A Christmas Peril

by J. A. Hennrikus

  “How did she know?”

  “He told her.”

  “He told her? But why?”

  “To keep her complicit, I’d imagine. Mind you, she was in quite a state, so it took a while for the story to come out.” She moved on to the next plant, and handed me a new pot.

  I was losing my mind, controlling my urge to shake her until the truth rattled out of her. Breathe in. Breathe out. Soil in pots. Keep her talking.

  “Mrs. Bridges, please tell me the story. It’s the only way we can figure out what to do. Time is of the essence.” I hoped I was keeping my impatience out of my voice.

  “She and Mr. Holmes had become very close.”

  “Very close?”

  “Do you think I would have, for one moment in my house, allowed … ” As if to emphasize the point, she struck one of the pots too hard and it broke on the table. The ruckus seemed to calm her. “No, I can’t believe that. Terry had gotten Brooke on his side, against Mr. Whitehall. Brooke told me she’d tried to separate from Terry’s plans several times, but Terry was having none of it.”

  As I’d seen, Peter had tracked his money carefully enough to follow it back to Terry. Most likely he assumed that Terry had a mistress and was getting the money for her. Or was the embezzlement the true crime in Peter’s eyes? The reason for Terry’s fall? Did I think so little of Peter that I believed his daughter’s marital misery weighed on him less than money? I’m afraid, being my father’s daughter, that I did.

  “When you and Peter spoke, how much had he told you about the money?”

  “The money? Nothing. When he told me that Terry would be leaving, I thought it was because of the affair.”

  “But he wanted to wait until after the holidays to kick him out? I can’t imagine that was because of Christmas charity?”

  “Why didn’t he kick Terry out earlier? Surely you would have,” I said.

  “I did ask him that,” Mrs. Bridges confessed. “Apparently there was some business that needed to be finished up before Mr. Whitehall felt Terry could be let go.”

  “Do you think Terry knew he was on his way out?”

  “The night Mr. Whitehall died, he and Terry argued. Loudly. I couldn’t hear the words—they were in his study—but the door was slightly ajar and I heard the voices. Terry stormed out. I went into the study afterward, to check on Mr. Whitehall. He asked me to leave a note for Mr. Willis and Emma to meet with him first thing. I asked if he didn’t want me to call them in right then, and he said no, let them rest. It would be the last good night for a few. And so I said good night and left him. Poor man.”

  We finished repotting the orchids in companionable silence, both lost in our own thoughts. I left her, at her insistence, to clean up the green house and went in search of Gus.

  The process of clearing the cops out of the house had started, at the instigation of Clive Willis and Gus. The wing with the offices was closed off, with a police officer on duty. There were a couple other official-looking people hovering around. I decided that they were likely working for the Whitehalls when they pointedly ignored the police. Gus confirmed they would be setting up camp in the living room. Having spent a little time in the for-show-only room, I decided that the policeman sitting on the settee in the hallway was likely to have a more comfortable night.

  Clive was going to stay at the house again, and he insisted that Gus leave and get some rest.

  “It’s a long ride back to Boston. Be careful on Route 1. It’s a bear this time of night,” he admonished.

  So really, it was only in the cause of public safety that I suggested Gus come back to my house.

  • Twenty-Six •

  I called Connie. She reminded me about the bad dress/good show adage and said that we were going to have a brilliant hit on our hands if that was true. I asked if I should come by, but they’d called a rehearsal for tomorrow afternoon, so everyone was heading home.

  I made a second call, to the Beef and Ale, and we picked up dinner on the way home. Another fine meal of burgers and fries. At some point I needed to grow up and eat like a middle-aged woman concerned with trans fats and cholesterol. Who was I kidding? My life would have room for the Beef and Ale’s blue cheese burgers. Besides, I did eat the tomatoes and lettuce. That’s got to count for something.

  I poured Gus another glass of my fine three-dollar Cabernet. During the drive and over dinner, I filled him in on Frank and the phony live feed incident, as well as my conversations with Emma and Mrs. Bridges.

