A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  He didn’t answer, so I looked over at Connie. She shook her head and looked down at her notes. I swear I saw tears in her eyes. This was really bad if it made the stage manager cry. Stage managers are among the toughest breed ever put on the face of this earth.

  “Well, maybe this will help. I’m going to call Frank. We added to the lighting budget so we can get those moving lights you were looking for.” I’d actually called Frank three days ago. The lights were being delivered today. It was supposed to be a surprise, but these were desperate times.

  Dimitri shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile. “At least the end of my career will be well lit.”

  I wanted to laugh, but he was serious. I’d never seen him this despondent.

  “And I found a new Jacob Marley,” I said.

  “What happened to the old Jacob Marley?”

  Oops. I hadn’t told him about David. “David got more remunerative employment.”

  “That ungrateful—”

  “Stewart Tracy will be here tonight, tomorrow at the latest,” I said. That did make Dimitri smile.

  “Should I call the inn and see if there are any more rooms?” Connie asked. She looked thrilled. Stewart was always one of her favorites. Never underestimate the power of a charming man.

  “No, he’s going to stay at the Wrights’,” I said. The Wrights were on our board and made their condo available to us for housing during A Christmas Carol. “Could you see if someone can go over and get it shaped up? The key is upstairs in the mug on my desk. We’ll also need to get that bike he always uses out of prop storage.”

  “I’ll get one of the kids working on the details. Could you email me his info? Let me know if you need me to have someone pick him up. Or will you be doing it?” Connie wiggled her eyebrows and gave me a wink. She could never understand why Stewart and I had moved into the friend zone.

  “I’ll try and get him, but I’ll let you know,” I said. I hated to admit it, but I was looking forward to seeing Stewart. He’d be a tonic.

  Connie stood up and patted Dimitri’s arm. “Having Stewart around will be great.”

  “Jacob Marley is a small role for Stewart,” Dimitri said. “Besides, he isn’t a fan of the show, if memory serves.”

  “He knows he may need to play a few others as well. He’ll play any role we need him to. He can play his age, younger, older, you know him. He’s coming to help us, Dimitri. The way I figure it, you can use him to keep Patrick in line.”

  “By threatening to replace him?” Dimitri asked, a little lilt in his voice.

  “Exactly. Have Stewart run some Scrooge lines with Harry.”

  “But we can’t afford to replace Patrick. He’s the reason the box office is so good.”

  “Dimitri, we’ve switched roles here. I’m supposed to remind you about the box office. You’re supposed to tell me that television killed Patrick’s craft, but time and effort could bring it back. Blah, blah, blah. Dimitri, unless Patrick is different from every other actor I’ve met, we won’t need to replace him. We only need him to think we’re willing to do it. And Stewart will help with that.”

  “What did you promise him?”

  “A shot at a role in Long Day’s Journey—whichever one you both agree on.”

  “Done,” Dimitri said. “I was going to call him about it after this show was up, anyway.”

  This might have been true, or it might have been bravado. I knew that calling Stewart would be Dimitri’s idea as soon as it was announced to the board. That was fine with me. I wasn’t here to get credit, just to get the job done with as little carnage as possible.

  “Do you want me to sit in on the rest of the rehearsal?” I asked, hoping he’d say no. The Cliffside needed to be my top priority, but I wanted to check in on Eric.

  “God no, Sully. You’ll add to my stress level. We are so behind.”

  “Okay, call me on my cell if you need me.” Before I walked out the door, I texted Eric. No response. I tried to call, but no answer. I left a message and drove over to the police station.

  I parked at the Mini Mart and walked over to the Trevorton Police Station. It had been a long time since I’d seen a media circus like this one. The reporters had the scent of a major story and they were going to get it, no matter what. I was trying to figure out the best way to traverse the crowd when it parted a bit. I stopped moving forward and stepped to the side. Fortunately, I was so tall I still had a good view. Terry came out first, flanked by Gus. Emma and Eric followed close behind. Gus stood by the microphones until the crowd hushed.

