Cheddar Off Dead

by Julia Buckley

  “Lilah, I don’t know what you want me to say.” He sounded miserable.

  “I don’t know, either. But it dawned on me that if two people disagree on something as important as the truth—”

  There was commotion on Parker’s side, and a voice speaking to him. Parker said, “Lilah—something’s happening here. I’m sorry—this is not where I wanted to end this conversation, but—”

  “I get it. Go catch the bad guys. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and the line went dead.

  Wendy appeared behind me. “Everything okay?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I don’t know, really. Nothing a boatload of cookies won’t solve.”

  “I agree. And Betsy said she’d be happy to join us.”

  * * *

  We arrived at my parents’ lovely house, and Wendy did a quick surveillance before letting me emerge from the car. My father, who had been shoveling the driveway, looked on with interest. I introduced him to Wendy and then to Betsy, who had pulled up behind us. She was a small woman with brown hair and glasses; she wore a rust-colored ski jacket and expensive-looking jeans and boots.

  “So nice to meet you all,” she said in what could only be called a sweet voice. And just like that, Betsy fit right in. When we arrived in the kitchen and my mother took our coats and bustled out of the room with them, I saw that Betsy wore a red sweater that bore the embroidered words Jingle, Jingle, Jingle in happy Christmas lettering, and every letter bore a tiny bell.

  My mother returned, took one look at Betsy’s sweater, and clapped her hands. “I love Christmas sweaters!” she said. This was obvious, since her own holiday attire was a pair of black leggings and a long red Christmas sweater that said, Not a Creature Was Stirring, and had a detailed rendering of cute animals sleeping in front of a Christmas tree.

  The two women admired each other’s sweaters and talked animatedly while Wendy and I stood sniffing the air. Clearly something was already in the oven. “What are we making next, Mom?”

  She had just told Betsy to go to her iPod and find some fun baking music (whatever that might be), and now she turned back. “Okay. I have our favorite recipe cards lined up over there”—she pointed at one counter—“and I have four bowls set out here. Then all the ingredients are on the side. The big blue containers are flour and sugar, and I have several cartons of eggs here. And here’s the food coloring and the various types of sprinkles. Just pick something and have fun!”

  A thought occurred to me. “Wasn’t Serafina going to join us for this?”

  My mother nodded. “She was, but now she and Cam have to run a bunch of errands before their trip to Rome. We’ll see them tomorrow, I think.”

  Her eyes were sparkling; my mother loved Christmas, especially when her house was full of people. I gave her a quick impulsive hug, and then we did as she suggested. Twenty minutes later we were flour speckled and singing along with Dean Martin’s cover of “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.”

  My mother’s Russian tea cakes were already cooling on the rack, and we had all sampled more than one. They were buttery perfection, sugared green and red. I was contemplating getting another one when my phone rang. I wiped my hands on my apron and went into the hall, away from the music, before I answered.

  It was Tabitha. “Hi, Lilah. I just wanted to let you know that the show is opening again today, and I have complimentary tickets for you if you want to go, as sort of a holiday treat. You probably have plans, but—”

  “Hang on. Let me see if I have any takers,” I said. I asked the women in the kitchen, who, at their current level of hilarity and female bonding, were all for a road trip and a free show. My father, who had emerged from the snow red-faced and cold, said no, thanks, but he gratefully accepted the hot chocolate that Betsy pressed into his hands. The bakers had made it especially for him and then added artful swirls of whipped cream and chocolate sauce on the top. He gave me a quick kiss, took his sweet beverage into his office, and shut the door. He wore the rather solemn face that he always brought to the paying of bills.

  I lifted my phone. “Tabitha, sorry to keep you waiting. I will take four tickets, if that’s not too many.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll leave them at the box office under your name.”

  “Thanks so much. We’ll look for you after the show!”

  It seemed strange that the theater company had decided to begin the play again before Christmas, but then again they wouldn’t want to lose too much money, and the holidays must be big box office days.

