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you?”
    â€œBriefly. I gave him a scene to take a look at. He read for the Prince of Verona. . . .”
    â€œUh-huh,” he said and jotted a note in a pad he was holding. Was it significant that Jerome would have probably been cast as the aristocratic head of the Italian state? “How did he seem? Was he disturbed? Agitated?” Chief Thompson asked.
    â€œNot really. Well, maybe a little.” I glanced at Lola, who was holding Walter’s hand, and shrugged. “Jerome was . . . pleasant. Gentle.” I paused and remembered our conversation that night at the Windjammer. “We both liked mysteries and thrillers. We traded books back and forth. In fact, he brought me the latest—”
    â€œAgitated how?” the chief asked, getting back to last night.
    I had to tell the truth. I related as many details as I could recollect from that night before at the Windjammer. Walter looked guilty and nervous. Chief Thompson fixed his steely eyes on him and stated firmly that he should have filed a police report if he hadn’t found the money within twenty-four hours.
    Walter shifted from guilty to sheepish. “I understand. We have these kinds of bookkeeping issues periodically. I’ll search one final time and come by the station if I don’t find anything today.” He smiled weakly.
    Lola crossed her arms and watched an early spring fly that was zooming around the office looking for a way out. Probably how Walter felt.
    â€œI’ll need you to stop by anyway to go over a few details,” the chief said.
    â€œI could get together a list of people who were here to audition,” I offered. “We have sheets on—”
    â€œThanks, but I’ll have one of my officers follow up with Walter.” He frowned at his notebook. “I guess that’s it for now.”
    * * *
    I let myself into the Windjammer, put on the coffee, and plunked down into my “office,” the back booth by the kitchen door. It was 9 AM . The restaurant wouldn’t be open for two hours yet; the staff wouldn’t even show up for another half hour or so. I was grateful for the quiet time alone. Jerome. My eyes welled up. It was the first time since Lola’s call woke me that I could actually sit and contemplate the enormity of the morning’s events. It was all so shocking.
    I sipped from the scalding mug and closed my eyes. I could see Jerome’s face, strangely lit up, as he confided that he was not all that concerned about the missing money.
    My cell clanged and I jumped. I checked the caller ID. “Hi, Carol.”
    â€œOh, Dodie, it’s just terrible. Poor man,” she said.
    Word traveled faster than the speed of light in Etonville. “I guess you heard from Lola?”
    â€œLola? No. Snippets is buzzing with the news. I heard Bill Thompson interrogated you.”
    I could hear the hum of hair dryers in the background. “Well, he asked me a few questions.”
    Carol lowered her voice. “Do they have any suspects? You know there hasn’t been a murder in Etonville since . . .” She paused to think. “Maybe 1980, ’81?”
    I’d heard about that one. A hold-up gone awry and the owner of the gas station on the edge of town bludgeoned to death. A pretty grisly affair. “I know. It’s just hard to imagine who would want to hurt Jerome.”
    Silence on the line for a moment.
    â€œI didn’t know him. According to the gals in Snippets, no one really knew much about him. He never married. He had a great reputation as a teacher.”
    â€œHe always wore sneakers. Weird for a man his age,” I said.
    â€œOkay . . .”
    â€œThat’s not much background. He liked Chivas Regal . . . and mysteries,” I said.
    Was that all I knew about him? We’d spent hours talking about books and writers, but nothing else.
    â€œIs Lola okay? She must be devastated.”
    â€œShe’s pretty upset. Walter is