Cheddar Off Dead Page 10

  Parker said, “Lilah is a very talented chef, and she made breakfast.”

  “Can I talk you into some of it?” I asked.

  “You sure can,” said Wendy, and after Parker made introductions, she was seated next to Serafina and digging in to a dish of my casserole. She seemed to be one of those people who mainly ate healthy, tofu-like substances but who enjoyed a good cheat now and then. “Oh wow,” she said after taking a huge bite.

  “No kidding,” my brother agreed. They all ate in silence, and I finished wrapping Toby Atwater’s food.

  “Wendy, whenever you’re finished, I have to deliver one of these casseroles to a client, and then I’m meeting some people at one. Parker can tell you about it while I get my coat.”

  She shoveled down the last of her food and said, “Thanks for this assignment, Jay. It beats the Dumpster search I had to do last week.”

  Everyone laughed, and I said, “We’ll feed you as long as you’re here. I really appreciate you doing this, at the holidays and everything.” Nat King Cole was singing now about Yuletide carols sung by a choir.

  Wendy glanced around Cam’s cozy apartment, her gaze resting on Serafina’s little pine tree, which looked distinctly European and charming. “This is the most Christmassy I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t usually do much at the holidays.” She shrugged, the picture of the lonely cop surprised by warmth and attention. Sort of like Parker.

  A moment later everyone was getting ready to go out: Fina and Cam to do some shopping, Parker to get to his office, and Wendy and I to deliver a casserole. “Wendy,” I said, “I normally take Mick with me as my protection. Do you care if he rides along?”

  “Who’s Mick?” she asked.

  In response to his name, my sweet chocolate-brown dog came padding into the dining room and put his head on Wendy’s lap. “Oh my gosh, what a beautiful Lab!” she said. “I had a dog like this when I was a kid, except he was coal-black. His name was Claude.” She started massaging Mick’s head with great energy.

  “Do you have a dog now?”

  She shook her head. “Nah. My roommate and I have gone to the shelter a few times, but we never decided on anything.”

  She played with Mick’s ears while I got his leash. “Here—can you hold him while I grab my food?”

  Wendy walked my dog out the door, and I followed her, with one last glance at Parker. “Be careful,” he said.

  * * *

  Toby was grateful for the casserole. We met outside of town by our usual spot—an overpass that created a shadow on the road and allowed for our mysterious exchange. He paid me, and I took my fifty dollars back to Wendy’s black Ford 500. She grinned at me. “So you do this all the time—meet people in these clandestine locations and slip them food, like a drug deal?”

  “Food is a kind of drug. Lots of people are addicted to it.”

  “No kidding,” Wendy said. “I’m going to dream about that gingerbread tonight. You’re really good.” She turned toward me. “Hey, your sister-in-law told me you were just on television.”

  “Oh—yes. An old friend of mine has a show called Cooking with Angelo—”

  “Oh my gosh, we watch that show!”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah—my roommate and I like to watch it when I’m not on morning duty.”

  “What’s the name of this mysterious roommate?”

  She squinted out the back window as she pulled away. Her eyes had been darting consistently since we got in the car. I felt I was being protected by the CIA. “Betsy. Or Bets.”

  “That’s nice that she watches. If you want, I can probably get her an Angelo T-shirt or something. He’s all about merchandizing. I think he even has a trivet with his face on it.”

  “God, she would love that. That would be great.” Her expression, which was as closed and cop-like as Parker’s, briefly showed warmth and affection.

  I got out my phone and scrolled until I found Angelo’s number. “Let me text him now, before I forget. Tell me her name and address.”

  Wendy rattled off the information, and I texted it to Angelo, saying that Bets was a fan and a friend. “There. He’s a pretty good businessman, and this falls under the heading of customer service, so I think we can assume he’ll be on top of it.”

  “Thanks,” Wendy said. “Now tell me about this lunch we’re having.”

  “Oh, well—I guess you know that I was there when the guy was shot at the grade school? The guy dressed as Santa?”

  “Detective Parker filled me in.” Her face went into blank professional mode, and it made me wonder what else Parker had told her. Mick stuck his nose between our seats, and she petted it absently.

