A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  The Whitehall dining room had once been a showplace. My childhood memories were of antique mahogany pieces—a long table, high-backed chairs, a china cabinet, a sideboard, and a buffet. The walls had been painted a dark green, with a dark chair rail and wainscoting and candlelight, creating a dark, somber effect that fit the era of the room itself. I paused in the doorway, taken aback by the redo of the room. My gut told me it was by Brooke’s hand. A huge table took up most of the center real estate. Rather than wood, the top was glass and held up by three large black cylinders. The chairs, twenty on quick count, were upholstered in white brocade. The walls were now dark red, as was the wainscoting. There was a sideboard with a granite top. Only the built-ins were the same, but even these had been painted the same shade as the walls. I ran my hand over one of the doors, hoping they’d been primed carefully so someday they could be taken back down to the wood.

  “Did Brooke redecorate this room?”

  Mrs. Bridges sighed. “She wanted to modernize it. Her words.”

  “What did everyone else think?”

  “This room, and the living room, weren’t used too often by the family, so she was allowed to do what she wanted. Mr. Whitehall didn’t much like it, and neither did the children, but they lived with it.”

  “And you? Do you like it?”

  “No, but I understood why she did it. The first Mrs. Whitehall was a wonderful woman who cast a long shadow, even after her death. It was a formidable task for Brooke to make her own mark.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought she’d care that much.” I looked at the window treatments. They were very expensive, fit the décor of the room perfectly, and were devoid of any personality.

  “Oh, she cares. She’s got a fairly vulnerable side to her. She wasn’t to the manor born, and it makes her insecure. So she puts on airs and tries to play a part. Now, let’s take a look at your tea set.”

  “Do you need help?” I asked.

  “I know where it is,” she said. “Give me a moment.”

  She turned back to the sideboard and started opening doors and drawers. There was a lot of stuff, mostly in different closed containers. I sat down on one of the horrifically uncomfortable chairs and watched Mrs. Bridges search the cabinet. The short period of silence allowed me to think. Ideas were taking shape, but I was hard-pressed to articulate them without more information.

  “Mrs. Bridges, can I ask you a couple of questions?” I asked.

  “You may ask. I’ll answer if I can.” She’d pulled out a couple of pieces and put them on the table. She went back to the cabinet to keep looking.

  “Fair enough. Apparently Brooke came by the theater last night. Do you have any idea why she would do that?”

  Mrs. Bridges paused in her search and looked toward the dining room door. It was still closed. “I hate to speculate. Perhaps you could ask her yourself when she gets back home … ”

  “I promise I’ll ask Brooke when she gets back, but there are a couple of advantages to asking you now. First of all, you won’t lie to me. Brooke may. And secondly, time is of the essence. Gus thinks, and I agree, that the police are taking a hard look at Emma for Terry’s murder. They may not wait to act until Brooke gets home.” Mrs. Bridges stood up from the cabinet and collapsed on a nearby chair. I felt bad for pushing, but I needed answers. Now.

  “She was at your theater?”

  “Yes, last night. Around five thirty.”

  “This is just speculation, you realize, but there’s a young man who works at the theater—”

  “Frank?”

  “Yes, Frank. He’s been meeting with Mr. Whitehall, doing some sort of computer work. He was given free reign of the house while he was working. Brooke and Frank became friendly while he was here.”

  “Friendly.”

  She looked at her hands while she answered. “I walked in one day and seemed to have caught them in a moment. I don’t know anything for certain, mind you.”

  Frank and Brooke? That seemed a little odd. “I thought that Frank was working when no one was home.” As I said it, I realize that probably wasn’t possible, since someone was likely always home. “What did you know about the work?”

  “Mr. Whitehall asked me to help facilitate letting Frank into different areas of the house.” She stopped again. The short sentences were wearing on my patience, but I wasn’t sure of the tack to take.

  “Mrs. Bridges, I know that you were, and are, very faithful to Peter Whitehall and his wishes. I think that’s commendable. Now, I didn’t know him that well, but I’d imagine that he’d be okay with your breaking a confidence, especially if it would help Emma. Wouldn’t you imagine he’d want to help Emma?”

  “Of course he would. It’s just that all of this is supposition on my part. I’d hate for you to go in the wrong direction.”

  “I wouldn’t use what you say as proof without verifying it. I’m missing some pieces, and I think you may be able to fill in the gaps. Okay?” Mrs. Bridges nodded and turned back to the cabinet. She pulled out a large wooden box and laid it on the table, and then put the rest of the containers back in the cabinet while we talked.

  “Did Brooke know about the work?”

  “No one else knew. But Mr. Whitehall was less concerned about her being home while the work was underway than he was about others.”

  “Terry?”

  “Yes. It seemed to me that he didn’t want the children there either.”

  “He was installing new digital surveillance equipment. You know that, right?”

  “I surmised as much, but I have no idea why.”

