Cheddar Off Dead (14 page)

Whitefield, according to the page stats, had 3,458 “likes.” That was pretty good for an amateur actor, I thought. The last person to leave a comment on the page had written, “Rest in peace, Brad. We'll miss you.” I scrolled down to see that many other fans had left little eulogies on the page. I wanted to see who had last written to him when he was still alive.

It took a significant amount of scrolling, but I finally got to the sixteenth—the day Brad was killed. The last three
people to post were his wife, Cleo; Talia Donato; and Isabel Beauchamp. His wife had written, “For all of Brad's fans—check out this TV commercial Brad did back when he was eighteen!” She had posted a link, a rather blurry copy of a Chicago-area car commercial starring a young and gawky-looking Whitefield. Still, his talent had been apparent even then, and he hadn't been afraid to look right into the camera.

Talia Donato had written, “Break a leg tonight, Brad and the whole talented cast of
The Tempest
! We love you!” Hmm.

Isabel Beauchamp's post, the final one before the obituaries began, said, “I am loving this play and this wonderful cast, but oh, I think we could all use a break!” She followed this with an emoticon of a clearly exhausted person, whose eyes drooped with near sleep. My eyes flicked back to the cover photograph; this time I saw something I hadn't seen before: part of the backstage area was visible in the picture. And there, standing in the wings with a headset on, was Tabitha. “Wendy!” I called, but she was still on the phone.

Tabitha had told me that Brad was in “some show” in the suburbs. She had distanced herself from it, implied that she had the playbill because someone gave it to her. And when I'd mentioned Parker, she said she didn't really want to talk to any police.

What struck me now, looking at the picture, was that even in the background, in the shadowy backstage, it was easy to see the look of love on Tabitha's face. She was gazing at the line of actors with an almost worshipful expression. The question was—with which actor was Tabitha Roth in love, and why hadn't this come up in
conversation?

I
showed the Facebook page to Wendy, who also thought there was much to study in both the verbal and visual rhetoric.

Meanwhile I realized that the time of The Christmas Party—the one thrown by Jenny's boss Dave—was approaching, and I had to get ready. Serafina had given me a slinky dress in a daring emerald-green to wear, but it was far too cold a night; I longed to wear something warm. I rooted through my closet until I found a holiday favorite: a thin silver turtleneck flecked with shiny, diamond-like threads. I had often worn it on Christmas or New Year's Eve, and it looked nice on me. I donned it, along with a slim-fitting pair of black pants, which I tucked into some knee-high black boots. I added rhinestone earrings and a long, thin silver chain, on which hung a rhinestone star. The
necklace was what my mother called “junk jewelry,” but I had always loved it, and it complemented the outfit nicely. I fluffed out my hair, put on some eyeliner and soft pink lipstick, and went back down the stairs, where Wendy sat texting on my couch.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was just saying hi to Bets.”

“That's fine.”

“You look great! Parker's going to be distracted.”

I sighed. “I wish.”

“Do you? You always seem kind of mad at him.”

“And he always seems kind of mad at me.”

“That's what they call sexual tension,” Wendy said, her expression sage.

I laughed. “Anyway, I guess he'll be my guard while we're at the party, so does that mean you can go home, or . . . ?”

“No—he'll want me here, watching for any unwelcome visitors.”

“Then let me show you what I have in the fridge, in case you get hungry.” We went into the kitchen, and I pointed out the various cold cuts and fresh rolls, as well as some Tupperware containers with leftovers that might appeal to her.

“Looks great. Am I allowed to share with Mick?”

“In small doses. I don't want him getting too spoiled. And whatever he eats, he should eat in his bowl.” This was hypocritical, since I had been known to feed Mick under the dinner table on many occasions, but I was trying to convey the idea that I was a strict and attentive dog owner.

“Cool,” Wendy said. “Do you want to watch some TV?”

“Sure. What do you like?”

