A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  “Sorry for the confusion,” he said over his shoulder as he pushed the big door open, “but I heard Mrs. Bridges call you Edwina and thought it was optional.”

  I tried to remember back to my visit yesterday morning. Did she call me Edwina? I couldn’t remember, but she probably did. I wondered when it happened, and what else we were discussing at the time. And where Terry had been. And how much he’d heard. And how he’d heard it. Maybe Peter wasn’t the only surveillance fan?

  As we crossed the threshold, Gus leaned in and whispered, “Edwina, the game’s afoot!” Problem was, I didn’t know which game we were playing or the rules. I felt a rush of adrenaline kick in and realized that I needed to focus. Why, on whom, and on what—these details weren’t clear—but focus nonetheless.

  I tried to look nonchalant as I surveyed the entrance area of the house for hidden cameras. They were very small these days, but I thought I picked one out below the bottom railing of the staircase.

  Someone had added a few Christmas decorations to the hallway. The house was still far from festive, appropriately in mourning, but a few sprigs of holly, greens on the staircase, and red candles were faint reminders of the season. I ran my fingers along the greens on the table and smelled my fingertips. What memories were encased in that smell. When I was a little girl it was all happiness. Now, the memories were as bittersweet as happy; I could remember the first Christmas without my mother. I’d wanted to forget the whole holiday, but Dad went out and bought a small tree, put a wreath on the door. Nothing more, but enough to give us permission to celebrate the season. “Your mother would be very upset if we skipped Christmas, Sully. She loved Christmas.” He was right, of course. After he died, I bought one of those fake trees in a box: two-foot high, lights on, paper decorations. It was all I did, but I made the effort. Funny how that time, it didn’t make me feel better. Maybe I missed the smell.

  Gus had stopped to wait for me, a strange look on his face. I smiled and followed Terry toward the back of the house, counting two more cameras on the way. He led us into the library, the room closest to Peter’s study. The old library was originally a huge room that took up the back of the house. But when Peter put on his addition, some hallways were added and the library became a series of smaller but still grand rooms along the side of the house. I looked around. Was that another camera outside the study? I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t want to stare too long. Terry noticed my glance and seemed to mistake it for something else. He sighed heavily and opened the door to the library.

  “We can talk in here, if that’s okay. The fire is already started.”

  Once we entered, I realized that the library also served as an office, presumably Terry’s. The desk had a computer like the one I’d seen on Peter’s desk. Settled on top of it, in a docking station, was a laptop. At the other end of the desk was a second laptop. Three monitors lined the desk, each tracking a different program. I couldn’t see specifics on the screen, and couldn’t imagine trying to keep track of all that information at once. I glanced around the room quickly but didn’t see any cameras.

  We’d just settled into the chairs when the door opened. Mrs. Bridges entered, carrying a large tray with tea things on it. Gus jumped up to take the tray from her. Terry didn’t move.

  “Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?” she asked.

  “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Bridges.”

  “Call if you need anything else.” She gave a short bow toward Terry and I saw him clench his jaw. She turned to walk out and gave me a quick wink. I stifled a smile. No love lost between the two of them.

  “Well, Gus, you said that you wanted to talk, but you didn’t say what you wanted to talk about. I thought it was probably business, but since you’ve brought Sully, I must have been wrong.”

  “Sully is here to help give me some perspective about the case against Eric … ” Gus started to use the explanation we’d rehearsed in the car.

  “But surely your years as a defense attorney would be sufficient to—”

  “Defense attorneys react to a case and its evidence,” I said. “Cops find the evidence. Gus thought that perhaps I could help figure out how strong the case is. And to see if any evidence could be interpreted differently.”

  “Differently?”

  “I don’t believe Eric is guilty.”

  “No one does,” Terry said. He made no move to pour the tea. Nor did I. Another stalemate.

  “So I have to wonder if the evidence could be reinterpreted to point in another direction.”

