Harry and I had another thing in common: we were both orphaned. It doesn’t matter how old you are when your second parent dies; becoming an orphan is a horrible rite of passage. Harry lost his father a few months after we met, and our shared grief provided a layer to our friendship that propelled it from friends to something akin to a soulmate.
Now Eric had joined the orphan club, but it was different. We both knew that his relationship with his father was troubled at best. I wondered if that made it more difficult for Eric to lose his father. When Peter was murdered, Eric lost his last chance to convince his father to accept him for who he was, rather than the son Peter made no bones about wanting him to be.
Harry picked up my pile of discarded mail and began to rip it into pieces, putting each of the fragments in a different pile to be discarded in different recycling bins. This was my doing, this paranoid mail discarding. I knew of far too many people who were undone by someone else pawing through their mail, stealing a credit card application or an insurance renewal, and wreaking havoc with their life. The Cliffside had enough troubles without getting its credit damaged by identity theft.
“Maybe I should buy a shredder.” I’d always found a better use for the money, but this ripping ritual was ridiculous, though strangely therapeutic. And Harry was an amazing ripper, making sure to destroy addresses while somehow tearing things into fairly uniform squares.
“How was Eric holding up at the reception?” he asked after a moment. He said it a little too nonchalantly. I wondered when they’d last spoken.
“He wasn’t his normal charming self,” I said. “But he was wrestled away from me by Brooke. She’s really something, isn’t she? Is she always—”
“Had he been drinking?”
“Yeah, he had. But to be fair, there was an open bar. I was the only person not drinking.” Eric and drinking had a rocky relationship. One might say that Eric didn’t do it well, but that wasn’t true. He did it very well. But he was a mean drunk. He’d quit drinking hard liquor last New Year’s as a resolution and promise to Harry. He drank an occasional glass of wine with dinner, but he’d stuck to his resolution as far as I knew.
As if reading my mind, Harry offered me more information. “Something’s been up at work. I don’t know what—he wouldn’t talk about it. He’s been hitting the bourbon bottle a lot lately, falling into some bad habits. That’s one reason we decided to take a break.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“I thought it would blow over, but now … he’s taking his father’s death pretty hard. Harder than Peter deserved, you know?”
“You’ve been in contact?”
“Through texts. He won’t talk to me.”
“That’s tough,” I said. I hated texts. I texted, but I much preferred talking to people. “I’m not surprised he’s taking Peter’s death hard. He was a loyal son. And he’s a very loyal brother.”
“Yes, he’s worried sick about Amelia.”
“She seems a little, um, medicated.”
“She’s always on a different plain of existence. It’s part of her charm. Her father used to call her his hippy. I’m not surprised she’s a wreck. She loved the old bastard. And she’s the one who found him. He was locked in his office, and no one else had been in there all night. Emma says—”
“Emma?”
“She and I have been talking every day. Talking, not texting.”
“I didn’t realize you were that close,” I said.
The ripping was finally over. Harry took one of the piles and put it in his knapsack. He’d recycle it at home. Then he moved on to sorting the rest of the mail into piles.
“We’re friendly, but we weren’t that close until all this happened,” he said. “I called to offer my condolences, and she opened up. She needed someone familiar with the players, but a little removed, you know? She’s processing a lot right now. Especially if … ”
“If what?”
“If someone in the family killed Peter.”
“Do they think it was the family?” I was getting hooked on the puzzle—it had started with my tour outside the Anchorage. My personality drove me to understand, and complete, puzzles. My strength lay in the fact that I never forced the pieces. Instead, I continued to look for new ones to complete the picture. “Maybe someone came in from outside.”
Harry shook his head. “Impossible. Well, maybe not impossible, but unlikely. The fence around the property is secure, and there are security cameras inside and outside the house. Peter was a freak about security. Coming up from the cliff would be tough no matter what, but the Saturday he died was that storm, remember? The ice and sleet? No way someone could get up in that. Even if they could climb up the cliff to the windows of his study, what then? The windows don’t open at the bottom. Only the transom windows open, on top.”
“You’ve thought a lot about this,” I said. I thought back to the windows, and my theory that the shot must have come from inside the house. If only family was there …
“No one else went in or came out?” I asked.
“Not from what I’ve heard. Did you meet Terry?”
“Emma’s husband, yes.” Harry and I paused. I assumed that Harry probably knew about Emma meeting with me last spring, since Eric had set it up, but we’d never discussed it. I wanted to go there, to start dishing, but that would be betraying Emma. I let the moment pass.
“Anyway,” he said, acknowledging the pause, “Terry is the son Peter always wanted, and got when Terry married Emma. Poor Em. She has the goods, you know. But Peter passed the reins to Terry when he decided Eric wasn’t up to snuff. Emma could run the company, but he was a sexist old bastard. Anyway, Terry and Peter had a conference call around midnight the night Peter was killed. Amelia found her dad around seven the next morning. Coroner said he’d only been dead a couple of hours, but she couldn’t be sure of an exact time of death.”
