Cheddar Off Dead

by Julia Buckley

  Angelo chuckled. At one time that chuckle had sent shivers down my spine. Now I was shaking, but for a different reason. It was exhilarating, terrifying, wonderful, terrible. Angelo was speaking again in his irresistible voice. “The numbers were good, they say. People are asking about you, about me. People are searching for you on Google.”

  “Google? I guess this is a compliment, right?”

  “Don’t be afraid, Lilah. You were so good the first time. You would get better and better.”

  “I have to think about this.”

  “Of course. But I need to know by the New Year.”

  “Okay. I’ll get back to you, Angelo. And—thanks. I appreciate the opportunities you’ve been sending my way.”

  “Lilah.” He sighed. Angelo was a great sigher, and his exhalations could express any number of emotions. This sigh hinted at regret. “You know that I care. I will always care. And if I can help you in any way, I will do so.”

  “Thanks, again. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I said good-bye and hung up with a sense of unreality. Wendy emerged from the kitchen and did her scanning thing out the front window. “Parker is okay with us going to Haven, as long as you listen to my instructions.”

  “Of course. Parker doesn’t seem to realize we’re on the same page about this. I do not particularly want to be shot.”

  Wendy sat on the edge of the couch. “I’m thinking you can breathe a little easier about that.”

  “What? Why?” I sat across from her, still clutching my phone. The hairs on my arms were still at attention as a result of Angelo’s news.

  “I’ve been thinking. This attack on you and your brother seemed kind of random. But of course we linked it to the crime you witnessed. Yet nothing else has happened—no other attempts to harm you, no warnings over the phone, no visitors to this area. My instincts tell me there won’t be another attempt. No, don’t worry—I won’t stop being vigilant. That’s my job. I’m just telling you I think you’re safe. Snipers are scary, but if this was a random sniping, it should be a great relief to you.”

  “Or it could in fact have been related to the crime, but then when we made a point of telling several different groups that I witnessed nothing, maybe someone figured he could back off. I might have looked whoever this is right in the face—do you realize that? Whoever was driving that car. And if they saw me stare at them with no recognition, then they know I’m not a threat.”

  “Okay—so there are two theories that should make you feel a little better.”

  “I’ll feel best of all when they catch the driver and the sniper, which Parker has promised he will do by Christmas.”

  Wendy sniffed. “Now that’s confidence.”

  “Or wishful thinking.” I looked back out the window. “This looks like really good packing snow. How safe do you think we would be if we made a snowman in my backyard?”

  Wendy shrugged. “It’s enclosed, so I would say very safe.”

  “We can pretend that he’s Parson Brown. ‘He’ll say “Are you married,” we’ll say “No, man,”’” I sang.

  Wendy didn’t let me down—she sang the rest of the line, and then said, “You’re on. Let me get my waterproof gloves.”

  We bundled up and went into the yard, where the snow still fell in magical drifts, and Mick pranced around, biting at snowflakes. For the first time since I’d met Brad Whitefield, I laughed out loud.

  * * *

  Haven was lit in silver and blue, and a large green wreath with a silver bow dominated the front door. Wendy and I, slightly exhausted from the strenuous building of a seven-foot snowman (Wendy used a ladder to put on the giant head), welcomed the sight of Haven’s fragrant foyer and polished counter. We found even more satisfaction when Esther ushered us through the door that led to their personal quarters behind the business—a lovely house that was now fragrant with pine and Esther’s baking.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Esther said. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “We’re just here to talk to Mark, and you should relax and drink eggnog, or wassail, or something festive.”

  “I will—with you! Let me know when you finish with Mark, and we’ll have a nice chat.” Esther disappeared into her kitchen, and Mark came loping in. He was tall and thin, like Jim, but he had a head of copious chestnut hair that Jim lacked. His face was narrow and handsome in an intellectual way.

  “Hey, Mark.”

