A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  “Yes, you’re right, there’s that. And Harry … do you think I should have had him come to the house?”

  Eric, and most of Trevorton, had adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about his love life. Harry hated the fact that he was never part of all of Eric’s life. So I almost replied that having Harry at his side at the reception would have been a good way for Eric to tell the world that Harry was his partner. It also would have been a good way to win him back. But in a rare moment of diplomacy, I said, “That’s not for me to say.”

  “Coward. I could use a chat, but now’s not the time. Maybe later?”

  “Of course. I need to go by the theater, but I’ll be home tonight … ”

  “Oh, right. Christmas Carol rehearsals,” Eric said. He was on the board of the Cliffside and usually stopped by our rehearsals, especially when Harry was in the cast. “Tell me, is it as bad as I’ve heard?”

  “Shhh, not so loud. There’s a lot of potential audience members here.” Eric seemed appropriately chagrined. “Let’s just say it isn’t good, aside from our brilliant Bob Cratchit. But there’s still hope. Not a lot of hope. But some.”

  Eric looked over my shoulder and pulled me toward him. “Whoa, evil stepmother approaching at six o’clock. Do you want to bolt?”

  “Nah. Brooke’s pretty harmless, at least to me. She never remembers me.”

  “Run now, Sully, or those days may be over. She’s been on a tear today.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  At that moment, Brooke Whitehall descended. There was no other word for it. One moment she was across the room, the next moment she stood beside Eric, her hand on his arm. The movement left a wake; everyone in the room was looking at her. She didn’t seem to notice, but then again, given her looks, she was probably used to people staring at her.

  As always, I was struck by her beauty. If I hadn’t known as much about the woman behind the face, I probably would have been awed. But Eric had told me enough stories to tarnish the veneer. So rather than being vexed or awed by her, I chose to be amused.

  “Eric, is this a friend of yours?” Emphasis on “friend.” Brooke was either baiting Eric or she was clueless.

  “Yes, Brooke. Also a relative. You’ve met Sully before, haven’t you? She runs the Cliffside … ”

  “I thought Dimitri ran the theater?”

  Dimitri runs it into the ground, I thought. Aloud, I explained, “Dimitri is the artistic director. I’m the general manager. I run the business part. Dimitri does the creative work.” A second diplomatic moment in as many minutes. And I hadn’t had anything to drink. Yet.

  “Oh, how interesting. I’ve always wanted to be more involved with the theater, but Peter didn’t like it.” She took a moment to dab her eyes. “Poor Peter,” she said. She almost sounded sincere.

  “Mrs. Whitehall, forgive me. I should have said straight off how sorry I am about your husband.”

  “Thank you, Sally. I appreciate it … oh, Eric, the senator is leaving. Come with me and say goodbye. I don’t know where Terry is … ”

  With that, Brooke took her stepson by the arm and steered him out of the room. Again, all eyes watched their departure.

  I had done my duty so I headed for the exit. I pulled my cell phone out, willing a message to have come in. Still nothing. I really wanted to make it out the door without seeing Gus, and I almost did. Almost. Just three more feet …

  “Sully?”

  “Gus.” I amazed myself with my ability to come up with scintillating conversation despite the circumstance.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here.” That particular tone in his voice did what it had always done: got my back up.

  “Are you surprised that I travel in these circles?” I asked.

  “Yes. No. Sorry. I’m just surprised. I remember how your dad felt about Peter, and thought … but of course you’d be here. Sorry. It’s been a tough few days.”

  When Gus and I first got together, verbal jousting was foreplay. Later, it made me angry. Now, it made me sad. He’d been my husband, my lover, my best friend for so long. And now? He was nothing. No, not nothing. He’d always be something in my life. A regret. My biggest regret. Not for having married him, but rather for not fighting harder to keep him in my life. Of course, I’d be damned if I’d ever tell him that.

  Another deep breath. If people kept pissing me off, I’d hyperventilate or pop my gaff-tape waistband. “Eric’s a good friend and on the board of the theater.” I tried my best to smile.

  Gus’s exhale seemed deep-rooted as well. “I’d heard you were running the Cliffside. How’s that going?”

  “Well, really well—”

  “I was surprised when I heard. You never seemed that interested in theater while we were together. I mean, I had to force you into subscribing to the ART, and then you didn’t go most of the time.”

  My therapist would have called this moment “an opportunity for choice.” I could rise to the bait, pick a fight, and stomp out. Or I could ignore the bait, answer Gus, and keep the door open so that it might be less awkward the next time we met. The former, my normal modus operandi, hadn’t worked well, so I decided to try the latter.

  “My mother loved theater. She worked at the Cliffside for years—volunteering in the box office, acting in some of the shows. She used to bring me with her. I’d help her do whatever she was doing. She wrangled my father into helping out with sets, props … a few years after she passed, he joined the board. I think it helped him remember her. After he died I heard they were looking for a general manager, and I had the special requirements for the job.”

  “I didn’t know you worked in theater before,” Gus said.

  “No, not experience. Requirements. First, with my pension from the force, I could live on what they could pay. Second, the artistic director couldn’t scare me.”