“I was looking at your DVDs, and I noticed you have
Arrested Development
. Do you mind if I play an episode or two? Bets and I love that show.”

I agreed, and we watched two shows from season one, marveling at the hilarious antics of a talented cast. I confided my crush on Jason Bateman and my admiration for all of them, particularly Jessica Walter. “They're such a great ensemble,” I said. “They work so well together—” I paused, thinking suddenly of the cast picture on Brad Whitefield's Facebook page. Everyone had gone on and on about what a great cast it was. How would the chemistry change now that Whitefield was gone? Would Dylan Marsh be able to fill his shoes? If not, how would that affect their chances at going on the road, and eventually to Broadway?

*   *   *

Parker arrived at six thirty, looking distracted. He wore a bulky black coat, a red scarf, and earmuffs. “It's five below,” he said when he came in. “Make sure you bundle up, Lilah.”

I did, with a Gore-Tex vest and a parka, along with double-stitched mittens and a huge gray scarf, which I wound around my head several times. I waved to Wendy and followed Parker out to his car, which he had left running. I climbed in, unwrapped my scarf slightly, and said, “Ah—heat.”

“It's a cold night.” Parker turned toward me on the seat. “I know your friend wanted to meet us first, but wouldn't it be better to catch up with her at the party? Otherwise you have to thaw out and refreeze twice.”

This was practical—at last, something that Parker and I had in common. “I'll call her,” I said. I took off my mittens
so that I could dial Jenny's number. There were bits of ice in the wind, and they clacked against the window of Parker's car.

Jenny answered with her bright voice, and since she was Jenny, she was forgiving of the change in plans. She provided clear directions to our destination, and I thanked her before hanging up. “Wow,” I said.

“What?”

“This guy lives in Woodcrest.”

“Fancy.”

“How does he afford that subdivision when he works at a
grade school
?”

Parker shrugged. “The origin of people's money is always a mystery.” He pulled smoothly out of the long driveway and into traffic.

I found myself tongue-tied. For one thing, I had no idea if this was a real date, or if it was just another evening with Parker being obsessed by his work. If it was the former, I had absolutely no idea what to do or say. I noted that Parker's car was nice inside, with comfortable seats that still bore a trace of the smoke smell from the habit in which Parker tried to pretend he had never indulged. Now that I thought about it, he patted at his pockets less often than when I had first met him and his hands had always sought phantom cigarettes.

Parker cleared his throat. “You look nice.”

“Thanks. I went for warmth over style.”

“You look very stylish.”

“You look very Eskimo-like.”

Parker sniffed out a laugh and flicked on his turn signal
with a casual gloved hand. “Wendy says you met quite an odd assortment of people since I saw you last.”

“God, yes. Did she already fill you in, or do you want my take?”

“Every detail helps.” His eyes were on traffic, but I had the sense that Parker, too, was at a loss for words, and he was relying on the safety of work talk.

“Okay. Gosh, where to begin—the eccentric actors or the seemingly sociopathic mobster who says he's not a mobster?”

“It all sounds entertaining,” Parker said, shooting me a little grin.

So I told him: about Isabel and her fragile beauty; about Allison and her noble profile; about Dylan and his villainous beard. About Serafina and her mugging. And—very quietly—about my call to Enrico Donato.

“What?” Parker yelled.

“Why not? He said he's a harmless family man. So I told him I was about family, too. He should appreciate that. He must, because he sent his son to my house.”

“God. I had no idea that's why Donato Junior came for a visit. Lilah, what if these men
are
dangerous? What if they don't like you getting into their business?”

I sat up straighter. “What if I don't like them getting into
mine
? Shooting at me and my brother? Mugging my sister? By marriage, but still!”

“Okay, calm down. I'm just saying—I worry about the chances you take. I don't know how to make you realize—I've seen terrible things, Lilah.”

“So have I.”

He braked at a red light and turned to me. “And I don't
want you to have to see any more, nor do I want any more henchmen showing up at your door. I want you—to have a nice Christmas.”