“You said there were cameras?”
“The cops have the recordings. But from what Emma’s heard, they aren’t helpful. If someone was walking in the dark, it would be tough to identify them.”
I took one pile of mail and put it in my bag, and threw away another in a recycling bin. I wanted to ask a million questions—how did they set the time of death? Were the recordings tampered with? Were they digital or on tape? Or both? Did they confirm the call? But I moved away from the murder details, tempting as they were. Harry’s expertise was the family dynamic, not ballistics. “What did you mean by ‘Eric wasn’t up to snuff’?”
“You know … a businessman like his old man.”
“Eric has a great reputation.”
“I’m not saying that Eric isn’t good at business. I’m saying that he isn’t his father’s son. He’s always fighting for the little guy, questioning the ethics of buying a small company as if you’re going to fold it into your company and then squash it like a bug. He doesn’t have the stomach for running the business like his father.”
“Does Emma?” I realized that though I knew Eric as an adult, the Emma I knew, really knew, was about ten years old. I wondered how the Emma I’d met this spring fit into that picture. Was the wronged wife who wore her emotions on her sleeve part of the woman Emma had become, or an aberration? Was Emma a cold, heartless businesswoman, a Peter protégé save the gender difference?
“Yes, she does, for the most part,” Harry replied. “She listens to Eric, seeks his counsel, shields him from the really difficult decisions. And he lets her.”
“She’s the big sister.” Sibling relationships intrigued me. I’d met siblings who’d die for one another, who’d kill for one another, and who’d gladly kill each other.
“To both Eric and Amelia. And Eric’s the big brother to Amelia. There’s no one in the world he would do more for than Amelia. No one.”
“Does he think Amelia had anything to do with her father’s dea
th?”
“I have no idea. He’s made it really clear that taking care of her is his priority right now.”
“Which means?”
“Keeping her out of jail. Whatever it takes.”
• Five •
The phone call came Monday morning. I didn’t recognize the number on my caller ID, which usually means I let it go to voicemail and deal with it later. But this time I picked up. Granted, since Massachusetts enacted the Do Not Call law, picking up isn’t as hazardous to my mental equilibrium as it once was, but it was still a risk.
“Did I wake you?” Emma was on the line.
“No, I’ve been up for a while,” I lied. I’d been up for the fifteen seconds since the phone rang.
“Thanks for coming to the funeral.”
“Of course. Again, I’m so sorry—”
“So am I. My father was a pain in the ass and could be a world-class bastard.” I smiled at that—the exact phrase my father used to describe Peter Whitehall. “But he was my father, and I loved him,” Emma went on. “I hope he knew that. I’ve spent a lot of this past week, since it … happened, thinking about how he would have wanted things handled. I have a pretty good idea. He was always clear about prioritizing. Protect the business and the family at all costs.”
“What happens if there’s a conflict between the two?” I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stretched. Max took it as a signal to get up and get ready for his breakfast. He did his cat yoga on the bed, and then jumped down. We both left the bedroom together and walked into the kitchen.
“He didn’t tell me how to handle that. Right now, the business is fine. It’s Amelia.”
“She seemed pretty wrecked.”
“I believe my father loved all of his children, I do, but I know he loved Amelia. Which is why it’s so ridiculous.”
“What?”
“That she’s under suspicion,” Emma said. For the first time, I heard her voice break a little.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I know you don’t do this kind of work anymore, but I was hoping that you could help … ”
“Clear Amelia?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Listen, Sully, I don’t know what to think. She doesn’t remember anything from that night. She doesn’t even remember finding him.” Emma took a ragged breath and fought for control. She’d regained it when she spoke next. “I’m almost at the office, so here it is, all the cards on the table. I don’t think Amelia did it, but someone in the house did.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Yes, the police confirmed it. My father had an extensive security system. All the doors and windows were secured, and no one came in or left from nine until the police arrived the next morning. The list is short. And everyone on it is family, or close to. What I need you to do is to figure out what the police could use as evidence, so that we’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To circle the wagons, if need be.” Her sentence hung there for a while. I had no doubt the Whitehall family would, and could, “circle the wagons,” whatever that meant. I questioned whether or not I wanted to be a part of it, but decided to cross that bridge when I got to it.
Who killed Peter Whitehall intrigued me. I wouldn’t deny it.
“Emma, I can’t promise anything. But I’ll confess, the challenge of figuring this out is intriguing. Tell me about who was at the house.”
“Terry. Eric. Mrs. Bridges. Clive Willis, a business associate. Hal Maxwell, I think you know him?”
“I’ve met him several times at the Cliffside. I know his wife, Babs Allyn.”
“She wasn’t there, but Jerry and Mimi Cunningham came. Hal and the Cunninghams left early because of the weather, but they were on the conference call later.”
“Why was the call so late?”
“Foreign business.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“Brooke was there, of course. Mrs. Bridges sent the rest of the staff home while the roads were still passable.”
“Emma, do you have an idea of who might have done it?” I asked gently.
