My conversation with Harry ended when Gene took my keys and asked one of the tea-totaling patrons, yet another friend of my late father’s, to drive both of us home. I argued for a second, then realized it was a good idea. Is it any wonder that I stayed in Trevorton even after my father died? His memory was protecting me from myself at every turn. These guardian angels were local. In Boston, I’d have been on my own.
I was sober enough to thank our chauffeur for the ride and offer him a pair of tickets to the show. I was also sober enough to call the box office and leave a message with his name, in case he actually called. My final act was to feed Max the cat and take off my shoes before falling into bed. I wanted to do more, to think more, but the day had finally caught up with me.
While the coffee was brewing, I took off my clothes and splashed cold water in my face. A shower would have made me feel better, but I couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, I wrapped myself in my robe and went upstairs to the living room, cup in hand. I turned on my laptop and leaned back on the pillows, waiting for it to boot up. The next thing I heard was the loud warning call of the coffee pot turning itself off after two hours. My neck was so stiff from my head leaning back that I thought it would snap in half if I moved my chin to my chest too quickly. Once I’d finally wrenched my aching body off the couch and did a couple of yoga stretches, I realized that I felt a lot better. Not good, but better. Well enough to start thinking about what I knew, what it meant.
I opened a new document on the computer and wrote notes on the events that transpired after Peter had died. Back in the day, I would have kept copious notes all along. I’d gotten sloppy in retirement and had to recreate a lot of it from memory. Fortunately, despite the webs from the beers, my memory was still pretty good. I stuck with the facts the first time through. I went back through to add my impressions and thoughts, coloring that font blue. I used to use different color highlighters, but the computer was more fun. The third time through, I added the outstanding questions in lime green. Then I added my best guesses at the answers to those questions in red. There was more green than red on the pages, but at least I knew where to start. I picked up the phone and dialed.
• Twenty-Two •
Whitehall residence.”
“Mrs. Bridges, it’s Sully. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Good morning, Edwina. No, we’ve been up for a while.”
Edwina? I’d hoped we were progressing to Sully. Ah well, maybe last night had put me back at arm’s reach.
“When did everyone leave?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Ah, so they were still there. Good. “Mrs. Bridges, I’d like to come over this morning to, um … ”
“To see the things Mr. Whitehall left you? Certainly. What time can we expect you?”
The Anchorage zoo was in full splendor, both in front of the gates and behind them. In front, there was an amazing maze of media vehicles parked. Fortunately for me, they couldn’t completely block the gate since they had to keep the street clear. I explained who I was to the officer outside the house and he waved me into the grounds. Another officer directed me to park alongside of the house, out of the driveway. Official vehicles only. Gus’s car was there. He must have spent the night.
I wished I’d put on lipstick, and immediately shook myself. What was I doing, feeling like a lovesick teenager? Worse, a middle-aged woman acting like a lovesick teenager. Shake it off, Sully. Get your head in the game.
Ah, the game. The rules had changed in the past twenty-four hours, but the end game was the same. First, get Eric in the clear. Legally, I suspected there was enough reasonable doubt to ensure that he would never be convicted of his father’s murder, even if it got that far. But there would always be that question hanging over Eric’s head. Was he innocent, or was he another example of what a high-priced lawyer like Gus could do to the course of justice? For that matter, the sword of thwarted justice was hanging over a lot of heads now. Were I another type of person, I would have embraced the reasonable doubt, left the whole thing in Gus’s more-than-capable hands, and been done with it. Of course, if I were that type of person I would never have ruffled so many feathers that I ruined my own career.
I had to admit, curiosity was driving me forward today as much as the elusive search for justice. I had as many questions as I had answers. The more answers I got, the more questions I found. By now I’d expected that a picture would be beginning to form, but not this time. This time Terry’s death had blurred the picture just as it had started to come into focus. Who killed Peter Whitehall? Who killed Terry Holmes? Were they the same person?
