Cheddar Off Dead (20 page)

“Great. Let me give you Terry's number and you can send it to him.”

Moments later Wendy had sent the photo, and we awaited Terry's response.

“Did you tell Parker that Frank's been MIA?”

“Yeah. He said he noticed that yesterday. He tried to call Donato about it, but the man has suddenly disappeared, or at least is incommunicado. No one at the salon has seen him in two days.”

“Why does this seem ominous?”

“Not necessarily. Lots of people leave town at Christmas. We are just two days away.”

“Right.”

My phone rang; Terry didn't like texting. He preferred to call and boom at me with his perpetually happy voice. “Hello?”

“Lilah! I looked at this photo Wendy sent me, but this isn't the guy.”

“Have you seen him at all, lurking around my place or yours?”

“I don't think so. He has a pretty distinctive head of hair.”

“Okay. Let me know if you do see him, okay? Or anyone out of the ordinary.”

“You got it. Be careful.”

I thanked him and said good-bye; Wendy sent me a questioning look, and I shook my head.

My mother and Betsy were back at the kitchen island.

“I have four giant Tupperware containers, so that everyone here walks home with a sampling of every type of cookie we made. You'll be all set for the holidays,” my mother said.

“I've never been to a cookie party,” Bets said. “This was great fun!”

My mother was so happy it looked as though she'd been
dipping into the eggnog I'd drunk the other night. “And now we all get to go out on the town!”

*   *   *

Many Chicago-area theaters are tucked into old storefronts or hidden in unlikely looking buildings, but this production of
The Tempest
was playing at the Theatre Downtown in Wallace Heights. I'd been there once before to see a production of
Hedda Gabler
with a college English class.

The lobby was alive with that holiday feeling that comes close to Christmas; people with bright coats and stripy scarves milled around, enjoying their pre-holiday activities. I found myself briefly distracted, focusing on individual faces and wondering about the lives they lived. My brain was playing the “busy sidewalks” melodic line from “Silver Bells.” My mother appeared at my side and gave me a hug. “Let's go, dreamy.” We picked up our tickets and found that Tabitha had scored us seats in the second row.

“This is wonderful,” my mother said as we moved down the carpeted aisle. “I haven't seen a live show in years!”

My father didn't like theater as a rule, which was a bone of contention between them, especially when my mother wanted to watch the Tony Awards.

“Bets and I have season tickets to the Goodman,” Wendy said.

My mother shot her an envious glance. We had reached our row, which had people already seated in it. “We'll have to climb over some folks,” Bets murmured.

A face turned toward us, and I recognized Cleo, who
waved. “Hello!” she said. Her brother was with her, too. Had Parker not questioned him? I wondered. Cleo seemed happy to see us, but the tall and silent Ed seemed scowlingly uninterested. I noticed that, for the first time, Cleo looked pretty, and probably more like her regular self. Her red hair was styled into waves, and she had taken some trouble with her makeup. I understood, looking at her, why Bart had referred to her as Brad Whitefield's hot wife. Or had he said sexy? Or something else? I didn't know what words were popular with high school freshmen, but I remembered that Bart had made a point of mentioning Cleo's attractiveness. I hadn't agreed with him until now. Cleo was pretty, and her hair gleamed like copper under the theater lights.

We moved past Cleo and her brother and tucked into our seats. Cleo leaned over and said, “Tabitha invited us.”

“Will it be hard to watch the play—without him?”

Cleo nodded, her eyes moist. “Yes. But Dylan is my friend, and I'm curious to see his interpretation of the role.”

I took out my phone and set it to camera mode, then held it up. “Are we allowed to take pictures? Oops, I just took one.” I stared at my phone and its apparent malfunction.

Cleo shook her head. “I don't think so. No flash photography. Maybe if you turned off that bright flash.”

“Okay, thanks.” No flash, in a darkened space like this, would produce barely any image at all. I wasn't really interested in taking pictures of the theater, though.

My mother was between Cleo and me, so I introduced her to Cleo and her brother. Being my mother, she immediately offered her condolences and then started a bright conversation that seemed to be keeping the interest of both Donatos.

Using the moment of distraction, I texted Terry and sent him the picture of Ed-possibly-Eduardo Donato, the silent brother.
Was this the guy from the driveway?
I wrote.

Next I texted Parker.
Did you question Ed Donato, Cleo's brother?

A voice over a loudspeaker was asking us to silence our phones. I left mine on vibrate, in case someone texted me back, and stowed it in my pocket.

The lights went out, the curtains opened, and we were sinking with sailors on a tempestuous sea, who cried, “All lost!” as though their hearts would break.

