With a Kiss I Die

by J. A. Hennrikus

  “Ms. Whitehall, it’s better for you to talk to us now, get your story out.”

  Emma had opened the door. “Puh-leeze, I said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Greta Garbo. I want to be alone.” I followed Emma in the door and pushed it closed. The heavy wooden door had windows near the top, but the glass was old and hand-blown. There were side panels of glass to let light in, but these were fairly opaque. And likely shatterproof for security reasons, or at least I hoped so. I resisted the urge to turn around and look out the door, even when a light went on. Probably from the camera—were they really doing a report from outside the apartment?

  “You should text the boys, tell them to use the alley entrance,” Emma said. “We should have used it but I didn’t want to walk the extra block.” She took the pizzas and headed up the stairs to Harry’s apartment. She waited on the landing while I moved past her with the key to open the door.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should have them come in the front door. Handsome men coming in at all hours? It could divert their attention,” I said.

  “Very funny. Text them. They don’t deserve to be hit by this.”

  “Deep breath, Emma. You knew this could happen, you said it yourself. We’ll just start using the alley door—it’s blocked by a gate, right? No big deal.”

  “You’re right. More important things to worry about. Let’s put the pizza in the oven to keep it warm.”

  My cell phone buzzed and dinged. I checked the text. It was from Stewart, not Gus.

  Late rehearsal. Going out afterward. Don’t wait dinner for us. See you tomorrow.

  “We’re on our own tonight,” I said to Emma.

  “Probably just as well. Making small talk when I’m thinking about Gus and Mimi—not sure I’m up to that. How about if we have the fig and blue cheese pizza, some salad, and put the rest away?”

  “Let me go get some tools of the trade so we can do some work while we eat.” I walked toward my bedroom.

  Emma called after me, “Tools of the trade?”

  “Index cards, highlighters, sharpies, tape,” I responded over my shoulder. I grabbed the small bag I took with me always, my mobile office full of those supplies and others. “We want to find Gus, right?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “No ‘and.’ Not right now. It won’t survive the test of the cops if they think we’re trying to figure out what happened to Mimi Cunningham. We need to have clarity of purpose. Let’s focus on Gus and try to figure out what he was doing, what he found out. Let’s search for Gus and see where that takes us.”

  Emma put a plate with a piece of pizza down on the table in front of me, and one in front of herself. She poured two glasses of water and put them down as well. Two wineglasses followed, along with napkins, forks, and knives. “I figure tonight we should be better about water-then-wine-then-water. Keep our heads a little clearer.”

  “We do need some clear heads,” I said, unpacking my office bag.

  “Now show me these tools of the trade.” Emma poured us each a glass of wine and sat down. I took out the index cards, a brand-new pack, and handed her a stack. Then I handed her a marker and laid the highlighters out in front of us.

  “So, today’s Wednesday. I got a text from Gus around three o’clock this afternoon but I don’t know when he sent it. I think that’s the last time anyone’s heard from him.” I wrote down Wednesday on one card and text from Gus 3 p.m. on another card and laid it under the Wednesday card. I highlighted the 3 p.m. in yellow. “Yellow indicates we can’t confirm what’s on the card. Let’s go backward in time, figure out what we know.”

  “What we know about Gus’s disappearance? Or about everything? Are you making us a crime board?”

  “I’ll admit, this is a tool I used when I was a cop. No piece of information is off-topic when you’re trying to solve a mystery. The mystery we’re trying to solve is ‘where is Gus?’ But there’s a lot more to that story. We don’t know what pieces have to do with anything. So let’s work backward, fill in the gaps we know, try to figure out what he was thinking. Where he was going.”

  “You really think this will help?”

  “It can’t hurt. Besides, I don’t know what else to do right now. And I need to do something.”

  • Eleven •

  We kept working until after midnight. We took the cards and put them up on Harry’s cabinets with painter’s tape. We both stepped back and looked at the work.

