Cheddar Off Dead Read online

  “I’m not.” But I was—rubbing my lips on his slightly whiskery cheeks and inhaling the scent of his aftershave.

  “You are. But I take it back; don’t stop.”

  I slid my arms around him, and he clasped his hands behind my back and yanked me against his chest, and for the first time in months we had a proper kiss—warm, lively, seductive, enthusiastic. “Parker,” I said eventually, my mouth moving to his ear.

  “Mmm?”

  “I think I might be a little drunk.”

  “How many glasses of that eggnog did you have?”

  “Three.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker.”

  “Clearly.” He was laughing at me, but then his face grew serious. “You’re not going to forget this, are you?”

  “No.” I squeezed him. “I’m going to replay it like a happy little movie. But wait—there’s something I should be mad at you about. I can’t remember what it is.”

  “I hope you never do.”

  “Huh. I can’t remember, and you’re distracting me with your handsomeness. And your blue eyes. And that scent. . . .” I rooted around near his collar, trying to find the source of his lovely cologne.

  “Lilah, don’t. I mean, do, but not here. Are you licking my neck?”

  “It tastes good, too.”

  “I think we need to get you home.”

  “Mmm. But wait, I didn’t finish with my theories.”

  “Okay.” Parker’s expression was a cross between amazement and hilarity, like someone watching monkeys at play.

  “So, where was I? Oh yes, the island. You see—on the day he died, Brad Whitefield spoke to me of an island. He said he had found his own little island of escape. That’s why he was advising me to follow my dreams.”

  “Okay. So he was talking about his vacation.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m not sure about. Because you see, I read The Tempest in high school, and again in college. I was an English major, did you know?”

  “I guessed after that Hamlet reference a while ago.”

  “So the whole play takes place on an island, you see? The main character, Prospero, has been stranded there for twelve years.”

  “Okay.”

  “So maybe he was talking about his vacation, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was being philosophical. He implied he was into philosophy. He quoted Shakespeare. And if he’s speaking of the island metaphorically, then he’s not escaping into something new—he’s escaping into something he already has, right? Like, something he values and has now decided to pursue? He said he was leaving the Mainland forever—but that too could be a metaphor. Prospero became a great sorcerer on his island. He achieved power like he’d never known before, even though in Italy he was a duke. Yet he ended up leaving it all behind. The question is: was Brad staying on his island, or leaving one island for another? Is the island his talent? Is it his life?”

  “Those are pretty deep questions for one who’s had so much eggnog.”

  “Jot this down, Parker. There’s the music teacher and whatever he knows. Then there are the multiple references to islands. To what was Whitefield referring, and was it important? Enrico Donato’s son mentioned that Whitefield had a special talent, and that the Donatos were great patrons of the arts. They wanted to patronize Brad as an artist, and to help him rise to the ranks of the great actors. But the other side of that coin is that Donato Junior is possessive of his wife and clearly aware that Brad had charisma with women. So despite his warm assertions that he and Whitefield were the best of friends, I think you should investigate that area, too.”

  “That’s good to know.” Parker was writing now, on a little pad he pulled from his pocket.

  “And then there are the rings.”

  “What?”

  “Brad Whitefield had a little hematite ring on his pinkie finger. Sort of distinctive. When Wendy and I had lunch with all the actors, I saw that Isabel had one, too. Same ring, same finger. Seems like an important coincidence.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then there are the weird strings of connection.”

  “What?”

  “Everyone we’ve met has known either Brad or Cleo or both. Is that odd?”

  “Not really. We’re only seeking out people who had links to them.”

  “Huh. Oh, and then there’s Tabitha.”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s in love with one of the actors. I don’t know if it’s Brad, or maybe Dylan, or heck, one of the female leads. I don’t know her sexual preferences. But I did see a photo of her with an absolutely smitten look on her face, and she was gazing at the four actors. And yet Tabitha claimed to just be a friend to Brad, and she didn’t seem to have feelings for anyone at the table when we were all together. Which means that Tabitha is hiding something. She also lied to me; she said she ‘heard’ that Brad was in The Tempest, but she was actually working on the production. Do you have your phone handy?”

  Parker handed it to me, and I logged on to the Internet to find Brad’s Facebook page. “There’s the cast,” I said. “Look at that woman—make the picture bigger and look at her face.”

  Parker studied Tabitha in her headset, standing in the wings. “Interesting,” he said.

  “Right? And did you know that Dylan Marsh tried out for the role of Prospero, but it went to Brad? And did you know that Marsh will now have the part? Which is noteworthy, because in the play, Antonio plots to kill Prospero for his throne. Could this be a case of art reflecting life? Or vice versa?”

  Parker thought about this, puffing out his cheeks and then letting the air out again. “I spoke with Dave at great length tonight. He’s an administrator as well as a teacher, and it was he who hired Whitefield. But he did it on the suggestion of a friend—I still need to get that connection clarified. Someone who is reputed to be one of Whitefield’s best pals, but who is not in fact an actor. His name is Mark, or Mike, or something. Did that come up in your conversations?”