I, too, was lost, for the next three hours, in the magic that is Shakespeare. I rarely came out of the story, except to notice how beautiful Isabel Beauchamp looked in her sparkling nude bodysuit, meant to convey Ariel's ability to blend in, but sequined to remind us of Ariel's magical powers. Her hair tumbled down her back as she ran back and forth on the stage, explaining to Prospero the way she (he, as Ariel) enchanted the sailors. Claudia Birch looked tall and noble as Miranda, and there was a clear chemistry between her and the young man who played her lover, Ferdinand. Dylan Marsh was impressive as Prospero: handsome, clever, humorous with some of his interpretations. The audience seemed to like him, and I noted Cleo smiling now and again. I found myself wishing I'd had a chance to see Brad Whitefield in the same role; while Marsh was good, he was not great, and Whitefield had been said to have put forth a stunning performance of this magical character.

I had not known Brad Whitefield, yet I found myself missing him. How much more of a void had he left for those who actually knew and loved him?

These thoughts lingered in my head when the cast assembled on the stage for a final bow. Dylan Marsh exchanged an affectionate glance with Isabel as he took her hand and bent forward, at the end of the play, to much applause. I thought I saw a moment of pain flash through Isabel's eyes as she faced the audience for the first time without her hand in Whitefield's—her cast mate and soul mate. Was it my secret knowledge of their relationship that made Marsh's expression seem so triumphant, so gloating as he took his bows? His face, still a combination of handsome and evil, looked boldly out into the audience, at one point making eye contact with me and showing both recognition and surprise. I sent him a little wave, and his gaze moved on.

I looked to the left and saw that Tabitha, normally in the wings, had moved slightly onto the stage to clap for the actors. She wore the obligatory stage tech black and a red theater lanyard that said,
Staff
, along with her headset. Something in her face looked familiar. . . . I stiffened and grabbed Wendy's arm. “I need to talk to Tabitha,” I said. “You should probably come, too.”

She nodded. I made an excuse to my mother, and we slid out of the row and moved out and into the lobby, seeking a backstage entrance. A young person with a telltale red lanyard and a headset stood in our way. “Only staff in there,” she said.

For the first time since I'd known her, Wendy flashed her badge. “And police,” she said. “We need to speak with Tabitha.”

The young person stepped aside, her mouth agape, and we walked down a long, dark hallway that led us to a wooden-floored backstage area filled with scenery and
props. A few people milled around, but most were standing at the edge of the stage, watching the cast take their bows.

We spotted Tabitha and moved up behind her. “Tabitha,” I said, tapping her shoulder.

She turned, surprised, and then grinned at us. “Hi, guys! How did you get back here?”

“Is there someplace we can talk?” I said.

“I really can't right now. They're about to flow off the stage, and I need—”

“I know you're Count Fury,” I said. “I know about
Kingdoms
.”

“What?” she and Wendy asked in unison. But on Tabitha's face I saw a red-faced shame that supported my suspicions. In that moment on the stage, she had looked exactly like the count at the edge of Thrivven's kingdom: always looking from the outskirts, in a black outfit and a red sash (her lanyard), wearing an expression of bitter disappointment at her perpetual exclusion.

Now Tabitha pursed her lips. “Fine. But we have to wait,” she said, pointing at the actors still taking their bows.

Wendy and I stayed close to her until the curtains had closed. She finally acknowledged us with a loud sigh. Then she lifted a curtain and ushered us through. “We can go back here.” She led us behind the stage itself, into another little hallway that housed tiny actor makeup rooms. I glimpsed Dylan Marsh in his room, peering into his mirror as he dabbed away his makeup with a cotton ball. Apparently he wasn't planning to go out and meet any fans; he seemed to be in a hurry, and his hand looked as though it was shaking. I wondered if he had been drinking. . . .

But then we were past his room. One of the doors had
Tabitha's name on it, written in pen on a piece of loose-leaf paper and affixed to the door with scotch tape. Production values of community theater, I thought. The room held only a table and chair and was cluttered with papers and props. “How do you even know about
Kingdoms
?” Tabitha asked.

I studied her face. She wore a hangdog expression, and her shoulders drooped slightly in a sort of “you got me” pose, yet her lips were curled into almost a smirk, as though she considered the whole thing a funny prank. It disgusted me, but I couldn't put my finger on the reason why. A part of me was angry that she had lied about her connection to the show in the first place. And she certainly hadn't mentioned the Count Fury thing, although there would have been no reason for her to tell that to anyone—except maybe the police? And Parker didn't know, I was sure.

