Cheddar Off Dead (11 page)

I sent a covert look to Wendy, who smirked at me and took a bite of her sandwich.

A few minutes later, when it seemed we'd run out of polite conversation and passionate tributes to Brad, a woman walked in and moved toward the empty chair at our table. She was a short redhead with a dusting of freckles and bright green eyes. She wasn't beautiful, but she was attractive, and seemed to have a vibrant and intense personality, which made her fit right in with the melodramatic crowd around us. She took off a voluminous green coat and hung it on her chair.

“Cleo,” Tabitha said, standing up to embrace the woman.

Cleo sent her a moist-eyed look that spoke of gratitude, and they sat down. Tabitha introduced everyone at the table, and Cleo's eyes lingered on Wendy and me. “You two were friends of Brad's?”

“Not exactly friends. I got to know him in recent days,” I said. “Tabitha and I happened to be discussing him yesterday, and—she invited me to share a drink in his honor.”

Cleo nodded. “This was a nice idea, Tabby.” She patted her hair, which did indeed look messy, and slapped at her cheeks as if to put some life into her very pale skin. “I needed to get out—I really did.”

“How are all the arrangements coming along?” Claudia asked softly.

Cleo stole another surreptitious glance at Wendy and me. Something about us intrigued her—or bothered her? “It's going to be a private service and interment. Nothing for the public, I'm afraid. Brad didn't want anything like that.”

Isabel raised her well-plucked eyebrows. “That doesn't sound like Brad. He loved the limelight, just as we all did.”

“Brad was pretty complex, though,” said Tabitha, her face earnest.

Cleo shrugged. “I guess when it comes right down to it, all actors are introverts at heart. He told me once that he didn't want a big deal made of his funeral. But of course he probably assumed that would happen when he was old.” Her voice caught on the last word, and the table went silent. She dabbed at her green eyes with a tissue she had crumpled in her hand.

Dylan Marsh, who had been sipping his beer, froze with the glass halfway to the table, like a wax figure of himself, apparently uncertain how to process Cleo's grief.

Cleo snorted out a laugh through her tears. “Put it down, Dylan, before your arm starts shaking.”

They all laughed nervously in response, and suddenly Cleo was facing me. “So how did you say you knew Brad?”

I felt the curious eyes of everyone at the table. “We met through mutual acquaintances, a short while before his death. He was nice to me,” I said. “At a time when I was feeling down. He—gave me some good advice. I'll always be grateful for it.”

She nodded, looking pleased. “Brad had a good heart. That's what I keep telling myself. He and I had our differences over the years, but all I can think of now is what a good guy he was when the chips were down.”

“Were you excited about the prospect of traveling? I understand the play was going to go on tour,” Wendy said, her voice appropriately solemn.

Cleo sighed. “No, not really. Brad loved the uncertainty of the actor's life, but I wanted to put down roots. It's one of the things we tended to fight about.”

“You're not an actor?” I said.

Cleo's smile was sad. “No. I met Brad after one of his shows, but I work at a law firm. They've given me a leave of absence while I sort things out.”

Claudia said, “But you
were
going to travel! Weren't you going to Hawaii in the spring?”

Cleo nodded with a little smile. “We were. I found the tickets in our desk drawer. Brad had been waiting to surprise me, but he admitted that he had made plans. His understudy was going to cover his role while he was gone, assuming the show lasted until March. It was—a very romantic gesture. I wish—”

I wanted to know what she wished, but Isabel spilled her water just then, and suddenly many hands were busy with mopping and dabbing, and the conversation ended.

I was watching Marsh. His face was necessarily theatrical, but it was compelling—I could see why he was successful in the dramatic arts. I found it difficult to look away, because his expression was constantly changing. First it had reflected sympathy for Cleo Whitefield, then a sort of bemused sadness as he gazed into his drink; now he looked up with an almost calculating expression. He caught my eye, smiled wryly, and looked down at the table, his lowered lids masking his demeanor.

I suddenly remembered that Antonio, the character Marsh had played in
The Tempest
, was the man who had usurped Prospero and stolen his throne. In fact, he had been willing to kill Prospero in order to get the power and acclaim of the dukedom. Now Marsh was replacing his own Prospero—Brad Whitefield. Was wanting a part a motive for murder?

Wendy was looking at her watch. “I guess we should get going,” she said to me. “It was nice meeting all of you. Mrs. Whitefield, I'm very sorry for your loss.”