  “I repeat, Mr. Whitehall was not arrested, but instead was asked to come down and answer a few questions.”

  The questions started flying. Gus dealt with everyone calmly, holding his patience even though the questions were variations of the same theme. Did Eric kill his father? No. What did the police want to know? No comment.

  “Isn’t it true that your client’s boyfriend refused to give him an alibi?”

  “No comment,” said Gus, quickly.

  “I’m sure that Harry Frederick is as concerned about Eric’s welfare as we all are.” Terry ignored Gus’s barbed stare and seemed primed to go on, but the renewed barrage of questions stopped him.

  “Harry Frederick?”

  “The actor.”

  “Isn’t he … ”

  “ … Christmas Carol … ”

  I saw two local reporters whispering. One pointed at me. I ducked to the side and retreated to my car. Eric didn’t need me to come to his rescue. Gus was on the case.

  I’d settled into my car when my cell phone sang out its tinny version of “Silver Bells,” my only ode to the holiday season until after the show opened. I slunk down in my seat. I saw Eric’s face come up on the screen.

  “Eric?”

  “I saw you outside,” he said. “I can’t believe you came down.”

  “I wanted to help, but it seems to be under control.”

  “Under control? No, not really. I don’t feel like going back to the Anchorage, and my apartment is probably under siege. After Terry’s remarks, the theater will have press hanging around. I need to regroup.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Getting a ride back—”

  “Go over to my place. I’ll meet you there. There’s a key on the back porch, in the gas grill.”

  “Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

  “I move it in the summer. I’ll meet you there in a bit.” I got back out of the car and headed into the Mini Mart for provisions

  The Mini Mart had a name that built up expectations of boiled hotdogs and stale pretzels. The inside of the store blew those expectations away. It was more of a gourmet deli, with a dessert section that made me gain three pounds just walking through it. I knew the layout by heart. This was my go-to grocery store most of the time, when I wasn’t eating my meals at the Beef and Ale. I dropped quite a bit of money at the Mini Mart, tempted by the selections of cheeses, olives, and breads.

  I juggled my bags and let myself into my house. Though technically a condo, it was a renovated carriage house next to a large Victorian that itself had been converted to several condos. From the driveway, the carriage house looked the same as it had historically. When I bought it, the downstairs consisted of a large kitchen, a half bath, and a separate living room; the upstairs had been parsed out into two bedrooms, a small office, and a bathroom. But the back wall on the second floor, which butted up to a marsh that led, eventually, to the ocean, was made entirely of glass. The thought of looking at that amazing view from a lonely bed didn’t seem like a great mental health move. That, and I’ve always found demo work therapeutic. So the living room downstairs became my bedroom. Upstairs, I took out most of the interior walls and turned it into a sort of great room.

  The beautiful round oak table that was the focal point of the room had been left t
o me by my father, one of his most prized possessions. I wasn’t sure how old it was, or whether it was a genuine antique or a reproduction, but its monetary value meant nothing. My memories of the table meant everything. I remembered sitting under it for hours, believing the claw feet belonged to a lion named Charlie I’d befriended during one of my imaginings. “Charlie” saw me through some tough times. Some mornings I still kicked my slipper off and ran my foot along the familiar lines of the table legs while I sat eating my oatmeal.

  I heard two voices as I stepped inside, and I wondered how Harry had gotten out of rehearsal. I was at the top of the stairs when I realized it wasn’t Harry—it was Gus. I hoped I didn’t look as stunned as I felt.

  “Hi, Sully.” Eric took a tentative step toward me. “I didn’t do it,” he whispered.

  “Of course you didn’t do it. I never thought for a second that you did.” I gathered him in a big hug. He paused, and then buried his head on my shoulder. He began to cry.

