Cheddar Off Dead

by Julia Buckley

  “I don’t know you.”

  “Which is why I am forced to tell you again—I have nothing against your family, nor am I responsible for any attacks against them. I will see that Serafina, who happens to be my friend, is protected. And I will do my best to find this man.”

  “Spare me any more of your promises. And stay away from my family,” I said. And then I hung up on him.

  I sat for a moment, until the red web of anger cleared, and then I turned to Wendy, feeling panicked. “Did I just hang up on a mobster? Did I just yell in his ear?”

  “You did.” Wendy took the phone from me. “Is Serafina okay?”

  “Yeah. Just shaken up. And I guess I am as well.”

  “It sounds like it could have been a random mugging.”

  “Yeah. But the timing doesn’t strike you as odd?”

  “It does.” She thought about it, staring at my phone. “I’ll think on it. And I’ll mention it to Parker. I think he’s interviewing people all morning, but I’ll try to get through to him at lunchtime.”

  “Interviewing people? Who?”

  “Family, friends, neighbors of Whitefield. Possible witnesses who might have been on Breville Road at the time Whitefield was shot. Anyone who might have seen the blue car.”

  “It’s a lot of work, isn’t it? Painstaking work.”

  “It is. But Parker’s good at it. He’s methodical—that’s how his brain works.”

  I nodded. “If you’re finished with that plate, I’ll do the dishes.”

  “No way. You cooked—I’ll do cleanup. You can go back to your calendar and work out your deliveries. Do we have any today?”

  “No. I left today free because I’m going to a party tonight. With Parker, actually.”

  She had been clearing the countertop where we’d eaten, but she turned back, her eyes wide. “With Parker?”

  “It’s a fake date. He wants to be able to interview all the people from JFK without them putting up their guard. He’s using me as a way to get in.”

  Wendy shook her head. “He could get to them any number of ways. Don’t kid yourself. It’s a real date. Parker, you clever devil.” She grinned down at the counter while she wiped it with my sponge.

  “Yeah, he’s great,” I said. Wendy laughed.

  I opened the door to my half basement and went to my utility closet, where I retrieved a couple of rolls of wrapping paper. I brought them back up, found some Scotch tape, and moved to the living room, where I had a large coffee table. I grabbed the pile of presents I’d already purchased from where I’d stacked them next to my couch. “Do you have anything you need wrapped?” I asked Wendy. “I can do it while I’m handling these.”

  Wendy peeked around the corner, holding a dish towel. “I do have something, actually. It’s in my trunk. That would be amazing.”

  “Go get it. I’m a pretty good wrapper.”

  Wendy did her careful looking around, then opened the door, letting in an unfortunate blast of cold air. She returned a minute later with a small bag. I peeked inside to see a jewelry box and a bottle of perfume. “Nice,” I said.

  “Pretty safe gifts,” she agreed. “I’m not the best at buying that stuff, but I’m learning.”

  For the next half hour, I achieved a sort of serenity in the act of wrapping. Folding paper, curling ribbon, tucking in pretty accents.

  Wendy finished in the kitchen and came in to watch. “That looks great,” she said.

  “Do you have a pine tree at your house? Any sort of fir or pine?”

  “Uh—yeah. In our front yard.”

  “On Christmas, or whichever day you give this gift, cut a little fragrant pine branch. Just a tiny one to tuck under this ribbon. It will smell amazing and look pretty.”

  “Wow,” said Wendy.

  My eyes flicked to the front door, and I screamed. Wendy’s gun was in her hand before she had even finished turning. A man’s face had briefly appeared in the glass of the door; he was a stranger with dark hair.

  “Don’t open the door,” I hissed. “I don’t know him. He shouldn’t be here.”

  Wendy nodded. She went to the door and spoke loudly. “Step away from the door. I’m a police officer and I am armed. Step away from the door, and I will come out to you.”

  She looked out the window. “Okay, he’s backed up into the driveway. He’s showing me that he’s unarmed.”

  “But is he alone? What if he has some henchman right next to the door?”

  Wendy shook her head. “I checked. Wait here, and I’ll figure out what this guy wants.” She opened the door, gun still drawn. I heard her say, “I need to see some identification.”

  Then a silence. I was too afraid to go to the doorway, but I was amazed that Wendy could stand in the polar air and not sound like she was freezing to death. Perhaps her adrenaline was warming her.

  I heard the man’s voice—low, calm, slightly condescending.

  Then Wendy’s: “And what brings you here today?”

  Some more talking from the man.

  Two knocks on the door, and then Wendy’s voice. “Lilah, it’s me. I’m coming back in.”

  She entered; she had put her gun away. “The man in the driveway says his name is Tony Donato. He claims to be the son of Enrico Donato. He says his father commanded him to come here and explain to you that he has nothing to do with Whitefield’s death. He said he would like five minutes of your time.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to talk to any of them!”

  Wendy looked uncomfortable. “He says if you’re unavailable he’ll keep returning until it’s convenient for you.”

  That was not an attractive image: Donato’s face in my window, again and again, until I agreed to let him in. Besides, Wendy was here, with her gun, and she would be a witness to anything threatening that was said.

