Cheddar Off Dead (18 page)

I
sabel lived in Trenton Tower, one of the tallest buildings in Pine Haven. It was mostly full of condominiums, although there were businesses on the first couple of floors. Parker and I headed straight through a plush lobby with piped-in Christmas music (the current song was an instrumental version of “Pat-a-Pan”). In one alcove near the elevator was a particularly ugly Santa Claus figurine; Parker turned to smirk at me, and I laughed.

“I should arrest them for that,” he said.

I followed him, realizing with a burst of euphoria that he was being playful on my behalf.

We climbed on the elevator; Parker was glancing at some notes on his phone, but then he put it in his pocket, smiled at me, and touched my hair. “Hey,” he said.

Before I could respond, the door opened and I was
following a newly focused and brisk Parker down a blue-carpeted hallway to a door that bore the gold numbers 612. He knocked.

“Who is it?” said Isabel's voice after a moment.

“It's Detective Parker of the Pine Haven Police.”

The door swung open, and Isabel stood there, lovely and petite in a red sweater and black velvet pants, and dwarfed by her cloud of hair. “Detective, I believe you just left here?” She was very adept with her facial expressions; currently she projected both indignation and confusion.

“And I believe you lied to me,” Parker said curtly. “May I come in? Or would you like to talk at the station?”

Her eyes flew to me, the unknown in this equation. “What is she doing here?”

“Lilah provided some information, and I need her to be present for verification purposes.”

Isabel's eyes had been darting around while he talked; now her face changed again and she seemed to be aiming for a playful, flirtatious attitude. “Oh, come in, then.” She stood aside, and we walked into an elegant main room filled with expensive-looking furniture. I wondered what sort of money she made. I recalled Parker saying,
The origin of people's money is always a mystery
.

“Please sit down,” she said, although her tone said,
Please go away
.

Parker and I sat on her couch together; she faced us in a plush blue armchair.

“I wonder, Miss Beauchamp, if you would like to change your story regarding your relationship with Brad Whitefield.”

“I don't know what you mean.” Her eyes were large in her small face.

“Explain the rings that you and Brad Whitefield wore on your pinkie fingers. The ring you still wear, I see.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked down at the ring on her hand, then back up at Parker. Her expression was suddenly helpless. “My ring has personal value. It's not for public discussion.”

Parker stared her down, but not without gentleness. “If the ring means you were sleeping with Brad Whitefield, then that is not a secret you will be able to keep any longer. I am investigating a murder, Miss Beauchamp, and affairs often provide motive.”

Now her eyes seemed to be the only thing on her face. They were sky blue, bright and compelling. “I was not—having an affair. What we had was deeper than that. It was not about sex. We were soul mates.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

She shrugged. “No. We had kissed, many times, in the real world, but—”

“But you had done more in GrandIsle,” Parker said.

Her mouth dropped open, and then she shut it and shook her head. “You know about
Kingdoms
. Aren't you a good detective.”

Parker sent me a glance, acknowledging my work. Then he turned to her. “Did Mrs. Whitefield know of the affair?”

She shook her head. “I told you—it wasn't an affair. Brad loved his wife. He wanted to stay with her. But he needed me, because I spoke to something higher in him.”

I scowled. That was a mighty flimsy excuse to see
someone behind your wife's back. Parker's face expressed the same skepticism.

Isabel sighed. “You have to understand. Brad liked his wife when he married her, very much. But he wasn't in love with her. He was persuaded to marry her by her family, who thought that Brad would benefit from the—alliance.”

I sat up straight. “Just like in
Kingdoms
—Thrivven married his queen for trade routes to her kingdom. What exactly did marrying Cleo do for Brad?”

“It wasn't quite so crass. He thought he could make a life with her. But he had a certain—weakness—and her family said that they would help him with it. If he became a member of the family.”

“Gambling,” I said.