“Do you admit that you're Count Fury?”

“Yes, okay. I created the count. I heard Brad and Isabel talking about the game so often, I decided I'd join myself. In a weird way, I got to spend more time with him there than I ever did here.” She looked around the cramped little room with its cement floor. “Alone time, I mean.”

“You were in love with him,” Wendy said.

“Duh. Who wasn't?” Tabitha said, shrugging. “But it was just an innocent thing. I mean, it's not like I ever went after him.”

And yet she had managed to be in his life, again and again. Had she ever had to manipulate things so that she was in shows with Brad Whitefield? Had he even been a friend of hers, or was she more of a stalker? With a rush of anxiety I realized we had only Tabitha's word for any of it—their
closeness, their fond relationship, their “alone time” in
Kingdoms
as a positive thing. What if that had been her perception only?

“But you resented Isabel, didn't you? Because Brad wanted to spend time with her,” I said.

“Yeah! Time he should have spent with his wife.” Tabitha's face took on a blurry look.

Wendy and I exchanged a glance. “It wasn't his wife you were upset for, was it?” I asked.

She sank into the chair and scowled up at us. “Cleo's my friend. Yeah, I loved her husband, but I wouldn't have cheated with him. I'm the one who called there and told them about the tickets!”

Wendy stepped closer to her, looming. “What tickets? The Hawaii tickets? What did you know about them?”

She seemed to diminish under Wendy's stare. “Brad asked me to pick them up for him at a travel agency. I went and this guy who worked there was also a guy who knew Brad from his Santa Claus gig. Some red-haired guy who taught at the school.”

“Peter from the Christmas party,” I said to Wendy under my breath.

“Anyway, that guy was saying snipy things about how Brad ordered the tickets with some woman, and that woman wasn't his wife.”

“So you took it upon yourself to tell—whom?”

“I told them both. Ed and Cleo. Ed answered the phone when I called.”

I thought about it now. Almost everywhere Cleo went, her brother accompanied her. Was this family solidarity, or was it custody? Did Ed want to prevent Cleo from talking
about something? At the pub she had seemed almost worried, and that was the one time we had seen her without Ed. . . .

“How did Ed respond to the news?” Wendy asked now.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and read the note from Terry:
That's the guy!
just as Tabitha answered, “Well, naturally he was upset. Actually he was furious.”

W
endy was on the phone and requesting backup as we ran back down the long, dark hall. I kept looking behind us, convinced that someone would be giving chase.

Out on the theater floor, Ed Donato was making his way out, his hands clamped firmly on his sister Cleo's arm. I spotted her red hair and pointed. “There, Wendy!”

We ran to the back through a side aisle, avoiding the crush of people in the main aisleway, and then waited near the entrance for Ed and Cleo to reach the back. When they arrived, Ed Donato glanced at us and then looked at his watch. “Hello, again,” said Cleo with mild surprise.

“I wonder if I can ask you a couple of quick questions, Mr. Donato?” Wendy said, flashing her ID. My mother and
Bets joined us, but then held back as they realized that something official was happening.

Cleo looked up at her brother, her eyes wide. Ed's face remained unfriendly. He had none of the charm of his uncle Enrico or his cousin Tony. “We have to get going,” he said. Cleo struggled slightly in his grasp.

“What's going on?” she said.

“Mr. Donato, we can talk here, or you can accompany me to the police station,” said Wendy. She put her ID away and rested her right hand on her hip, near her gun.

His eyes were on her hand. Then, suddenly, he summoned up a charming smile, and I saw Enrico Donato's eyes looking at us. “What do you need to know, Officer?”

“I would like to know why you shot a hole in Miss Drake's window on Dickens Street yesterday.”

“What?” Cleo asked, almost laughing. “You have the wrong man. Ed doesn't even own a gun.”

Ed continued smiling. “I don't know what you're talking about. But I also know I'm not going to address your accusations. If you want to question me, then I want my lawyer present.”

Wendy nodded. “That's your right, sir. But then we will need to go downtown. You can call him on the way.”

He sniffed. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

I was filled with admiration for Wendy, who met his gaze with steely resolve. “You will indeed go with me, Mr. Donato, one way or another.”

The moment was both terrifying and compelling; we had drawn the notice of some people who were still departing the theater, and they lingered around us, eavesdropping. My mother and Betsy were among them, their eyes wide and
uncertain. Looking from Wendy to Ed Donato, I decided that my money was on Wendy, despite an intimidating gleam in the tall man's eyes.