  “Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

  Wendy opened the door and ushered in a man of about forty. He wasn’t tall, but he had an air of confidence and authority that made him seem larger than he really was. He had black curly hair and a tan that looked fake, but somehow it projected health and prosperity. He wore expensive-looking black pants, a black shirt, and a brown leather jacket with a flannel scarf, which he was busy unwinding. As he moved toward me and settled in a chair across from the couch where I sat, I caught his scent: Clive Christian No. 1. Cam had gotten it as a gift once from a student’s family. Later we checked online and found that one bottle cost nearly a thousand dollars and was billed as “the world’s most expensive perfume.”

  He smiled at me now, and I realized he’d inherited some of his father’s charisma. “Thanks for letting me in, Miss Drake. Hey, I recognize you! I saw you on Cooking with Angelo! That’s my wife’s and my favorite cooking show.”

  “Yes, I was on the show Friday.” I watched his face for any sign of discomfort, but he still smiled easily. “Right afterward, someone shot at my brother and me, shattering the window of his car.”

  His smile disappeared. “That’s terrible; I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, I know you’ve directed your suspicions at my father. He’s very upset about this. No matter what you’ve heard about him, he’s a good man—a family man, a man invested in his community. And he’s very sensitive about his reputation. He does not want you thinking he would take part in any violence.”

  “I’m sorry he’s offended,” I said crisply.

  Tony Donato nodded. “So let me start out by telling you my relationship with Brad Whitefield. Brad wasn’t just a friend; he was family to us. And yes, occasionally he gambled at my house. We do sometimes play high-stakes poker, and I would classify Brad as someone who bordered on addiction. He did owe some money at the time he died—about five thousand dollars. Not a huge sum. And again, no matter what you heard, or what you think from watching movies, I do not extract money b
y roughing people up. I do have people sign contracts of debt if they are too long without paying. But there’s another thing you should know about Brad and my family.”

  I was all ears. I leaned forward, convinced that Tony Donato was either rather simple or one of the most genuinely good-natured people I had ever met.

  “My family has always patronized the arts. This goes back hundreds of years in the Donato clan, and we’re very proud of it. My father and I lend our financial support to the Art Institute, as well as individual artists. We donate to the Chicago Symphony and to public television. And we both absolutely love theater. We have season tickets to the Goodman and to Steppenwolf, and we rarely miss a show. We believe in the arts, and Brad—well, he was going to go a long way. My father and I singled him out early on as someone we wanted to support in his career. His latest show—did you see it?” I shook my head.

  “It was The Tempest. I don’t claim to be a Shakespeare expert, but I know a good performance when I see it. And so did the critics. Brad was going to go all the way, and we intended to help him get there.” Donato looked genuinely grieved. “So a little thing like a poker debt? When Brad had all this talent to give the world?” He shook his head. “The Donatos believe in the arts. We believed in Brad. And basically we had decided to forgive him the debt as long as he agreed to get addiction counseling.”

  Tony Donato was right: he did not fit my stereotype of a mobster, if in fact he had ever been one at all. I thought about Brad Whitefield; what had he said about gambling when he talked to me there in the parking lot? What is Santa if he’s not a gambler? He had smiled, so charmingly, and said, We should be gamblers, too. We should gamble on ourselves.

  Donato ran a hand through his curly hair and sent a rueful glance to Wendy, who sat on the arm of the couch. “I feel bad that you’re here, right before Christmas, with all these fears and with police protection. But I give you my word as a Donato—I had nothing to do with Brad getting himself shot. That was something else. I know there was a fair amount of backstabbing that went on in the theater. Maybe something like that. Or some angry girlfriend. In the past, Brad wasn’t necessarily all about loyalty. My father had a talk with him about that. But it was hard to hold anything against Brad. He had flaws, but he was just a lovable guy. He was family.”

  “So how do you think a grade school boy happened to know about Brad’s gambling debt?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I have no idea. But let’s face it, there were plenty of people in that room when we played the game. Any one of them could have gossiped. That stuff trickles down. Although from now on we might have to develop some sort of policy about that.”

  Wendy stiffened. “There are laws about gambling at home, sir.”

  Donato smiled at her. “Oh, we know them, believe me. And we are totally legal, according to the written law. We play within our own home, as part of an established party, and we only invite our friends—not the general public. In addition, we do not charge a fee to play—just the stake itself.”

  “It sounds like you’ve covered all your bases,” she said.

  “Indeed we have. And so have our lawyers. If you two would ever like to be invited, as my friends and guests—”

  “No, thanks,” Wendy said.

  He chuckled. “You look very disapproving of me, like my wife when I drink too much. But if we met in different circumstances, we would get along quite well. You are dealing with a preconceived notion.”

  Strangely enough, I felt this was true. While the elder Donato had a certain dignity and intelligence that made him compelling, this one had an easygoing demeanor that was hard to resist, even now. I waited until he made eye contact, and asked, “What was your response when you heard Brad was shot? Who did you think was responsible? Do you own a gun?”

  Donato grinned at me. “Which question should I answer first? I own several guns, all legally licensed. The police have already examined them. My first response to hearing about Brad was to cry, because of the talent that was lost to the world.”