“Yes. Cleo and her wealthy family knew of Brad's addiction. She loved him; all women love him, I think. But they promised Brad a sense of security that I think he truly valued. And yet, he found he could rarely talk to Cleo. Brad was a man of great intellect, a philosopher. He had two advanced degrees. Cleo had only graduated high school. Often he wanted to talk to her about acting, or about Shakespeare, or about the various theories of life and death, and she—was limited as a conversational partner. This is why I say that Brad and I were not really lovers as much as we were—companions. We loved to talk together; we could do it for hours and hours, and not just about the play that we were in. We could talk about anything. It was effortless with us. Brad introduced me to
Kingdoms
so that we would have more chances to talk without his wife growing jealous or suspicious. We needed each other.” She held up her finger, where the hematite ring gleamed under the ceiling light.
“Brad said that this was a symbol of Thrivven's bond with Amoura. But what it really meant was that we were joined for life.”

“Was the Hawaiian vacation for you?” Parker asked.

She bowed her head. “Yes. We were going to talk about our lives—should we stay as we were, should Brad divorce his wife, or was there some other way to accommodate our need for each other.”

“So why did Cleo think it was her vacation?”

“She found the tickets at home. Brad was careless. So he had to say that they were for him and her. He still had not decided—would he take Cleo, or run off on a vacation with me and explain to Cleo later? The latter was not very likely; he was intimidated by Cleo's family, and he did not want to hurt her more than was necessary.”

I lifted a finger. “But he told me that he was escaping. He said he had found his own little island of escape.”

Isabel nodded. “Then perhaps he was planning to go alone. Brad was trying to work through some things. Not just about me, but about life. I think that Prospero was a life-changing role for him. It made him think of higher things. It made him examine his own life. But more and more he felt—constrained. Trapped. And I don't mean by women. He loved women. Perhaps more by his flaws and limitations.”

This didn't sound right to me. “Everyone we talk to speaks about Brad's specialness—how talented he was, and how creative. How he seemed to exceed other people's talents.”

“Yes,” said Isabel sadly. “But people like Brad are the people who feel they are not good enough, do not reach high enough. They want only to achieve more.” She stood up and
walked to a little Christmas tree that sat in front of her window. It was only about three feet tall, but it was decorated with pretty, delicate ornaments, some of which looked imported. She saw me looking at the tree and pulled off one of the ornaments. It was a little fairy, a three-inch doll dressed in gold, with long blonde hair. On its dress were painted the words
Delicate Ariel
.

“Brad bought this for me, and added the words. He loved that we could interact onstage each night, especially in those roles. You see, Prospero and Ariel were not lovers—he was a man, and Ariel was of the elements. But theirs was a marriage of the minds. Like Brad's and mine.”

Parker and I exchanged a glance. Isabel was very convincing, but the story didn't seem real. Didn't most people want sex from an affair? Or did they, perhaps, want something more?

“So if Brad had gone to Hawaii alone—would that have upset his wife and her family?”

Isabel shrugged. “Probably not. He's asked Cleo before for these little retreats. Sometimes he wanted to go away to be alone—and he really was alone. I think his reputation as a philanderer was unearned. People often assumed he was off with women, but Brad wasn't a two-timer. No, not even with me. At least, not in the traditional sense.”

Parker said, “If Brad wasn't your lover, do you have one?”

She blushed. “I am—seeing someone, yes.”

“And was he jealous of what you have with Brad?”

“I think that he understood. I think I made it clear to him. He didn't always like it, but—now he will not have to like it anymore.” Her eyes were so sad that I felt ready to cry.

Parker took out a pad. “I'll need his name, Isabel.”

Her eyes darted to mine, where she saw sympathy. Then she shrugged. “His name is Dylan Marsh.”

I gasped, and Parker jotted it down. “Marsh got Brad's role, and he got his girlfriend back.”

“Dylan had nothing to do with it,” Isabel said wearily. “Believe me. He loved Brad, as a friend.”

I had a sudden thought. “Is Dylan Count Fury?”

She looked at me with her uncanny blue eyes. “What? No. I don't think so. We don't actually know who Count Fury is.”

“What did he always want to talk about with Thrivven?” Parker asked.

“I don't know. Brad didn't want to talk about that. Here's something you need to know about Brad: he kept confidences. People seem to be maligning him left and right, calling him a gambler, a cheater. But he was a good man.”

