Cheddar Off Dead

by Julia Buckley

  I studied her face. She wore a hangdog expression, and her shoulders drooped slightly in a sort of “you got me” pose, yet her lips were curled into almost a smirk, as though she considered the whole thing a funny prank. It disgusted me, but I couldn’t put my finger on the reason why. A part of me was angry that she had lied about her connection to the show in the first place. And she certainly hadn’t mentioned the Count Fury thing, although there would have been no reason for her to tell that to anyone—except maybe the police? And Parker didn’t know, I was sure.

  “Do you admit that you’re Count Fury?”

  “Yes, okay. I created the count. I heard Brad and Isabel talking about the game so often, I decided I’d join myself. In a weird way, I got to spend more time with him there than I ever did here.” She looked around the cramped little room with its cement floor. “Alone time, I mean.”

  “You were in love with him,” Wendy said.

  “Duh. Who wasn’t?” Tabitha said, shrugging. “But it was just an innocent thing. I mean, it’s not like I ever went after him.”

  And yet she had managed to be in his life, again and again. Had she ever had to manipulate things so that she was in shows with Brad Whitefield? Had he even been a friend of hers, or was she more of a stalker? With a rush of anxiety I realized we had only Tabitha’s word for any of it—their closeness, their fond relationship, their “alone time” in Kingdoms as a positive thing. What if that had been her perception only?

  “But you resented Isabel, didn’t you? Because Brad wanted to spend time with her,” I said.

  “Yeah! Time he should have spent with his wife.” Tabitha’s face took on a blurry look.

  Wendy and I exchanged a glance. “It wasn’t his wife you were upset for, was it?” I asked.

  She sank into the chair and scowled up at us. “Cleo’s my friend. Yeah, I loved her husband, but I wouldn’t have cheated with him. I’m the one who called there and told them about the tickets!”

  Wendy stepped closer to her, looming. “What tickets? The Hawaii tickets? What did you know about them?”

  She seemed to diminish under Wendy’s stare. “Brad asked me to pick them up for him at a travel agency. I went and this guy who worked there was also a guy who knew Brad from his Santa Claus gig. Some red-haired guy who taught at the school.”

  “Peter from the Christmas party,” I said to Wendy under my breath.

  “Anyway, that guy was saying snipy things about how Brad ordered the tickets with some woman, and that woman wasn’t his wife.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to tell—whom?”

  “I told them both. Ed and Cleo. Ed answered the phone when I called.”

  I thought about it now. Almost everywhere Cleo went, her brother accompanied her. Was this family solidarity, or was it custody? Did Ed want to prevent Cleo from talking about something? At the pub she had seemed almost worried, and that was the one time we had seen her without Ed. . . .

  “How did Ed respond to the news?” Wendy asked now.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out and read the note from Terry: That’s the guy! just as Tabitha answered, “Well, naturally he was upset. Actually he was furious.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Wendy was on the phone and requesting backup as we ran back down the long, dark hall. I kept looking behind us, convinced that someone would be giving chase.

  Out on the theater floor, Ed Donato was making his way out, his hands clamped firmly on his sister Cleo’s arm. I spotted her red hair and pointed. “There, Wendy!”

  We ran to the back through a side aisle, avoiding the crush of people in the main aisleway, and then waited near the entrance for Ed and Cleo to reach the back. When they arrived, Ed Donato glanced at us and then looked at his watch. “Hello, again,” said Cleo with mild surprise.

  “I wonder if I can ask you a couple of quick questions, Mr. Donato?” Wendy said, flashing her ID. My mother and Bets joined us, but then held back as they realized that something official was happening.

  Cleo looked up at her brother, her eyes wide. Ed’s face remained unfriendly. He had none of the charm of his uncle Enrico or his cousin Tony. “We have to get going,” he said. Cleo struggled slightly in his grasp.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “Mr. Donato, we can talk here, or you can accompany me to the police station,” said Wendy. She put her ID away and rested her right hand on her hip, near her gun.