Cleo nodded. Wendy took a last swig of her drink and then stood up and began to shake hands with all the people at the table. I leaned down to reach for my purse just as Isabel held out a hand to clasp Wendy's. Her rings glimmered beneath the Christmas lights, and I noticed that she, like Brad Whitefield, wore a hematite band on her little finger. I wondered if it was a theater thing—some sort of symbolic gesture that the actors were making.

I was about to ask when Cleo Whitefield turned to me, her green eyes moist. “It was good of you to join in a toast to Brad. Since he didn't want a funeral, this is probably the only public acknowledgment of him that will be made. So it's nice—I feared it would be just me and Tabitha.” She forced a smile, and I took her hand.

“I'm glad I could be here. Thank you for including me.” I nodded to the group and made my way toward the door with Wendy. Tabitha ran after us.

“Lilah! Thanks for coming out. Did you get any helpful information?”

“I don't really know,” I said. “I'll just report the basics and let the police process it as they wish. Thanks for inviting us.”

Tabitha nodded.

Wendy said something to her, and she shifted her attention to my cop companion. I stole one last look at the table, where Cleo and the actors were leaning in toward one another and looking conspiratorial. Perhaps it was my imagination—but perhaps not. Dylan Marsh looked up at me, his evil genius
beard glowing gold in the bar lights. He flashed a white-toothed smile that reminded me of a wolf's bared teeth.

“I think I'm feeling paranoid,” I told Wendy as we headed to the car.

She was scanning the parking lot. “It was an odd group. The boss will want to hear about that lot. Here's our friend again.”

She pointed her head toward Frank, who still leaned against a red Toyota.

“It's weird, right—that some gangster has one of his guys following me?” Frank saw us looking and waved. Then he continued to scan the parking lot, as Wendy had been doing.

“Weird and noteworthy,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “I have all kinds of things to share with Parker.”

“I'll let you pass on the information about about our lunch companions. You probably know better what to look for. To me it just seemed like an odd assortment of friends.”

Wendy shot me a sideways look. “I wouldn't say that Whitefield had too many friends at that table.”

“Really?” I thought about this as I reflected on the strange expressions that had passed over all of the actors' well-trained faces. Wendy's comment made me sad, and for some reason I thought of Brad Whitefield's Shakespearean quotation, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

As if to reinforce this sentiment, Wendy's Christmas station played Bing Crosby, who dreamed of a White Christmas as we drove through a light snow toward the
city.

A
heavier snow came on Sunday morning, and the four of us had bacon and eggs in Cam's little kitchen while we watched the flakes dance past the window.

“I'd like to go home today,” I said.

Serafina pouted. “Why? Aren't you having a nice time?”

“Yes, of course. But I miss my bed, and now I have Wendy guarding me full-time, so I think it's okay, right?” I turned to Wendy, who was once again eating heartily.

She nodded. “I'll call to make sure. We don't do anything without Parker's approval.” She wolfed down the last of her eggs, thanked Serafina and Cam, and took her cell phone into the living room, where she stood gazing out at the Lakeshore while she called the Pine Haven PD.

Cam looked uncertain. “She seems competent, but it
makes me nervous to have you out of my sight. I mean, that was a real bullet, Lilo.”

“I know. But I feel safe with Wendy. And I have clients to bake for today, and deliveries to make, and I need to talk to Esther and Jim, and a million other things. Even Mick probably misses his basket.”

Mick, who was under the table waiting for wayward pieces of bacon, perked up his ears at the mention of his name.

Cam smiled. “We like having Mick here. Serafina is trying to talk me into getting a dog now.”

“Mick has that effect on people.”

I was watching Wendy, who had apparently been connected with Parker, and was now talking at great length. She had already shared her thoughts on the trio of actors, Tabitha, and Cleo—a bizarre grouping of people, now that I thought about it. And I was sure she'd mentioned Frank, who had managed to follow us to the bar the previous day, and who had been behind us when we left, as well. I wondered what she and Parker were talking about now.

What must Parker think of it all? I imagined that he was wearing his habitual scowl while Wendy spoke, and that he was doing something nervous with his hands—playing with a pencil or bouncing a Super Ball that I had seen in his car. I wondered what he was wearing, and if his scent was the same as it had been when he stayed the night at Cam's house. With a sudden jolt of fear, I wondered if I had done anything embarrassing while I slept that night—talked in my sleep or ground my teeth or snored—that Parker might have overheard.

“Lilah?”

I jumped. “Oh. You're off the phone.”