  “Well, I happened to run into this woman Tabitha Roth, who travels in the same acting circles as the dead man—Whitefield. She and some of his former cast mates are having drinks in his honor, and she thought I might want to sit in, sort of as a fly on the wall. I had said I wanted to be notified of funeral arrangements, and—I guess this is it. The rest will be private. Parker thinks it will be good to be there in any case; he wants you to take notes, I guess, but he probably told you. And I can keep my eyes open, too. I have a tendency to note details—Parker will admit that’s true.”

  “I guess we can compare notes afterward,” she said. “This sounds like a good lead. God knows he can use the help at Christmastime; tons of people want time off this time of year, and we’re kind of short staffed.”

  I looked out my window. We were passing a shopping mall, and the parking lot was packed. Beyond the sea of cars I could see Christmas lights twinkling at the mall entrance. “It’s a bad time of year to get yourself killed.”

  “Now, don’t get all depressed on me. We’ve got to keep alert and positive—it helps.”

  Mick sniffed at my shoulder, and I giggled. “Mick always cheers me up. He’s my special boy.”

  “He is pretty great,” Wendy said, and Mick nodded.

  She was still laughing when we pulled up to the apartment. I called Serafina, who jogged down to claim Mick, and then we drove out of the city, back to Pine Haven and Penny Lane, the bar where the actors were gathering.

  As we got out of our car, I noticed a dark-haired man a few spots down, leaning on his driver’s door and reading the paper. Donato’s Frank, following us to another location. Parker had warned Wendy about Frank, so I shook my head at her with a ‘Do you believe this guy?’ expression and we moved toward the door.

  The moment we entered the bar I realized it might have been a mistake to come into such a large throng of people, but Wendy stood tall and alert at my side, and that provided far more comfort than I had expected. Annie Lennox’s “Winter Wonderland” was blasting, mixed with the sound of many voices raised in jovial conversation. I scanned the room, generously festooned with pine swags and gold lights, and saw Tabitha waving. “There they are,” I said. “Am I supposed to tell them you’re a cop, or what?”

  “Just say I’m your friend. They’ll probably notice my gun sooner or later, but let them draw their own conclusions. The less they know, the better.”

  “Okay.”

  We reached the large table and grabbed two of the three empty seats. I did a quick scan of the chairs: even if I hadn’t known these people were actors, I would have guessed. Tabitha introduced them one by one: Dylan Marsh, who had played the part of Antonio, wore a purple silk shirt, slightly open at the collar to reveal a tanned throat and some curling chest hair. He sported a well-trimmed brown beard that gave him the look of an evil prince in an old movie. He was jarringly handsome. Isabel Beauchamp, who had the role of Ariel, was tiny and delicate with a mass of blondish-red curls. She was brighter than the Christmas lights in a formfitting green dress with a gold belt that glistened in the bar’s holiday glow. Claudia Birch, who had played Miranda, was tall and elegant, with dark hair and compelling dark eyes.

  Ne
xt to them all, Tabitha looked rather plain in her jeans and T-shirt; it was clear why she was a behind-the-scenes person and all of these people were stage faces.

  “Okay, now you know everyone,” Tabitha said after her introductions. “Everyone, this is Lilah. She was an acquaintance of Brad’s.”

  They nodded, not seeming to care much how I knew Whitefield. I waved vaguely at the table. “Thanks for inviting me. This is my friend Wendy.”

  “Are you a cop?” asked Dylan Marsh, looking at Wendy and smoothing his beard.

  “Guilty,” Wendy said lightly, lifting a finger for the waitress. “But it’s my lunch hour, and I already had plans with Lilah when she got the call about your friend. So here we are.”

  I said, “I’m glad to have a chance to drink to Brad. He seemed like a really nice guy.”

  “He was a most talented man,” said delicate Isabel. She had a British accent, I noted. “We will all miss him so much.”

  I nodded. “Will the show close down now? Prospero’s the lead role, isn’t it? I can’t imagine how you would go on without him.”