Mrs. Bridges had suggested I come to the back door instead of the front. I still had to run a minor gauntlet of police and other people in suits who were busy talking on cell phones. I was stopped briefly by an officer standing sentry, but he must have been expecting me because he barely looked at my ID, though he did use his walkie-talkie right after he waved me past.
The back entrance was actually a side entrance, since the house backed up on the cliffs. Whatever its location, it was hardly a second-rate entry to the Anchorage. The cobblestone walk led to a large oak door with leaded glass panels. I knocked, and the door swung open at my touch. I stepped into a flagstone mudroom, paneled in oak with a built-in bench, shelves, and cubbies around the room. There were two other doors in the space. One glass door provided entry to the greenhouse. The window panels were so foggy I couldn’t see inside. The other door, glass also, led to a small hallway. I wasn’t sure what to do next but was saved from my indecision by the arrival of Mrs. Bridges at the second door. She opened it and stepped back for me to enter.
“Edwina, I’m sorry. I thought I’d hear the knocker.”
“Sorry if I startled you. I didn’t knock too hard since the door was already open.”
“Probably from all of the police ‘testing’ that’s been going on. They keep opening and closing the doors, running around timing entrances and exits, fingerprinting everything that doesn’t move, taking everything out of the cupboards.” She sighed.
I stopped mid-step and turned back to her.
“Taking everything out? What do you mean?”
“All those benches in the mudroom? All storage. That and the coat hooks.”
“What was in the bench storage?”
“Anything we wanted to keep available but out of the way. Smocks and clogs for the greenhouse, boots, raincoats, gloves, towels. Leftover summer detritus like suntan lotion and gardening hats. That sort of thing. They boxed it all up and took it with them.”
“All of it?”
“All of it. Plus from the things they found in the cubbies. Tomatoes I’d canned, some jellies. I stored it there during the winter, cold and dark storage. Oh, and of course, some of Brooke’s medicine.”
“Medicine?”
“That’s what she called it. Her father’s secret recipe. It was hooch, pure and simple. Well, hardly pure, but fairly simple. Homemade alcohol.”
“Homemade? Was that what she had in the flask?” I’d seen her topping off her tea on Tuesday. “I would have assumed it was rare and expensive brandy.”
“An old family recipe. Her father sends her a case for her birthday, and for Christmas. Horrible stuff. Tastes like cough medicine.”
“So she was willing to share?”
“Yes and no. She offers, but only if you’re with her one on one, watching television or chatting. She never brings it out for social gatherings. Usually. Lately it has been her constant companion. Giving her comfort, poor thing.”
By now we were in the kitchen. I settled at the table, draping my coat over one of the chairs. Mrs. Bridges handed me a cup of coffee and then went back to what she’d been doing, making sandwiches. I hoped one of them was for me. I must have drooled, because she took a small plate and put a couple of the finger sandwiches on it.
“Don’t stan
d on ceremony, Edwina. I’m too tired. Help yourself. There’s plenty.”
“I’m trying to picture Brooke drinking homemade hooch.” I picked up a sandwich.
“Well, it can’t be too far of a stretch to imagine her drinking, surely.”
Meow. She was tired.
“The depth of her grief over Mr. Whitehall’s passing has been heartening, I will say that,” Mrs. Bridges went on, reclaiming her manners. “Any doubts I may have had have been released. She’s been the picture of despair.”
“How is she holding up since Terry’s death?”
Mrs. Bridges shook her head. “I wouldn’t know. No one has been able to reach her to tell her. I’d hate for her to hear it on the news. Or to be met by reporters.”
That seemed odd. It hadn’t yet been twenty-four hours since Terry died, but surely there had been enough time to contact Brooke. “Isn’t she in Boston?”
“She was supposed to be, but she’s not at the condo. I called a neighbor and asked him to check.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“They know she is missing,” she said.