“Parker says it's okay, but the rule is you go nowhere without me.”

“I wouldn't want to.”

“Fine. You can pack up your things whenever.”

Serafina looked sad to hear this. I realized that she must miss her huge Italian family—she had something like ten brothers and sisters, and their house must have been packed at Christmastime.

I put my hand on hers. “You know I'll see you again in a few days. You and Cam should stay over at least one night at Mom and Dad's so we can have some fun—play board games and read Dickens aloud and all that Christmassy stuff.”

Her face brightened. “That sounds beautiful. And I will make Italian cookies. The one thing I can bake.”

“I'll want the recipe.”

Cam stood up and stretched. “I need to get out and run on the Lakeshore. The holidays make me fat.”

Wendy shook her head. “I'm afraid I can't let you do that, Mr. Drake.”

“What?” My brother looked as surprised as I felt.

“The bullet aimed at your car may have been intended for your sister. But it could also have been intended for you. Detective Parker would prefer that you keep to your home as much as possible until we've had a chance to investigate the incident.”

Serafina nodded with a dark expression. “I've warned Cameron about this. He has some very angry ex-girlfriends.”

Cam looked from Wendy to Serafina with wide eyes, then sighed. “I'll go stir-crazy in here. I have to get outside and run.”

Wendy put her hands on her athletic hips. Today she wore a red shirt with a black suit. She looked professional and rather intimidating. “Understood. Perhaps just for the time being you can do your running on the staircases. Even better exercise, and you don't get wet from snow.”

He scowled, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Serafina swooped in and kissed him. “More time to spend with me,” she said, and he grinned like the happy fool that he was.

*   *   *

We drove up to my little cottage at about noon. Wendy checked the outside, then went inside with my key, her pistol drawn. This made me nervous, but it also comforted me. If someone was out there and prepared to use a gun against me, it was nice to know that an armed police officer was at my side, willing to wield her own weapon in my defense.

Wendy came back to the car, her eyes still darting. “All clear. Come on in. Cute house, by the way.”

“Thanks! It's tiny, but we love it. Come on, Mick.”

Mick sniffed some of the rocks and leaves that lined our driveway, then followed me up the front steps. I showed Wendy the layout of my place, then led her into my small but clean kitchen. I enjoyed a moment of quiet pride before I got out my calendar and started making notes.

“I hope you don't mind,” I told Wendy, “but I have to get right to work. I have things to bake for clients who need their orders delivered today—just like yesterday, except this time it's a baked Reuben casserole and a pot of chili.”

“Great! I'll be your taste tester, if you need one.” Wendy
was still in scanning mode, peeking into my backyard and examining the lock on my patio door.

“Of course. And I'd just like to say—thanks for being here. I know you guys are working hard, and it's Christmas and everything.”

She shrugged. “This is the most interesting duty I've ever been given. And it has its culinary rewards.”

I grinned as I gathered the ingredients for the big batch of chili I had to make for Perpetua Grandy. Pet was the woman at the heart of my dispute with Parker. It was Pet I had lied for; but it wasn't Pet's fault that I lied. She and I had remained on good terms, and I still cooked for her. She was one of my more eccentric friends, but she had an odd charisma that made all of our encounters entertaining.

I began slicing into two big white onions, then dicing them into smaller pieces.

“You're fast,” Wendy noted, sliding onto one of my kitchen stools and watching me work.

“Practice,” I said. I finished my chopping and scraped all of the onion pieces into a giant pot that I used for Perpetua's events. I flicked in some butter and began to sauté the vegetables. “There's something lovely about onions. I use them in every dish, both for flavor and for scent.”

“What about garlic?”

“Not in this chili, but yes, I use it. Garlic can overwhelm, though, while onions accentuate. I don't like to overdo garlic. That's a rookie mistake.”

“I should be taking notes,” Wendy said.

I studied Wendy; she had a quiet air of authority and a no-nonsense look. I felt safe around her. “Now I have to draw on your expertise,” I said.

“Okay, shoot.”

“I've been trying to work this out. How would whoever shot at me know that I would be at that studio at that time of day? It seems to me like there are just a few possibilities. Choice A—the person who shot Whitefield hung around and followed Parker and me to my house, then followed me from that point on. But that doesn't make sense to me, because I was alone in the parking lot for more than five minutes. They could have just driven back in and shot me.”

Wendy thought about this. “Unless they started driving away, then doubled back and found the police already there. And then they could have stayed on a side street and watched you.”