  Everyone besides Wendy and me looked uncomfortable. Tabitha said, “Well, every production has understudies, Lilah. You can’t take a risk on—someone getting hurt or sick or—dying.”

  “Oh, I see. So who is Brad’s understudy?”

  Dylan Marsh raised an elegant hand. “I am. I was Antonio, which is a much smaller part, but obviously I know the part of Prospero. It’s the role I actually auditioned for. So my understudy will be the new Antonio, and I’ll be the mighty sorcerer himself.” He turned slightly red as he said it, but there was also some barely concealed triumph in his expression.

  Wendy took a sip of her water. “Well, congratulations. The show must go on, sad as it is. Is it supposed to run for a while?”

  Claudia Birch directed her dark, intense gaze at us. “We’ve gotten some wonderful reviews, and actually we’ve been extended indefinitely. It looks like we’ll be taking the show on the road when it closes here. Our producer thinks we might end up on Broadway.”

  She said “Broadway” the way devout people say “heaven.”

  The waitress returned with our soft drinks; it seemed we latecomers were the only ones who hadn’t ordered yet, so Wendy and I both asked for a pub sandwich.

  “I guess cops can’t drink on duty, huh?” Marsh inquired. He seemed weirdly fascinated with Wendy’s profession.

  “Nope,” Wendy said. “But then people in your career can’t really drink too heavily, either, can they? It would affect your performance.”

  They all snorted out some dramatic laughter. Little Isabel even held her ring-laden hands to her tiny abdomen, as though Wendy were causing her delicious pain. “Oh my. Actors are the most notorious drinkers, don’t you know? Not so much we three here, but—some.”

  They all looked at the table again, and the conversation died.

  “Brad, do you mean? Was he a drinker?” Wendy asked.

  Marsh looked aggrieved. “Not anymore. In his early years, yeah, he had a reputation as a drinker and a brawler, too. But in the last couple years, he finally grew up. He got his act together. He made up with his wife; he stopped drinking and—other things.”

  “Gambling?” I asked.

  Claudia Birch’s dark eyes studied me. “I thought you were just an acquaintance. It sounds like you knew him quite well.”

  “No—it was just—something I heard. That he had sort of an addiction. He seemed like a nice guy, though.”

  “Brad was more than a nice guy. He was a genius of an actor, and a good man. A passionate man. He had a zest for life.” This was Isabel, who was suddenly near tears.

  Claudia patted her shoulder and nodded in sympathy. “Brad was also doing his best to save his marriage. He and Cleo had some rocky times, but things were—finally getting back on course for them.”

  Dylan and Isabel remained quiet, thinking their own thoughts. I found myself staring at their clothing—his silk shirt and her jewel-toned dress—and imagining them as royalty in some fictional castle. Even in their off-hours they were transporting me to a pretend place. Tabitha lifted her glass. “He was like any genius: he had a dark side, but when he glowed, he glowed brightly.”

  This silenced everyone for a moment. I couldn’t decide if the sentiment was mawkish or weirdly beautiful, but we all raised our glasses and clinked them together, and then drank to the man I had seen die.

  Tabitha sighed. “Cleo might stop by, everyone, so be cool if she shows up.”

  The actors looked alarmed, and Tabitha held up a hand. “People who are grieving need support, even if we don’t always know how to give it. Just be kind. That’s what she needs.”

  Everyone nodded, and I realized what a strange grouping of people we were. For some reason I decided that Parker would hate all of the theater people, but I wasn’t sure why I felt that way.

  One oddity I noted was that all three thespians seemed to want to face the door. Marsh was at the head of the table and almost directly facing the entrance, but every time someone entered, he sat straighter and lifted his chin, as though he were confronting a glorious spotlight. Claudia and Isabel had both turned their chairs at odd angles so that they could keep their eyes on the incoming traffic. At one point Claudia leaned forward and blocked Dylan’s view, and he actually hitched to his left and stayed that way, oddly off-center, until she sat back again.

  I sent a covert look to Wendy, who smirked at me and took a bite of her sandwich.

