“I know he didn’t, and so do you. He was a good man, Bryan Sullivan. A very good man. I’d have to say there probably isn’t a man or woman alive who’d blame him for that situation with Mr. Whitehall. In retrospect, not even Mr. Whitehall himself.”
When my father was dying and in the hospital, Mrs. Bridges would sit with me for a few hours every day. I’m not sure how she knew what was happening, that he was dying. What I do know is that a lot of people disappear at the very end, when the dying starts in earnest. The hours stretch into days, and it’s incredibly lonely. I didn’t reach out to anyone, and didn’t realize that I needed someone, until this lovely lady from my childhood took it upon herself to come and sit with me while I watched my father die. She would bring a thermos of tea and some sandwiches. After a bit she’d say, “Why don’t you go for a walk, Edwina? I’ll sit with your dad until you come back.” And I’d go, knowing that he was in good hands. Other times she’d tell me stories about my mother and her cousin Emily, but only the happy ones. Not about them dying. Not about the feud between my father and Peter Whitehall that ripped the family apart. Only the happy stories.
She wasn’t there when my father died, and I thought about waiting at the hospital until she arrived, but Gus had come to be with me and took me home. I didn’t shed a tear. I finally sent Gus away. I couldn’t bear his kindness on top of my grief. Later that afternoon the doorbell rang. It was Mrs. Bridges. “I’m so sorry, darlin’” was all she said, and then she took me in her arms. I cried like I’d never cried before or since.
By now we were in the kitchen and she fixed tea. She didn’t ask if I preferred coffee, or what kind of tea I wanted, or if I wanted decaf. She made tea, and I let her. Though I normally prefer coffee, I knew her tea would prove to be exactly what I wanted. It always was.
“You take milk, don’t you?” She put the pot in front of me and began to pour.
“Sure, that would be lovely.”
“Emma let me know you might be stopping by. We worried it was an imposition, but Emma insisted that getting you involved in our troubles was our best avenue.”
“I’ll do what I can—”
“We need to find out what happened,” Mrs. Bridges said, sitting down and putting her cup in front of her.
“No matter what that means?” I asked. Mrs. Bridges stirred her tea with great concentration. I reached my hand across the table and put it on top of hers, squeezing it gently. “How do you feel about that?”
“Feel? That’s a difficult one. I still can’t believe he’s gone. There wasn’t time to … ”
“To what?”
“Never mind. Just the musings of an old woman. There’ll be a lot of people looking into Mr. Whitehall’s death. It might be good for family to take part as well, just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case it’s family that did it.”
I met her gaze and didn’t blink. “Do you think it was the family?”
“The suspects, as you’d call them, are few, but you probably know that already. There weren’t many of us in the house. Security cameras are around the house. The guard at the front gate—”
“Is the guard there all the time?”
“He’s more of a caretaker, really. Lives out at the gatehouse. Not always on duty, and we can control the gate from inside the house too.”
“Is the gate always closed?”
“Normally, yes. Days like Saturday, when we’re expecting a crowd, those days we leave the gate open. We hire extra security for the grounds.”
“On the night Mr. Whitehall was—on the night of the incident, was the gate closed?”
“Yes, and the guard was on duty to let folks in and out. He didn’t see anyone else come in.”
“Do you trust him?
“Russell? Yes, he’s worked here for years.”
“I suppose it’s still possible that someone got by the cameras and the front gate,” I said. It wasn’t likely, though. More and more, it looked like the killer had been in the house already. I’d need to confirm my gut feeling that the window in Peter’s study was broken from the inside. I always tried to confirm suppositions with facts. It made the puzzle easier to solve the right way, later.
“I keep hoping that’s true, but I don’t honestly know,” she said. “It would be tough to get past it all. But maybe you’ll find a way.”
“One thing I hope you and Emma understand—I’m not here to find an alibi or cover anything up. It’s not how I’m built. I’m here to see if I can figure out what happened.”
“Of course, of course. We both understand that. I didn’t mean to impugn your integrity—”
“You didn’t. I just want to be clear from the outset. I’m going to follow the evidence where it takes me.”
“You are your father’s daughter,” Mrs. Bridges said, smiling. She took a sip of tea, and I followed suit.
“Great tea,” I said. “I am his daughter. I’d like to think a bit of my mother rubbed off as well.”
“You are the best of both,” she said. Her compliment made me smile. It was likely a pile of malarkey, but I was fine with that. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see the scene of the crime, as it were,” she said, standing up.
“If it isn’t too painful.” I took another sip of tea and stood.
“Too painful?” She thought about it for a moment. “Not too painful. Almost, but your work is too important to the family.”
Mrs. Bridges stood at the threshold as I looked around. I was careful not to touch anything. The room had been released back to the family by the investigating officers, but you never knew when they’d need to come back in for whatever reason. Next time I’d bring gloves. For now, I put my hands in my pockets to make sure I didn’t inadvertently reach out and leave prints.