This was surprising, and I went silent for a minute. “That was sweet, Parker.”

He opened his mouth, then shut it. The light turned green, and he drove through the intersection and turned right into the gates of the beautiful Woodcrest subdivision—the ritziest place in Pine Haven. “We're here,” he said. “Party time.”

And the moment that might have been something was lost.

J
enny and Ross pulled up just after we did, and we walked in together. Jenny had apparently been here before, and she knocked briefly, then opened the door.

“They'll be way at the back,” she said. “That's why Dave left the door open.” She took off her coat in the large, impressive foyer, set it on a side table, and arranged her clothes in front of a marble-framed mirror that hung on the wall near the entrance. Her brown hair hung loose and glossy down the back of her red dress; her eyes were shining. “Come on in and I'll make some introductions. I'm sure everyone's in the party room, like last year, so we have a minute to get acquainted. This is Ross. You two met once before.” Ross shook my hand, then Parker's.

“Let me take all your winter gear,” Jenny said. “Ross and
I know the drill. Isn't it horrible out there? Like a frozen nightmare.” She touched her cheeks, reddened with the cold, and then waited expectantly. We tucked our gloves and scarves into our coat pockets and handed Jenny our gear. She darted to a closet I had not seen before, opened it, and hung up our coats, with the help of the attentive Ross. Then she returned to us and met my gaze. “And who is your companion, Lilah?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Jenny Braidwell, this is Jay Parker. Ross, Jay.” The men nodded at each other.

Devoid of winter gear, Parker looked like a different man—a man I had never seen before. He wore an elegant dark blue button-down shirt tucked into a pair of charcoal gray pants, under which he wore dark boots. His hair, slightly flattened by his earmuffs, had been lightly slicked back in a stylish way. The blue of his shirt seemed to enhance the blue of his eyes, and the overall effect was dramatic.

Jenny waved some fingers in front of my face. “Come on this way—I'll introduce you to the gang.” She grabbed my hand, and the men were forced to follow; I heard them making conversation behind us that sounded friendly enough. Meanwhile Jenny was hissing in my ear: “Where do you
find
them? I thought Angelo was sexy, but this guy—wow. He's got a Paul Newman thing going on.”

He didn't. But he did look good. I peeked once more over my shoulder at the two dark-haired men.

“How about this place?” Jenny asked quietly. “Isn't it amazing?”

I took in the grandeur of the hallway we were traversing, from its shining hardwood floors to its oak-trimmed doorways. We were passing a table with two fat potted pines,
glowing with holiday lights and lustrous red ribbon. They were the work of an expensive florist, and they smelled wonderful. “Yeah. Tell me again what teachers make per year?”

She giggled, then paused, holding me back for a quick burst of gossip before we joined the throng that I could hear at the back of the house. We waited for Parker and Ross to join us. “I know! But it's not Dave who makes the money—it's his wife. She's the president of Cartman Bank—that big one downtown, by Water Tower Place?”

“Wow. Well, that explains a lot.”

“It's a great house,” Ross said. “I came here to watch football with Dave a few weeks ago. His TV room is like a theater. Surround sound, all that jazz.”

“Wow,” I said.

Parker was looking past us, probably longing to interrogate people. “How many of your coworkers are here tonight?”

Jenny consulted Ross for confirmation. “I think—just about all of them. We're a little school; only eight full-time classroom teachers, and then some staff members. I think everyone made it tonight except for Jan Berthold, and she's super pregnant.”

Parker chuckled. It sounded fake to me, but Jenny and Ross didn't seem to notice. “There are a lot more than eight people here.”

Jenny nodded; we had all noticed the noise level growing as we approached the back of the house. “Yeah—like I said, this isn't just a work thing. He invites all kinds of friends and acquaintances, and people bring family, other friends, whatever.”