Wendy's hand was still resting on her hip when two uniformed cops moved toward us from the entrance. “Backup's here,” I murmured.

“Mr. Donato? I think these officers will be happy to offer you a ride in their cruiser,” Wendy said.

His smile disappeared. He glared briefly at both of us and then said, “Fine. Come on, Cleo.”

“Just you, sir. Your sister is not required for this interview.”

He seemed reluctant to let go of her, and I saw fear dart across Cleo's face before she looked down at her shoes. “Go on, Ed. I'll call Don Giovanus and tell him to meet you there.”

Ed Donato darted a particularly evil glance at me before he snorted and walked toward the cops. Wendy said, “Be right back,” and followed them toward the exit, speaking to her colleagues in low tones.

I turned to Cleo, who still wore a look of surprise. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, what's all this about?”

“Someone shot my window out yesterday. They think it was your brother.”

“But why? Ed doesn't even know you.”

“No.” I thought about this for a moment. “And I have no idea why. You would know better—he's your brother. I just know that a witness put him at the scene of the shooting.”

“This is ridiculous! Why is all this stuff happening to my family? And at Christmas! It used to be my favorite time of
year.” She shook her head, then lifted her chin, her eyes on the back exit. “Oh no—Ed has the keys to the car. Do you think I can still catch him?”

I turned. The lobby still thronged with people, but the uniforms were no longer visible among them. “I think they're gone.”

Wendy emerged from the lobby then, jogging down the aisle to join us. “Sorry about that,” she said.

Cleo gave her an unfriendly glance. “I don't think you had to haul my brother away like that.”

“I disagree.” Wendy shrugged. “He discharged a firearm in the middle of a residential area. We have reason to believe this may be connected to the death of your husband, Mrs. Whitefield, and it's not something that we can wait on.”

“Why would it be connected to Brad?” Cleo asked. Then she looked at me. “And why would that have anything to do with you?”

I shrugged, following Wendy's lead. “I don't know.”

Cleo looked suddenly small and deflated. “Oh God,” she said.

“Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “We can give you one, although our car's a little crowded.”

“Yes, thanks. Ed had the keys, and he didn't think to leave them with me. That or he didn't want to; he's insane about that Caddy.”

“Where do you live?” Wendy asked.

“I'm just outside Pine Haven, off Crandall Road. Ed has been staying with me for the last few days because he didn't want me to be alone.”

“That's a nice area,” Wendy said as we made our way to the lobby with its grand chandelier and then out into the
snow. My mother and Betsy were following us at a distance, speaking to each other in low voices.

It was cold outside, but not as bad as it had been on Monday. Some of the snow was melting on the sides of the parking lot. We had driven out in Wendy's Ford, and she unlocked it now so that we could all board. Cleo got in front with Wendy while I climbed into the backseat between my mother and Bets.

Cleo was texting rapidly on her phone. “Ed already contacted his lawyer,” she said to us. “I guess they'll meet at the station.” She looked at Wendy. “I wish I knew what the heck was going on.”

Wendy's face was serene as she backed out of her parking space. “That's what your brother is going to clear up for us. Oh, Lilah—look who it is.”

I followed her gaze to see Frank, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, getting behind the wheel of a black car, seemingly with the intention of following us. “I think I'll make his job hard,” Wendy said, speeding up. And then, “Oh, shoot.” We turned into an exit lane only to find ourselves behind about thirty departing theater lovers.

“Looks like we're here for a while,” said my mother. “Would anyone like some chocolate? I hung and filled Christmas stockings this morning, and I tossed some of the extra treats into my purse.” She passed them around now—brightly wrapped Lindor balls and tin-foiled Santas—which we took eagerly from her red-gloved hand.

All of the women thanked her, and the crinkling of candy wrappers was a sort of music in the back of my thoughts, the most dominant of which was that my mother was sweet to keep hanging the family stockings, more than twenty
years old and rather worn, with the names
Cameron
,
Lilah
,
Mommy
, and
Daddy
embroidered on them in gold thread. I felt a burst of nostalgia and a desire for Christmas, for holidays, for normalcy, and a lack of fear.

Now my mother, brimming with sympathy, leaned forward toward Cleo. “Do you have someone to spend the holidays with, dear?”

Cleo had flipped up her hood in the chilly car, and she nodded now, looking like a grim Emperor Palpatine. “Yes, I have plenty of invitations from friends and family. I'm still weighing my options. I won't be alone, though—thanks for asking.”

“Of course. I can't even imagine what you're going through,” my mother said, patting Cleo's arm. “I don't know what I would do without my Daniel.”