I’d never been in the study before. Peter Whitehall’s private sanctum had not been open to visitors. The room was good-sized but not huge. The wall that connected to the rest of the house was lined with bookshelves. The two walls perpendicular had as much glass as the architecture of the room allowed. On the left wall, which faced the driveway, there was a stone fireplace, with dark paneling running behind it about seven feet high. The remainder of the wall consisted of transom windows. I recalled from my walk around the house that the stone from the fireplace was part of the outside of the house, looking like a natural formation that had intruded into the addition. An interesting architectural detail. The right wall had low cabinetry that matched the bookshelves and paneling, with larger windows providing an impressive view of the side yard and the Trevorton harbor in the background. The back wall was entirely made of glass, and literally sat out over the cliff’s edge.
Peter’s desk was L shaped, with one side facing the hall door, the other facing the fireplace. His computer and chair were at the part facing the fireplace. Two guest chairs were stationed with their backs to the door, facing the desk; he’d probably used the L part of the desk with visitors. His desk and chair were significantly higher than the visitors’. The other furniture in the room was minimal and very much in keeping with the men’s club feel of the room. A beautiful globe stood by the back wall. Next to it was a telescope. The room had the definite appearance of being well used. It gave me a strong sense of Peter, stronger than the man himself had ever given me. I ached to read the titles of the books on his shelves to gain more insight into him, but that would have to wait.
There was a layer of dust on everything, some of it from fingerprint powder and the rest from a few days of neglect. A large leather club chair flanked the fireplace, facing the door to the room. There wasn’t a rug on the floor, but I could see where it had been by the different color and use of the floor within a large circle.
“Did they take the rug that was in here?” I asked.
“Yes. They took the matching club chair as well.”
“Was it h
ere?” I positioned myself next to the club chair, angling myself toward it but facing the fireplace. Mrs. Bridges nodded. I looked at the chair, and then over at the boarded-up window. Peter would have been angled toward the broken window. But still, I didn’t see it.
“Did you come into the room that morning?”
Mrs. Bridges pulled her jacket around herself and folded her arms against her chest. “Yes. I was in the kitchen with Eric. I heard Amelia scream, and ran. I could see Mr. Whitehall lying on the floor. Amelia was beside him. I thought he’d had a heart attack or something. She’d pulled his head into her lap and was stroking his hair. I pulled her up and saw the blood. So much blood. The chair was covered. I checked to make sure he was … gone. I took Amelia and left. I closed the door and told Eric to call the police.”
“Who else was here?”
“In the hall, you mean? No one, right then. But it’s hard to hear from one end of this house to another, unless you’re in the hallway at the right time and the right doors are open.”
“Who else was in the house?”
“Terry, Emma, Brooke … Amelia and Eric, of course. Mr. Willis hadn’t come down yet. That’s it.”
“I know this is hard, Mrs. Bridges, but I’m going to ask you to think about the room that morning. Was anything out of—”
“The police already asked me. Everything was as it should have been. Except for poor Mr. Whitehall.”
“Okay then, can you tell me what’s different now?” I walked over and put my hand out to her. Her hand was freezing. We walked into the room.
“Well, the chair was there, of course. And there was a book next to him on the floor. There.” She pointed to a space near the small side table the two chairs had shared. “And there were a lot of ashes in the fireplace … ”
“More than normal?”
“More than I would have expected.”
“Did you clean the ashes up?”
“No, the police took them. And the book. And a few other things.”
“Like?”
“A decanter with some scotch in it, some glasses … I’m not sure what else. Emma may know.”
“Do you know how Amelia found him?”
“Lying there.”
“Facing the door?”
“No. Facing the fireplace, as if he’d fallen forward out of the chair. He may have tried to get up … ” She shuddered. “Have you seen enough? I don’t want to rush you, but our tea is probably getting cold.”
I looked around and tried to picture the scene with the details she’d provided. “Of course, that’s fine.” I would have preferred to stay and examine things more thoroughly, but I could tell she couldn’t bear to be in the room. I couldn’t blame her. If there was a space ripe for haunting, Peter Whitehall’s study was it.
I turned for one last glance around the room.
“What the hell are you doing in my husband’s study?” Brooke Whitehall asked as she lunged.
Mrs. Bridges sidestepped me and caught the younger woman by her waist, holding her up in the doorway. Brooke looked like a worn-down version of herself. Her eyes had makeup smudges around them. Her hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, but several strands had escaped, and not in an artful, fashionable way. Her clothes were desperate for an iron.
“Edwina is a guest of mine, Brooke.” Although Mrs. Bridges still called Peter “Mr. Whitehall” after forty years with the family, Brooke was Brooke after less than a decade as his wife.
“I said, what the hell is she doing?”
“She wanted to borrow a book.” Mrs. Bridges steered us both toward the hallway. She locked the door behind her.
“Who said she could go in there?”
“Emma.”
“Emma.” Brooke said the name in that bratty singsong tone that kids use to make life hell on the playground. It suited her well. “Queen Emma the bitch.”
“That’s enough now.”