We moved on, into a high-ceilinged, warmly lit room
dominated by the largest Christmas tree I had ever seen. This stood in one corner, next to a fireplace that crackled with authentic flames. “Is that real?” I said, pointing to the tree.

The hostess, a woman with an elegant gray bob and a red velvet dress, homed in on me and floated over. She seemed a bit tipsy. “It is real! Can you smell it? David and I have a little place in Michigan, and there's a Christmas tree farm down the road. We order one from them every year, and they deliver it in a truck. It's our little tradition.”

“Amazing,” I said. “It's beautiful.”

She stuck out her hand. “I'm Emma Brent. And this is my husband, David,” she said, grabbing a bookish-looking man with silver-rimmed glasses and slightly stooped posture. “David, these are Jennifer's friends.”

David was almost as jolly as his wife. “Nice to meet you! We're glad to have you here. Em and I love Christmas, and we always try to do it up like Fezziwig.”

We laughed, and Jenny introduced Parker and me. “Lilah was just on television. On
Cooking with Angelo
!” Jenny said.

Emma and Dave beamed. “That's terrific. You must be so proud of her!” Emma said, turning to Parker, whose eyes had been drifting around the room.

Parker clicked back to attention. “Oh, I am,” he said, slipping an arm around my shoulder. “Lilah is a woman of endless talents.”

Emma proceeded to point out some of the people milling around the room, introducing them by name far too quickly for me to remember them all. There was a red-haired music teacher named Peter, who was plunking out Christmas tunes on the Brents' grand piano; there were two young
women named Kathy and what sounded like Carol; there was an older man with a pipe—it sounded as though Emma had called him Biff. Then a married couple whose names I didn't catch, and two middle-aged women holding glasses of red wine and looking pleased with the world, along with a variety of random people who didn't work at the school at all but were, like Parker and me, just there as escorts or friends.

Parker still had his arm around me—a fact I would have resented if I weren't enjoying it so much. Now he pulled me into a corner and put his mouth close to my ear. “Talk to any of the women you can. You're charismatic, and they'll open up to you.”

This was not the sort of dialogue I'd been hoping for. I pushed his arm away and said, “Make up your mind, Parker—is this business or pleasure?”

His eyes widened. “I told you why I wanted to attend. But it's always a pleasure to be with you.”

I sighed. I was tired of Parker and his two-sided utterances. “Fine. I'll talk to the women.”

Emma Brent came wafting past on a cloud of expensive perfume. “Did everyone have a chance to sign the card for Cleo? She's stopping by later, if she feels up to it. And if anyone else wanted to add to the cash donation, we'll be giving that to her when she comes.”

“Who's Cleo?” asked one of the middle-aged women.

“She's Brad Whitefield's wife. You know Brad—our Santa every year?”

“Oh God, yes. Oh wow.”

Several people formed a large, casual semicircle, apparently wanting to hear what was said about Brad. “Poor lady,”
someone said. “I still can't believe it about Brad. He was just a kid, really. And right outside the school!”

“Lilah was there,” Parker said. I stared at him, stupefied into silence, but soon realized why he'd done it. The semicircle readjusted itself around me, and people started asking questions. Parker slid away, the traitor, to watch from an objective distance.

“Oh my goodness,” Emma Brent said, bending her tall frame and touching my shoulder. “You were there? When Brad was shot?”

“Um—yes. I had dropped something off for Jenny, and I just happened to be there when Brad was there. We talked for a while, and then I was leaving, and he was going off to run some errand, and—”

One of the women edged forward, her face curious and sad. “Did you see it happen?”

“No—just the aftermath. I was the one who called the ambulance. I—there was nothing I could do for him.”

Then all sorts of people were taking turns patting my shoulder and giving me sympathetic glances.

“You didn't see who did it—not at all?” asked David Brent.

“No, I'm afraid not. I was distracted. I heard the car drive in, but I didn't look up, and when I heard the gunshot, it didn't immediately register. I wasn't any help to the police.”