  His eyes were on her hand. Then, suddenly, he summoned up a charming smile, and I saw Enrico Donato’s eyes looking at us. “What do you need to know, Officer?”

  “I would like to know why you shot a hole in Miss Drake’s window on Dickens Street yesterday.”

  “What?” Cleo asked, almost laughing. “You have the wrong man. Ed doesn’t even own a gun.”

  Ed continued smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I also know I’m not going to address your accusations. If you want to question me, then I want my lawyer present.”

  Wendy nodded. “That’s your right, sir. But then we will need to go downtown. You can call him on the way.”

  He sniffed. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  I was filled with admiration for Wendy, who met his gaze with steely resolve. “You will indeed go with me, Mr. Donato, one way or another.”

  The moment was both terrifying and compelling; we had drawn the notice of some people who were still departing the theater, and they lingered around us, eavesdropping. My mother and Betsy were among them, their eyes wide and uncertain. Looking from Wendy to Ed Donato, I decided that my money was on Wendy, despite an intimidating gleam in the tall man’s eyes.

  Wendy’s hand was still resting on her hip when two uniformed cops moved toward us from the entrance. “Backup’s here,” I murmured.

  “Mr. Donato? I think these officers will be happy to offer you a ride in their cruiser,” Wendy said.

  His smile disappeared. He glared briefly at both of us and then said, “Fine. Come on, Cleo.”

  “Just you, sir. Your sister is not required for this interview.”

  He seemed reluctant to let go of her, and I saw fear dart across Cleo’s face before she looked down at her shoes. “Go on, Ed. I’ll call Don Giovanus and tell him to meet you there.”

  Ed Donato darted a particularly evil glance at me before he snorted and walked toward the cops. Wendy said, “Be right back,” and followed them toward the exit, speaking to her colleagues in low tones.

  I turned to Cleo, who still wore a look of surprise. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I mean, what’s all this about?”

  “Someone shot my window out yesterday. They think it was your brother.”

  “But why? Ed doesn’t even know you.”

  “No.” I thought about this for a moment. “And I have no idea why. You would know better—he’s your brother. I just know that a witness put him at the scene of the shooting.”

  “This is ridiculous! Why is all this stuff happening to my family? And at Christmas! It used to be my favorite time of year.” She shook her head, then lifted her chin, her eyes on the back exit. “Oh no—Ed has the keys to the car. Do you think I can still catch him?”

  I turned. The lobby still thronged with people, but the uniforms were no longer visible among them. “I think they’re gone.”

  Wendy emerged from the lobby then, jogging down the aisle to join us. “Sorry about that,” she said.

  Cleo gave her an unfriendly glance. “I don’t think you had to haul my brother away like that.”

  “I disagree.” Wendy shrugged. “He discharged a firearm in the middle of a residential area. We have reason to believe this may be connected to the death of your husband, Mrs. Whitefield, and it’s not something that we can wait on.”

  “Why would it be connected to Brad?” Cleo asked
. Then she looked at me. “And why would that have anything to do with you?”

  I shrugged, following Wendy’s lead. “I don’t know.”

  Cleo looked suddenly small and deflated. “Oh God,” she said.

  “Do you need a ride home?” I asked. “We can give you one, although our car’s a little crowded.”

  “Yes, thanks. Ed had the keys, and he didn’t think to leave them with me. That or he didn’t want to; he’s insane about that Caddy.”

  “Where do you live?” Wendy asked.

  “I’m just outside Pine Haven, off Crandall Road. Ed has been staying with me for the last few days because he didn’t want me to be alone.”

  “That’s a nice area,” Wendy said as we made our way to the lobby with its grand chandelier and then out into the snow. My mother and Betsy were following us at a distance, speaking to each other in low voices.

  It was cold outside, but not as bad as it had been on Monday. Some of the snow was melting on the sides of the parking lot. We had driven out in Wendy’s Ford, and she unlocked it now so that we could all board. Cleo got in front with Wendy while I climbed into the backseat between my mother and Bets.

