The deal was doubtful, but not out of the realm of possibility. The Whitehall family was very, very rich. They had deep ties to the community. And the family might not put too much pressure on the police to solve the crime if it meant convicting one of their own.
I glanced over at Harry and wondered if he was as worried as I was that Eric might be involved somehow. If I were making a short list, Eric would be near the top. Question was, who should be at the top?
• Two •
Though we got to the church in good time, finding parking wasn’t easy. I finally found a space three blocks away on a side street, taking the time to write down its name on a deposit slip. Harry took his bike out of the back seat and reattached the wheel.
“I have rehearsal at noon,” he said. “What are you writing?”
“In Boston, I could always remember exactly where I’d parked, but in Trevorton everything looks alike. I’m constantly forgetting where my car is.” The quaint New England beauty of my hometown’s clapboard houses, mostly painted white, blurred together. More than once I’d pretended to take a walk while desperately trying to remember where I’d left the car.
Harry and I walked together toward the Congregational Church. We slowed down as we turned the corner. The crowd was moving slowly into the building. The simplicity of the church, the oldest one in town and historically known as a Meetinghouse, was less familiar to me than the elaborate beauty of the Catholic Church in the next town over. I thought of my mother with a pang. She wouldn’t be happy that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a church. But I was here today, in my funeral attire. The gaff tape was holding up so far, though I was hesitant to take a deep breath.
Harry went around to the back of the church to lock up his bike. I waited for him by the front door. Three limousines rolled up. I watched as the drivers opened the doors and Terry Holmes stepped out. He reached his hand inside, and I expected to see Emma appear. Instead, Terry helped Brooke Whitehall, Peter’s young widow, out of the car. She snaked her arm through his and leaned heavily on him as they walked toward the church.
Even in grief, Brooke Whitehall was one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen: porcelain skin, curly hair with enough highlights to give it a healthy, sun-kissed look, and a body that displayed both strength and sexiness, even through her funeral clothes. Her confidence made me hunch my shoulders forward, trying to minimize my six-foot height and not-inconsiderable frame. Looking down, I saw my size-eleven feet with my hose sagging at the ankles. Damn.
Harry came around the corner and stopped beside me. “Let’s go sit,” he said. Though the church was packed, Harry smiled and charmed someone into making room so we could sit together on the same pew. Other latecomers were reduced to standing in the back and in the aisles.
The tension was high. Peter’s murder had changed the tenor of an event that is, by definition, difficult. Rather than having thoughtfully chosen readings or meaningful songs, the service felt rote. Even the eulogy, delivered by Terry, left little in its emotional wake. The only overt feeling came from the second pew, where Peter’s children sat. Emma and Eric wiped tears, but Amelia sobbed. Her brother put his arm around her, pulling her toward his chest. The depth of her emotion moved me. Surely the gossip was wrong. Amelia was obviously distraught. How could she possibly have … or maybe that was why she was so distraught. Guilt.
I gave myself a mental shake and tried to concentrate on the service. No time to run through suspects. I’d been off the job for years, but at times like these I realized I’d never left. Not really. The police department had “retired” me, the word we’d settled on when we couldn’t come to terms with “quit” or “fired,” but a bad ending to my career did nothing to stop my curiosity, my suspicious mind, or my craving for justice. I needed to remember that I shouldn’t get involved. No matter what. Or whom.
There would be no graveside ceremony for Peter Whitehall, either because of family wishes or, more likely, because his body hadn’t been released by the coroner. The minister reminded the congregation that there would be a reception afterward at the Whitehall home, the Anchorage, to pay respects to the family. And before I knew it, the service was over and the family whisked out of the church to prepare to meet their public.
“Why don’t you come with me to the reception?” I said.
“Rehearsal,” Harry said. He’d watched Eric get into the limo and drive off without looking around.
“I bet Dimitri would be all right if you missed a bit of rehearsal,” I said. Especially since this was Harry’s third year playing Bob Cratchit.
“I may need to cash in that favor another time. It’s fine. I’ll see you later,” he said. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Maybe he and Eric really were over? I hated the idea that I might have to choose sides between my two friends, but perhaps they’d be more mature than I’d been when Gus and I divorced.
Though work beckoned, I decided to go to the reception, partly to pay my respects, partly to see the Whitehall mansion again. The Anchorage had been a major part of my childhood, a place of magic. I wondered if it would still feel that way.
For an unknown reason, the original builder, a sea captain of ill repute, had constructed the large mansion only a few yards from the high, rocky bluff. One hundred years later Peter Whitehall went further, building an addition that extended over the cliff, with huge windows on three sides. Window washers received monthly hazard pay to wash, sometimes scrape, the salt from the windows. This two-floor addition was Peter’s domain: his study on the first floor and his bedroom and sitting room on the second. I knew Peter was murdered in the addition, but wasn’t sure where. I’d heard rumors of sharp shooters on the beaches from Gene at the Beef and Ale, but this was dismissed by someone else at the bar as impractical because of the angles. Given that we live in a twenty-four-hour news world, there’d been remarkably little reported. The cops were doing a good job at keeping a lid on leaks.