  “Hey, Lilah.” His eyes flicked to Wendy, curious. I introduced her, and Mark shook her hand. “So—you’re like a bodyguard?”

  “Pretty much,” Wendy said. “So far, the easiest job I’ve ever done.”

  “Cool,” Mark said, sitting in a chair across from us. “You need to talk to me about Brad, Mom says.”

  Esther skimmed back in holding a gold tray, on which she had slices of one of her special treats—caramelized onion squares topped with goat and blue cheeses, along with a chafing dish full of Swedish meatballs. “Don’t say a word, Lilah—these are just some extras we made for an event yesterday, and we ended up not needing them. Mark, keep your paws off until the ladies have eaten.” She set out some little plates that matched the tray.

  “Unfair, Mother. Can’t you see I’m thin as a rail and in need of food?”

  “You eat all day. Okay, I was never here.” She whisked back out as Wendy and I goggled at the food.

  “That smells amazing,” Wendy said.

  “You go first.”

  She did, helping herself to several of the little pizza squares and five meatballs.

  I took an equally generous amount, since I suddenly couldn’t remember when I’d eaten last. Mark waited, as instructed. “Listen, Lilah—Mom tells me that you were there—when Brad got shot.”

  “Yes.”

  Mark’s face was grave. “I’m sorry to hear that. I just wanted to know—did he suffer?”

  “I don’t think so. He was immediately unconscious. I don’t think he ever knew what happened. He seemed to be focused on something that—the person—had taken away from him. He never sounded afraid.”

  “Huh.” He leaned back in his chair and pushed at a meatball with a toothpick.

  “You were pretty good friends?”

  He nodded. “Which is weird, because I never was the type to hang out with the actors. You know, in high school and stuff. The thespian crowd always seemed weird to me, and I hung with the computer geeks. But Brad and I happened to meet once at a comic convention—about five years ago—and we just hit it off. Then we found out that we liked a lot of the same shows, and the same games. I discovered this game called Kingdoms—”

  “Kingdoms!” I said. “He had something on his phone the day that I met him—I saw the word Kingdom. That must have been it. It had pretty pictures.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, I invited Brad into my realm, and then we started spending time together.”

  Wendy and I exchanged a glance. “What does that mean—invited him into your realm?”

  Mark’s face grew more animated. “Kingdoms is a game that requires multiple players—it’s a virtual community. In it you create your own kingdom—hence the name. It’s vaguely medieval, but it’s meant to be an experience out of time. It’s more about power and relationships.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Brad loved it. He started out as a visitor to my kingdom, but of course the goal is to build a kingdom of your own and then develop alliances with other kingdoms. Brad was a genius, not just at constructing kingdoms, but at creating characters.”

  “I thought the characters were real people.”

  “They are, a lot of them, but you can also create fictional characters who live in your kingdom. It becomes quite complex, because sometimes you’re not sure whether you’re interacting with a real person or a fictional construct.”

>   Wendy looked blank. “So why would you want to do it?”

  Mark leaned forward. “It’s the ultimate challenge. It tests your ability to create, but also relies on your skills in strategy, negotiation, compromise. The important thing to note is that these relationships are real—as real as your day-to-day interactions. You can become immersed in the game.”

  I shook my head. “How did Brad find the time? He was in a Shakespearean play. He had a wife. He had other obligations.”

  Mark grinned. “Brad was one of those people who didn’t need a lot of sleep. We did a lot of our kingdom building at two, three in the morning. Sometimes all night long.”

  “When do you sleep?”

  “I have weird hours. A lot of times I work the three to eleven shift, so at midnight I’m just getting home and ready to relax.”

  “So weird to me,” I said. “So you basically did your ‘kingdom building’ when everyone else was asleep.”

  “Yeah. I can tell you think I’m just some nerd who wastes time on the computer, but you’d have to understand Kingdoms. The people who are really good at it—like Brad was—are artists. They create worlds, and the detail of those worlds is incredible.”