“She’s a bitch, and you know it. She treats me horribly, horribly.” Brooke leaned into me, pressing her nails into my forearm while she complained, and I got a waft of the sour stench of alcohol. “Do you know she took my car keys away from me? Can you believe the gall? She’s leaving me stranded. If I didn’t have Terry, I don’t know what I’d do. He takes such good care of me. Terry. He’d do anything for me. Just ask him. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have him. If it was up to the bitch, I’d be out on the street.”
Mrs. Bridges declawed my arm and moved Brooke toward the front staircase. “I’ll bring you up some tea, would you like that? Of course you would. You go on now. I’m going to say goodbye to Edwina.”
“Edwina?” She said it in the same singsongy, bitchy tone she’d used for Emma’s name. “So your name is Edwina? What a horrible name! You poor thing.” She kept saying my name over and over again and laughing as she went up the stairs, bouncing from one banister to another as she cackled.
We watched her slow, unsteady progress. “I’m sorry, Edwina,” Mrs. Bridges said.
“Don’t be. It’s a horrible name. Nice sentiment by my mother to honor her grandfather, but tough execution on a kid. Not the first time someone has made fun.” I smiled and patted her arm. “Has Brooke been like that since the funeral?”
“No, not really. Mind you, she was drinking after the funeral, but that’s nothing new.” Mrs. Bridges gave me a look that spoke volumes. “But she wasn’t … she’s never been so out of control before. This only really started in the last day or so. I should go up and look after her.”
“The shock probably got to her. Delayed reaction. Look,” I said, pulling a card out of my pocket and handing it to her, “here’s my phone number and email address. Get in touch if you remember anything unusual.”
“I will.”
“I’ll probably come back later in the week, if that’s okay?” I asked. Mrs. Bridges nodded and smiled. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Thank you for the company,” she said. “And for making me walk into that room. I couldn’t before.”
“Can I ask you two more quick questions? I noticed you locked the door … ”
“Emma’s request. She had it re-keyed after … afterward. She gave me the only key.”
“Why?”
“You’ll have to ask her.” Sounds ranging from moans to cackles wafted down the stairs, followed by a loud crash and a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. “Did you have another question? I really should check on her.”
“It can wait.” I needed more time to figure out the best way to ask about Terry, and about how accurate Brooke’s assessment was that he would do anything for her.
I had just closed the front door behind me when another car drove into the driveway. Regina Roberts got out and stomped toward me. “Sully, what the hell are you doing here?” One thing to be said for Regina, she never beat around the bush. Forthrightness is a valuable tool in a police officer, but I wondered what Regina did when an interrogation took more finesse. Of course, most crime in Trevorton did not require finesse.
“Nice to see you too, Regina.”
“Sorry. This place makes me forget my manners. Nice to see you, Sully. What the hell are you doing here again?”
“I’m a friend of the family’s.”
“And your curiosity got the better of you.”
“No, not exactly,” I said. “Well, maybe a little.”
“It’s okay, Sully. It’s gotten the better of most of this town.” Murder, particularly local murder, usually did. Peter Whitehall was famous enough that the interest must have been notched up a level.
“I can only imagine what it’s been like,” I said. High profile cases were the stuff of my nightmares. “How’s the investigation going?”
I recognized the fight that Regina was having with herself. Here I was, an ex-cop and friend of the family. Maybe I could help.
But, and it was a big but, this case was huge. She needed to make sure her work, and the force’s work, was exemplary. And talking to an outsider, no matter who, was risky. I knew the struggle.
“Sorry, Sully, you know how it is … ongoing investigation and all.”
“Of course, sure. I’ll let you get to it.”
“Who’s home?” Regina asked.
“Mrs. Bridges and Brooke. I’m not sure about anyone else.”
“Damn. I was supposed to meet Terry Holmes here.”
“I didn’t see him, but it is a big house.”
“So I take it he’s not the part of the family you count as a friend.”
“Nope, only officially met him Saturday, after the funeral.” She was dying to know more, I could tell, but I wasn’t volunteering information. “Regina, can I ask you one question?”
“I can’t—”
“I was wondering where Peter was shot.”
“In his study.”
Cute. “I mean, where was he shot on his body?”
“Heart.”
“Front or back?”
“Front.”
I tried to remember the room. Mrs. Bridges said the police had removed the chair. I assumed it had a bullet in it.
Regina and I played chicken for a couple of seconds, and I gave up. She was doing her job.
“Good to see you, Regina. I guess I’ll see Gabe at run-through later this week.”
“That’s it? The great detective is only going to ask questions that most people already know the answer to?” I attributed her snide tone to fatigue, though the great detective line rankled me a little.
“‘Great detective’?”
“Surely you know that your reputation lives on that, right?” I fought to keep my face neutral. There was no longer any hint of a smile. “Yeah, well, sorry,” she added. “Bitchy thing to say … ”
“Not really. The tone was bitchy. The statement itself, well, it depends on who its source is.”
“Never mind, Sully. I’ll talk to you later.” Regina turned toward the house. She was a few feet from the front door when it swung open and Terry Holmes stepped onto the threshold to welcome her. He’d been home after all. And he hadn’t bothered to say hi.
A Christmas Peril Page 6