“Ugh. That's horrible, but it also doesn't seem that likely to me. I feel like I would have sensed them. Plus, aside from the parking lot itself, there aren't a lot of places around Breville Road to just tuck in and wait to follow someone.”

“Agreed. What's your B theory?”

“B is that it has something to do with Enrico Donato. He knew, as of Thursday when I got my hair done, that I was the one who witnessed the shooting. Based on the presence of Frank, it's clear that Donato has minions that will do his bidding. He could have assigned someone to follow me and take a shot when it was convenient.”

Wendy stood up. “Is Frank still around, I wonder?” She left the kitchen and strolled to my front window. “I can't see the street that well from here, but I think I see his car. The guy is persistent; I'll give him that. I'll call the station and have someone send him on his way.”

“If Frank is not protection, but someone who means
me harm, why wouldn't he have acted by now? Unless of course he's the person who shot my window. But why would he let us see his face, in that case? And if Donato thinks I saw someone that I could identify, wouldn't it be too late? I've been around the police for four days. Clearly I would have told them by now, so what's the point in eliminating me?”

“Don't forget another option—that the bullet was intended for your brother.”

I opened a four-pound package of ground beef and set the meat into the pot, then started spooning it apart. “That doesn't make sense, either. Cam's a university professor and a nice guy. He has no enemies.”

“You don't have enemies, either. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I thought about this while I mixed the meat with the onions. I pulled three tomatoes from a basket on my counter and began to chop them. “Well, if you're going to call Cam a C option, then there's at least a D option, too. That whoever shot at us on Friday had some other way of knowing we'd be there—maybe they found out from someone close to me.”

“That's not likely, is it? Your parents and friends wouldn't tell strangers about you.”

“First of all, my mother would brag about me to any passing pedestrian if she was proud of something I had done. I think she was pretty excited about the TV gig, although I only told her about it the night before, so there wouldn't be that many people she could tell. And also, what if it wasn't a stranger? What if the person is someone that we know?”

I dumped the chopped tomatoes into the meat and onions.

“Boy, that smells good,” Wendy said. Then, “It's more likely that you've never met the person. The most plausible explanation is that the shooting was related to Whitefield's murder, and that whoever shot you is fearful that you might have information.”

“But I would have told it to you by now!” I said, stirring the mixture on the stove.

“What if it's information you don't realize you have? Something that might only dawn on you later? In that case, it's still worth the risk to eliminate you.”

“That's all very nebulous.” I turned off the heat and began to remove the grease from the pot with a turkey baster, then deposited the extracted grease into an old glass salsa container. “And the question remains—if it's related to Whitefield's murder, how did the perpetrator know where I would be that early on a Saturday morning? Unless they followed me to Cam's from Haven, but I'm pretty sure no one did.” I scowled into the food I was making. “None of this makes any sense to me. Do you think Parker is considering all these options?”

Wendy sniffed. “I know he is. I've never met a cop as sharp as he is. The guy lives his job. Last year at Christmas we had a big department Christmas party. Parker stayed for half an hour and then went to his office to work.”

I started adding an array of spices to the meat, measuring them out by memory. “Is he—dating anyone?”

“Parker? I doubt it. I've never seen him with any companion other than his partner or his computer. Not that the ladies haven't tried. I've seen many a woman throw herself at the guy with minimal results. I get why they do it. I mean,
I'm gay, but even I can see the appeal. He's tall and fit and he's got those eyes. . . .”

“Yeah. Anyway. It's just the other day he was on the phone, and it seemed like maybe he was talking to a woman.”

She shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, but I don't know how he would maintain the relationship when he practically lives at the PD.”

“Huh.” I dumped in two large cans of Angelo's Gourmet tomato sauce, then stirred.

I could hear the smile in Wendy's voice. “Sounds like you're pretty interested in him yourself.”

I sighed. “Yeah, well. We have something of a history.”

She was off the stool in a shot and towering over me. “Get
out
!”

“No. And this is between you and me.”

“I am discreet. And curious.”

“Two months ago I witnessed another murder.”

“What?” She looked briefly mistrustful, as though I might have Munchausen syndrome.

“I don't know how this happened twice. I just happened to be there.”

“The poisoning? In the church basement?”

“Yeah. I was there with my mom. We were witnesses, and that's how I met Parker. Anyway, we saw kind of a lot of each other because of the investigation, and it seemed like—things were getting a little more serious—and then it ended kind of abruptly.”