  “Another direction?” he asked.

  “Toward the truth,” Gus said.

  Terry paused. “And I can help how, exactly?”

  “Eric told me what happened that night, as best he can remember,” Gus said.

  “Which probably isn’t much, am I correct?”

  “You’re right, it’s not much.”

  “He was pretty drunk,” Terry said. “Started early and kept on going. It was embarrassing, though there weren’t too many people there. Just family, really—”

  “Eric remembers Emma, Amelia, Mrs. Bridges, Brooke … ”

  “Clive Willis was there as well. The Cunninghams came with Hal Maxwell, but they left early because of the storm. You were going to come, weren’t you Gus? You and your friend there, Kathy, isn’t that her name?”

  “Kate. The storm really buried us in the city, so we decided to stay put. I was planning on coming up on Sunday.”

  Gus said my name twice before I realized he was offering me a cup of tea. Kate. Bah.

  “We didn’t get as much snow up here, but we usually don’t,” Terry said. “Too close to the ocean. Anyway, we had dinner. Russell went home early—”

  “Russell?” I asked.

  “The guard,” Terry explained. “Clive decided to stay over. Peter went into his study around ten. We had our conference call at midnight—”

  “Were you all in the same room?” Gus asked.

  “Eric and Emma were in the kitchen. I was in here, Peter was in his study.”

  “Once Russell left, how was the house secured?”

  “Peter had an intercom system put in. It’s tied into the security system. Aside from that, the house has an alarm system that was on all night.”

  “What happens if the power goes out? Does the system reset itself?”

  “The generator keeps the power running at an even level, no matter what. Why all the questions?”

  “I’m wondering if there was an opportunity for someone outside to come in during the storm,” Gus said.

  Terry shook his head. “I wish there was, but no. Besides, the recordings … ” He shook his head again and looked down into his teacup.

  “What about the other cameras?”

  “The system only records one camera at a time, and it switches views. This was the first time we even had to look at one of the recordings.”

  I decided to go for the role of good cop. “Does it ever creep you out, the idea of being taped all the time? I always wondered about that. It would give me the creeps, that’s for sure.”

  “Peter loved high tech toys, did you know that? The family was concerned about the camera locations, so Peter agreed to put most of them outside. The only cameras in the house are in this area, the business area as it were. It shows this hallway. Peter’s study is at the end. Mostly the cameras are for monitoring.”

  “Monitoring what?” Gus asked.

  “Who was where when,” Terry said. “Peter ran a tight ship. He liked to know all. What the hell is that racket?”

  Racket it was, and what it was became apparent in the next moment. Like her auspicious entrance yesterday, Brooke Whitehall’s entrance was on none-too-steady legs.

  “Terry, I can’t find my … oh Gus, you’re here! Terry, why didn’t you tell me Gus was here? You know how much I enjoy seeing Gus … and Sally, isn’t it? Wh
at is this, a party? Why wasn’t I invited?” She sat on the edge of Gus’s chair, leaning in toward him. He deftly got up and offered her his seat, moving to an armless chair closer to me. She slid down into the seat and leaned toward the tea set, rattling the cups on the tray.

  “Here, let me.” Terry poured her a cup of tea, adding three sugars and a twist of lemon. He put the cup and saucer on the coffee table in front of her, easily within her reach. She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a small flask, pouring amber liquid into her cup.

  “Honestly, Brooke.” Terry sounded annoyed. Really annoyed.

  “I told you before, leave me alone, Terry. I’ve been through a lot this past week. This helps steady my nerves. That’s okay with you, isn’t it? You want me to have steady nerves, don’t you? Maybe you should have some.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “How about you, Gus? Or Sally, would you like some?” As she turned to offer us the flask, Brooke gestured with her hand and the liquid came flying out all over me. The aroma was strong, like very strong cough syrup.

  “Oops,” was all she said.