  Gus laughed. “What do you do in the winter? Isn’t the Cliffside a summer theater?”

  “Technically, yes. But we do a production of A Christmas Carol every year at the high school. Dimitri ties the crew work into a class he teaches. It’s a moneymaker, or it’s supposed to be. The rest of the winter we plan the season and have board meetings, strategic planning sessions, fundraisers … ”

  “So it keeps you busy?”

  “Busy enough. How about you? Are you … were you working with Peter?”

  “Yes. I’ve taken on some corporate clients.”

  “Given up on criminal law?” I asked. Gus was an amazing lawyer, with a passionate zeal for truth.

  “I’d hate to say I’ve given it up. I’d rather say I’ve branched out,” he said, studiously adjusting his cufflinks and avoiding looking at me.

  “Still in Boston?”

  “Yes, I bought a condo on Comm Ave.” Obviously corporate law paid well.

  “That’s terrific, Gus. I’m glad things are going well.”

  “Sully … ” he said, taking a tentative step toward me.

  Emma’s appearance interrupted the moment. “Sully, I’m glad you’re still here.”

  “Gus and I were catching up.”

  “Oh. I forgot you knew each other.”

  The smirk on Gus’s face might have finally undone my therapy. “We don’t know each other that well anymore,” he said. “Good to see you, Sully. Em, call me if you need anything.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I’ll be in touch. We need to move on the Century Project this week,” Emma said.

  “Emma, it can wait until—”

  “No, it can’t. Things are likely to get more complicated, and it may be harder to move forward.”

  “Fine, I’ll call you tomorrow.” Gus walked toward the front door, seemingly oblivious to Brooke, who was flapping both her wrists at him from across the foyer.

  “Thank God for Gus,” Emma said. �
��With him around I don’t have to worry as much about the project, and I can focus on—”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult this has been, Emma.” I touched her arm and a wave of grief flowed across her face. The wave was soon controlled, but she still looked drawn. I remembered that feeling too well.

  I focused on the bright winter sun filtering through the windows around the front door, trying to get my emotions back in check. What was happening to me? Was the theater crowd finally wearing down my thick skin? If I didn’t watch myself, I’d start hugging people instead of shaking hands. And from there, who knows? Perhaps an emotional attachment to another person? Doubtful. That would involve dating, and I wasn’t ready. Besides, pickings were slim in Trevorton.

  Suddenly I realized Emma was talking.

  “So anyway, Sully, I know that you aren’t a detective anymore … I don’t know what you can do. I don’t know what anyone can do, but I need help. I’d like to talk to you about—” Emma stopped.

  “Don’t let me interrupt, ladies.” Terry appeared by Emma’s side. “Did I see Gus leave?”

  “Yes, he needed to get back,” Emma said, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. He shook it off.”

  “Damn, I wanted to talk to him. He told me he’d wait.” Terry looked furious.

  “Probably my fault, Terry,” I said, trying to change the subject. “He wanted to escape.” I was taken aback by the frustrated tone in Terry’s voice. He was obviously a man accustomed to getting his way. “Gus and I haven’t been in touch for a while. Seeing each other probably threw him off. I know it did me.”

  “You don’t seem like a woman easily thrown anywhere.” Terry gave me a brief up and down with his eyes and then turned toward his wife for a private conversation. Perhaps the up and down was supposed to intimidate me, or remind me that I wasn’t a rail-thin supermodel. Instead, it confirmed what I’d thought for a while. Emma had married a jackass.

  I’d thought so the first time she’d told me about him, last spring. Eric had invited me out lunch with them. I’d thought the point of the lunch was to relive old times. And it was, until Emma poured herself another glass of wine and drank half of it in one gulp. Courage restored, she began, haltingly, to tell me the real reason for lunch. She didn’t know where else to turn … she knew that I used to be a detective, maybe I could help … she worried that her husband was having an affair …

  I stopped her “Emma, I’m no longer a detective.”

  “But surely you could—”

  “I don’t know if this is going to make sense or not, but I’m going to ask you to hear me out. When I left the force, I made some hard decisions about my life. One of the first decisions was what to do next. I could easily have become a private investigator. A lot of people who take early retirement do. But I didn’t want to go that route, so I chose a new path.” I took a sip of water. “I hope you understand this, Emma, but I can’t help you. It was hard enough while I was on the job, knowing more about people than I wanted to. Meeting an old high school friend at the mall and realizing that I’d busted her husband for drugs. Being part of an investigation where I knew some of the players. That blurring of the lines was hard, but it was my job. And it was worth it. But to be a PI means doing that part of the job without the reward of being on the job. It works for some people, but not me. I don’t want to know if your husband is fooling around. You could never look at me the same way, never forgive me on some level, no matter what I found out. I can’t deal with that flotsam in my life. I’m really sorry … ”

  “Don’t apologize,” Emma said. “And don’t blame Eric; this was my idea. I don’t know what to do … ”

  I pulled out my theater business card, wrote down a name and number on the back, and slid it toward her. “This is someone who was on the job and became a PI. His name’s Jack Megan. He’s a good man; you can trust him. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.” Emma hesitated before taking the card. “He’s discreet. I can call him and let him know you’ll be in touch, if that helps.”

