After I dropped Connie off, I reset my phone to help me find my home for the next few days. I finally found a parking spot three blocks from the the Whitehall siblings’ townhome and struggled toward it with my knapsack, suitcase, cat carrier, and Max’s bag. Yes, I brought Max. I wasn’t sure exactly how long I would be away and my ten-year-old cat didn’t take well to being left alone for more than one night. Not that he ever had been. Since leaving the police force and moving back to Trevorton, I’d been home nights. Usually alone.
I stopped to take in the building where I was staying. It had the faded charm of old Yankee money: well maintained, beautifully detailed, and not ostentatious in the least. Still, the granite steps, wrought-iron railings, boot cleaner on the bottom step, and hitching post weren’t add-ons but part of the original design. I hauled myself up the stairs, holding tight to the railings. And by hauled, I mean hauled. These were original steps, made for feet much shorter than mine and ideal for warmer weather when the granite didn’t coat up with ice. I made it safely to the top and put my bag down. The keys were where Harry said they would be, and I let myself in after figuring out which key went in which lock.
The front entranceway must have been breathtaking in its original state, when this was a single family home. It was still impressive, with slate floors, a stunning mail table to the left of the door, and a curved stairway that led to the second floor. I walked up the stairs with Max in his carrier and my knapsack. I let myself into Eric’s apartment and followed Harry’s directions to the guest bedroom. The room was lovely. Two large windows looked out to the next building, but between floors since we were on the side of a hill. To the left of the entrance I opened a door and was thrilled to see that the guest room had its own decently sized bathroom. The bathroom was modern, with a spacious shower in addition to the claw-foot tub. Still, the fixtures were in keeping with the age of the building.
I went down and got the rest of my belongings, then set up Max’s litter box in my bathroom and let him out of his carrier, facing inside the bathroom. He hissed once and then set out to explore, acknowledging by walking past me and flicking his tail that he’d seen the litter box.
I followed him, and together we walked into the kitchen. Max stopped and glared at me, so I pulled out his place mat and dishes and created his food space in the corner of the room, by a large cabinet that was freestanding along the wall.
With Max set, I put my coat on again and went back to my car. Eric had long-term parking in the Boston Common Garage, and he’d offered to let me use it. Parking was always a bear in the city and worse on Beacon Hill, so I was happy to avail myself of his generosity. Even if it meant climbing over snow piles and avoiding ice-covered bricks on my way back to the townhouse.
Once I’d found a space in the garage, I’d texted myself the location. I was forever forgetting where I parked, spending way too much time looking for my car. I made my way back to the apartment, maneuvering through the brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill. Years of abusing my knees was catching up to me, and I found myself having to pay more attention to where I stepped, and how. This neighborhood of Boston, one of its oldest, still held its Colonial charm, intentionally. Lovely, but not easy to traverse. Even the newer shops look like they’d been there for years.
I scoped out the neighborhood on my way back to the apartment, making mental notes of what the area offered. Since moving back to Trevorton I’d come to realize how important it is to support the small businesses of a town. Even in big small towns like Boston. Beacon Hill always surprised me, with the stores that were able to stay in business year after year. I doubted my small purchases would help much, but I knew they wouldn’t hurt. I stopped by a wine and cheese store and filled up the shopping bag I’d brought with me. Trevorton had banned plastic bags as of January 1st, and carrying a shopping bag had become second nature. I indulged in three sorts of cheeses, a six-pack of local beer, and two bottles of wine. Hard salami and some crackers rounded out what I knew might likely end up being my meal for the night. Fairly typical fair for me except for when I went to the Beef & Ale and got taken care of by Gene.
I pulled myself up the granite staircase one more time, fumbled with the front door lock, and then stepped into the foyer again. I took a deep breath, wished I were staying on the first floor, and then slowly walked up the grand staircase. It had been a full, full day. I looked forward to my crackers and cheese dinner and then crawling into bed. I went to unlock Eric’s apartment door, but it swung open on its own, giving me a jump scare.