  Cleo was texting rapidly on her phone. “Ed already contacted his lawyer,” she said to us. “I guess they’ll meet at the station.” She looked at Wendy. “I wish I knew what the heck was going on.”

  Wendy’s face was serene as she backed out of her parking space. “That’s what your brother is going to clear up for us. Oh, Lilah—look who it is.”

  I followed her gaze to see Frank, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, getting behind the wheel of a black car, seemingly with the intention of following us. “I think I’ll make his job hard,” Wendy said, speeding up. And then, “Oh, shoot.” We turned into an exit lane only to find ourselves behind about thirty departing theater lovers.

  “Looks like we’re here for a while,” said my mother. “Would anyone like some chocolate? I hung and filled Christmas stockings this morning, and I tossed some of the extra treats into my purse.” She passed them around now—brightly wrapped Lindor balls and tin-foiled Santas—which we took eagerly from her red-gloved hand.

  All of the women thanked her, and the crinkling of candy wrappers was a sort of music in the back of my thoughts, the most dominant of which was that my mother was sweet to keep hanging the family stockings, more than twenty years old and rather worn, with the names Cameron, Lilah, Mommy, and Daddy embroidered on them in gold thread. I felt a burst of nostalgia and a desire for Christmas, for holidays, for normalcy, and a lack of fear.

  Now my mother, brimming with sympathy, leaned forward toward Cleo. “Do you have someone to spend the holidays with, dear?”

  Cleo had flipped up her hood in the chilly car, and she nodded now, looking like a grim Emperor Palpatine. “Yes, I have plenty of invitations from friends and family. I’m still weighing my options. I won’t be alone, though—thanks for asking.”

  “Of course. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through,” my mother said, patting Cleo’s arm. “I don’t know what I would do without my Daniel.”

  “Ah!” said Wendy as the traffic started moving again. We made it to the exit, then turned left and headed for Crandall Road. Cleo turned toward us so that more of her face was visible.

  “The worst thing is that I just keep picturing him—dressed as Santa Claus and lying in the snow.” She wiped at her eyes.

  I leaned forward, too. “They made you identify him?”

  “No—but I came to the hospital when I heard. They—filled me in on the circumstances.”

  “Ah.” I leaned back again. What if it had been Cleo that Brad was texting in the parking lot? Tabitha had said that she told Cleo and Ed the truth about Brad’s Hawaii tickets. Wouldn’t that have made her angry? And yet she sat in the front of the car, alone and palely loitering like the lady in Keats’s poem—what had been the name of it?

  “Lilah,” my mother said, poking my arm.

  “What?”

  “Wendy asked if you will be staying in your own place tonight.”

  “Oh—yes. Yes.”

  Cleo turned. “Why wouldn’t you be staying in your own house?”

  If only she knew. “Uh—it’s a long story. Basically Wendy has been my bodyguard for the last few days.”

  Cleo’s brows rose. “This is intriguing. Why in the world do you need a bodyguard?”

  “She’s not allowed to talk about it,” Wendy said. “It’s still under investigation.”

  Cleo smirked. “So you and I are both subject to police scrutiny this Christmas.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I smiled at her and ate another one of my mother’s chocolates. Cleo didn’t seem to be a likely candidate for crime. Even if she had known Brad was having an affair—and she hadn’t seemed to know at the Christmas party—she couldn’t have been the person who shot at Cameron and me. How would she have known that I would be at the studio? It was just too unlikely. Just as all of the other suspects seemed unlikely. As time passed, the whole thing seemed more illusion than reality. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. It was almost as though I heard Brad Whitefield saying it again, now that my thoughts had turned to things imagined. On a whim, I pulled out my phone and texted a question to Mark.

  “This is my street; turn left,” Cleo said.

  I tucked my phone in my pocket, and Wendy pulled onto Mainland. “What a lovely street,” Bets said, gazing out her window. “It must be so nice to have the forest across the road. What terrific views you must have!”