“Ah!” said Wendy as the traffic started moving again. We made it to the exit, then turned left and headed for Crandall Road. Cleo turned toward us so that more of her face was visible.

“The worst thing is that I just keep picturing him—dressed as Santa Claus and lying in the snow.” She wiped at her eyes.

I leaned forward, too. “They made you identify him?”

“No—but I came to the hospital when I heard. They—filled me in on the circumstances.”

“Ah.” I leaned back again. What if it had been Cleo that Brad was texting in the parking lot? Tabitha had said that she told Cleo and Ed the truth about Brad's Hawaii tickets. Wouldn't that have made her angry? And yet she sat in the front of the car, alone and palely loitering like the lady in Keats's poem—what had been the name of it?

“Lilah,” my mother said, poking my arm.

“What?”

“Wendy asked if you will be staying in your own place tonight.”

“Oh—yes. Yes.”

Cleo turned. “Why wouldn't you be staying in your own house?”

If only she knew. “Uh—it's a long story. Basically Wendy has been my bodyguard for the last few days.”

Cleo's brows rose. “This is intriguing. Why in the world do you need a bodyguard?”

“She's not allowed to talk about it,” Wendy said. “It's still under investigation.”

Cleo smirked. “So you and I are both subject to police scrutiny this Christmas.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I smiled at her and ate another one of my mother's chocolates. Cleo didn't seem to be a likely candidate for crime. Even if she had known Brad was having an affair—and she hadn't seemed to know at the Christmas party—she couldn't have been the person who shot at Cameron and me. How would she have known that I would be at the studio? It was just too unlikely. Just as all of the other suspects seemed unlikely. As time passed, the whole thing seemed more illusion than reality.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on
. It was almost as though I heard Brad Whitefield saying it again, now that my thoughts had turned to things imagined. On a whim, I pulled out my phone and texted a question to Mark.

“This is my street; turn left,” Cleo said.

I tucked my phone in my pocket, and Wendy pulled onto Mainland. “What a lovely street,” Bets said, gazing out her
window. “It must be so nice to have the forest across the road. What terrific views you must have!”

Cleo's voice was as tiny as a child's. “Sometimes you can see deer. Especially in the early morning.”

“How wonderful,” said my mother. “You can take great comfort in the beauties around you. That's something my mother always used to say.”

Cleo smiled at her. “You are all so sweet! You've all cheered me up.” She pointed at my mother and Bets. “You two with your Christmas sweaters, and this one with the bows in her hair, and even you, the cop who detained my brother—you seem like a nice person.” She made a wry face at Wendy, and we laughed.

My mother was in nurturing mode. “Well, we're just a phone call away, sweetie.” She patted Cleo's arm.

“Is this it?” Wendy asked.

“Yes. This white one,” Cleo said.

Wendy pulled into the driveway of an attractive one-story ranch house lit with stylish landscaping lights in green and blue. Cleo sat still. “I'm suddenly paranoid. Will you guys come in for a minute? Just until I get all the lights on? Maybe have a cup of tea?”

“Of course we will,” said my mother, opening her door. The rest of us followed suit, getting gingerly out of the car and stepping delicately on the icy driveway. I slid a bit and grabbed onto the car; my braid flew up onto my shoulder, and my head flipped backward until I saw not the car, but the streetlight glowing over the Mainland sign on Cleo's corner.

Two things happened in my mind at once: I heard Brad Whitefield's voice saying, “I'm finished on Mainland
forever.”
Mainland
. And then I heard Cleo saying, “and this one with the bows in her hair.” She had been looking at me, but I had no bow in my hair, nor did I tend to wear them. But I had been wearing one on the day that Whitefield died—a bow that Jenny made for me.

The others were walking away from the car. I wanted to speak to Wendy; something was not right. But it was cold and icy, and the women were moving determinedly toward the house.

Cleo was the first to fall; she took one wrong step on the slick ground, and her feet slid right out from under her. She lay there, looking up at the sky. “Geez, that was embarrassing,” she said, and then they were all laughing. Cleo's purse had gone flying toward me, and I bent to retrieve items for her, tempted to laugh myself.

She got up and moved toward me, saying, “Let me grab my spare key out of the garage. The other one is on Ed's stupid key chain.”

I tossed the items back into her purse, but hesitated when I saw one of them. She made eye contact with me, and I hastily put everything away and stood up. “Here you go,” I said. “I think I got everything.” I stepped forward to hand it to her and hit the same slick spot Cleo had. One moment I was looking at Cleo and the house behind her, and the next I was staring at the dark sky and the sprinkling of autumn stars.