  “Honestly, Brooke … ”

  “It’s fine, it barely hit me,” I said.

  “It doesn’t stain anyway,” Brooke said.

  “That’s good. Usually brandy stains.” I took a sniff of it. Wow. I hoped it didn’t burn a hole through my pants.

  “S’not brandy. It’s an old family recipe—my father sent me a case last Christmas. He makes it every year. So why are you here, Gus? I thought the business was shut down this week? Isn’t that what you said, Terry? That the business was shut down, that’s why you’re staying home?”

  “The business isn’t shut down; I’m working from home this week. Gus isn’t here on business. They came to talk about Eric, and the evidence against him.”

  “Poor Eric. I wonder why he did it?”

  “We don’t think he did it, Brooke,” Gus said. “That’s why Sully and I are here, to follow the evidence, see if there are other solutions.”

  Brooke looked like she was going to say something, but Terry put his hand on her knee and she stopped. “Brooke, drink your tea.” She put her hand on top of his very briefly, and then took her tea cup and sat back in the chair.

  “Gus, I don’t know what to say,” Terry said. “I don’t think that Eric did it, but I don’t have any information that can help you get him off. I wish I did, but I don’t.” He didn’t sound that sorry to me.

  I could see Gus trying to formulate his next question, but I decided to dive in. I’d lied to Brooke; a lot of her drink had landed on my sleeve, and the smell in combination with the fire and the company was making me nauseous.

  “So forgive me, then, Terry, but I think we need to look at everyone else in the house that evening,” I said quickly. “Did you know I used to be with the State Police? Old habits die hard—I need to get back in the groove. Do you know what time the police think Peter died?”

  Brooke flinched, but Terry stared at me. “Between midnight and eight o’clock in the morning. Why?”

  “Do you mind telling me where you were then?”

  “I was in bed.” Beat.

  “With Emma?” This time Brooke spilled some tea.

  “That’s a pretty personal question, Sully.”

  “Sorry.” He wasn’t going to answer, so I moved on. “Can you tell me about Larry Colfer?”

  “Larry Colfer?” The color drained from Terry’s face, but his smile never wavered. “You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

  “Eric is my friend. So yes, I’ve been doing my homework. Larry Colfer?”

  “Larry Colfer was a college mentor and a friend. Not only my friend, from what I understand—your father’s friend as well.”

  “Yes. My father blamed Peter for Larry’s death.” I paused, and then leaned forward slightly and lowered my voice. “Did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Terry paused and took a sip of tea. I noticed his hands were a little less steady as he put the cup back in the saucer. “Larry was a brilliant man with great ideas, who invested enough in his ideas to protect them until it was too late. Sounds harsh, I know, but I’d already decided that he was missing the wave, so I’d bailed on him. If anything, I blame myself for his suicide. Perhaps if I’d stuck with him, tried to make his dreams more businesslike, maybe then he would have had some more success. Not great success, but success enough to satisfy him.”

  “What does some dead guy have to do with helping Eric?” Brooke asked.

  “Good question.” Terry turned toward us. “Sully, Gus, what does Larry Colfer have to do with helping Eric?” He seemed glad for Brooke’s interference and gave her a smile. She smiled back, and then looked away.

  “Well, Brooke, here’s the deal,” I said. “I don’t think Eric killed his father. Terry told us that there were very few people in the house that night. So if we want to figure out who did it, we need to figure out who else had a motive. This Larry Colfer connection could be seen as a possible motive for Terry. Obviously, it wasn’t. So we’ll need to see if other people had motives. Brooke, I wonder if … ”

  At this mention of her name, Brooke dropped her tea cup onto the middle of the table. At first I thought she was being dramatic, but one look at the color of her face and I realized that the swoon was for real. I rushed to the side of the couch as Terry helped her lie down. Her skin felt damp and clammy. Her color was the same shade as the ashes in the fireplace. A fine thread of perspiration peaked out on her upper lip, and she began to tremble. I grabbed the decorative throw on the back of the couch and spread it across her. It barely covered her legs.

