A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  • Six •

  I was going to go back to the high school, but decided to take a side trip to Salem. Actually, Salem wasn’t a side trip. It required a conscious decision to wind my way over to Route 1 and head south. But to Salem I went, to pay a visit to Jack Megan’s PI office. I wasn’t even sure he’d be there, but I’d rather surprise him than call and give him a heads-up.

  In the old days, private investigators spent a lot of time out of the office, sitting on surveillance, looking up financial information in public records, doing old-fashioned legwork. There was still legwork on the job, but now, with the advent of computers, specialized software, and access (authorized or not) to a variety of databases, private investigators did a significant portion of their work online and still caught the bad guys.

  Like me, Jack used to be a cop. He’d been retired a few years earlier, with a number of working years left and a family, so he got his PI license. I never knew why Jack left the force, only rumors. Some good, some bad. Hell, it was the same with me. Officially, I left because injuries precluded me from doing the job. But had I not pissed off certain people during my tenure with the State Police, I probably would have been reassigned to desk duty, or even promoted into computer work, where my injuries wouldn’t have mattered. But I ticked off the wrong people and they took the first opportunity to get me out. They tried to do it without a pension, but they were only partially successful.

  My descent into the unfavored taught me some valuable lessons. The most important: if you go after the bad guys, make sure you get them all. If even one is left standing, their power remains. I’d been assigned to a task force looking into corruption in the state penal system. I didn’t have to look too hard; none of us did. We’d started to issue the indictments when all hell broke loose. The man heading up the task force started to have mud slung at him. The problem was, a lot of it stuck. It didn’t mean the indictments weren’t valid. But clever lawyers got a lot of them thrown out, and the task force imploded.

  I went back to my regular job, knowing what I knew, working with people who’d abdicated the honor of carrying the badge. I didn’t make trouble, but I also didn’t make nice. The minute the injury happened, I knew my days were numbered.

  I wish I could say that I’d had a heroic injury in the line of duty. But it wasn’t. I was walking through the office and slipped in a puddle of water, fracturing my back. I don’t know if the puddle was left there on purpose, and I don’t dwell on that possibility. I do know that there weren’t any warning signs, and my then-husband the lawyer hinted that we had a case unless they did right by me.

  Even thinking about it made my back hurt. I pulled into the first open meter I could find and headed toward Jack’s office. Sure enough, he was there.

  Jack Megan was in his mid-forties, still physically fit though not as buff as when I first met him. But then, who amongst us was? He had coffee-colored eyes and a great smile with perfect teeth.

  “So, what brings you out on this fine day?” he asked, after he got me settled into a chair with a big mug of coffee. Jack thought like me: straightforward worked much better than bullshit.

  “Did you hear about Peter Whitehall?” I asked, taking a sip of coffee. I almost moaned aloud. Jack made a great cup of coffee.

  “Of course, who hasn’t?” he said. “You working the case? I thought you’d gone into theater.”

  “No. Yes. I am in theater. And no, I’m not working the case. Emma Whitehall called me this morning.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re here. Emma.”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d pick your brain a little.”

  “About?”

  “She hired you earlier this year, right?” I asked. He shrugged. This was karmic retribution. I’d done it to Regina, now Jack was doing it to me. “Jack, I recommended you to her, remember? I wondered if there was anything hinky—”

  “Ask Emma.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Sully, you know that I can’t tell you anything, even if there was something to tell. Client confidentiality.”

  “C’mon, I won’t tell anyone.” He laughed, and I had to join him. What was I doing? “Sorry, Jack. I’m trying to get a handle on the family dynamics, and I figured you’ve spent some time working them out.”

  “Not the whole family,” he said. He got up and grabbed the coffee pot. “Just one part. Not even a blood relation to the recently deceased.” He looked at me carefully, and then topped off my coffee cup. After he put the pot back on the burner, he went and made sure the door was closed. “There’s not much to tell. She hired me to figure out if her husband was stepping out.”

  “Right.” That I knew.

  “And as far as I could tell, he wasn’t.”

  “As far as you could tell.”

  “He never went anywhere except home and office. But maybe his mistress was at the office, though that was unlikely since Emma was usually there.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. I had a guy on him for two weeks, and he had nothing to report. So she thanked me and pulled the plug.”

  There was something else, I could tell. The air between us was quiet but charged.

  “What did you do for those two weeks?”

  “Just some background stuff … ”

  “C’mon, Jack. Don’t make me beg.”

  “Listen, I really can’t tell you any more without Emma’s consent.”

  I put my mug down. “You’re killing me.”

  “Or possibly with the consent of her lawyer. To whom I forwarded a copy of the report. Including some interesting financial documents. Very recently.”

  “Her lawyer?”

  “Yeah, I think you might have met him at some point. Gus Knight, your ex.”

  Well. Gus was part of the picture. That was too close for comfort. I was having enough qualms about getting involved, and this cinched it. I decided to just wait till the evening news to hear more details about the case. As curious as I was, I needed to avoid Gus. I couldn’t stand the guilt.