“Sully!” Emma Whitehall stood in the doorway, the warm glow of the overhead light creating a halo around her red curly locks. She opened her arms wide and I stepped into them, giving her a one-armed hug.
“Sorry, I picked up dinner on my way here,” I said, stepping back. I lifted up the bag and tried not to wince when the bottles clanked.
“Oh, darn,” Emma said. “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner. I’ve got a sauce cooking in my crockpot and was about to put the pot on to boil for some pasta. Bread is in the oven. Nothing fancy; a salad will round it out. Maybe we can combine the meals?”
“Of course we can. My meal is more on the hors d’oeuvres side of life anyway. We can nosh on it while we get the pasta cooking. Should we eat here or in your apartment?” Climbing up to the third floor every single day must be a challenge. I knew my knees would object.
“I cook on the second floor and usually eat here too,” Emma said. “Hope that’s okay while you’re here? I covet Eric’s kitchen.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m grateful for a place to stay.” I looked around the kitchen again, spending more time appreciating the layout and finishes. I had to agree with Emma. It was lovely, and fit with the apartment, though it couldn’t have been the original footprint. I doubted the late 1800s lent themselves to open floor plans, white-painted cabinets that went to the ceiling, an island with gray granite, an extra sink, and recessed lights.
Max stuck his head out of my bedroom and stretched his way toward us. He squished his eyes at me and walked over to Emma. She put her hand down and he rolled his head in her palm.
“Hello, you. What’s your name?” Emma said.
“That’s Max. I’d forgotten, you haven’t met him, have you? Max, this is Emma. I hope you don’t mind me bringing him.”
“Not at all,” Emma said. “I’ve been thinking about getting a cat. This will be a nice trial run.” She walked into the kitchen area and took a large pot out of the cabinet under the peninsula that separated the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. She put it in the large farmer’s sink and started to fill it with water. I put my bag on the table and started to unpack my bounty.
“I love those crackers,” she said, motioning to the rosemary and walnut crisps I’d bought.
“You’re the one who turned me on to them,” I said. “Where would I find a plate?”
“Look in the corner cabinet there. That’s where he puts serving plates.”
I looked in the cabinet and was overwhelmed with choices. “He could open a restaurant with all of this,” I said, reaching for the closest plate.
“You should see his glassware. Eric is a great entertainer. By the way, Harry texted. He’s on his way home. I told him I’d have dinner ready. I still have to go up and get the sauce.”
“Very domestic of you,” I said.
“I know, right? I can still only cook three things well, but sauce is one of them. Happily, Harry loves pasta. We try to eat meals together when we can. Usually down here. I’m afraid my kitchen is more utilitarian. Standard stove, small sink. Apartment-size dishwasher. Eric’s is made for serious cooking.” She put the pot of water on the stove and turned it on, then tossed a handful of salt in and covered the pot. She took two wine glasses out of the cabinet and put them on the table.
“His place is much nicer for living in general,” Emma continued. “I didn’t see any point in
renovating, since my apartment is just an overnight place when I came down for business. But Eric is making me rethink that. There’s so much light with the walls down. I need to catch up with my baby brother in the having-fun part of life.”
“I think Harry is good for Eric in that aspect.”
“No doubt. Harry’s a good guy. I’m grateful that we’re getting to know each other better. By the way, I told Harry you could’ve stayed in Amelia’s apartment on the first floor, but he wanted you to stay with him. That’s still an option, though, if you prefer privacy.”
“No, this is fine. I don’t mind a roommate once in a while, and I love spending time with Harry. Plus, I’m a safe sounding board for him,” I said. “It sounds like this show isn’t going particularly well, so better he vents to me than carry it into the rehearsal room.”