  I never knew whether Emma called Jack, but I was glad I hadn’t gotten involved. Now I stopped daydreaming and half listened to Terry and Emma’s conversation. They were engaged in a husband-and-wife exchange with the shorthand only couples knew.

  “I told you I’d take care of it.”

  “That’s what you said about the other thing, but you didn’t.”

  “I didn’t because of whatsit, you know that.”

  This part of marriage I didn’t miss. “Emma, Terry, I’ve got to get back to the theater,” I said, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “We’re having Jacob Marley issues I need to address. Again, I’m so sorry about your loss.”

  I turned to her husband and shook his hand. “Terry, it was nice to meet you.”

  “And you, Edwina.”

  “Sully, please. I hate that name.” I gave Terry a look that I hoped would dissuade him from using my given name ever again. What had my mother been thinking?

  “Happy to help,” Emma said.

  “Help?”

  “I’m happy to help with that committee you talked to me about.”

  “Great news, thank you.”

  “Call me anytime, we can meet and talk about it.” And with that, I finally made it the last three feet to the door.

  • Three •

  Frigid air sliced through my coat as I left the house. I jammed my gloveless hands into my pockets and hunched my shoulders. I really needed to find my matching gloves and scarf for these public events. They didn’t keep me very warm, but they sufficed for dashes from door to car. I was sure they’d resurface after the holidays when I didn’t need them anymore. In the meantime, I should have worn my fleece mittens and ugly ribbed scarf. They weren’t glamorous, but they were fabulously warm. I planned to put them on as soon as I could.

  I walked to the right, to the horseshoe driveway, rather than down the more direct path to the front gate. It was a long driveway, and I felt the pull of a slight detour. I stepped onto the footpath that led toward the cliff, leaning into the wind. I considered turning back, but I wanted to see it again for myself.

  And then, there it was. The glass addition of the Anchorage. Peter’s pride and joy and final resting place. I’d seen it before, as a kid, and more recently from the town beach, but current events lent a different lens to my observations. Up close it was a monolith of rebar, cables, glass, and beams that flew over the large, rocky cliff. It looked like a giant erector set with tinted windows, a glass blight on an otherwise beautifully restored home. Other houses had walkways down to the beach below, but not the Anchorage. In order to get to the beach, the family had to leave the estate, go down the road, and use the public access. Not that they ever did—they used the pool on the other side of the house instead. With its beautiful water views and landscaping, it was like being in the ocean without the salt and sand.

  I kept walking, careful to avoid any icy patches that might send me over the cliff. That would be a hell of a way to end the visit. I saw a piece of plywood affixed on the southern corner of the addition. Just one pane gone. I couldn’t tell if the sparkling bits on the rocks below were ice or glass.

  The finicky December sun peaked out from behind a cloud and I saw myself reflected in the short side of the addition, visible before it careened over the cliff. A perfect, mirrored reflection of my freezing, fashion-free form.

  “Hello, Sully,” a familiar dulcet tone shouted over the wind.

  I walked toward the side of the house where Regina Roberts was hunkered down trying to get out of the wind. She was almost a foot shorter than I was, and almost that much wider. Regina was on the Trevorton police force. I’d heard she was first on the scene, but I was sure the case was out of her hands by now. Peter Whitehall was too important.

  “Damn, Regina, you scared me.”

  “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

&
nbsp; “I can’t be the only person who’s tried to sneak a peek of the room?”

  “First one I’ve seen. Most people have better manners, I guess,” she said, pushing her hands farther down into her pockets. Unlike me, Regina was dressed for the weather. She was wearing a full-length navy blue down coat and an off-white fleece hat/scarf/mittens set. Still, her cheeks were purplish red and her eyes were watering.

  “That must be it.” I smiled. She’d caught me, but we both knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, she’d be doing the same thing. “I thought I saw you inside earlier,” I said. “Are you on duty?”

  “Yes. Most of Trevorton’s finest are here, either officially or unofficially.”

  Regina and I had known each other a little in high school and had chosen similar career paths in life, though an early marriage had kept her in Trevorton. It wasn’t until her son Gabe became an intern at the theater his freshman year that we reconnected. I’d wrangled her into a few nights behind the concession stand, but I suspected she’d be too busy with other things this holiday season.

  “Must have been a hell of a shot,” I said, looking out at the glass enclosure, trying to figure angles. I wasn’t an expert, but it seemed to me that the possibility of the shot that killed Peter coming from outside the house was slim at best. To hit someone in the room through that corner pane, a shooter would have needed to be suspended in midair. Unless Peter was standing right in front of the window. But I thought I’d test the water, see if Regina responded.

  She looked over her shoulder quickly, caught my eye, and shook her head slightly.

  “He wasn’t shot through the window, was he?”

  “Did you notice how these windows look more like mirrors than glass?” she asked. “They’re slightly smoked for privacy and sun filtration.”

  Information without giving me information. Regina was a good cop, and a good friend.

  “Makes sense, I guess. It would be a fishbowl otherwise, out there over the cliff.” I looked down toward the drop-off. “Well, I’ve got to go check in on rehearsal.”