Parker tapped his pen on his pad, thinking. Isabel looked more frail than she had when we had entered the room.

“Isabel?” I said. “I suppose no one has said this to you, but I'm very sorry for your loss.”

She sat up straight, her eyes impossibly wide, and then she burst into tears. I moved to the couch and offered a tentative hug, and she threw herself into my arms and cried elaborately on my shoulder. Parker looked startled and uncomfortable, and made a point of jotting lots of notes until the scene was over.

Finally Isabel was dabbing her eyes and telling us to please forgive her. She sent me a grateful glance. “I appreciate what you said. More than you know. . . .”

Parker stood up. “And we appreciate the information. Please don't talk to Mr. Marsh until I've had a chance to do
so. And one more thing—I need the name of Cleo's family. I'll be wanting to interview them all.”

Isabel, looking distracted, was trying to put her hair back in place. “Oh, it's a big family, and they're all over the city. Her maiden name was Donato. Cleo Donato.”

For a moment we stood and stared at her, suspended in time. Then Parker was swearing under his breath, and he was on the phone before the door had closed behind us.

P
arker sat in his car, shouting into his phone and demanding that all the Donatos be brought into the station for questioning. “I want them all,” he shouted. “Enrico, his son Tony, whatever other kids he has, and what's Enrico's brother's name? Vincent? That's what she told us Cleo's father is called. All of them, and whatever other Donatos you can find in the woodwork.” Then he clicked off and fumed for a while. “Not once, not once, did that old man mention that Cleo was his niece,” Parker said.

“His son did mention something. He said that Brad was family. But I thought he was just speaking in an Italian,
abbondanza
kind of way.”

“What?”

“You know—like that old commercial? It's like a welcoming generosity, or abundance or something. Anyway, I didn't think he meant it literally.”

“A sin of omission,” Parker said darkly. “He could have been much clearer. And now we have another one in the mix: Cleo's father, Vince.”

He started the car and pulled away from the curb. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. Parker did not like to be crossed. “I'll take you home, Lilah. I already called Wendy and asked her to meet us at your place.”

“Parker?”

“Yeah.”

“It was impressive, watching you question Isabel. You're so good at your job.”

His mind was elsewhere, but he said, “Thanks,” with a quick smile.

“It's sexy, Parker. How focused you are.”

Now I had his attention. He darted a glance my way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you said I had a rod in my spine.”

“Well, you do, sometimes, but it's mainly very alluring. All the cop stuff.”

Now he was grinning. “That's good to know. I will tuck it away for future reference.”

“Meanwhile, it is very satisfying to know that you're going to read all the Donatos the riot act. I don't trust those people.”

“And you will no longer interact with those people. Not on the phone, not in person. If I find out that you did,
without consulting me, I'll be upset, Lilah. The rod will be back in place.”

“Got it.” We were approaching my street. I said, “Thanks for letting me tag along, Parker. I felt like a real cop there for a minute.”

“Like I said, you could do anything.”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He was about to say something, but as we turned into my driveway, Wendy came running up and pounded on the door. Apparently she hadn't gone home for dinner after all. “We've got trouble,” she said.

*   *   *

She led us up the driveway, where my landlords Terry and Britt stood on the walkway that led to my porch, looking grim. Mick sat at their feet, but he ran to greet me when he saw me. “We let him out because he was so upset in there,” Terry said.

Parker was on his phone, but now he clicked off and said, “What happened?”

Terry scratched his shaggy blond head. Even now, under stress, he looked sort of relaxed and casual, like a handsome surfer who had been teleported to Illinois from the Malibu coast. “We happened to see Lilah leave earlier, so when a guy appeared in her front yard, we were kind of watching to see who it was. Then this man pulled out a gun—”

“Recognize him?” Parker asked.

“No, not at all. He was tall and dark—that's all I noticed. Dark hair.”

“Go on.”

“Britt practically tackled me to keep me inside; I wanted to go confront him.” Britt snorted behind him, still indignant. Her dark bob of hair, silky and elegant, swung forward, briefly concealing the fear and anger on her face.

“What did he do?”

Terry pointed at my beautiful picture window, which was now a ruin of broken shards. “He shot a hole in that window, dropped the gun, and took off.”