  “Now what?” Emma asked.

  “Now we think about what questions we have, and who we need to talk to. Write down the questionable facts—the stuff highlighted in yellow—and try to get them confirmed one way or the other. Write down every question you have, no matter how random it seems.”

  We both sat with index cards in front of us, pens poised above them, waiting for brilliance to flow. Nothing came. I wrote down four names on the tops for cards and laid them out in front of us. Kate. Hal. Babs. Jerry.

  “These are the folks who I think can help us figure this out,” I said. “Tell you what. I propose we both get some sleep and come at this fresh in the morning. We may come up with the wrong questions because we’re tired and have been thinking about this too long. A path may be clearer in the morning.”

  “Sounds good,” Emma said. “One quick thought about how to talk to Jerry—how about if we drop off your grant application tomorrow? It would give us an excuse to go in. Is it ready?”

  “It is, but that seems in bad taste, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Jerry Cunningham is a businessman, first and foremost. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear he’d been in the office today. Let me see if I can set something up. We can ask him questions about Gus. Just have to think through what those questions are before we go.” Emma stood up and loaded the dishwasher. I put the leftovers in the refrigerator. Neither of us spoke, but we both kept looking at the cards on the cabinets. Emma finally drained her wine glass and put it on the rack.

  “See in the morning, Sully. Sleep well.”

  I turned on the dishwasher and wiped down the table. I gathered up my belongings and went into my room. Max was waiting for me and gave me a side-eye as if to say “go to sleep.”

  I did get some sleep. Not much, but some. I got up at five thirty and did some stretches. Max watched me from his side of the bed, but after a while he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. He never was an early riser.

  There was a treadmill in the corner of the living room, and I moved the pile of magazines off it and plugged it in. I stepped on and started a run. It was a nice treadmill and gave me choices about the terrain I’d be running on. I chose flat, with occasional hills. No need to overdo it. I went fast enough to clear my mind and work out some of the adrenaline in my system. As far as I could tell, Gus had been missing for almost sixteen hours. I was hoping that he had taken himself off the grid. I didn’t like the alternative.

  I put on the pot of coffee and showered. Now the question was what to wear. I channeled Cassandra and decided I needed to look presentable but still accomodate my need for comfort. Again with the black stretchy pants. They were boot-cut, long, and new enough to still be black-black, not grayish with black splotches. I wore a black cashmere sweater over a white silk T-shirt. Added my new jewelry and a dash of makeup. Presentable, if I did say so. I’d still wear my Bean boots, but Boston was forgiving in the footwear department in February.

  I emptied out my knapsack and repacked it with the day’s gear. A fleece. Some protein bars. My water bottle, which I filled. My computer, the recharging cord for it, and my phone. Some other odds and ends that my sleep-addled brain thought might be helpful.

  Harry was pouring himself a cup of coffee when I came out. He handed it to me and poured himself another. I noticed that he’d already fed Max, who was happily chomping on a large dollop of wet food.

  “I see yo
u’ve been decorating,” Harry said. He took a sip of coffee and looked at the cards all over the cabinet. “What’s going on? You’re not investigating that murder, are you?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Really. Emma and I are looking for Gus. He seems to have gone off the grid. That’s what this is all about. We aren’t investigating the murder. Leaving that to the police,” I said, taking a sip of coffee and not meeting Harry’s eyes.

  “Gus is missing? Do you think he’s okay?” Harry asked.

  “I’m sure he is,” I lied. “I just want to find him.”

  “Understandable. Sully, I know we’re all in rehearsal mode, not dealing a lot with real life. But if you need me, you know I’m here, right? For whatever you need. Always.”

  “Thanks, Harry, I do know that,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “I promise I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Why are you so dressed up? And up so early?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep. Thinking about Gus. Plus, I’m going to drop off the Century Foundation grant and try to talk to Jerry Cunningham, see if he knows anything. I need to track Dimitri down to get him to sign the application first, though. I wanted to look presentable for that. Dropping the application off, not meeting with Dimitri. As you know, I’d be comfortable wearing yoga pants and a hoodie to meet with Dimitri. What are you doing up so early?”

