No More Time by Suzanne Trauth

Author:Suzanne Trauth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyrical Press
Published: 2019-03-30T19:04:20+00:00

11

By the time Bill and I reached our rental house, Jackson, true to his word, had packed up his belongings and hit the road. Bill gazed at Jackson’s corner of the screened-in porch, his mouth ticking up on one end in his quirky grin. “Our guest has moved out. I don’t suppose it had anything to do with that exchange between the two of you at the bar?”

I ignored Bill’s implication that Jackson and I had had “words.” “He said he had another place to stay.” Sort of.

“Dodie, what are you not telling me?”

“Nothing.” Why was I hesitant to share what I’d discovered about Sam Baldwin and my trip to the arcade with Bill? Because I knew he wouldn’t approve of my digging into Sam’s life and traipsing after Jackson. And bumping into Tiny. I was too tired to argue about my investigative instincts tonight. “Anyway, you ghosted me today.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you. Just…busy.” Bill unlocked the front door and moved into the bungalow.

“Now who’s hiding something?” I smiled.

“Are you hiding something?” he asked.

“Don’t change the subject. It took you all day to sign a statement and get a rental car?”

“It got complicated. The Auto Unit had some intel on the car theft ring and I wanted to get an update. After I picked up the rental, I went to Philly.” He busied himself locking the front door, switching off lights, filling a glass with water.

“You went to Philadelphia today?” I asked in disbelief.

“What? It’s only an hour and a half from here. But traffic was bad coming back…sorry I missed lunch.”

“And dinner.” Was there something Bill wasn’t telling me? It would have to wait until morning. I dragged my weary body to bed and was asleep in minutes.

* * * *

The Cinderella tiara fell off my head as I hopped over a series of black boxes. I stooped to pick it up, stumbling out of my glass slipper, which shattered into a hundred pieces. I hastily scraped up the shards of glass and deposited them into my traveling salesman suitcase while a dozen kids ran around singing “The hills are alive, the hills are alive, the hills are alive.”

I jerked awake.

Bill sat up. “Wha…?”

“Sorry. Go back to sleep,” I murmured.

He promptly did so, leaving me staring into the half-light of early dawn. I gathered the sheet under my chin. Whew. In my dream state I’d done a mash-up of the festival scenes becoming Cinderella with the Salesman’s sample case surrounded by the kids from The Sound of Music. I shuddered. Talk about a nightmare.

It was barely 6 a.m., and the bed felt comfy; I should have snuggled next to Bill and gotten at least another hour or two of sleep. After all, this was our vacation. I hated to admit it, but this visit down the shore was becoming too much like Etonville: the theme food, the rehearsals, even the murder. After an hour of mind-racing activity, I submitted to the day and stole out of bed, careful to avoid waking Bill.

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