“He could have hurt Mick!” I yelled. Mick leaned against me, pleased to have been mentioned. I scratched his big head.

Parker studied the ground as he processed details. “You call it in?”

“Yeah. And I tried to chase him. But by the time Britt let me get out of the house, he had already disappeared into the backyard. I did chase him then, but he had gone through Lilah's back gate into the alley. There was no sign of him out there.”

“Someone waiting for him, maybe,” Britt offered.

“Where's the gun?” Parker asked.

“We left it where he dropped it. Didn't want to, like, disturb a crime scene.”

Parker nodded. “I'll be back,” he said. He moved gingerly around the area, taking some pictures on his phone and bending over the weapon, which still lay like an obscene thing in the snow.

Britt moved to me and slung an arm around my shoulder. “We called a window guy Terry knows. He'll have this fixed as soon as the police are done with it. But you might want to stay in our place tonight. It's going to be freezing in yours.”

I sighed. When would I be able to live in my own house again? In the last two months I'd had to stay with my parents, my brother, and now probably with Terry and Britt. It was good to have friends and family, but it was also good to have a home. “Thanks,” I said. “There are three of us, though. Mick, me, and my bodyguard, Wendy.”

“Bodyguard?”

“It's a long story, which I shall tell to you and Terry tonight.”

“We'll have a nice dinner.” She looked at the broken window with some trepidation. “Is someone trying to kill you, Lilah?”

I had an epiphany in that moment, standing in the quiet snow on my front yard. “No, I don't think so. Give me a minute.”

And I went to tell Parker my theory.

*   *   *

That night I introduced Wendy to the amazing experience that is Terry and Britt's house. Terry is an Internet entrepreneur who officially calls himself a “broker” who helps rich people spend their money. His house is a whimsical collection of everything a rich guy with a lot of style might buy himself because he has no children and a lot of disposable cash.

We sat eating a sumptuous feast (ordered from Elderberry, a wonderful restaurant just outside Pine Haven) at Terry's conversation piece of a dining room table. It was an American antique walnut table with a split pedestal base and lovely carved medallions on the legs. Terry said he had gotten it for a steal, which probably meant thousands of
dollars. Whenever I sat at it I felt as though I were dining in a castle.

“So Parker is inclined to agree with your theory about the shooting?” Terry asked, handing Wendy a plate full of roast beef. She grinned at me; she joked that she was going to gain ten pounds being my bodyguard because everyone kept feeding us. Mick, too, was benefitting from Terry's largesse. He sat in the corner with a gargantuan dog bone that Terry had produced from somewhere; if hosting guests were a profession, Terry could have made millions.

I poked my fork into a lovely new potato. “About this shooting, yes. The way you describe it, Terry, he was purposely doing everything out in the open. He shot into the front of the house, not bothering to hide himself. He was clearly not aiming at anyone, since no one was inside. He left the weapon behind on purpose, and then he ran off. He wanted someone to find the gun. Parker thinks so, too. The question is why.”

“Not to mention who the hell is he?” Britt said indignantly. She turned to me, her hair swishing on her shoulders. “But we have three gunmen here, right? The one who shot this poor Santa, the one that shot at you and Cam, and now this one.”

“Which might all be the same gun. Or not. Who knows? This gets more confusing as it goes along.” I put the potato in my mouth and said, “Mmm.”

Wendy finished her last bite and smiled down at her plate. Then her brows creased. “So let's see . . . who have we encountered with dark hair? You said this man was young, Terry?”

“Well, youngish. I didn't get a great look at his face. He wasn't old. He was trim, and he moved fast.”

Wendy held up her hand and counted on her fingers. “So who has dark hair? Tony Donato, the son. Dylan Marsh has brown hair, if that meets the dark criterion—and he is suspicious for a few other reasons. Your friend Mark, Lilah—who was also Whitefield's friend. And there was the other young man at the party—the one from the school. His name was Reese?”