  “Believe it or not, Stewart and I are going to the Boston Public Library this morning. They have some Shakespeare folios we want to take a look at. Hoping that maybe seeing the original work will give us a little divine inspiration.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad. Pretty good, actually. That’s part of the problem. Before Stewart came, earlier in the week, the goal was just to get through. Now? The cast is jelling, and committed. We see the potential. And realize we don’t have enough time, enough rehearsal hours, to get there. So Dimitri gave us the morning off, told us not to come until two. Clear the cobwebs, get our heads in the game.”

  Rehearsal periods for shows were always fraught. They started off with great expectations and hit bumps along the way. Despair came in for Dimitri usually just before tech rehearsals started, and then things evened out. It was an emotional, predictable timeline. But this timeline was truncated, and I knew it must be wearing on Dimitri.

  “You know where he is this morning? Is he meeting folks at the theater? I’ll text him; maybe we can meet for breakfast. He must need a sounding board. I haven’t talked to him since—”

  “Yesterday. You talked to him yesterday. He’s doing well; Holly’s dealing with him on equal footing. Probably your doing. If you need to talk to him this morning, he’s downstairs on the couch. We got in late last night and decided to keep talking. By the way, if you’re hoping for cold pizza for breakfast, you’re outta luck,” Harry said.

  “There are rolls—” I said, with a bit of hope in my voice.

  “Nope. No rolls. But there are eggs and cheese. How about if I make some scrambled eggs, you want to go down and let Dimitri and Stewart know I’m making breakfast?”

  “You mean wake them up? Sure. Do me a favor—let Emma know you’re cooking breakfast. She’s going with me this morning.”

  I went down the back staircase and let myself into Amelia’s apartment. Emma was right; there wasn’t a lot of personality in this place, no sense of Amelia. Amelia’s life, her place, her center of being was in Trevorton at the Anchorage, their family home. I doubted she’d even left the grounds since New Year’s. She probably hadn’t left the greenhouse except to eat and sleep. I made a mental note to go visit her soon.

  Amelia’s apartment appeared to be a one bedroom, which made sense given the first floor entranceway into the building. The furniture was utilitarian, the walls were bare. It wasn’t homey, but I imagined that it was used more for guests than for family. Even though it was, technically, the first floor, the windows looked out at the top of cars. Amelia had bottom-up shades that didn’t keep the light out, but they did make the place feel like a cocoon with only a sliver of real life seeping in.

  I looked at the lump on the couch and recognized it immediately. Dimitri was a power napper, and I’d found him in the same position several times on our office couch. Another selfish reason I wanted to get the new production facility built. With more space, maybe I could finagle my own office space. Who was I kidding—that wouldn’t stop him. Dimitri tended to sprawl himself and his belongings wherever he was. I walked over and touched his shoulder, whispering his name.

  “Damn, woman, what time is it?” he growled.

  “Early. Sorry,” I said. “Sign these. Then you can go back to sleep.”

  He sat up and fumbled for his glasses. Though still handsome, he looked exhausted. I couldn’t imagine what he’d look like by opening night. He glanced over the application and signed where I told him to. Then he flopped back on the couch pillows dramatically, closing his eyes again.

  “Seriously, Dimitri, go back to sleep,” I said quietly.

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he said. Then he winced. “Sorry, I’d forgotten for a moment. Awful thing that happened to Mimi Cunningham, isn’t it?”

  “It is. Confession, it may be getting worse. Gus—Gus Knight, my ex-husband, you remember him from last winter?” Dimitri nodded. “Gus was supposed to meet me yesterday for lunch, but he never showed. He sent me a text and mentioned Mimi. I’m a little worried. I’m trying to figure out why he’s gone off the grid.”