  “No, but—it did somewhere. I can’t recall right now. I should take notes, too.”

  “Lilah, this is impressive work.”

  “I can impress you in a lot of other ways.” I leaned against him, wanting to seem flirtatious, but instead closed my eyes.

  “I’m looking forward to it, but right now I think we need to leave. Sleep does wonders for an eggnog overdose.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Lilah?”

  “Yip.”

  “I really am proud of you.”

  I opened my eyes and met his beautiful blue ones. “I’m proud of you, too. I think you’re dedicated and smart.”

  He smiled. “Then I should be able to close this case before Christmas, don’t you think? I’ve got three days.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I woke on Tuesday morning to a lacy white pattern that snow had traced upon my bedroom window. I climbed out of bed, expecting to trip over Mick, but he was gone. Surprised, I headed downstairs and into the kitchen, where I found my loyal canine sitting at the feet of Wendy while she drank coffee and read the newspaper. “It’s cute that you still get the paper delivered,” she said. “I read everything online, but this is fun. It feels like going back in time.”

  “Hilarious. Did you make plenty of coffee?”

  “Yes. And your dog has already been out. He played in the snow a little bit, and he chased a chipmunk.”

  “That’s Scrounger. We’ve known him for more than a year. I think he and Mick are friends, but they love to taunt each other.”

  “Cute. Your backyard is like a Disney movie, with all the happy little creatures. There were little birds hopping around your feeder, too. How was the party?”

  “It was nice. My friend ended up making out in the corner like a high school student, but Parker and I got some information that might be
helpful.”

  “Yeah? Did you get anything else out of Parker?” Her face studied the page in front of her, but she was smirking slightly.

  “He was surprisingly human last night. We—got along.”

  “Okay. Let’s go back to the good information part. Is he any closer to catching this guy?”

  I shrugged. “It’s all so confusing. So many names, so many stories. I don’t know how you cops do it.”

  “Well, it’s only the cops like Parker who have to deal with this type of thing, but it’s a clear pattern: go over it and over it until you notice the anomalies.”

  “I guess. I told Parker I should be jotting down notes. I think I’ll do that today.”

  She stretched and yawned widely. “Good idea. Let me know if I can help.”

  I studied Wendy, who was wearing yet another comfortable-looking knit suit with some sort of earth shoe. She was not a fashionable dresser, but her clothes suited her. “I feel bad, like I’m keeping you from your Christmas preparations.”

  “You are earning me some really nice Christmas overtime. And Lilah? You’re the nicest case I’ve ever worked on. I don’t know if you realize this, but police don’t tend to meet beautiful specimens of humanity as a rule.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Plus, you keep feeding me, and I’m falling in love with your dog, and your cute house. Someday you have to let me show it to Bets.”

  “Sure. Right after you catch the bad guy.”

  “Deal.” She stood up and stretched. “I’m going to look around.”

  I swigged down some coffee, scratched Mick on his large, warm head, and then went back upstairs to take a shower. When I emerged, clean, scented, and dressed in jeans, thick socks, and a brown knit turtleneck sweater, I climbed back down and found my laptop, on which I began typing my own notes. I titled the first page:

  The Brad Whitefield Murder

  Then I made a list.

  1. Brad Whitefield was agitated on the day he died, because someone was texting him and making some sort of demand. He said he would have to run “a quick errand,” but then a car pulled up in front of him. He was surprised, and said, “I was just coming to you.”

  Question: had the person purposely lured Whitefield out of the building with a text, then shot him? If so, had that person been lying in wait nearby? If so, wouldn’t that person almost certainly have seen me? Is that why the person took the phone from Whitefield? Because it would reveal his or her identity to the police?

  2. People who lied:

  Tabitha—said she heard Brad was in a show, when in fact she knew it, and was working on that very show.

  Donato’s son—said that he and Whitefield were great friends, that Whitefield had a poker debt, but that he, Donato, was happy to forgive it; yet when his wife was mentioned, he grew angry. Clearly Donato is lying about his level of jealousy. Potential affair between Brad and Mrs. Donato?

  The three actors—they are actors. Any one of them could have been lying about their grief over the dead man, and all of them seemed weirdly suspicious, as well as narcissistic. Dylan had the best motive, but either of the women could have been involved with Whitefield or jealous of someone who was—or could potentially have been scorned by Whitefield. Hell hath no fury, etc.

  Enrico Donato—may well have been lying about his involvement in Whitefield’s death, or about the shooting at the studio, or about Serafina’s mugging. His supposed protection in the form of Frank could be a blind to conceal his crimes.

  3. Suspicious behavior:

  Enrico Donato. Seemed distressed to learn about Whitefield’s murder. This seems to suggest that either he was acting/lying because in fact he knew about the murder, or that he was concerned someone he knew might have done it, which could implicate his son.

  Tabitha, Dylan, Isabel, and Allison. All weird. All dramatic types. I felt neither comfortable with them nor trusting of what they said. Try to meet with them again?

  Cleo. Seemed nervous when she saw Parker at the party. Was this merely because she was tired of being interrogated?