“What a shame,” said David. “But I suppose it's better for you in the long run. You wouldn't want to be a witness.”

I saw Parker's face through the crowd of people, and I realized that he had done me a favor. Now a room full of partygoers was aware that I had nothing to tell the police.
Perhaps that included the perpetrator, or someone who knew the perpetrator. Perhaps word would spread.

Apparently people still weren't finished asking me about Whitefield. Two young women sidled up to me and introduced themselves as Tara and Andrea—the kindergarten teachers.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

Emma whisked past again and stuck a glass of eggnog in my hand, then moved on to her buffet table and began arranging things.

The woman named Tara, a small blonde person with red glasses, said that she knew Brad. “We used to go out sometimes, a big group of us from Pine Haven. Brad and Cleo would go, too. Just to a pub somewhere, and we'd all watch a football game and have beer and chat.”

“Ah.”

“Did he—did Brad say anything to you? Before he—?” Tara blushed.

“No. No, he—wasn't conscious. I shouldn't really talk about this at a party.”

“No, of course not.” The women exchanged a glance. Then the one named Andrea, who was also blonde, and plump, said, “I just can't imagine seeing someone die. I've never even been to a wake. I've never seen a dead person.”

I sipped the glass of eggnog; it was spiked with something, but it was delicious. I drank it in about three gulps.

“Isn't that great?” Tara said. “Dave makes it every year. Talk about holiday spirit. He's bottled it.”

I was feeling a little more Christmassy; when Emma came past five minutes later with a tray of cups, I grabbed
one and deposited my empty. Then, with liquid courage, I began making the rounds. I asked Tara and Andrea how well they knew Brad, aside from the occasional drinks at pubs. They both shook their heads. “I never saw him outside of a group,” Tara said.

Andrea consumed a little meatball off of a toothpick—standard party fare. I needed to get a look at Emma's buffet table and see who had catered this shindig. “I didn't know him at all. Just as Santa. But the kids loved him. He really did talk to each child. He was good at finding out the Christmas wishes of each one, and then we would take their picture, and I'd jot down the wishes on the back, for their parents. It was a cute tradition that we had. I'll miss him.”

I thanked them and moved farther into the room. It was a lovely space, and the Brents had decorated with elegant flair. The long food table, covered in a red cloth and festooned with gold bows and glitter, held the basics of a high-class catered event: a large shrimp tray with a fancy-looking cocktail sauce; little baked wontons filled with walnut chicken; grapes rolled in cheese and coated with pistachios; fried ravioli with a marinara dipping sauce; a baked Brie with a cranberry topping and a scattering of bread and crackers. It was admirable, but nothing that Haven hadn't produced, and I felt confident that Esther and Jim could have made this table shine more brightly. I would be giving Haven's card to Emma before the evening was over.

I looked for Jenny, but she was with Ross, and they were precariously near the mistletoe that hung in the grand doorway. It seemed that he was trying to maneuver her over there. I was confident that Jenny was aware of his game and
enjoying it. Considering what was probably about to happen, now was not the time for me to make small talk with her boyfriend. One of the middle-aged women moved past me, and I followed her. “It's a lovely party,” I said.

“Oh yes,” she said. “I'm just aiming for that window seat over there. Isn't it pretty? I love the way this room is lined with books and places to read them. But with Emma's stressful job, I wonder if she finds the time.”

“That's a Catch-22,” I said. “I'm sorry, I forgot your name.”

“It's Hannah Ford. I teach fourth grade at Kennedy.”

“Nice to meet you. I'm Lilah.”

“I heard the introduction when you came in. You and your husband make a lovely couple.”

“What? Oh, Jay? No, he's not my husband. We—he—Jenny invited me, and—”

“Oh, just dating, hmm? Well, you have time.” She looked at me with a placid expression that was somehow comforting. There was a certain stillness about her that made me expect her to produce a ball of yarn and start knitting. “I'm sorry to hear that you witnessed Brad's death.”