  “You’ve had a busy few hours. In comparison, I’ve done nothing today.”

  “Busy, yes, gathering lots of information. Working on lots of ideas. But nothing hangs together. And there’s no proof.”

  “No proof?”

  “It’s like when I thought that Terry did it. I had a gut feeling. He did do it, according to Mrs. Bridges, and that’s according to what Brooke told her. Hearsay. No proof. Brooke asked Frank for an alibi, or so he says. He said it was because she knew she’d be accused of the murder. But, again, hearsay.”

  “So you think Brooke killed Terry?” Gus sounded dubious.

  “According to the threads I’ve been gathering, that’s the story that comes together. Then she came by the theater and asked Frank to help her with her alibi.” Gus had taken another bite of his burger, so his mouth was full. He shook his head while he chewed.

  “No,” he finally squeaked out, taking a long swig of wine to wash down the burger. He cleared his throat and started again. “From what you said, Peter believed he was being poisoned, right? With eth … ”

  “It’s in antifreeze. Causes kidney failure. Makes you look like you’re drunk, along with other side effects.”

  “Drunk and confused? Like Brooke?”

  “Like Brooke,” I agreed.

  “Brooke who could barely stand up the past few days? That’s the same Brooke who could overpower Terry, stage a suicide, clean herself up, and go to the theater to ask Frank for help? Doesn’t track, Sully. Besides, didn’t you say that she and Terry were having an affair? Why would she kill her lover?”

  “Why would he kill his lover? Terry must have been the one who was poisoning Brooke, right? Unless … why did Peter think that it was Terry who was trying to kill him?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe Mrs. Bridges could tell us.”

  “Maybe,” I said. I made a note to myself. “We can ask her tomorrow. But suppose Peter was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Terry who was trying to kill him. Suppose someone was trying to frame Terry for poisoning Brooke? Or someone else poisoning Brooke?”

  Gus wiped the vestiges of his last bite of burger from his mouth. He took a healthy swig of wine and, shaking his head, leaned toward me across the table. And then he smiled. That smile. The train of thought that had been gathering steam in my mind derailed, leaving nothing. Nothing but wondering how the sleeping arrangements were going to work out.

  “Sully, what do you think we should do?”

  “About?” I asked, wanting to make sure we were thinking about the same thing. But the chirping of his cell phone brought us both back to earth. I handed him his phone, glancing down at the display. Kate, it read. Gus’s voice dropped and he turned away, walking across the room to speak.

  Who was Kate to Gus? How serious was it? How could I ask? Should I ask? Why did I feel like I was in high school again?

  While recalling how much I hated high school, I was pulled back from falling into the abyss of self-doubt by the chorus of “Silver Bells” coming from my own phone. Stewart, said the display. Time for my own lowered voice and back-turning.

  “Sully here,” I said.

  “Sully where?” Stewart asked, his voice both teasing and tired.

  “At home. How did it go tonight?”

  “Let me come over and tell you.”

  I blushed. My tryst with Stewart was long over, but I had no d
oubt that the two of us, consenting adults both, might be willing to pursue a “friends with benefits” arrangement. I’d been considering it when I called Stewart with our Scrooge SOS. But that was before the Gus effect had rolled back into my life. And turned me upside down.

  “I have company, Stewart.”

  “Ah, so it is true. The ex is back in the picture.”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know. Where are you?”

  “Calm down, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to fluster you.” I heard a door open, and Stewart spoke a little louder. “Is that better? Good. I actually am calling for another reason. I’ve been a good Watson for you. Connie and Harry have both caught me up, separately, on this business with Eric Whitehall’s family. Tragic, isn’t it? Shakespearean, actually. Is Frank involved? He went back to the police station before the tech run.”

  Many people expect actors to be outgoing and boisterous at all times. And while they can be, some, the good ones, are also reflective students of human nature. It becomes second nature after a while. A similar second nature to what the police develop. Always questioning, wondering, gathering seemingly unimportant facts into a semblance of truth about a character. The murder of Peter Whitehall had been the talk of the town all week. But with his outsider’s view, Stewart was likely to be working on gathering his own characterizations, and conclusions, about the people involved. For him, it was a character study. For me, it might be insight.