Emma sighed. “Sully, this is between you and me, but I wouldn’t be heartbroken to find out Brooke did it. I don’t like her, never have, and I look forward to extricating her from our lives.” The vehemence that dripped from her last statement was the strongest emotion I’d heard displayed so far in this conversation.
“Okay … ”
“Sorry, sorry,” Emma said. “She gets under my skin. When I left the house this morning, she was already half in the bag.”
“She has a drinking problem?”
“She drinks, but it’s never been a problem per se. The last couple of days, though, she’s stayed pretty toasted. Listen, I’ve got to go into the office. I’ve told Mrs. Bridges I was going to try and talk you into looking around.”
“No promises, but I’ll go visit Mrs. Bridges, see what I come up with. I’m not an investigator anymore—”
“But you are family. Thank you, Sully. Oh, wait, before you go, one more thing.”
“Yes?” I said.
“For the record, I didn’t kill my father.”
“I didn’t think you did,” I said. I may have been lying.
I took a quick shower, fed Max, and headed into the theater as soon as the coffee was made and poured into my travel mug. During show weeks, Monday is usually dark, meaning there are no performances. Even during rehearsal weeks it’s often the day off. But not this week. This Monday was the last Monday before we performed for a paying audience on Friday. We had five preview performances, then opened the next week. By this point the cast, crew, and designers were deep into technical rehearsals, focusing lights, practicing costume changes, setting the props, working on the set. Dimitri was at the helm, but now the pilot was Connie, our stage manager. All I could do was hold Dimitri’s hand while refusing to throw any more money at this debacle.
So when I got to the high school, that is precisely what I did. I checked in with everyone and said no to a half-dozen requests coming from every department. I knew Dimitri had put the requestors up to it; their hearts weren’t in it. Somewhere along the line, Dimitri had decided to up the ante with the production values like lights, costumes, sound, and set to help offset what some had nicknamed “A Christmas Dirge.” He was trying to take our small show into the special effects world of Broadway, and I was running interference. I couldn’t see how adding more lights and fog to the scenes would really help cover up the fact that Scrooge couldn’t remember his lines or his blocking.
Trying to clear my schedule, Stewart texted as I made my way to the tech table in the middle of the theater. Got a commercial. Be up tonight or early tomorrow a.m.
Thank you! Keep me posted, I texted back.
I sat through as much of the rehearsal as I could stand, which wasn’t much. Tech rehearsals are notoriously slow and exacting. I went out to the lobby and sipped my coffee while reading through emails on my phone. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t concentrate. Finally I called Mrs. Bridges, the Whitehall family housekeeper.
When I heard her voice and the relief in it when she knew it was me, I knew I’d committed to looking into the murder. Mrs. Bridges invited me over for tea, and I accepted. For the second time in less than a week, I found myself at the Anchorage.
I rang the buzzer at the gate and gave my name. Today mine was the only car in the large circular drive. The gray December sky added an ominous backdrop to the imposing house, but it suited the sepia palette of the place, with the landscape and the sky working together to enhance the house’s majesty. Red ribbons had replaced the black ones on the wreaths. I would have spent a few more seconds looking around, but the door swung open and I found myself face to face with Mrs. Bridges.
I’d known her my entire life, and I was amazed at how little she’d c
hanged over time. She was plumper now; not fat, just rounded out a little. Her hair was grayer, but her French braid was the same. Her wide-legged pants, unstructured jacket, and dark-colored shirt were simple but high quality. She remained neither fashionable nor unfashionable, but timeless instead.
“It’s been a long time. Let me look at you.” She held me out at arm’s length and then folded me into her arms and gave me a hug. It caught me off balance. My initial instinct was to pull away, but I allowed myself to relax for a minute. It had been a long time since someone had held me that tight. I’d forgotten how safe it felt. She let go and took me by the elbow, guiding me toward the kitchen at the back of the house, her domain.
“It’s good to see you, Mrs. B. It’s been a while.”
“Well, I saw you at the funeral, of course. And I’ve seen you at the theater a few times.”
“You have? I didn’t see you … ”
“You’re always so busy, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Please interrupt. You would probably save me from some horror or another. I always love seeing a friendly face.”
“Next time I will, I promise.”
“Mrs. B., I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to offer my condolences.”
“Thank you, Edwina.” I winced. She was the only person who still called me Edwina and got away with it. “He was a difficult man to be sure. But he treated me well for a lot of years. I’ll miss him.”
“At least he and his Emily are together again,” I offered by way of rote comfort, channeling my mother for a moment.
Mrs. Bridges laughed. “Now surely you don’t believe that, do you? Now really, darlin’, we both know Mr. Whitehall has some warm days in front of him before he’s allowed to see his sainted wife, may God rest her soul.”
“Maybe she put in a good word for him … ”
“And your father would have waited until she left, and then he’d have set Saint Peter straight. No, Peter Whitehall has some penance to do before he rests.”
“You don’t think my father did?”
A Christmas Peril Page 5