“Mrs. Bridges, is the coffee ready?” Gus came into the kitchen and acknowledged my presence with a brief smile. He looked done in. If he’d slept, it was probably sitting up. He moved slowly, keeping his hips in check. I was betting on some back pain. I reached into my bag and pulled out some ibuprofen, handing him the bottle. He shook out a few, swallowed a couple, and put some others in his pocket.
“Thanks, Sully. You must have been a helluva Girl Scout. Always prepared.”
“I try.”
“What brings you over here this morning?” he asked me.
“I decided to come over and talk to Mrs. Bridges about my inheritance.” Gus raised one of his eyebrows and then went to get a cup of coffee. I didn’t try to defend myself, especially from Gus. He knew me too well. “Odd timing, I know. Mrs. Bridges was telling me that Brooke is AWOL. Odd, that.”
“Odd indeed. I’m a little worried, actually,” Gus said. He leaned back against the counter, a few feet away from Mrs. Bridges, facing me.
Mrs. Bridges stopped making sandwiches and looked over at Gus. “You’re worried?”
Concern was etched across the housekeeper’s face, and Gus responded by backpedaling. “Only a little. I’ve never known Brooke not to answer her cell, or at the worst respond to a text within the hour. She’s not responding to either texts or calls.”
“Maybe she left her phone somewhere,” Mrs. Bridges said.
Gus smiled at Mrs. Bridges and lightened his voice purposefully. “Or it ran out of juice. You’re probably right. I’d prefer it if she didn’t hear about Terry’s death on the news. We’ll find her. Don’t worry.”
He glanced over at me. I recognized the look, and knew he was having trouble following his own advice.
I offered to help Gus carry the coffee and sandwiches to the living room. We didn’t see anyone on our way, but there was a low hum indicating a hive of activity somewhere nearby. We were alone in the living room, but I thought it was a good idea to keep my voice low. Walls have ears.
“Hi.” I felt myself blushing.
“Hi.” Gus was smiling, but he looked like hell. Handsome hell, but hell nonetheless. “I feel like I haven’t seen you for days.”
“I know, but it’s only been a few hours. How’s it going here? Eric in the clear yet?” I wondered if Gus was worried about whether he might be on a suspect list as well. Or would he just let me worry about that?
Gus shook his head. “Looks like Eric is out, but Emma might be in.”
“Emma? I thought she was on a conference call.”
“Which she had to leave a few times to retrieve some documents from Peter’s study. Enough of a window, I guess.”
“Do you know she’s a suspect for a fact, or are you guessing?”
“Mostly guessing, but educated guessing.”
Gus had been in the DA’s office for a few years. He probably knew what investigators were thinking before they did. “Have they tested her hands for gunpowder?”
“They’ve taken some samples from everyone who was in the house at the time. Including me.”
A smart move. If they waited too long, the evidence would be more tainted than it already was. And given the number of vans in the driveway, I guessed there was a traveling lab that was more than capable of gathering evidence. And processing it before they made any move toward bringing someone in for questioning.
I put myself in Emma’s place, a habit from the old days. Empathy was part of what made me good at my job. It’s also what had almost killed me. I’d routinely put myself in the place of victims, trying to figure out their final moments to see if I could find a clue I’d missed otherwise.
I would also put myself in the place of the perpetrator, walking through the crime as it was recreated. Then I’d look at my list of suspects and try to imagine their motivations and methods. I’d also look at other people I met to see if they fit the scenario. The exercise was effective, but it took its toll. No matter what I did, I couldn’t help the victim. And occasionally I’d find my suspect but not enough evidence to bring him to trial. Those were the cases that still woke me up at night. I had a couple of cases that I kept in my personal active file. I’d do searches on the names of the suspects every few weeks, trying to keep track of what they were up to. When the folks on my personal list slipped, and they would, I’d be there. Even if I was in the middle of rehearsals at the time, I’d be there.