  A few minutes later, when it seemed we’d run out of polite conversation and passionate tributes to Brad, a woman walked in and moved toward the empty chair at our table. She was a short redhead with a dusting of freckles and bright green eyes. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was attractive, and seemed to have a vibrant and intense personality, which made her fit right in with the melodramatic crowd around us. She took off a voluminous green coat and hung it on her chair.

  “Cleo,” Tabitha said, standing up to embrace the woman.

  Cleo sent her a moist-eyed look that spoke of gratitude, and they sat down. Tabitha introduced everyone at the table, and Cleo’s eyes lingered on Wendy and me. “You two were friends of Brad’s?”

  “Not exactly friends. I got to know him in recent days,” I said. “Tabitha and I happened to be discussing him yesterday, and—she invited me to share a drink in his honor.”

  Cleo nodded. “This was a nice idea, Tabby.” She patted her hair, which did indeed look messy, and slapped at her cheeks as if to put some life into her very pale skin. “I needed to get out—I really did.”

  “How are all the arrangements coming along?” Claudia asked softly.

  Cleo stole another surreptitious glance at Wendy and me. Something about us intrigued her—or bothered her? “It’s going to be a private service and interment. Nothing for the public, I’m afraid. Brad didn’t want anything like that.”

  Isabel raised her well-plucked eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like Brad. He loved the limelight, just as we all did.”

  “Brad was pretty complex, though,” said Tabitha, her face earnest.

  Cleo shrugged. “I guess when it comes right down to it, all actors are introverts at heart. He told me once that he didn’t want a big deal made of his funeral. But of course he probably assumed that would happen when he was old.” Her voice caught on the last word, and the table went silent. She dabbed at her green eyes with a tissue she had crumpled in her hand.

  Dylan Marsh, who had been sipping his beer, froze with the glass halfway to the table, like a wax figure of himself, apparently uncertain how to process Cleo’s grief.

  Cleo snorted out a laugh through her tears. “Put it down, Dylan, before your arm starts shaking.”

  They all laughed nervously in response, and suddenly Cleo was facing me. “So how did you say you knew Brad?”

  I felt the curi
ous eyes of everyone at the table. “We met through mutual acquaintances, a short while before his death. He was nice to me,” I said. “At a time when I was feeling down. He—gave me some good advice. I’ll always be grateful for it.”

  She nodded, looking pleased. “Brad had a good heart. That’s what I keep telling myself. He and I had our differences over the years, but all I can think of now is what a good guy he was when the chips were down.”

  “Were you excited about the prospect of traveling? I understand the play was going to go on tour,” Wendy said, her voice appropriately solemn.

  Cleo sighed. “No, not really. Brad loved the uncertainty of the actor’s life, but I wanted to put down roots. It’s one of the things we tended to fight about.”

  “You’re not an actor?” I said.

  Cleo’s smile was sad. “No. I met Brad after one of his shows, but I work at a law firm. They’ve given me a leave of absence while I sort things out.”

  Claudia said, “But you were going to travel! Weren’t you going to Hawaii in the spring?”

  Cleo nodded with a little smile. “We were. I found the tickets in our desk drawer. Brad had been waiting to surprise me, but he admitted that he had made plans. His understudy was going to cover his role while he was gone, assuming the show lasted until March. It was—a very romantic gesture. I wish—”

  I wanted to know what she wished, but Isabel spilled her water just then, and suddenly many hands were busy with mopping and dabbing, and the conversation ended.

  I was watching Marsh. His face was necessarily theatrical, but it was compelling—I could see why he was successful in the dramatic arts. I found it difficult to look away, because his expression was constantly changing. First it had reflected sympathy for Cleo Whitefield, then a sort of bemused sadness as he gazed into his drink; now he looked up with an almost calculating expression. He caught my eye, smiled wryly, and looked down at the table, his lowered lids masking his demeanor.

  I suddenly remembered that Antonio, the character Marsh had played in The Tempest, was the man who had usurped Prospero and stolen his throne. In fact, he had been willing to kill Prospero in order to get the power and acclaim of the dukedom. Now Marsh was replacing his own Prospero—Brad Whitefield. Was wanting a part a motive for murder?