  “So I thought I’d call you and see if you knew what they brought him in for,” he finished.

  “I’m not sure. I think they had some questions for him. He did some work for the family.” I hoped that was vague enough. I didn’t want to upset Regina by disclosing news.

  “Work, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Stewart laughed. “I wouldn’t think that romancing the gorgeous blonde would be considered work.”

  “Romancing?”

  “A Victorian term I used for you, my dear Sully. It means—”

  “I know what it means. But what do you mean? Who told you they were sleeping together?”

  “Frank.”

  “Frank, when? Why? How?”

  “So many questions. More than happy to discuss it if you’ll have a drink with me.”

  “Stewart … ”

  “Sully, you’d be surprised what I’ve heard. In all seriousness, I thought I should call and let you know as soon as … ”

  And then the phone fell. Stewart was gone.

  I called the Beef and Ale on my landline and asked Gene to look for Stewart. Though he hadn’t said where he was, there were few choices in Trevorton and the bar seemed the most likely. While I waited, I gave Gus the briefest of outlines about our conversation.

  “He’s not here. I haven’t seen him tonight,” Gene said.

  I hung up the phone and listened to my cell. The line was still connected. I grabbed my coat.

  “Where are you going, Sully?” Gus asked.

  “Gene couldn’t find Stewart, so I think I’ll go look for him. Something must have happened. See, the line is still connected.” I handed him my phone.

  Gus listened for a moment, and then clicked it shut. I grabbed it back but the connection was gone.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “He probably forgot to turn it off when his next drink arrived.”

  “He was in the middle of a sentence. You’re such a jerk,” I said, searching for my keys.

  Gus handed them to me and put his own coat on.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Going with you, at least as far as the Beef and Ale goes. I’ll grab a ride out to the Anchorage and get my car. I’ve decided to go back to Boston tonight.”

  And so we stood there, all the good tidings of the past few days forgotten and our rapprochement giving way to old, tired habits of anger and sniping.

  It felt like the brief ride was going to be spent in complete silence, but Gus tried one more time. “Just who is Stewart?” he asked.

  I knew he wasn’t asking for Stewart’s acting resume. “A friend.”

  “Just a friend?”

  “Not ‘just a friend,’ no. I don’t have many friends, Gus. The ones I have don’t deserve a ‘just a’ qualifier. Stewart Tracy is my friend. And I’m pretty sure the definition of our friendship isn’t any of your business.”

  Gus looked out the window for a few moments before turning toward me. “You’re right, of course. It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked.”

  I was tired and frustrated on more levels than I cared to admit. Damn you, Gus Knight. I thought I’d worked him out of my system, but I was wrong. Damn.

  “Listen, Stewart is a friend and he didn’t hang up. I need to be sure he’s okay. I’m sorry that you have a problem with that. Really sorry.”

  The rest of the ride was in silence.

  Gus and I parted ways in the Beef and Ale. He ordered a draft and took it to a back table where he started to work his phone, flipping between emails, studiously ignoring me.

  Patrick King was sitting at the bar, finishing his ale while a new one awaited him.

  “Hi Patrick. How are you this evening?”

  I swear he tried to hide his beer from me. Please.

  “Well, thank you, Sully, I am well. Though it hasn’t been easy, has it? No, indeed, it has been a tough run … ”

  “I thought I’d find Stewart with you.”

  “He was here for a bit, but went out a bit ago.” With that he turned back to his beer.

  Though part of me wanted to smash his beer off the bar, for effect, finding Stewart gave me a more urgent gut ache. It was the same gut ache I’d ignored when we hired Patrick, and my early New Year’s resolution was never to ignore my gut again.

  Connie and Dimitri were huddled over a table near Gus. “Hi guys,” I said as I walked over. “I’m looking for Stewart.”