  I’d inherited a lot of things from my father, most of them good. A sense of humor. A quest for justice. A terrific work ethic. But with the good came the bad. A temper. An inability to let anyone help. A stubborn streak a mile wide. Sometimes, when used in context, the bad could be made good. Stubbornness partnered with my work ethic made me a terrific cop. But I frequently lost perspective and that, coupled with an Irish temper and fierce independence, became a catastrophic combination when my world imploded.

  Not that Gus was a completely innocent bystander in the demolition of our marriage. When we were first married, I tried to let him in, to tell him the good, the bad, and the ugly of the job. But—and I know this is a cliché, but I’ve always found it to be true—being male, he had trouble just listening. He felt obligated to offer advice to try and fix it, whatever “it” was at the moment. Sometimes his advice was helpful. A lot of times it pissed me off. So I stopped sharing my work problems with him. After a while, he stopped asking. Not long afterward, we stopped talking.

  After the penal system investigation collapsed, Gus tried to offer advice, tried to warn me. But I shut him out. Things got worse when I found out he was having an affair with someone from his office, Kate something. I couldn’t remember her last name, how crazy is that? I’d spent hours cursing it, screaming it, blaming it. Now I couldn’t even remember it.

  I used Gus’s affair to feel completely vindicated and in the right about everything wrong with our marriage. Gus apologized, begged for forgiveness. I told him I’d think about it. And I probably would have, but then the rest of my life went in the dumper, so I threw the marriage on the pile.

  When I fractured my back I needed steady nursing, so I told Gus I would stay with my dad to convalesce. Besides, I thought time away was a good idea. He didn’t fight me.

  Eventually, Dad got the wh
ole story. He was furious with Gus, which made me feel great. Then, as I was getting back on my feet, Dad’s doctor called with the news. Cancer. It was a matter of weeks. Dad and I talked a lot, cried a little, and argued some. Mostly about Gus.

  Gus came to visit Dad regularly. I was peeved when Dad forgave him so easily. I was more peeved when Dad wanted me to do the same. Sick as he was, we still fought about it until I gave in, a little.

  “Dad, I’ll figure out this Gus thing.” I settled him into the recliner and pulled the TV tray over beside him.

  “Sweetheart, he’s a good man. He made a mistake.”

  “A mistake?” I’d brought a large bag from the Beef and Ale with me. Gene was putting a little bit of everything in the bag these days, trying desperately to tempt my father to eat. I always called him back to relay what Dad had liked best, so Gene could adjust the next delivery.

  “A mistake. For which, if you don’t mind me saying, you aren’t exactly blameless.”

  “What? Dad, he had an affair!”

  “Look at it from his point of view. His wife, whom he loves—”

  “Loved.”

  “Loves, shut him out of her life entirely. She was going through hell and only wanted him to watch.” Dad unwrapped his sandwich and pulled a piece of turkey out to eat. “A man needs to be needed, sweetheart. You stopped needing him, so he found someone who did.”

  “What a cliché, Dad.”

  “She means nothing to him, Sully. It’s over.”

  “Why are you taking his side? You’re my father.” And all I have left, I thought.

  “I’m on your side,” he said. He reached his hand out and I took it in mine. “I always have been, always will be. No matter what. Thing is, I don’t want to leave you like this. You like being right so much that you lose perspective. No one in this world is good enough for you, darlin’, but Gus comes damn close. I’m asking you, begging you, to forgive him. Get your life back on track. Go back to Boston, call that friend of yours, become a PI. There’s nothing for you here.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me,” he said, squeezing my hand and then letting it go. “Promise me you’ll go back to your life. Please, Sully.”

  I promised Dad that I would, mostly to give him peace. Gus and I put on a good front for him, but after the funeral I told Gus I wanted a divorce. Eventually he agreed.

  I felt good about being in the right, and convinced myself I was better off. It worked for a while. Then time, and Dr. Melvin, helped me see the gray tones of life instead of black and white. I looked at my past through a different lens. Instead of a wronged wife, I saw a vitriolic woman who didn’t trust her husband to love her once she was no longer the tough career woman he’d married. He might have loved me anyway. Not finding out for sure was one thing I truly regret.

  I work very hard at keeping myself tightly wound. It’s part of my charming persona, the cranky Yankee. Because the thing is, I was and probably still am crazy about Gus. Just seeing him at the funeral made me feel like the spring might let go. My shrink would call that a step forward. I’d call it a disaster.

  I did wonder what Gus was up to, and I was tempted to call Emma for clarification. He must have had Emma’s consent to get the files on Terry from Jack. And Emma and Gus must be fairly close for her to have told him anything about Jack’s investigation. A part of me wondered how close.

  • Seven •

  As I drove back to the high school, I did my best to convince myself that stepping away from the case was the best thing for everybody. It wasn’t as if the murder was going to go unsolved. Peter was too important. And though I’d spent very little time with her, Amelia hardly struck me as a likely suspect. No, really, it was best to let it go, tempting as it might be to get involved.