  “If he didn’t mind if Brooke was home when the work was being done, I’d assume that he wasn’t spying on her. ”

  “The work was being done in the East Wing of the house, where the offices are, and the library. And the kitchen. Brooke didn’t go to that side of the house too often, so I assume Mr. Whitehall didn’t think she’d encounter the installation work.”

  “But she did, obviously, if she met Frank. And you caught them in a ‘moment,’ which could have been a one-time situation or an affair. I know Frank, and I’ve got to tell you, I’m a little surprised at the idea of him having an affair with Brooke. And I can’t imagine her being that stupid.”

  “Agreed. It was probably nothing, or it was simply a momentary diversion for her.”

  But it added yet another morsel to ponder, and my plate was already full. She ran her hand over the top of the wooden box and turned it toward me.

  “Here it is, Sully,” she said. “This tea set is over two hundred years old—a Revere set purchased by your grandfather for his wife on their twenty-fifth anniversary. I think that the history of the set is in the box as well.” She opened the lid and turned the box toward me. It was beautiful. I wasn’t sure I would ever use it, but I’d display it. It seemed a shame to keep it boxed up.

  The set had two pots, one for coffee, one for tea. I pulled the teapot out to look at it and heard something clink against the inside of the pot. I lifted the lid and saw a flash drive clipped to an envelope. I considered giving these to Regina, but there was nothing to indicate they were evidence in the case. And the envelope had my name on it. Finders keepers?

  “I doubt Edwin used a flash drive,” I said to Mrs. Bridges. “Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  “Looks like Mr. Whitehall’s, but I can’t be sure.”

  Before I had a chance to question her further, the dining room door swung open and Regina entered. I put the envelope in my pocket.

  “You done yet, Sully?” she asked.

  Mrs. Bridges shot her a look that would have scared me, but it didn’t appear to have much effect on Regina. She was tough, I had to give her that.

  “No, still looking at my treasures.” I lifted the coffee pot to show her. Damned if I didn’t hear a clink there too. I lifted the lid and looked inside. There
was a small bottle with an eyedropper top, along with an envelope that resembled the one in my pocket. This envelope wasn’t addressed to me, however. Instead, it said, IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH. I didn’t pick either item up, just tipped it toward Regina.

  “Put it down on the table, Sully.” Regina put gloves on and carefully removed the bottle and envelope from the pot. “Don’t touch anything else in the box,” she warned us.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Bridges asked.

  “Do you recognize the handwriting, ma’am?” Regina asked Mrs. Bridges.

  When she didn’t answer, I did it for her. “Maybe it’s Peter’s?”

  We heard a phone ring, and Mrs. Bridges reached into her pocket. After her initial greeting, she listened for several moments and then reached behind her for the chair. She sat heavily and rested her head in her hands.

  “What is it?” I crouched down beside her and took her hand.

  “There’s been a car accident. Brooke—”

  • Twenty-Three •

  Regina left the dining room quickly, pulling her cell phone out as she walked. She stood in the grand hallway barking questions, clearly pissed that she hadn’t gotten the news first. After a couple of minutes, she walked back in. I walked over to her and spoke in quiet tones.

  “They found her an hour or so ago, identified her, and made the call here. Damn.”

  “Do they know what happened?” I asked.

  “She went off the road and crashed into a tree sometime last night. I don’t have a good window of time. There weren’t any skid marks. She may have had a heart attack or stroke. They won’t know for sure until they open her up and run some tests.”

  “Was it an accident?” Mrs. Bridges asked.

  “That’s what they are assuming,” Regina said more loudly, with a layer of compassion in her voice. “But I should tell you, ma’am, I spoke with the supervisor and gave him an update on what’s going on here. They’re going to move slowly, make sure they cover all of the possibilities. Just in case.”

  “In case?”

  “In case there was foul play,” I said gently.

  There was nothing more to do. Mrs. Bridges answered a few questions, but Regina didn’t balk when I suggested she be allowed to go up to her room.

  “Do you want me to walk up with you?” I wanted Mrs. Bridges to finish telling me about Frank.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine, thank you. I’d rather be alone for a few minutes, if that’s all right.”

  “Should I see if someone can get you something to help you sleep?”

  “Thank you, Edwina, but no. I don’t want to cloud my mind at this point. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to show you the rest of the set and finish our conversation.”

  “Another time. Here’s my card. Call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said. I watched as she made her way up the rounded staircase, holding on to the railing with one hand as she hoisted herself up each step. The last few days definitely seemed to have aged her.

  I turned back to find Regina staring at me. I stared back.

  “Sully, do you think it’s a coincidence that Brooke died last night?”

  “Regina, I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “Neither do I. Still, I wish to hell I knew what was going on.”

  “Going on where? Where’s Mrs. Bridges?” Gus was carrying the now-empty plates from the living room back toward the kitchen.

  I explained what had happened, and he handed me the plates and went back toward the front of the house.