  Crying for Eric was as foreign a concept as it was for me. Though tempted to join him, I was acutely aware of Gus watching us. So instead I did my best to comfort him. Good Yankee that he was, the moment passed quickly and he stepped back to regroup, staying in my arms.

  “Have you called Harry?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t think … we haven’t … ”

  “He’s worried sick, Eric. I promised I’d text him. Why don’t you call him? I’ll go down and get us some nosh.”

  “I’ll help,” Gus said. He followed me down the stairs.

  “Pick out a bottle of wine,” I said. “I hope you don’t think less of me because of my wine selection. It’s gotten a little pedestrian since … ”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” he said. He moved past the cheapest but didn’t settle on the most expensive. He pulled out a decent Malbec and took the wine opener off the table. I was slicing some cheese, and Gus came and leaned on the counter, looking at me pretty thoroughly. I felt my toes start to curl, which wasn’t a good sign.

  “What?” I finally asked. I sounded pretty churlish.

  He smiled. “Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.” He looked around the tiny kitchen, and then back at me. “I like your place.”

  “It’s a little small, but it’s good for us.”

  “Us?”

  “Max and me.” Max was my cat. He used to be our cat—Gus’s and mine—but I got him in the divorce. Actually, it was one of the only things we’d argued about through the proceedings.

  “How is Max? When I didn’t see him, I wondered if … ”

  “He’s good. Spoiled, but good. He’s probably on the bed.”

  “Who’s on the bed?” Eric came down the stairs into the kitchen. He sounded better.

  “Max.”

  “Damn cat.” Eric insisted he wasn’t a cat guy. Max knew it, and in typical cat fashion, always paid Eric extra attention. As if to prove a point, my beautiful gray roommate came out and rubbed against Eric’s legs. Eric bent over to pick the fur off his trousers, but I caught him rubbing Max behind the ears. Softie.

  Max took one look at Gus, turned, and walked back into the bedroom.

  “Guess he’s still pissed at me,” Gus said. He looked at Eric and explained. “For leaving.” The uncomfortable pause went on a little too long.

  “Okay, boys, why don’t you bring some of this upstairs and tell me what the hell happened.”

  “Yes ma’am,” Gus said.

  I put the repast in the middle of my oak table. Eric went over to the bar and grabbed three glasses. Gus poured us each a small glass. Since neither of them was going to start, I jumped in. “So they didn’t arrest you, but brought you in because … ?”

  “They were going to arrest him, but I pointed out that arresting someone was a serious step and they needed to make damn sure of the evidence,” Gus said.

  “And they blinked.”

  “They blinked,” Gus agreed, “but they won’t blink next time. They apparently have two pieces of evidence. One is a recording that reportedly shows Eric going into Peter’s study the night of the murder. Impossible to identify conclusively. There was a lot of foot traffic that night. No one else went in or came out until Amelia found the body the next day.”

  “Okay, sorry, Gus, but I’ve got to say it again. He was alive when I left him. I swear to you. Then I went up to the guest room and passed out.”

  “Passed out?” I asked.

  Eric ignored me.

  “Do you have all of the recordings?” I asked Gus.

  “No, and they took the servers. If they arrest him we’ll get copies, but until then we’re flying a little blind. Trying to see what, if anything, got saved onto a backup system.”

  “There are lots of cameras?”

  “All on different systems,” Gus said. “Apparently Peter liked trying out new surveillance systems, but he didn’t bother tying them all together.”

  “Did he use a specific firm?” I asked. “I might know someone—”

  “You do,” Eric said. “He uses Frank as his IT guru.”

  “Frank,” Gus said. He pulled out his phone and tapped in some notes.

  “Augustine,” I said. “He’s our tech director at the theater.”

  “Tech director and IT guru?”

  “Most people in theater wear more than one hat to make a living. His brain is very IT, his heart is backstage at the theater. It works for everyone. What’s the second piece of evidence?” I asked.