“I’m trying to be supportive, but I know he’ll be glad you’re here. Even when things are going well at the theater, it sounds like chaos to me. I know you can help him sort through what is really a problem and what is just—”
“Drama?” I said. In my five years working at the Cliffside I had, indeed, learned the difference between real drama and drama for drama’s sake. The heightened reality of the theater world was both calming and challenging. It was a great relief from my previous life as a cop. Though theater wasn’t life and death, there were stakes. I would never underestimate those stakes, or belittle them. People worked hard, collaboration was necessary, and cooperation was a must. When it didn’t work, it was both heartbreaking and frustrating. And it did sound like this production of Romeo and Juliet was not, mildly put, going well.
Emma walked over to the sink and retrieved a cutting board that was leaning up against the refrigerator. I walked toward her and took it to put on the table. “How many kinds of cheese did you get?” she asked, handing me a knife.
“Three, plus some salami.”
“Harry’s got some cheese in the refrigerator too. I’m turning the water down so we can time dinner for when Harry gets here. I’ll run up and get the sauce.” Emma walked to the right of the room and through a door I’d assumed was a bathroom. Instead it led out to a back staircase.
I walked over to the refrigerator and opened it up, smiling when I saw what was illuminated. Harry and I were the same person. The content of our refrigerators was identical. We cooked maybe one meal a week and used it for leftovers for days. Other than that, there was cheese, pickles, various jellies, too many types of mustard to count, and assorted fruits and vegetables in varying degrees of decay. Harry had different tastes but the same plethora of condiments. If I ended up staying for longer than a few days, I would do us both a favor and go what my mother always referred to as “big grocery shopping.” The kind of shopping that required a cart and guaranteed that the basics were back in stock. The kind of shopping that meant that healthy, home-cooked meals weren’t out of reach. I found when I was cooking for someone else, I usually stepped it up a notch or two.
I took out some mustards and a few of his cheeses. I heard someone gently kicking the back door and I went over to open it. Emma came in, carrying a crockpot. I cleared a space and she put it down, plugging it back in. I went over and lifted the corner, allowing the glorious aroma of a bold red sauce to fill the apartment.
“Yum!” I said. My stomach growled.
Emma grabbed a corkscrew and was looking at both my bottles. I suspected she didn’t totally approve of my bourgeois taste, but I knew the wines were good and in my price range.
“You won’t hurt my feelings if you open up a bottle of your own wine,” I said.
“I’ve got a couple upstairs. Let me bring them down,” Emma said, moving back toward the door.
“Is that easier than going up the front stairs?” I asked.
“Much. We totally redid these stairs a couple years ago,” she said. “We use them to move up and down between apartments. Also, just so you know, there’s an entrance down the alley to the back staircase. That way you don’t have to go up the granite stairs with big packages, suitcases, groceries. There’s also a working dumbwaiter in the back hallway.”
“Now you tell me,” I said, rubbing my knees. “Good to know for the future. Though I would never put Max on a dumbwaiter.” Max tilted his head at me as if to say “because you know better than that” and went back to exploring.
“We treat these apartments like a dormitory. The back door to each apartment is always unlocked, and we just let ourselves in. If the door is locked, it means you want some privacy. We almost never have meals alone. That’s why it’s only friends and close family who get to stay here. I’ll be back down with wine and a loaf of bread. Do we need anything else?” I shook my head. “Great. Be right back.”
I laid out some cheeses on the plate and was adding a roll of crackers down the center when Emma came back. She was carrying three bottles of wine and had a loaf of bread under one arm.
“Wow, are you expecting a big party?”
“No, no this isn’t all for tonight,” she said. “But with you here as a magnet for visitors, I figure we’ll all be spending more time in this apartment. I might as well start stocking up.”
“That way you know you’ll have something you want to drink at hand,” I teased. “I saw your brother earlier today, by the way. He was helping me get my ducks lined up for this Century Foundation grant. He’s been such a great help. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Or you for that matter.”
“When’s it due?”