  Back in the vanilla-scented kitchen the women were red-faced from the oven and concentrating on their tasks. Betsy was squeezing spritz cookies in the shape of wreaths from the press and onto a pan; Wendy was pressing tiny red-hot candy buttons into the bellies of gingerbread men; my mother was making a green frosting to put on some sugar cookies that cooled under the window. John Denver was singing “Aspenglow” in the background, and the music gave the moment a charmed, almost blessed feeling, accompanied by the occasional jingling of Betsy’s sweater bells.

  I joined them in the warm room and began to make a thin glaze for the Italian walnut cookies I was making in Serafina’s honor (and in honor of my once-beloved Italian teacher, Miss Abbandonato).

  “This is so nice,” my mother said. “It’s been a long time since Lilah brought a bunch of girlfriends home. I don’t think she’s done it since college.”

  “When did I ever do that?” I asked, sprinkling more powdered sugar into my glaze.

  “You brought half of your dorm here one Halloween. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, right. That was fun.”

  “It’s such a lovely house,” Bets said. “And this kitchen! I love that backsplash behind the oven. The whole thing is so happy and warm. And I love that lemony color on the walls.”

  My mother brightened. “We just finished renovating. We’re both Realtors, Dan and I, and we get such good ideas from looking at the houses we show. This was a kitchen we agreed on. And the backsplash is imported from Austria.”

  Bets moved closer to the wall, and my mother went over to detail the improvements. Wendy raised her eyebrows. “Someone’s going to want a new kitchen.”

  “Do you own a house?”

  “We rent one. With the option to buy someday, if we want. Bets has all these great decorating ideas. She’s like an encyclopedia.”

  “It’s great to have someone like that around. I’ve been thinking, with all the things we’re trying to process about this whole Whitefield thing—all the suspects, and—” I had been looking out my mother’s window and into her nicely shoveled driveway. Now I paused, my mouth still open, as something dawned on me.

  “What is it?” said Wendy, stiffening.

  I turned to her. “Where was Frank?”

  “What?”

  I pointed out the window. “And where is he now? Didn’t Mr. Donato say that Frank would be with us until we caught whoever killed Whitefield?”

  Wendy nodded.

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  She shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “And where was he yesterday when my house was shot? He wasn’t guarding me while I was with Parker, so shouldn’t he have been waiting at my place? If so, shouldn’t he have seen the man who shot the window?”

  Wendy was finished with her gingerbread men. She took the cookie sheet to the oven, her expression thoughtful.

  “Hang on—it’s time for mine to come out, and you can slide yours in,” I told her. I donned some oven mitts and removed the Italian cookies, fragrant with walnut and almond paste, and nudged my mother aside so I could set them on the counter. She was still showing Bets the new tile and trim and raving about the workmen they had found.

  I set my cookies on a rack to cool, and moved toward the window, where Wendy joined me. “As we said when we
put him on the list, Frank has dark hair,” Wendy said. “Do we now consider him more of a suspect?”

  “We need his picture. We can text it to Terry and see if he recognizes him.”

  Wendy nodded. “Let me see if Parker has anything.”

  As was her habit, she took her phone into the next room and made her call in relative quiet. She came back grinning. “I should have known; Parker didn’t have to look in the database. He photographed the guy himself on the first day Donato assigned him to you. He sent me the picture.”

  “Great. Let me give you Terry’s number and you can send it to him.”

  Moments later Wendy had sent the photo, and we awaited Terry’s response.

  “Did you tell Parker that Frank’s been MIA?”

  “Yeah. He said he noticed that yesterday. He tried to call Donato about it, but the man has suddenly disappeared, or at least is incommunicado. No one at the salon has seen him in two days.”

  “Why does this seem ominous?”

  “Not necessarily. Lots of people leave town at Christmas. We are just two days away.”

  “Right.”

  My phone rang; Terry didn’t like texting. He preferred to call and boom at me with his perpetually happy voice. “Hello?”

  “Lilah! I looked at this photo Wendy sent me, but this isn’t the guy.”

  “Have you seen him at all, lurking around my place or yours?”