  Wendy stabbed another meatball. “Do you name these kingdoms?”

  “Yeah. Mine is called Hlidskjalf. I borrowed it from Norse mythology—it’s the seat of Odin, from which he can view all realms. I figured that was a great way to go in Kingdoms.”

  I was marveling at Mark’s imagination, and I told him so. He shook his head. “I’m pretty good, but the game has kind of lost its luster since Brad stopped playing. He was the best. Wait—I can show you some of his work.”

  He jumped up, left the room, and returned a minute later with a laptop. “Let me just get into the game screen here. Okay—this is the Kingdoms main page.”

  “Wow.” It was beautiful—the word Kingdoms seemingly woven into a tapestry of great intricacy—filled with knights and battles and lovely women with long, flowing hair, and unicorns and tigers and ships at sea and running horses and castles and shining swords and mysterious, robed beings . . . all in rich color and detail.

  “Yeah—that’s just the intro page.” He clicked a few things, and then turned the screen toward us. “This is my kingdom—Hlidskjalf.”

  Before us was a compelling scene, dominated by the color blue. A castle loomed high in the clouds, and around it was azure sky and tossing cerulean waves. As we watched, a man walked out of the castle, wearing kingly robes, but also a chest plate of armor. “That’s Godall,” he said. “He’s my avatar, and the king of Hlidskjalf.”

  “So if people are playing this game, they can click on your kingdom and interact with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many players know that Godall is really you, Mark?”

  He shrugged. “A handful. The rest just know him as Godall.”

  “What was Brad’s name?”

  “He was Thrivven. And his kingdom was called GrandIsle.”

  “Ah.”

  “You had to see my page to appreciate Brad’s. Hang on—I was always so amazed by his creations I took screenshots of a bunch of them. But I’ll show you his home page first.”

  “Oh man,” said Wendy. It was indeed breathtaking—Brad’s vision of GrandIsle was colorful, beautiful, and so real that it seemed like a glimpse of heaven. His castle sat on an island lined with the verdure of trees and tall grasses; beyond this could be glimpsed the blue of an unknown sea. The castle itself was many stories tall, with turrets and balconies on which smaller details could be viewed—from knights in the battlements to flowers in the windows to the small cat walking along a parapet. As we watched, a man stepped out onto the largest balcony and looked around at his kingdom.

  “That’s Thrivven,” Mark said.

  “How is he moving around if Brad is—?”

  “That Thrivven icon is always walking around.”

  “But when Brad was playing this game—if you went inside, you could talk with him, interact with him?”

  “Yes. That’s the essence of the game.”

  Wendy pointed. “Why would he put himself on an island if this is about battles? He’s an easy target.”

  Mark shook his head. “It’s not so much about physical battles as it is about interactions. There’s a lot of dialogue in Kingdoms.”

  I had noticed something else—a woman who had emerged on an adjoining balcony and was gazing across at the man. “Who’s that?”

  Mark smiled. “That’s Amoura. She’s Thrivven’s lover.”

  “Not his queen?”

  “No—that’s his queen.” He pointed at a distant balcony, where a woman stood facing the sea. Wendy and I must have looked disapproving, because Mark said, “It’s not like having real affairs. In Kingdoms, you want to form alliances; it doesn’t matter whether or not they’re sexual. Every alliance is a chance to win. Anyway, let me show you some of the screenshots I made of his best stuff.”

  He clicked around for a while, then turned the screen to us. Now we were looking at a close-up of a room in Thrivven’s castle. It was rich with furs and oil paintings, as well as a wealth of wooden furniture, ornately carved. One of the paintings was clearly a portrait of Shakespeare. In another, a stag lapped at a gurgling brook. Sunlight streamed in the eastern wall through stained glass windows. “Wow,” Wendy and I said in unison.

  “Here’s another one. This is Thrivven and Amoura having one of their illicit meetings.”

