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show. It was a marriage made in culinary heaven.
    â€œSomething romantic might work.”
    â€œI remember a dinner al fresco years ago . . . oysters, cheeses, avocados, champagne.... It was luscious.” Lola sighed.
    â€œMaybe we should look into an outdoor café,” I said, as Carol blow-dried my hair, giving it a fluff now and then. “Lola thinks I should audition for R and J .”
    â€œWe need all the potential actors we can get,” Lola trilled, still flipping through the magazine.
    â€œWhy don’t you audition?” I said to Carol, looking at her in the mirror.
    â€œWhen would I have time to rehearse a play? Not to mention that I can’t act.”
    â€œDitto,” I said. “Are you helping with the hair and makeup?”
    â€œYes, she is,” Lola volunteered. “Walter needs her expertise.”
    â€œIf I can get the shop covered.” She gelled her hands and patted my hair to pacify the frizzies.
    Without our realizing it, Pauli had abandoned his nest in the back of the salon and ambled over to Carol’s station.
    â€œMom?”
    Carol looked up and smiled. “Honey, say hi to Lola and Dodie.”
    He brushed a hunk of dark hair off his pimply forehead. “Hey.”
    â€œAre you hungry?” Carol asked.
    â€œI can wait.” He was smart and considerate.
    â€œAfter I do Lola, I’ll drive you home.”
    I stood up and grabbed my bag from the floor. “How’s the website going?”
    Pauli hesitated. “Okay, I guess.”
    â€œBetter than okay. Show Dodie what you’ve done.” Carol nudged him.
    He pretended to be reluctant to demonstrate his computer prowess, but I could read his face. He was thrilled to walk me through the various pages and links. It was impressive.
    â€œMaybe we can hire you to do one for the Windjammer. I’ve been on Henry’s case to move into the twenty-first century. I’ll let you know.”
    Pauli just nodded, trying to hide his enthusiasm.
    My cell binged: a text from Henry, wanting to know where I was. “See you all later.”
    * * *
    At ten-thirty p.m., I took a break in my favorite booth with a bowl of black bean soup—Henry was famous for his homemade soups—and mulled over the idea of an R and J amorous dinner theme. I was just getting lost in the romantic possibilities of various entrees when I heard, “Thought I’d find you here.”
    â€œHi, Jerome,” I said to the elderly gentleman who sat down across from me. “Want something to eat? Kitchen’s open for about twenty more minutes.”
    He shook his head. “Just a drink.”
    I waved to Benny and pointed to Jerome Angleton. Benny nodded. Jerome was a regular. He drank a double Scotch, Chivas Regal, neat, no more, no less, almost every night that the Windjammer was open. Often, he exited the Etonville Little Theatre, walked next door, and sat at the bar. But when I wasn’t busy, he liked to sit with me. I enjoyed his company.
    Long retired from Etonville High as an English teacher, Jerome—seventyish, tall, and lanky with thinning hair and a lot of energy—was a fixture at the theater. He supervised the box office, ushered, did some backstage work, and once in a while assumed a role on stage. His big break had been Sergeant Trotter in The Mousetrap last year. I had no idea what he did when he wasn’t at the ELT. But he was friendly, had taken a liking to me—if I was twenty years older, or he was twenty years younger, we might be hitting on each other—and he shared my love of mysteries and thrillers.
    He pulled a paperback out of his jacket pocket. “Got the new Cindy Collins mystery.”
    â€œYeah? Let me see.” I eyeballed the cover art. An angry slash of red broken up by crisscrossing lines of a picket fence, the title in bold type. Murder One and a Half .
    â€œYou can have it when I’m finished,” he said as Benny set his