  To my vast surprise, Donato’s eyes welled up as he spoke. I shifted my gaze to Wendy, who looked equally taken aback.

  He removed a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. It was a curiously feminine gesture. Then he said, “As to who might have done it, I truly had no idea. Still have no idea. Even when I say that it might be an angry girlfriend—I don’t really believe that. Because Brad had a way of staying on good terms with his exes. Cleo knew about his early affairs, but she was willing to work it out with him. She loved him. This is very hard for her.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. The way Donato told it, not only were the Donatos just a friendly family who liked to throw happy poker parties and patronize the arts, but Brad was an ideal man who, though flawed, was endlessly forgiven for those flaws by his debtors, his past lovers, and mankind in general. “You’re very good at selling things,” I said. “After wrapping them in an appealing package.”

  Wendy nodded in agreement. “Where were you on December sixteenth, Mr. Donato, at about one in the afternoon?”

  He shrugged. “I’d have to check my calendar. I don’t know offhand. But that was, what—last Wednesday? So I was probably in Riverdale, meeting with a Realtor. I own some property there, and I am looking to sell it.”

  He wiped an imaginary speck off of his jacket, and I noted his wedding ring; it was a simple gold band, but it looked expensive. “How did your wife get along with Brad?” I asked.

  Donato’s hand froze in midair, and he scowled. “What sort of question is that? Are you suggesting that my wife cheated on me?”

  Wendy and I exchanged a surprised glance. “No—I was actually asking whether she, too, was a friend of Brad’s, or an admirer of his ability.”

  “Don’t give me that look. Yes, I’m a jealous husband, and my wife likes that. It makes her feel wanted.”

  “Okay.”

  He smiled again. “Yes, of course. Talia thought Brad was very talented. She was a fan of his on whatever that social site is. The site of that Harvard kid.”

  “Facebook?”

  “Yeah. Brad has a Facebook page—like a fan page. I guess all actors do. So she liked it, to show her support.”

  I didn’t dare look at Wendy, but I sensed that she, too, found this interesting.

  “Anyway. Is there any chance I’ve convinced you that the Donatos mean no harm against you or your family? And even if we had killed Brad—hypothetically, now—why would that involve you? You were no one to him, were you?”

  “No. We really didn’t know each other.”

  “So why am I even here? Why is this even an issue?”

  His seemingly authentic confusion made me think he had probably not been driving the car in the school parking lot. But for all I knew, the young Donato, like Brad, might be a very good actor.

  “It is an issue, but I’m not really at liberty to discuss it. Thank you for dropping by,” I said, standing up and offering my hand.

  “What am I supposed to tell my father?”

  “Tell him we had a nice talk.”

  “That’s not enough. The man will hound me. He’ll send me right back here, so we should resolve this now. I’ve got stuff to do before my Christmas company arrives. Do we understand each other? In the spirit of the season, the Donatos wish you love and peace.”

  “Fine,” I said. I went to my side table and picked up some business cards for Haven. “Then I’m sure you’d like to support my business, as well. Feel free to share with all of your Christmas guests.”

  Donato nodded. Apparently this was a language he could understand. He gave us his charming grin and moved to the exit. “Merry Christmas, ladies,” he said. He opened the door and said, “Damn, it’s cold out there.” He jogged briskly to his car, climbed in, and pulled out of the long driveway.

  “Do you trust him?” Wendy asked me.
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br />   “Nope. You?”

  “No way. The guy’s a player, and I don’t mean sexually.”

  “But I don’t necessarily think he committed murder.”

  Wendy nodded. “I’m going to call in. I have some questions for Parker; I’ll see if he’s already talked to Donato Junior.”

  “Maybe he should look into a connection between Whitefield and Talia Donato.”

  “You think?” She grinned at me. “Good call.”

  She took out her cell and moved to the kitchen; I could hear her speaking in low tones, sounding official.

  I finished my packages and set them on the fireplace mantel; I put Wendy’s on a side table near the entrance. My laptop was sitting there, as well.

  On a whim, I grabbed it and sat down on the couch. I logged in to Facebook and typed in the name “Brad Whitefield.” This brought up his actor page, which bore a handsome profile picture of him—a black-and-white publicity shot with the standard finger-to-chin thoughtful pose. His cover shot was clearly a still from the production of The Tempest; the cast was lined up, ready to bow, grinning at the audience. I recognized all of my friends from the restaurant—Dylan Marsh, looking especially evil in his Antonio costume, his pointed beard glistening with perspiration; Isabel Beauchamp, small and golden in the footlights, her face shimmering with some sort of glitter; and Claudia Birch, standing tall and looking proud to be a thespian. Brad stood in the center. His stage presence was clear even in a photograph; he dominated the scene, for one because he was the tallest person in the cast, but for another, because he was dressed as a sorcerer.

  Whitefield, according to the page stats, had 3,458 “likes.” That was pretty good for an amateur actor, I thought. The last person to leave a comment on the page had written, “Rest in peace, Brad. We’ll miss you.” I scrolled down to see that many other fans had left little eulogies on the page. I wanted to see who had last written to him when he was still alive.