“Next week, but I’d love to get it done while I’m here. I’m really close—at the proofreading stage. I was talking to Babs Allyn, and she mentioned that there’s a reception of some sort tomorrow night the Cunninghams are hosting. She said she’d ask Hal to get me an invite.”
“I can help you with that too,” Emma said. She poured herself a glass of wine, saw that I didn’t have one myself, handed it to me, and then poured another. She raised her glass in a silent toast and took a sip, closing her eyes in appreciation. I toasted back and took a sip. I understood why she’d taken a moment to savor the wine. It was good, really good. I took my phone out and took a picture of the label. Always good to remember a great bottle of wine. Even if I’d never be able to afford it.
“I’m surprised Babs offered to put a word in with the Cunninghams through Hal,” Emma added. “I thought they were all on the outs these days. But I can’t keep up.”
“On the outs? What do you mean?” I asked, taking a piece of cheese and nibbling the corner of it.
“Well, I’m not one to gossip—”
“Whatever you say doesn’t leave this room, promise.” I mimed zipping my lips closed, locking them with a key, and tossing the key over my shoulder.
“Well, rumor has it that she and Hal are having marital problems.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, remembering Babs’s “command performance” remark. “They’ve been married for years, haven’t they?”
Emma looked a little pained and took a sip of wine. “As I know all too well, public perceptions of marriages can be misleading. People thought Terry and I were the couple of the hour. They had no idea what was really going on. Of course, I didn’t either.”
I kicked myself for causing Emma to think about Terry Holmes and their failed marriage. This recent, terrible history was a chapter we both needed to get past. Fortunately, Emma changed the subject herself.
“A few years ago, maybe ten, Babs and Hal separated for a while, but the separation was short. They seemed good, really good, but they’ve all been through a lot since Martin disappeared last winter. I had my own troubles, so I didn’t keep up on how everyone was doing. Looks like maybe their marriage suffered under the strain. There were rumors.”
“That’s tough,” I said. “Has Hal’s business suffered?”
“I think so. He still has a great staff, and long-term clients are sticking with him
, but when your business partner disappears while you’re sailing in the Caribbean, it does cast a shadow.”
“You don’t think that Hal had anything to do with it?”
“I can’t believe he did. No, of course not. There were a half dozen people on the boat and everyone seemed to alibi each other. The Cunninghams were there too—did you know that?”
“Truthfully, no. I do remember reading a few articles in the paper last winter but I don’t remember much follow-up. I thought I read that Martin had reached out?”
“Yeah, I think a couple of people got postcards, but no one has heard from him since, as far as I know. Hal hired a PR team to manage the situation, which kept it low key, considering it was a juicy story. Most people don’t even mention poor Martin, even though the anniversary of his disappearance is coming up.”
“You keep calling it disappearance. What exactly happened, do you know?”
“Harry and I were just talking about this, so the details are sort of fresh for me. Everyone said they went to bed, and when they got up in the morning, Martin was gone. So was a lifeboat. Is he dead? I don’t know. Am I wrong to hope it was a disappearance … that Martin wanted to start over? No. But the fact that his daughter hasn’t heard from him makes me doubt he’s still alive. Martin was her only parent, and he doted on her. Babs and Hal have been taking care of her this past year. I’ve seen her at their house several times. They seemed fine, as fine as they could under the circumstances. Babs never indicated she was thinking about leaving Hal, which does make me doubt the marriage-in-trouble rumors. Honestly, people can be such gossips. As well you know.”
“I sure do,” I said, taking a sip of wine. Emma was the kind of person I’d loved to meet back when I was a cop. A collector of information who disdained gossip but participated in it when it served her. I smiled slightly. “So you think Babs would leave Hal? Not the other way around?
“Never the other way around. Hal was crazy, is crazy, about Babs. But I’ve heard she’s been looking for a new place. Down in New York.”
With a Kiss I Die Page 4