  This, too, was a close-up, which allowed one to see the nobly handsome visage of Thrivven and the pale skin and long, tumbling hair of Amoura. They were joining hands and gazing into each other’s eyes. In the background, another man, in a black garment with a red silk necklace, looked on with an envious expression. “Oh God,” I said.

  “What?” Mark tore his eyes away from the screen and looked at me.

  “Amoura is a real person, right? Not just a fictional creation?”

  “No, she’s real. I’ve interacted with her. In fact, she and I just attended Thrivven’s funeral together last night. We had a ceremony for him, on a cliff that overlooks the sea.” Mark shook his head, and I felt his genuine grief.

  “But his avatar remains?” Wendy said. “That seems tacky. The game makers should shut down his page.”

  Mark shrugged. “We like seeing it. It gives him an eternal life.”

  I pointed at Amoura. “So she came back? She’s still involved in Kingdoms?”

  “Yeah. Amoura’s very talented. She’s hooked, just like the rest of us.”

  Esther came back in with eggnog. “That’s not spiked, is it?” I joked.

  “No, no. Just plain old eggnog. How’s it going in here?”

  “Mark’s been telling us all about Kingdoms. What a fascinating virtual experience. Really—it’s like a new art form. Your son is very talented.”

  “He always was,” said Esther fondly, sitting on the arm of her son’s chair and riffling his hair.

  She and Mark started reminiscing about something from his childhood, and I murmured to Wendy, “I need to call Parker. I know who Amoura is, and she was Brad’s lover in real life.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  It was perhaps just a coincidence that Amoura looked rather similar to Isabel Beauchamp; but it couldn’t be coincidental that both Thrivven and Amoura had worn iron-gray rings on the smallest fingers of their right hands.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  We chatted with Esther and Mark for half an hour or so, then I told them we had to leave. “But thank you so much, Mark, for telling me about Brad and showing me his talent. What an amazing man.”

  “He was. And a good friend.”

  “But I’m not clear on something. How was it that you are the one who told Dave Brent to hire Brad as the JFK Santa? How do
you know Dave Brent?”

  “Through my mom,” Mark said.

  I looked at Esther, who smiled at me. “Dave and I went to school together,” she said. “Besides, Lilah, this is Pine Haven. Everyone has a connection to everyone else—haven’t you noticed that?”

  I had. “Thanks again,” I said, grabbing the coat that Wendy had retrieved for me from Esther’s little coat tree. “Hey, Mark. In that screenshot of Thrivven and Amoura—there’s another knight, or king, or something, in the background. Who was he? Why would Brad have put him into the picture?”

  “That was Count Fury. Brad didn’t put him in there; it was a screen grab of the actual game in progress. Count Fury usually liked to try to invade the private meetings of Amoura and Thrivven.”

  “But you did, too. You were able to see it, to take a screenshot.”

  “That’s only because Thrivven had invited me, and a few other people. He and Amoura had been about to make an announcement. Right after that, though, he had to confront Fury and have a private conference with him. I don’t know what that was about. Private conferences are conducted in a separate screen.”

  “Do you know who Fury is?”

  “No. He didn’t play very well—he’s not a super popular character, and he doesn’t have many alliances.”

  “So did they end up making an announcement?”

  “Yeah. I had thought it would be that King Thrivven was leaving his wife and marrying Amoura, but that wasn’t it. They were just announcing that the two of them were taking a journey together to an island near GrandIsle. It was called Idyllia.”

  Wendy and I exchanged a wry glance. “Do you know if the queen of GrandIsle was real? That is—assuming she represented Cleo Whitefield—did Cleo ever play the game?”

  “The queen was just a fictional construct. She never moved from that little parapet. She was just a reminder of the king’s main family alliance. In the game, he married the queen because she brought him important trade agreements with the Kingdom of Tharliss.”

  “Mark, I think the police are going to want to see this game. Esther—do you mind if I ask Parker to come over?”