“Ross,” I said. “But he didn't have anything—I mean, I assume he knew Whitefield, but he's not involved in this. He's just a friend of my friend Jenny.” Even as I said it, though, I realized I couldn't vouch for Ross. Anyone could have known Brad or held a grudge against him—hadn't Mark said that Brad had hundreds of friends? What if one of them had become an enemy? Could Ross have come out the front of the school and driven around the back? It wasn't likely.

Wendy was still listing. “And then there was the guy with Cleo Donato. She said he was her brother, right?”

“Right. Another Donato. What was his name?” I asked. “Did she say?”

Wendy closed her eyes. “It was Ed. Wasn't it Ed?”

“Yes! Ed. That doesn't sound very Italian.”

“Probably Eduardo,” said Britt.

I sighed. “Is that it? Did we mention all the dark-haired men?”

“Don't forget Frank,” Wendy said, and we frowned at each other. Frank continued to be an unknown element, despite what Enrico Donato said.

Terry must have seen something in my face, because he pounded the table with his hand like a judge with a gavel. “Okay—enough worrying over this. That's the job of your cop friend.”

“Yeah, what's the story on him?” Britt asked, flipping some silky dark hair behind her left ear. “He was here at Halloween, and this time you pulled up in the car with him!” Her eyes were shining. “Is he your boyfriend, Lilah?”

All three of them looked at me expectantly, and I shrugged. “More to come on that. We're in a limbo stage right now.”

Terry nodded. “Anyway, as I was saying—Lilah, why don't you take Wendy over to your favorite room? I have a surprise in there.”

He was referring to his big front hall, which held a spectacular old Wurlitzer jukebox. Of all Terry and Britt's amazing possessions, this was the one I coveted the most. I had whiled away many an hour visiting my friendly landlords and enjoying the wonderful music of their jukebox.

I led Wendy from the dining room to the front door; this allowed us to pass through a large main hall that made me think of castles—or of Mark's
Kingdoms
game—and past a living room with a splendid, fragrant Christmas tree. Then I brought Wendy into the foyer, where she practically dove on the jukebox. “Oh my
gosh
! This thing is awesome. Does it work?”

Terry was right behind us, smiling and proud. “Not only does it work, but I just had a guy I know add some special selections.”

“A guy you know? You know every guy,” I said, half resentful of Terry's amazing connections.

“Yeah. Anyway. Name your favorite Christmas song.”

Wendy was enthralled. “Oh, that's easy. ‘White Christmas.'”

Terry nodded. “Great choice. Have a seat.” He pointed to two armchairs that faced the jukebox. Its lights, glowing in primary colors, comforted me and made me feel festive. “Tell me if you've ever heard this version before.”

He pushed a couple of buttons, and we heard an opening, then a woman's voice singing the introduction that Bing Crosby's version never included. It was a big, familiar, lovely voice. “Is that—Linda Ronstadt?” I asked.

“Yeah. But wait—it's a duet.” We listened some more, and a new voice took the solo.

“I know that voice,” said Wendy. “That's Rosemary Clooney!”

“Got it!” Terry yelled. “It's a great version. Enjoy—I'm going to get some hot chocolate going.”

Wendy turned to me; I could swear there were tears in her eyes. “Your friends are always feeding us. I'm getting so spoiled I might never return home.”

I laughed. “Poor Betsy. That reminds me—I'm supposed to make Christmas cookies with my mom tomorrow. I guess you have to be there, right? Unless Parker does something amazing in the meantime? So I wonder if Betsy would come and join us.”

Wendy looked almost mournful. “More food,” she said.

“Yeah—and it's fattening.”

Then she brightened. “Bets will love it. I'll text her.” She took out her phone and began typing, and I looked out Terry's hall window, from which I could see his shoveled driveway and a glimpse of my own little house, sitting forlornly at the
end of the drive, its front window boarded. I hoped the men would come back to repair it before Christmas. Much as I liked Terry and Britt, and thrilled as I was that I would now get a chance to see their alluring second floor, I longed to be in my space on Christmas, baking food in my oven and watching Mick sleep in his basket by the fireplace.

As if he sensed my thoughts, Mick came padding in to show me the large bone Terry had given him. He set it down briefly, and I said, “Wow.” Then he picked it up and started to gnaw, contented as could be.