Though it was visible from most of the Trevorton beaches, tall privet hedges hid the Anchorage from the road and camouflaged a large iron fence surrounding the property. Two large stone columns supported a huge gate. There were stories that a disgruntled business associate had tried to ram the gate with his big, heavy eight-cylinder SUV fifteen years ago, believing the loaded gun on the seat would help speed his entry into the house once he got past the gates. But he never made it, and his car was totaled in the effort.
The gate was open today but the circular driveway was filled with cars, so I drove past and parked on the side of the road. I considered leaving my coat in the car but didn’t want to walk even the short distance to the house in the frigid wind. I waved to the guard on duty, a habit from my patrol days. As I made my way toward the house I kept mental notes of the cars parked in the circle, another habit from my early days issuing parking tickets. My fingers were nearly frozen, but I took out my cell and checked messages, emails, and texts. In a nod to funerary decorum I switched the phone to vibrate.
Two oversized, magnificently carved doors marked the entrance to the front of the house. I didn’t think I’d ever used those doors before. We always went around back to the kitchen. The better you knew a family, the less likely you were to use the front door. At my parents’ house, the front door had had a table in front of it where we’d put the mail.
One of the doors was open to the receiving line that was beginning to queue. The other remained closed, displaying a splendid wreath that probably cost as much as my entire holiday decoration budget for the theater. As I got closer, I noticed a black ribbon instead of a more holiday-appropriate red. The gesture made my throat tighten. Even if his true mourners were few, the Anchorage acknowledged Peter’s passing.
Emma and Terry stood at the open door, seemingly oblivious to the cold, greeting their guests. Emma looked nervous as I approached, so I donned my most comforting smile and took her hand in both of mine. “I’m so sorry abo
ut your father.”
“Thank you for coming, Sully. This is my husband, Terry Holmes, have you met? Terry, this is my second cousin … is that right? My mother’s cousin’s daughter … whatever. Sully Sullivan.”
“Sully Sullivan?” Terry shook my hand as if we were long-lost friends. His reputation as a charmer seemed well founded.
“Born Edwina. My grandfather, Edwin Temple, died a month before I was born … ”
“Sully’s been Sully our whole life,” Emma told him. “Only our mothers called her Edwina. God rest their souls.”
“I wish I’d known them both. It’s wonderful to meet you.” His eyes seemed sincere, his voice wonderfully modulated. I wished I didn’t know as much as I did about him.
“Nice to meet you, Terry.” I said. “I’m surprised we haven’t already met at the theater.”
“Sully manages the Cliffside Theatre Company,” Emma explained.
“Ah. No, you wouldn’t see me there. I don’t like theater. Happy to contribute to it, but thrilled Emma goes with Eric.”
“Speaking of whom … ?” I moved into the doorway, much to the relief of the frozen line of mourners behind me.
“Check the library. I’ll see you later, Sully?” Emma said.
“Of course. Again, I’m so sorry. If there’s anything I can do … ”
“Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” Something about her tone told me she meant it.
I sidled through the crowd, looking for Amelia and Eric. The house was Federal style, with a center entrance and mirrored wings on either side. The entrance led to a grand hallway, a large, beautifully carved wooden staircase, and a glimpse of an upper hallway. Despite the grandeur of the home and the intricate period details, the rooms were not massive, particularly by current McMansion standards. There were a few grand spaces with high ceilings for entertaining. The less-formal rooms were smaller, with normal-height ceilings. Most rooms had fireplaces, all of which still worked despite the advent of central heat. The Anchorage had a simple elegance I preferred over the Newport cottages farther south. The spaces here were designed for use as well as for show. Today they would be well used, receiving Peter’s mourners. And there were a lot of them.
For many people, this was more than an opportunity to show the family support; it was a chance to see the inside of the Anchorage, an opportunity few would pass up. Add a catered spread, and a turnout was guaranteed. I thought about my father’s imagined remark about the thimbleful of tears and wondered how many of the people enjoying a repast in Peter Whitehall’s home were genuinely sorry. I guessed very few.
I saw David Taylor the same moment he saw me. I might have let him off the hook with a wave, given where we were, but his pointed attempts to ignore my presence ticked me off. The conversation I’d planned for later got moved up. Until the Patrick King experiment, David had been our perennial Scrooge. Since he was a core member of the company who’d always been a joy to work with, we thought he would be okay with the role of Jacob Marley this year. Actually, Dimitri thought he’d be okay. But now, with fewer lines to deliver, he was playing the role of an actor wronged, and he was punishing us. Our production had a lot of actors doubling roles; it was part of Dimitri’s conceit for the production. I needed David to double as one of the people in the Ghost of Christmas Future scene, either as one of the businessmen that Scrooge overhears talking or as Old Bob the pawnbroker. As I walked toward him, David looked around and realized that all escape routes were cut off. I smiled and slowed my pace.
“David, I’m so glad to see you. We keep missing each other at rehearsal,” I said.
“Well, I’m not called for that many rehearsals this year.”
“Connie has been trying to call you for a few more, from what I understand.”
David shook his head. “I was only contracted for Marley.”