  Dimitri, never subtle under the best of circumstances, looked pointedly toward Gus, who just as pointedly ignored both of us. “Really?” he asked.

  “He called and we got cut off. He sounded a little odd. I want to check in on him.”

  “He stayed at the theater to help Gabe finish the wiring on Patrick’s costume,” Connie said. “It kept cutting out, and Gabe needed someone to run the system through its paces to make sure it holds up.”

  “And Patrick?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t be bothered.” Connie shrugged and swatted the air in the general vicinity of Patrick’s back. “Got to say, getting Stewart up here was genius, Sully. He’s been like a tonic for all of us, right, Dimitri?”

  “He has indeed. Speaking of which, we should discuss—”

  “Sorry, Dimitri. Let me go and check on Stewart.”

  “Is everything okay?” Connie looked concerned.

  “I’m sure it is. Just being a worrywart is all. I’ll try and get back here soon. If not, I’ll see you both at the theater tomorrow. And I’ll be on email later.”

  There were no cars in the high school parking lot, but I decided to check inside anyway. I let myself in and called out. No one answered, but the place wasn’t buttoned up either. There are always a few lights left on in a theater, since walking in the pitch black can be very dangerous, depending on the state the theater was left in. A trap door might be left open, or a piece of scenery down. The recognized practice is to have some bare light bulbs on top of poles, called ghost lights, burning in the middle of the stage.

  Tonight the normal ghost lights were on, but so were the house lights. Full force. I walked down toward the edge of the stage, where an empty bottle of bourbon was tilted on its side.

  Maybe they’d left to get something. I punched Stewart’s number into my cell again. I heard the faint ring of a phone. I hung up and repeated the experiment. With the same results. Stewart’s cell phone was somewhere in the theater. But
where was Stewart?

  As general manager, my purview is the front of house. The inner workings of a theater belong to actors, stage managers, and technicians. From childhood summers following my mother around, I felt at home at the Cliffside, going up to the fly rails, down to the trap room, and off to the wings. But this theater wasn’t mine.

  I called Stewart’s cell again. And again, trying to figure out the source of the ringing. It seemed to be coming from the trap room. Maybe Stewart was taking a nap down there? And he didn’t hear his cell? Lots of maybes. I’d find out for sure once I figured out how to get down there from the stage. I certainly wasn’t going to drop down through one of the trap doors. At least that wasn’t my first choice.

  I called once more, but this time I heard a crash, a blow, and the phone stopped mid-ring. And then I heard the moan.

  It was the moan that propelled me back into cop mode. I called Regina’s cell but got her voicemail. I explained where I was and asked her to come by. I used the term “backup.” She’d know I wouldn’t use that word lightly.

  I hesitated for a moment before calling Gus. I got his voicemail as well, but my message was a little different—just to let him know that I was at the high school, afraid Stewart was hurt, and to let Connie know. He could choose to read between the lines or not. I called Connie and left a similar message on her voicemail.

  I’d left my bag in the car, so I put my cell and keys in my pocket. There was a wimpy Swiss knife on my key chain, and I looked at it in disgust. God, had I gotten soft. I used to have a serious Swiss knife, but I’d lost it at an airport. At the security checkpoint. I hadn’t replaced it in kind—frankly, these days I mostly used the corkscrew. Hopefully I wouldn’t need anything more serious, but my gut still ached. Something was wrong.

  I walked around the stage and scenery as quietly as I could, looking for the entrance down to the trap room. It took some maneuvering, since most of the scenery was down, not flown or raised about the stage. Probably a short cut for a touch-up work call before the actors came in tomorrow, but still a major pain in the neck. Huge flats with exterior scenes of Victorian England, the inside of the counting house, the Cratchit house. Smaller flats with doorways and fire and brimstone and a mountain of fake food made my path more circuitous. Finally I got far enough upstage that I could see the path to the dressing rooms and then the small staircase down to the trap room. I was careful not to move too quickly lest I hit a piece of scenery and make a noise.