  “The gun.”

  “They found the gun? Where?”

  “I found it in my apartment.” Eric sounded miserable.

  “Finding it wasn’t the only problem,” Gus said. “Moving it was. Eric was just going to explain that part of the story to me when you came in.”

  “Shall I go back downstairs?”

  “No, I’d like you to stay,” Eric said. “Is that okay, Gus?”

  “Sure, what the hell. You’ll probably tell her anyway.”

  Eric hesitated, taking more cheese from the plate and carefully arranging it on a cracker. It was all I could do not to slap it out of his hand.

  “Eric,” I finally said. “Tell Gus. He needs to know everything, and I mean everything, if he’s going to help you. Don’t leave anything out, no matter how unimportant it seems. And I should leave, because I can be forced to testify, which wouldn’t be good.”

  “Please stay. I swear I didn’t do it. Okay, I did touch the gun. I found it in my dresser drawer, and I panicked. So I took it with me, wiped it down, and I threw it in a dumpster out on Route 1.”

  I was stunned. “Did you know if that was the gun?”

  “The police had asked if we had a small caliber gun in the house. Dad kept one in his desk. Everyone knew.”

  “Registered?” I looked at Gus.

  “No, not registered. Apparently it was part of a set of dueling pistols Peter had bought a while back and restored.”

  “It was a little gun,” Eric said. “It looked like a toy, for God’s sake. He got it from some antique dealer. I don’t even know that it worked. Or if it was the gun that was used to, you know.”

  “Ballistics match?” I asked Gus.

  “Same caliber. The bullet from Peter’s body was in pretty good shape. We’ll know in the next couple of days.”

  “Were the police following Eric?” I asked.

  “No,” Gus said. “That’s the interesting part. A citizen called the tip in.”

  “A citizen named?”

  “Anonymous.”

  “Jeez, I hate that guy,” I said. Gus and Eric chuckled politely, but I wasn’t joking. Anonymous tips could be a wild goose chase or someone with an ax to grind.

  “By the time the police got to the dumpster, a few other people could, and did, identify Eric’s car.” Gus must have read my mind. “Handy to have witnesse
s like that, don’t you think?”

  “Are you following up on them?”

  “Trying to. The police aren’t sharing names yet.”

  “Pretty neat little package,” I said.”

  “Delivered signed, sealed, and with a nice neat bow,” Gus agreed.

  “Any ideas?”

  “No. Probably the same person.”

  “Hey.” Eric interrupted my conversation with Gus. “Could you two clue me in on the shorthand?”

  “Sorry. Sully and I agree that someone set you up. And I think that the person who killed your father was the one who did it.”

  “But the police … ”

  I shook my head and tried to sound as gentle as I could. “Eric, the police have been under incredible strain, and they think they’ve found their man. They aren’t going to keep looking unless Gus gives them something else to consider.”

  “Do you have any ideas?” Eric asked me the question, but Gus looked pretty interested in the answer.

  “More questions than ideas at this point. Gus, you may have some answers, but my questions are pretty gruesome.” I looked at Eric.

  “I’ll go get some more of this cheese,” Eric said. We heard him turn on the TV in the kitchen, but Gus still whispered.

  “Alone at last. Okay, you have a couple of questions?”

  “Have you seen the police report?”

  “No, but I’ve been briefed.”

  “By?” I wondered if Gus had an in with the Trevorton police.

  “I put one of the firm’s investigators on it,” he said. “We keep a couple of them on retainer to help us with corporate investigations. She’s going to get me more information tonight, but I know the basics.”

  “Peter was shot in the chest, from the front, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Angle?”

  “He was sitting.”

  “Distance?”

  “Hard to say. It’s a 25mm, not a huge gun, so it wasn’t too far.”

  “Could someone have fired a shot from the door?”

  “No, the angle wouldn’t work. Probably within six feet, given the layout of the furniture and the angle of the wound.”