My investigative muscles weren’t as sharp as they used to be, but they were warming up. Empathetic pondering came back easily. And the exercise did not bode well for Emma regarding Terry’s death, no matter which angle I used. Spouses were almost always the prime suspect, and for good reason. Emma had spousal motivation to kill Terry. I knew firsthand that she’d suspected him of having an affair. Additionally, they were in business together. For all I knew, Peter hadn’t tied it all up in his will and Terry still had a card to play. And finally, there was Peter. If I thought that Terry killed Peter, and the police thought that Terry killed Peter, then Emma must have at least suspected this too. And whatever else he was, Peter was her father.
A part of my subconscious must have been working on this puzzle already, because the exercise took just a few seconds. I looked at Gus, and knew that he’d reached the same conclusion.
“Do you think … ” I began.
“I don’t think she did it. She has too much to lose.”
“What do you mean?” The activity in the hallway sounded closer.
“It’s complicated. We have a few issues that need to be addressed if the company is going to move forward. Losing Peter, then Terry, hasn’t made it any easier. The people we’re working with aren’t going to give us any more latitude. And Emma is the only one who can finish these negotiations.”
“What about Eric?”
“Terry took him off the project when he was brought in for questioning. Emma signed off on the change. He can’t be reinstated at this point, since it would be a conflict of interest on Emma’s part. And I don’t have the power to do it on my own.”
“So if Emma is arrested … ”
“Have you heard of the Cunningham Corporation and their Century Projects?”
I nodded. “They have a foundation I’m trying to approach for theater funding.”
“The Cunninghams have been talking to Peter and Emma about working together on a project up here near Trevorton. Negotiations have been challenging. That’s putting it nicely. If the Cunninghams have an opportunity to buy the company in a takeover, they’ll take it.”
“Even though it’s a private company? How?”
“By getting folks to call in loans. It would be risky, and it would tarnish their image as a community-minded corporation. Especially under the circumstances. Mimi and Jerry ar
e nothing if not self-aware, but if Emma is arrested, it’ll provide an opening they won’t ignore.”
I didn’t know Emma well, but Gus was probably right. She was a business woman. Which convinced me even more that she didn’t do it. She wouldn’t jeopardize her business, her standing in the community, her world by killing Terry. She’d find another way to get rid of her husband.
“Sully, you’ve got to figure this out,” Gus said. “They aren’t going to arrest her without being very careful, but they aren’t going to wait too long. Especially now that Terry’s dead.”
Regina walked into the room and looked at me. She was wearing the same clothes she had on last night. I poured her a cup of coffee and added some cream. She took a long swig. “What the hell are you doing here?” she barked, as usual.
“Good morning to you, too, Regina. Came by to check in with Mrs. Bridges.”
“About?”
“I wanted to show her the items Mr. Whitehall left her in his will.” Mrs. Bridges had arrived with another plate of sandwiches. She put two on a plate and handed them to Regina. Regina put her cup down on a coaster, then took a bite. She sighed and smiled slightly. Mrs. Bridges’ sandwiches were an elixir.
“Is this the best time for Sully to take a look at her bounty?” Regina asked between bites.
“It isn’t a bounty. It’s a lovely remembrance. It was my idea that she come over,” she lied. “I wanted something besides all this to focus on. Perhaps it was callous of me.”
I put my arm around Mrs. Bridges shoulders. She’d made up the excuse, but not the emotion behind it. For the first time, I would have described her as old. She’d spent most of her life holding the Whitehall family together and, despite her Herculean efforts, it was falling apart.
“Show me my teapot, Mrs. Bridges,” I said. “If that’s all right with you, Regina.”
“That’s fine. You’ll need to keep it here, but sure, take a look.” Regina grabbed another sandwich and sat back on a chair.
Mrs. Bridges and I walked into the dining room. I’d seen the room before but never ate a meal there; the kitchen had a table, and there was also a breakfast room. Interestingly, even back in the day when my mother was alive and visits were allowed, we’d been relegated to those two rooms or the back patio in the summer. I’m not sure if it was a slight, or a sign of the level of intimacy my mother shared with her cousin. My father would have guessed the former. I might have agreed with him at one point, but today I settled on the later.
A Christmas Peril Page 19