  “I don’t think so. He has a pretty distinctive head of hair.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you do see him, okay? Or anyone out of the ordinary.”

  “You got it. Be careful.”

  I thanked him and said good-bye; Wendy sent me a questioning look, and I shook my head.

  My mother and Betsy were back at the kitchen island.

  “I have four giant Tupperware containers, so that everyone here walks home with a sampling of every type of cookie we made. You’ll be all set for the holidays,” my mother said.

  “I’ve never been to a cookie party,” Bets said. “This was great fun!”

  My mother was so happy it looked as though she’d been dipping into the eggnog I’d drunk the other night. “And now we all get to go out on the town!”

  * * *

  Many Chicago-area theaters are tucked into old storefronts or hidden in unlikely looking buildings, but this production of The Tempest was playing at the Theatre Downtown in Wallace Heights. I’d been there once before to see a production of Hedda Gabler with a college English class.

  The lobby was alive with that holiday feeling that comes close to Christmas; people with bright coats and stripy scarves milled around, enjoying their pre-holiday activities. I found myself briefly distracted, focusing on individual faces and wondering about the lives they lived. My brain was playing the “busy sidewalks” melodic line from “Silver Bells.” My mother appeared at my side and gave me a hug. “Let’s go, dreamy.” We picked up our tickets and found that Tabitha had scored us seats in the second row.

  “This is wonderful,” my mother said as we moved down the carpeted aisle. “I haven’t seen a live show in years!”

  My father didn’t like theater as a rule, which was a bone of contention between them, especially when my mother wanted to watch the Tony Awards.

  “Bets and I have season tickets to the Goodman,” Wendy said.

  My mother shot her an envious glance. We had reached our row, which had people already seated in it. “We’ll have to climb over some folks,” Bets murmured.

  A face turned toward us, and I recognized Cleo, who waved. “Hello!” she said. Her brother was with her, too. Had Parker not questioned him? I wondered. Cleo seemed happy to see us, but the tall and silent Ed seemed scowlingly uninterested. I noticed that, for the first time, Cleo looked pretty, and probably more like her regular self. Her red hair was styled into waves, and she had taken some trouble with her makeup. I understood, looking at her, why Bart had referred to her as Brad Whitefield’s hot wife. Or had he said sexy? Or something else? I didn’t know what words were popular with high school freshmen, but I remembered that Bart had made a point of mentioning Cleo’s attractiveness. I hadn’t agreed with him until now. Cleo was pretty, and her hair gleamed like copper under the theater lights.

  We moved past Cleo and her brother and tucked into our seats. Cleo leaned over and said, “Tabitha invited us.”

  “Will it be hard to watch the play—without him?”

  Cleo nodded, her eyes moist. “Yes. But Dylan is my friend, and I’m curious to see his interpretation of the role.”

  I took out my phone and set it to camera mode, then held it up. “Are we allowed to take pictures? Oops, I just took one.” I stared at my phone and its apparent malfunction.

  Cleo shook her head. “I don’t think so. No flash photography. Maybe if you turned off that bright flash.”

  “Okay, thanks.” No flash, in a darkened space like this, would produce barely any image at all. I wasn’t really interested in taking pictures of the theater, though.

  My mother was between Cleo and me, so I introduced her to Cleo and her brother. Being my mother, she immediately offered her condolences and then started a bright conversation that seemed to be keeping the interest of both Donatos.

  Using the moment of distraction, I texted Terry and sent him the picture of Ed-possibly-Eduardo Donato, the silent brother. Was this the guy from the driveway? I wrote.

  Next I texted Parker. Did you question Ed Donato, Cleo’s brother?

  A voice over a loudspeaker was asking us to silence our phones. I left mine on vibrate, in case someone texted me back, and stowed it in my pocket.

  The lights went out, the curtains opened, and we were sinking with sailors on a tempestuous sea, who cried, “All lost!” as though their hearts would break.