  “Could something worse have happened to him?” Dimitri said, opening his eyes and looking at me.

  “It could have,” I said quietly, swallowing. Dimitri could drive me crazy, but I wondered if anyone understood me as well as he did. He always cut right to the chase, had enough respect for me to do that. “I really hope not. The police are looking for him too, which is of some comfort since they have more resources. Of course, they’re looking for him for another reason.”

  “Do they think he had anything to do with Mimi’s, um, you know?”

  “They have questions. So do I, though I know he had nothing to do with her death. Murder … he doesn’t have it in him. Being a jackass, yes that. But not murder. Anyway, while I drop this off I thought I might say hello to Jerry Cunningham if he’s there.”

  “Ask him some questions about Gus?”

  “Only if it comes up naturally in conversation,” I said.

  “Sully, I know of no one who can force topics to come up in conversation with quite the flare that you do. Be careful, though, and let me know if I can help with anything. Not that I can—”

  “Well actually, you can. If you hear from Babs or if she shows up, let me know right away, okay?”

  “Has she disappeared as well? I thought she just went away for a few days?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m feeling the need to check in with folks, that’s all. No worries. By the way, Harry is making a mysterious egg concoction with various cheeses and other leftovers. Upstairs. There’s coffee too.”

  “Ah, sustenance. Bless his heart. A fine actor, and an even better human being.”

  “Should we wake up Stewart, let him know about breakfast?”

  “He’s been up and out for a while,” Dimitri said. “I heard the door close. Probably went to get some breakfast food, or fruit, or something like that. I don’t know. We can all meet upstairs in Harry’s apartment. I’ll be up after I take a quick shower. I assume that’s where you’re staying?”

  “It is. I’ll see you there. Take the back staircase; it’s easier.”

  If I’d left a quiet apartment with Harry at the stove, I came back to a hubbub of activity. A washing machine was doing its thing. Stewart, Harry, and Emma were sitting on one side of the table looking at the timeline she and I had created the night before. When I walked in, the talking stopped. I went over and got my old coffee mug, pouring the cold dregs into the
sink and then refilling it with fresh, hot brew.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, leaning up against the sink and staring the three of them down.

  “Just filling them in on our day yesterday,” Emma said. “Oh, and they’re doing Dimitri’s laundry.”

  “He was thinking of going to a laundromat this morning. Seemed that was a colossal waste of time, considering we have a washer and dryer in our unit,” Harry said.

  “Is he on his way up?” Stewart asked. “I assume he’s awake?”

  “He is, taking a shower. Good idea, bringing his laundry here. As you know, he never would’ve made it to a laundromat. And clean clothes are important.”

  “I’ve got to admit, it’s like doing Johnny Cash’s laundry,” Harry said. “Black shirts, black jeans, black socks, black underwear—”

  “Too much information,” Stewart said. “Especially this early in the morning.”

  “But it’s okay to talk about dead bodies and missing ex-husbands? Does it ever occur to any of you that we’re all a little screwed up?” Harry asked.

  “Every day, in every way,” Emma said. “And I couldn’t be more grateful for that. If the three of you had stopped asking questions back in December, who knows where we’d all be today. By the way, Sully and I are looking for Gus, nothing more. We owe it to Gus. He’s a good guy, and my friend.”

  “He is a good guy,” Harry said. “Hope you can find something out when you’re at the Cunningham Corporation.”

  “Sully, about that,” Emma said. “Looks like first we have to go have a cup of coffee with Hal Maxwell. He texted me this morning and wanted to set up a time to talk about the business. I would have said no, but we want to talk to him, right? After that we’ll go drop the grant application off.”

  “I hope—”

  “I called Jerry this morning, left a message telling him I’d be in the neighborhood and asking if he could give me five minutes to say hello. His secretary called back and confirmed that he was in the office and would have a fifteen-minute window around ten o’clock.”