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like a gnat bite that required scratching.

Chapter 5
    B etween Jerome’s murder and the casting for Romeo and Juliet , the anxiety level at the ELT was off the charts. Walter had promised everyone that the list would be posted by early afternoon—online and in the theater lobby for those who refused to do e-business.
    I took a break from the Windjammer at three after the lunch rush had died down and went to see Lola. I now sat carefully on her pristine couch, wary of dropping crumbs from my cinnamon coffee cake onto her Persian rug. Lola was particular about her living room and its furnishings—antique end tables, a baby grand piano, and brown leather sofas. The décor was spare, stylish, and dominated by earth tones. What my Irish father would have called artsy. I would have preferred the kitchen table, but Lola liked to entertain in here.
    â€œI couldn’t sleep at all last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jerome’s body lying on the loading dock.” Lola downed two aspirins with a swallow of black coffee.
    I studied her blond hair as it cascaded loosely around the nape of her neck and partially covered her face. She could easily be taken for a thirty-year-old. To the world, Lola was a figure of poise and elegance with posture to die for and perfect timing. But the woman in front of me in a bathrobe and slippers was neither poised nor elegant; her eyes were rimmed in red, face devoid of makeup, her head propped up on her right hand.
    â€œIt’s like Etonville has suddenly become . . . I don’t know . . . dangerous.”
    In her lap, the front page of the Etonville Standard blared its headline: M AN M URDERED— N O S USPECTS. The paper had published a special afternoon edition and the story was brief—an indication of the lack of evidence surrounding the case—and referred to a single bullet wound in Jerome’s chest. There was a mention of Jerome’s unmarried state and a summary of his years teaching English at the high school. Former students were quoted remarking on his enthusiasm, generosity, and love of literature. I could have said as much and I’d never stepped foot in his classroom. The sub-heading of the article included “member of Etonville Little Theatre.” There were two pictures. One was from the Etonville High School yearbook and the other was a picture of Jerome, Walter, and a third man I didn’t recognize, all in formal wear. Walter would love that.
    I picked up the paper and pointed to the photo. “Who is this?”
    â€œThat’s Elliot Schenk.”
    â€œI’ve never seen him around the theater.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t have. He left town very suddenly just before you arrived,” she said and polished off the rest of her coffee. “Elliot was a star in the ELT firmament and ran the box office. Jerome was in the chorus a couple of times and had a role in The Mousetrap , but he mostly ushered and worked backstage doing props until Elliot left. Then he took over the box office.”
    â€œWhen was this taken? The three of them look very fancy.”
    Lola studied the picture. “This was the fundraiser for the theater several years back. Walter decided we needed a dash of elegance.”
    The yearly fundraiser, in addition to box office receipts, comprised the bulk of the theater’s income. Fortunately, the town was generous, and donations of furniture, props, and clothing often made up for holes in the budget.
    â€œHandsome dudes. Did you raise any money?”
    â€œYes, but then we overspent that season. Walter and money . . .” She groaned.
    Which of course made me remember Jerome and the missing ELT funds.
    She stood up. “I have to get ready to go to the theater. Walter needs to post the cast list.”
    â€œRight. Before sixty auditionees commit hari-kari.”
    Lola laughed, then stopped herself.
    â€œI know. Tough to be light-hearted when Jerome . . .”
    She