  I, too, was lost, for the next three hours, in the magic that is Shakespeare. I rarely came out of the story, except to notice how beautiful Isabel Beauchamp looked in her sparkling nude bodysuit, meant to convey Ariel’s ability to blend in, but sequined to remind us of Ariel’s magical powers. Her hair tumbled down her back as she ran back and forth on the stage, explaining to Prospero the way she (he, as Ariel) enchanted the sailors. Claudia Birch looked tall and noble as Miranda, and there was a clear chemistry between her and the young man who played her lover, Ferdinand. Dylan Marsh was impressive as Prospero: handsome, clever, humorous with some of his interpretations. The audience seemed to like him, and I noted Cleo smiling now and again. I found myself wishing I’d had a chance to see Brad Whitefield in the same role; while Marsh was good, he was not great, and Whitefield had been said to have put forth a stunning performance of this magical character.

  I had not known Brad Whitefield, yet I found myself missing him. How much more of a void had he left for those who actually knew and loved him?

  These thoughts lingered in my head when the cast assembled on the stage for a final bow. Dylan Marsh exchanged an affectionate glance with Isabel as he took her hand and bent forward, at the end of the play, to much applause. I thought I saw a moment of pain flash through Isabel’s eyes as she faced the audience for the first time without her hand in Whitefield’s—her cast mate and soul mate. Was it my secret knowledge of their relationship that made Marsh’s expression seem so triumphant, so gloating as he took his bows? His face, still a combination of handsome and evil, looked boldly out into the audience, at one point making eye contact with me and showing both recognition and surprise. I sent him a little wave, and his gaze moved on.

  I looked to the left and saw that Tabitha, normally in the wings, had moved slightly onto the stage to clap for the actors. She wore the obligatory stage tech black and a red theater lanyard that said, Staff, along with her headset. Something in her face looked familiar. . . . I stiffened and grabbed Wendy’s arm. “I need to talk to Tabitha,” I said. “You should probably come, too.”

  Sh
e nodded. I made an excuse to my mother, and we slid out of the row and moved out and into the lobby, seeking a backstage entrance. A young person with a telltale red lanyard and a headset stood in our way. “Only staff in there,” she said.

  For the first time since I’d known her, Wendy flashed her badge. “And police,” she said. “We need to speak with Tabitha.”

  The young person stepped aside, her mouth agape, and we walked down a long, dark hallway that led us to a wooden-floored backstage area filled with scenery and props. A few people milled around, but most were standing at the edge of the stage, watching the cast take their bows.

  We spotted Tabitha and moved up behind her. “Tabitha,” I said, tapping her shoulder.

  She turned, surprised, and then grinned at us. “Hi, guys! How did you get back here?”

  “Is there someplace we can talk?” I said.

  “I really can’t right now. They’re about to flow off the stage, and I need—”

  “I know you’re Count Fury,” I said. “I know about Kingdoms.”

  “What?” she and Wendy asked in unison. But on Tabitha’s face I saw a red-faced shame that supported my suspicions. In that moment on the stage, she had looked exactly like the count at the edge of Thrivven’s kingdom: always looking from the outskirts, in a black outfit and a red sash (her lanyard), wearing an expression of bitter disappointment at her perpetual exclusion.

  Now Tabitha pursed her lips. “Fine. But we have to wait,” she said, pointing at the actors still taking their bows.

  Wendy and I stayed close to her until the curtains had closed. She finally acknowledged us with a loud sigh. Then she lifted a curtain and ushered us through. “We can go back here.” She led us behind the stage itself, into another little hallway that housed tiny actor makeup rooms. I glimpsed Dylan Marsh in his room, peering into his mirror as he dabbed away his makeup with a cotton ball. Apparently he wasn’t planning to go out and meet any fans; he seemed to be in a hurry, and his hand looked as though it was shaking. I wondered if he had been drinking. . . .

  But then we were past his room. One of the doors had Tabitha’s name on it, written in pen on a piece of loose-leaf paper and affixed to the door with scotch tape. Production values of community theater, I thought. The room held only a table and chair and was cluttered with papers and props. “How do you even know about Kingdoms?” Tabitha asked.