  “Tell Mrs. Bridges to get a blanket. And call the doctor,” Terry barked toward Gus. Gus ran out of the room. I did my best to recall all the first aid I knew, but I wasn’t sure what was wrong. Brooke might be having a heart attack, but her breath was smooth and steady. Maybe some sort of reaction …

  “Terry, do you have any idea what’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s been under a lot of strain … there, there, Brooke. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

  She’d regained consciousness and started clawing at Terry’s arm. “Terry, don’t let … I can’t … ”

  “Shhh, Brooke, don’t say anything, rest. Sully and I are right here. We won’t leave you, I promise.” With that subtle reminder of company in the house, Brooke looked at me and wailed. Not cried. Wailed. She sounded so pitiful, I felt sorry for her.

  “I’ll go check in with Mrs. Bridges and Gus.” I closed the library door behind me but didn’t latch it. Instead, I counted to ten and peeked through the crack. Terry was sitting on the edge of the couch, holding Brooke down by her shoulders. She was speaking in low tones, so I could only make out snippets: “Shouldn’t have … know … not going to … you can’t … ” Terry looked more concerned than when she’d first collapsed.

  “Sully.” I couldn’t tell if Gus was warning me about something or disgusted that I was eavesdropping. I closed the door quietly and turned toward him. He was followed by Mrs. Bridges and another man, someone I didn’t know but recognized from the funeral. He’d sat in the second row.

  “I’ll go and check in with them while we wait for the doctor.” Mrs. Bridges slid beside me, rapped once on the large door, and stepped inside. She kept it partially opened. Terry stood while she entered and started fussing about the room, putting a blanket over Brooke, rearranging the pillows behind her head, patting her hand. Mrs. Bridges said something to him, and he began to collect the tea things and put them on the tray. She reached inside Brooke’s pocket and removed the flask I’d seen earlier. She handed it to Terry, who quickly pocketed it and resumed gathering the china.

  I became aware of the men talking behind me and turned away from the scene of domesticity in the library.

  “I thank God we’re not a public company.
This kind of story doesn’t go over well with stockholders, let me tell you.”

  “The company will be fine, Clive, you know that. Emma’s been a major figure for years—”

  “Still, I don’t know what he was thinking. But I’m glad to have seen you—you saved me a phone call.” He turned to me and held out his hand. “Clive Willis.” His handshake matched the rest of him. Solid, hearty, and businesslike. Clive Willis was of an indeterminate age—he was the kind of man who probably looked the same at thirty as he would at seventy. Thinning hair swooshed over a bald spot, gray eyes, pale skin stretched over a large skull, thin lips. The lines on his face seemed chiseled on either side. Absent from around his eyes and mouth were laugh lines.

  “Sully Sullivan,” I said.

  When I was fairly young, twelve or thirteen, my father had given me a long lecture about handshakes and their importance. He warned me about downturned hands, fishy fingers, and nondescript grabs. Grasp, shake, squeeze, let go. We practiced several times that night, and often over the years he’d give me a handshake pop quiz. If Clive Willis had children, he’d probably given them the same lesson. He seemed to appreciate my technique.

  “Ah, I should have seen the resemblance. I knew both of your parents. Good people, both of them.”

  “Thank you. I thought so.”

  “Of course, your father was one of the most pig-headed bastards I’ve ever met, but you probably knew that about him already, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer and turned to Gus. “Did you know Bryan?”

  “Very well.”

  “And was he, or was he not, a pig-headed bastard?”

  “I think I prefer strong-willed … ”

  “A polite way of saying pig-headed. He wasn’t a big fan of Peter Whitehall’s, that’s for sure.” I thought I heard a note of admiration in the man’s voice. But that was it. Clearly he didn’t plan to elaborate. And I wasn’t sure how to.