“Come on, David. What are you doing? You’re a member of the Cliffside—we need you to help get us through this, um, production, so we can start planning for next season.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t. I was hoping to talk to you about this later, but I guess now is as good a time as any.” He looked me square in the eyes and stood tall. “I’m leaving the production.”
“You’re what? You can’t. You’ve got a contract.”
“It’s all in this letter. I got offered a role in a new movie filming in Boston. For more money.”
Damn it. More remunerative employment. That was the clause in the contract that allowed an actor to break the agreement so he or she could take another gig. Because let’s face it, almost anything would be more remunerative that working at the Cliffside. But most of the time we tried to work out schedules.
“I was going to leave this letter for you at the theater. Cowardly, I know. But I didn’t want to risk you talking me out of my decision. You know how much the company means to me, but I can’t do it, Sully. What was a joy has become a nightmare.”
Normally I would chalk such a comment up to actor hyperbole, but he was telling the truth. Our production of A Christmas Carol had become a nightmare. I expected the ghost of Charles Dickens to haunt my dreams soon.
“Nothing I can say?” I asked. David shook his head. “All right, I’ll tell Dimitri.”
“You’re not pissed?” he asked. He sounded disappointed.
I bit my tongue. David was one of my favorite actors. I wasn’t going to burn a bridge for Patrick King, even though I was tempted. “Of course I’m pissed. But I’ll get over it. Someday.”
As David walked away, I pulled out my cell and checked for messages. Nothing. I sent a text to Stewart Tracy. It said SOS. You have a gig for the next few weeks? We need you. Call me. After a second I added a XOXO, Sully to the end of the text and hit send. I went to my email and found the draft I’d written to Stewart as a just-in-case measure; the email laid out the entire situation. I hit send and turned off my phone. Time to find the rest of the family, pay my respects, and then get back to work. I had a part to recast.
I spotted Eric across the room and started toward him, then stopped. He was talking to my ex-husband. What was Gus doing here? I didn’t walk over—as much for Gus’s sake as for my own. Small talk was going to be a tricky business. Unlike some of my friends who’d become friends with their exes, I hadn’t spoken to Gus since my father’s funeral. Even the divorce was handled through our lawyers. I couldn’t bear to try, and he’d given up. I would need more prep time, and a drink, before I attempted to talk to him today.
I found Amelia, looking tiny in a large wingback chair in the corner of the ballroom, oblivious to the humanity swirling around her. She stared at the untouched plate of food on her lap.
I walked over to her, wanting to get her attention without startling her. Amelia didn’t register my presence until I crouched down and took both of her hands.
“Amelia, hi,” I said in low tones. “My name is Sully … you may not remember me. Our mothers were cousins, and I used to come over here to play a long time ago … ”
“Your mother was Sarah.” Amelia’s voice was loud, a little too loud given my proximity. Her eyes were dilated, and she seemed to be having trouble focusing. Most of the conversation around us stopped as people turned to listen.
“Yes … ”
“I remember her. She was very kind to Mother when she was sick … ”
“She loved your mother very much,” I agreed, hoping that she would lower her voice to my level.
“I loved my father like that.” No such luck. Amelia stared at me as if daring me to challenge her. I had no response, at least not an adequate one. No matter. Amelia wasn’t finished. “He wasn’t an easy man to love, but I did. He loved me back. Called me his angel.” With that she looked around defiantly.
Emma and Eric waded through the crowd toward Amelia. “Well, there you are, darling,” Emma said. “You must be exhausted. I know I am. Why don’t you come and
lie down for a while? Sully won’t mind, will you?”
“No, of course not.” I lifted the untouched plate from Amelia’s lap and held my other hand out to her. She took it, using it to lift herself from the chair. “Amelia, I truly am so sorry about your father.”
“Thank you.” Amelia squeezed my hand and then took Emma’s, allowing herself to be guided toward the staircase. She’d only taken a few steps when she turned back toward me while addressing her sister. “Emma, didn’t you tell me once that Sully used to be a policewoman? Maybe she can help us, Emma. Shall we ask?”
Emma hesitated and looked over her shoulder. She clearly wanted to say something, but not in a room full of people.
“Why don’t you call me at the theater, Amelia? Anytime.”
Eric stayed behind to talk with me. “Careful, Sully. We may take you up on that.” He looked around, and then back at me. “Are you alone?”
“I am. Harry sends his best,” I said.
“I’ll bet,” Eric said. “Frankly, I’m surprised either of you came to the funeral. My father wasn’t one of your favorite people.”
I got a whiff of Eric’s whiskey-laden breath and took a long look at him. The bloodshot eyes and blotching skin were familiar signs that he’d been drinking. Hard. Aside from an occasional glass of wine, I hadn’t seen Eric drink for months.
“Harry came to the funeral for you, dope. This isn’t the best time to get into a pissing match.”
“You’re right. This isn’t the time. Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me … ”
Deep breath. Months of anger management and meditation had to have done me some good, right? “Well, for starters, you just got back from your father’s funeral. Grief, maybe some mixed emotions?”
A Christmas Peril Page 2