that bit of gossip?
    â€œDo you think it had anything to do with the casting of Romeo and Juliet ? After all, the competition was fierce,” the first sister said. The other nodded and both of them looked at me expectantly.
    I gritted my teeth. “I’m pretty sure the play had nothing to do with Jerome’s death.”
    * * *
    I was worn down to a nub by the end of lunch, tired of fending off ridiculous theories on Jerome’s murder, tired of soothing Henry’s ruffled feathers when a patron sent his meat loaf back to the kitchen because it was too salty. In addition to helping organize the menu and managing staff, I also made sure Henry stayed away from customers on his grumpy days.
    Henry planned to serve French onion soup for dinner. I knew he had a dentist’s appointment—he’d been complaining about a toothache all week—so I offered to help Enrico with the prep work and sent him off to seek a cure. Benny had the dining room in hand so I wrapped myself in one of Henry’s aprons, picked up his prized tool—an eight-inch chef’s knife—and faced a mound of red onions. Normally, I never lifted a utensil in the kitchen, but this wasn’t a normal day. I began to peel and chop, and before too long, streams of water coursed down my cheeks. I stopped to blow my dripping nose and wipe my eyes, but the tears were undeterred, running down my chin and dropping onto my neck. Unexpectedly, I began to feel really bad, sad for Jerome, sad for my loss, and I cried—not just because of the onions, but because I had lost a friend. Enrico glanced my way discreetly and then went back to marinating chicken.
    After about twenty minutes of crying and mincing, I calmed down. All of Etonville’s theories on Jerome’s death got me thinking. What if the missing box-office money was connected to Jerome’s murder? Could he have discovered the culprit, who then killed him to keep him quiet? Did any of it involve Walter? I wondered. I was beginning to discover that Jerome’s death was