  Peter the music teacher. Seemed particularly resentful of Brad Whitefield, and sure that he was a cheater. Is Parker following up on this?

  Mark or Mike, the guy who recommended Brad to Dave Brent at JFK School. Who might this person be?

  I stared at the notes I had just made, and something sluggish started moving around in my brain. I didn’t have a hangover, but I did feel rather tired. Mark or Mike. Someone had told me something about someone named—“Esther!” I yelled.

  “What?” Wendy moved swiftly into the room.

  “Oh—no. I just remembered a little detail that might fill in some blanks. I have to make a phone call.”

  “Cool.” She left again, with Mick at her heels. Clearly Mick thought that things were going to happen wherever Wendy went.

  I dialed the Haven number, and Jim answered after two rings. “Haven of Pine Haven. This is Jim.”

  “Jim. It’s Lilah.”

  “Hey, kiddo. How are you holding up?”

  Jim said this in his usual friendly, avuncular way, and for just a moment I was tempted to let loose with a torrent of fears and hopes. Then I cleared my throat. “I’m okay. Are you doing all right with the Christmas jobs?”

  “Just a little brunch this morning, and then we’re finished for a week or so. We’re doing fine.”

  “Okay, good. Is Esther around?”

  “Right beside me.”

  “Does she have a second?”

  “For you, she always has time.”

  “You’re sweet,” I said. In the background I could hear Jim’s Christmas music: “What Child Is This?” played on a hammered dulcimer.

  Jim handed Esther the phone, and she spoke breathily into my ear, as though she’d run across the room. “What’s happening? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine, thanks. I have a bodyguard right now. She’s making me feel safe.”

  “Really? That’s great.”

  “Yes. I’m calling with a question, actually. That night when I came to work with Detective Parker, you mentioned that you thought Mark might know Brad Whitefield. Did you ever find out?”

  “Oh God, yes—didn’t I tell you? It turns out that this Brad was one of Mark’s friends from that group he’s in—those gamers. You know how Mark likes all that virtual stuff? I don’t know what they call it. He laughs at me and says no one calls it “gaming,” but I hear people say that. Anyway. Long story short, they were friends. Mark has been very upset about it.”

  “I need to talk to him. Is he going to be around there at any point?”

  “He’s coming this afternoon; he’s going to stay until Christmas and then disappear back to his lair downtown. His brother’s coming later tonight, too, but Luke’s driving from Indiana, so he won’t get in until late.”

  “Would I be interrupting if I stopped by—maybe around three? I won’t disrupt your dinner or anything.”

  “You’re always welcome. You know Mark loves flirting with you. Although I think he might be dating someone now.”

  I laughed. “That’s all right. I might be dating someone, too.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I’m fairly sure. But—there’s some stuff to be worked out.”

  “You can tell me all about it at three. But first you can talk to Mark; I’ll make some snacks for you.”

  “No—you will put your feet up and enjoy your Christmas vacation. I understand it starts later today.”

  “Yes! Lovely.”

  “See you later,” I told her.

  I sat at my kitchen table, watching the delicate snowflakes and pondering the puzzle of Brad Whitefield. My main question was: how did he find the time to work as a professional actor, yet get side jobs like playing Santa at a grade school? To have what seemed, b
ased on gossip, like a multitude of affairs? To plan trips? To be a virtual “gamer,” whatever that entailed? To go regularly out to pubs with a big group of friends? To play poker so often that people suggested he had a gambling addiction? How much time was there in a day? Did Brad Whitefield have more than one life?

  Suddenly I remembered Whitefield standing before me in his absurd red suit, quoting Shakespeare and saying that “our little life is rounded with a sleep.” Life was short, it was true, and Brad had entered that sleep that Shakespeare had spoken of in more than one play. I had only met Brad for a short time, but I was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he had been a good man until someone proved otherwise.

  “Wendy?” I waited until she came back into the kitchen.

  “What’s up?”

  “I found out that an acquaintance of mine was also friends with Whitefield. Apparently, in addition to everything else, Brad played some sort of online game—the kind you play with other people?”

  “Huh.”

  “I’d like to go talk to Mark—he’s the friend. He’s the son of my coworkers at Haven. Okay to make that trip this afternoon?”

  “Sure. I’ll just clear it with Parker, but he was fine about the lunch we attended.”

  Wendy took out her phone and started to dial, her eyes alert and gazing out my back window. I left the room and heard my own phone buzzing. I grabbed it from a living room table and said, “Hello?”

  “Lilah mia! You were fabulous.” It was Angelo’s voice, low and sexy and annoying. In all of the craziness, I had almost forgotten his show, his flirtation, the shooting in the garage. . . .

  “Uh—thanks, Angelo. Listen, I have a lot going on right now. . . .”

  “My producers want me to tell you this, as well. They would like you to return.”

  I paused, staring at the snow that coated the long driveway outside my house. “What?”

  “They are thinking one or two shows, to start, but they are wondering if you might work as a Friday feature.”

  “What? As in every Friday?”