  I drove by the Beef and Ale and slowed down. Harry, aka Bob Cratchit, was sitting on the patio, smoking. This was problematic on several fronts. First, wearing your costume outside was a no-no. They were too old, and our budget was too tight, to put them through anything but the most vital tasks. The second problem was that Harry was outside the Beef and Ale, and not at the theater at tech for A Christmas Carol. The third problem was that Harry was smoking. Harry didn’t smoke.

  “What horror at the theater brings you here, Harry? Please don’t tell me you’re waiting for your liquid lunch,” I asked, bracing for the worst. Things were already so bad that I couldn’t even fathom what could be wrong.

  “I was hoping to catch you before you arrived. They’ve made an arrest for Peter’s murder.”

  “Amelia?”

  “No, not Amelia.”

  “Well, that’s good then.”

  “They’ve arrested Eric. They think he killed his father.”

  “That’s ridiculous. What evidence could they possible have? He couldn’t have done it, could he? Even if he was pushed, I don’t see Eric as a killer.”

  “Neither do I. Otherwise, I never really knew him at all.”

  So much for remaining uninvolved. Harry piled into my car, and I drove him back to the theater. I refused to let him smoke, and he was not happy.

  “I didn’t even know you smoked.”

  “I don’t. I used to, though. It’s been such a nightmare lately, what with the show and the … ”

  “Murder.”

  “Yeah, that. And Eric’s been staying at the Anchorage. I haven’t seen him since his father died.”

  “Well, it’s understandable, him wanting to be with his sisters.”

  “It’s completely understandable. I wish he’d let me see him, though. Even if we aren’t together, I’m his friend. I thought he knew that.”

  “He’s still shutting you out?”

  “Yup.”

  “Must be a family trait on my mother’s side. I always thought I got it from my dad.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When things go bad, I tend to shut down and out. I don’t let anyone in, even when it would help.”

  “Really? You strike me as someone who is pretty open … ”

  “That’s because things have been status quo since we’ve met. If the shit hits the fan, watch out. I go right back into my shell. My dad called it turtle time.”

  I looked over at Harry, pleased to see him smile. “I need to talk to Dimitri and Connie. Then I’ll go and check in with Eric. No buts,” I said before he could object. “As the general manager, I need this show to be ready in four days. You going AWOL from rehearsal doesn’t help. And I don’t know how you can help Eric right now.”

  “And you can? Sorry, I’m being bitchy. And I wasn’t going AWOL. Connie gave me permission to take a break. I’ll go back to rehearsal, but keep me posted, okay?”

  “I’ll leave a message on your cell as soon as I find anything out. I promise. Let me check in here first.” I pulled up by the side entrance to the school, which led into the gym. Usually. Now it contained a half-dozen road boxes full of costumes and props. That alone was concerning, since they should have been downstairs in the dressing room area. More concerning was the rest of the scene, which was chaos. Dimitri was pacing up and down; our stage manager, Connie, was sitting on a folding chair, furiously scribbling down his diatribe, occasionally rubbing her hands together for warmth.

  Patrick King was leaning against the basketball hoop, holding court with a few of the other actors, drinking his “coffee.” I’d once made the mistake of getting too close to Patrick’s mug and learned the coffee was for color only. The majority of the liquid was rocket fuel of some sort. Apparently being a little soused was part of his process.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Dimitri roared.

  “I’ve been running some errands,” I said.

  “Not you, Ms. Sullivan. Our errant actor.”

  “He had to run a couple of errands too.”

  “Sorry, Dimitri,”
Harry said. “I should have let you know—”

  “You sure as hell should have. I’m trying to get some work done here.”

  “Dimitri, I thought he could take a break to get some cigarettes,” Connie said. Dimitri swung around at her, but his tirade was interrupted by Patrick King.

  “Sorry, old boy. I’m spent for the day. My concentration is gone. I really should be heading back to my flat.” Patrick unbuttoned his waistcoat. To his surprise, and everyone else’s, Dimitri put his hands on both of Patrick’s shoulders and pushed him back slightly.

  “You are not spent,” Dimitri said quietly. Too quietly. I’d never heard this tone before. I stepped closer so I could intervene if necessary. “You’ve only just gotten here yourself.”

  “I assure you—”

  “I assure you that if you don’t get your bony English ass on that stage right now, I’ll kill you and stuff you and use you that way. You’d probably give a better performance.” Dimitri let go of his shoulders and turned away from him.

  There was dead silence. It was clear that Dimitri had won. At least this time. Patrick slunk toward the door that led to the theater. Dimitri pointed at Harry and the rest of the actors, and then pointed to the door. For once they followed directions. Before Harry went in he looked back at me, making a “call me” gesture with his hand. I nodded.

  When the actors were out of sight, Dimitri’s bravado deflated. I’d learned early on that Dimitri was not incapable of high drama in order to get his way, and I’d become fairly immune to his scenes. But something about this one was different. He didn’t follow up his performance with a request or a proclamation. Instead, he folded his body in half and hung there like a rag doll. He slowly stood up and rolled his shoulders back.

  “How’s it going today, Dimitri?” I asked once his eyes were open again. Never interrupt a man in the middle of a yoga stretch.