  Cleo’s voice was as tiny as a child’s. “Sometimes you can see deer. Especially in the early morning.”

  “How wonderful,” said my mother. “You can take great comfort in the beauties around you. That’s something my mother always used to say.”

  Cleo smiled at her. “You are all so sweet! You’ve all cheered me up.” She pointed at my mother and Bets. “You two with your Christmas sweaters, and this one with the bows in her hair, and even you, the cop who detained my brother—you seem like a nice person.” She made a wry face at Wendy, and we laughed.

  My mother was in nurturing mode. “Well, we’re just a phone call away, sweetie.” She patted Cleo’s arm.

  “Is this it?” Wendy asked.

  “Yes. This white one,” Cleo said.

  Wendy pulled into the driveway of an attractive one-story ranch house lit with stylish landscaping lights in green and blue. Cleo sat still. “I’m suddenly paranoid. Will you guys come in for a minute? Just until I get all the lights on? Maybe have a cup of tea?”

  “Of course we will,” said my mother, opening her door. The rest of us followed suit, getting gingerly out of the car and stepping delicately on the icy driveway. I slid a bit and grabbed onto the car; my braid flew up onto my shoulder, and my head flipped backward until I saw not the car, but the streetlight glowing over the Mainland sign on Cleo’s corner.

  Two things happened in my mind at once: I heard Brad Whitefield’s voice saying, “I’m finished on Mainland forever.” Mainland. And then I heard Cleo saying, “and this one with the bows in her hair.” She had been looking at me, but I had no bow in my hair, nor did I tend to wear them. But I had been wearing one on the day that Whitefield died—a bow that Jenny made for me.

  The others were walking away from the car. I wanted to speak to Wendy; something was not right. But it was cold and icy, and the women were moving determinedly toward the house.

  Cleo was the first to fall; she took one wrong step on the slick ground, and her feet slid right out from under her. She lay there, looking up at the sky. “Geez, that was embarrassing,” she said, and then they were all laughing. Cleo’s purse had gone flying toward me, and I bent to retrieve items for her, tempted to laugh myself.

  She got up and moved toward me, saying, “Let me grab my spare key out of the garage. The other one is on Ed’
s stupid key chain.”

  I tossed the items back into her purse, but hesitated when I saw one of them. She made eye contact with me, and I hastily put everything away and stood up. “Here you go,” I said. “I think I got everything.” I stepped forward to hand it to her and hit the same slick spot Cleo had. One moment I was looking at Cleo and the house behind her, and the next I was staring at the dark sky and the sprinkling of autumn stars.

  I sat up, rubbing my elbows, and watched as Cleo, still laughing, opened a side door of her garage and flipped on the light. For a moment the whole room was illuminated, casting a bright light on the metallic blue car inside. My mouth went dry.

  “Wendy,” I croaked.

  She was at my side, helping me up. “I saw,” she said under her breath.

  In a similar low tone I said, “There were two phones in her purse.”

  Wendy knew what this meant. She and I exchanged a deadly serious glance while Bets and my mother still leaned on each other, unable to stop giggling in what they felt was a holiday atmosphere.

  “Let me go in alone,” Wendy said.

  She moved forward carefully, ready for the unexpected, and the rest of us followed. Cleo had not emerged from the garage. Wendy moved on, her posture tense, her hands on her hips. “Cleo?” she asked.

  She peered around the corner of the garage door and yelled, “Cleo!” Then she disappeared inside.

  I ran to join her, almost falling once more, and leaned in to see that Cleo Whitefield was lying on the floor of the garage, her body jerking spasmodically, her eyes wide with terror.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wendy knelt next to Cleo, who seemed to be having difficulty breathing. My mind flashed back to a night two months earlier, when I had seen a woman poisoned before my eyes. Had Cleo been poisoned? All she had eaten were my mother’s chocolate candies. I tried to make these bleary connections while Wendy attempted to loosen Cleo’s coat and my mother and Bets crowded in behind, saying, “What’s happening? What’s going on?”