  I brought the plates into the kitchen. I washed them, tidied up the sandwich debris, and pondered my next step. I felt my pocket. I knew I should hand it over to Regina, but I wanted to look at it first. It was wrong, and went against all of my training, but at this point I didn’t care. This whole thing was wrong. First Peter, then Terry, now Brooke? Maybe I should tell Gus about the flash drive? No, not a good idea. As a lawyer, he might feel obligated to turn it over to the police. I might soon end up in the same place, but I wanted to look at the contents of the flash drive first.

  Gus came back into the kitchen. He smiled and stood as close as he could without touching me. I matched the gesture. He looked over his shoulder and took my hands in his, then leaned his forehead against mine. Any complicating thoughts about withholding evidence from him disappeared when I felt his touch.

  “I checked in with the local cop—”

  “Officer. Regina.”

  “Regina. She said you could head out if you want, but that you should come by the station later to sign a statement about the evidence you found.”

  I explained about the eyedropper and the note. Since neither of us knew what it meant, I asked if I should stay around.

  He shook his head and kissed me quickly. Then he stood up straight, still holding my hands. “I’d rather go with you, frankly. But you should get out of here before they change their minds.”

  “Thanks. I should probably go to the theater. Tonight is the invited dress. Call me later?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I stood up and kissed him lightly on the lips. The kisses may have been quick, but they were potent. I didn’t dare look back as I left.

  • Twenty-Four •

  The temporary office the high school had made available to us during our stay was tiny, but at least it was all mine. I’d moved a few things in so I could work on payroll and do some social media. I went there now on the pretense of catching up on paperwork. Actually, it wasn’t a pretense. I was behind in sending an email update to the board of directors, and I also owed the actors’ union a call to explain the cast changes. I decided not to pursue anything against our former Marley. The Christmas spirit had invaded me. Plus, his side of the story would probably get us company hazard pay assessments for his having to work with Patrick. I wondered if I could get someone to tell me anything, off the record, about Patrick’s history. So yes, I had a lot to do. But first there was a note to read.

  I grabbed some latex gloves from the shop, put them on, and pulled the flash drive out of the teapot. The note addressed to me was typed and unsigned:

  Sully,

  If you are reading this note, it is because the situation I outlined in my first note must have come to fruition. The files referenced are all included on this flash drive. Again, I thank you for your help.

  ~PW

  On quick perusal, the documents looked to be the same as the ones Gus had brought to my place. But Peter had added comments to explain his thoughts, so they began to make a little more sense. These weren’t the PDFs—they were the full spreadsheets. I looked at one of the cells and followed the references in it, backward. There were many pages and workbooks Peter hadn’t included in the files he’d sent to Gus. It would take days to go through these, and I felt an expert should probably do it so the evidence wouldn’t get lost somehow.

  The spreadsheets tracked the movement of large amounts of cash from one account to another, then back to the first account after a delay of anywhere from a day or two to a few weeks. Thanks to Peter’s careful notes, it was clear he hadn’t approved of these moves and considered them theft. The problem for Peter was that he didn’t have proof of who was doing the moving, and he must have wanted to keep his theories within the family before he made accusations. Given the recent turns of events, I put my money on Terry. The final spreadsheet hypothesized about the amount of money that had been taken by holding these investments—close to $2 million. It must have taken a long time for that amount of money to build up. Had Emma’s hiring Jack Megan triggered all of this? Or was Peter thinking this earlier? I wondered if he’d told anyone else, like Terry, about what he’d discovered.

  I suppose it made sense for Peter to pass the information to me once he’d decided he could trust me. He probably wouldn’t have thou
ght that Gus and I would be working together. Although if someone had asked me a week ago, I wouldn’t have thought that Gus and I would be working together either.

  The other envelope, unfortunately now in Regina’s possession, had been addressed To be opened in the event of my death. I wished I’d opened the coffee pot first and pocketed the contents. Curiosity was killing me. Assuming that note was from Peter also, what did it say? What was in the bottle? Had someone been trying to poison Peter? If so, why did he, or she, decide to shoot him instead? Did he or she know about these notes?

  My money was still on Terry, but now that someone had murdered him, that envelope might provide clues. I needed to figure out how to get Regina to tell me what it said. Chances were good, damned good, that she wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have. Maybe I’d try to get it out of her later if she came to the theater to pick up Gabe.

  I’d also give her a copy of the spreadsheets. I still needed to decide whether she’d get the note to me as well. I could give her the spreadsheets and tell her they were from Gus—which they were, at first. But the note would be trickier to explain. My conscience started to bother me. She needed the whole package.

  The spreadsheets were beginning to swim before my eyes. I refocused on preparations for opening night next week. Programs needed to be proofread again, since Stewart had to be added and David had to be deleted. Ushers needed to be confirmed, press lists checked, social media updated, and photographers contacted. A million details, all ending up in my purview at some point during the day. I made lists and sent out a flurry of emails.