Cheddar Off Dead (2 page)

I was about to get back in my car when I spied Santa himself, lifting my spirits as he emerged unexpectedly from a side door of the school, studying an iPhone in his ungloved hand.

He looked the part, although he obviously wore padding. Something about the whimsy of seeing Santa there in a school parking lot made me move forward, before I knew what I was doing, to greet him.

“Hello,” I said. “Merry Christmas, Santa.”

“Hey,” he said. His voice was young; he couldn't have been out of his thirties, although it was hard to tell behind the beard. I wondered what sort of actor he was—someone who got regular work? Or someone who was perpetually unemployed? He looked up at me, and his phone tilted slightly—long enough for me to see some sort of elaborate graphic art on the screen, with what looked like the word
Kingdom
at the top. Then he moved again, and I couldn't see.

“I was just here delivering some food for the party, and I thought I'd come over. It's been a long time since I talked with Santa.” I was being super friendly, which made me wonder if I was starved for companionship. The man was a stranger.

His eyes finally left his phone and looked up at me. “Hello. Are you—?”

“I'm a friend of Jenny Braidwell's,” I said. “She and I went to school together.”

“Jenny—she's the one with the reddish hair, right?” he asked.

I nodded. Then he looked back down at his phone. “Santa has been playing his favorite game, but I guess it's time to face the text messages.” He looked at me, squinting against the pale sun. Then he clicked into another screen and said, “Oh for God's sake. As if I don't have enough things to do!”

“I'll let you go, then,” I said.

He sent me a rueful smile. “Sorry. I'm a rude Santa, aren't I? But it is just so irritating when people won't let up—” His phone beeped with an incoming text, and he read it. Then he looked concerned. “Looks like I'm running a quick errand,” he said.

“Don't you have to be at the party?”

He looked at his watch. “Not for an hour. I guess I'll go deal with this and then come back. It's not far.” He managed a friendly expression. “I'll walk you to your car, and you can tell me what you want for Christmas.”

I laughed, and we moved back through the lot in the fairy-tale snow. We must have looked like the image on a strange Christmas card.

“So?” he asked me, looking suddenly like the real Santa, with round brown eyes behind his silver-framed glasses. His lips curved into a half smile. “What can I get you for Christmas, friend of Jenny's? We've got a little more than a week to make your dream come true.”

“A second chance,” I said, before I thought about it.

He raised his fake gray brows. “That's a tall order.” He started to back away, his hands in front of him, jokingly, as if to push away my request. “I wouldn't mind one of those myself. I'm counting on it, in fact. The trick is not to rely on someone else, not even Santa. Make your own destiny—that's what I've learned.”

“My own destiny, huh? That should be my plan for the New Year?” I had my key in my hand; I studied its shape in my palm.

“Of course. That should be the plan for every day. I'm a Zen Santa. Meditate about what you want, and it will lead you to personal enlightenment. Find your little island of escape. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.'”

“That's Shakespeare!”

“I've been pondering that line. Life is an illusion, and it is definitely short. And hey, what is Santa if he's not a gambler? He has to bet that he'll get to every house in time for Christmas—that's an impossibility, yet somehow he does it every year!” He winked at me and adjusted his beard. Now he looked younger. Maybe he was in his early thirties. “So we should be gamblers, too. We should gamble on ourselves—that's how you'll get your second chance.”

“That's a really interesting point,” I said.

He looked up at the sky for a moment, and some dusty
snowflakes landed on his face. He laughed and wiped them away. “We have to pursue our dreams, right? I've been pursuing mine, and it's island life for me. I'm finished on Mainland.” He adjusted a small ring that he wore on the little finger of his right hand. It was a plain circle made of some dark gray metal—perhaps hematite. “So that's my gift to you—realize the brevity of life, and let that reality guide your choices.”

“That was far more profound than I expected.”

“I know.” He smiled at me, a benevolent Santa with sweet brown eyes.

I laughed. “Thank you. It was nice meeting you, Santa.”

He shook my hand. Despite the cold, his ungloved hand was warm. “You, too. Have a Merry Christmas. I've got to run.”

The grade school lot was long and wide, with cars on two sides, one row facing the wall of the school, and the other looking out at traffic on Breville. I waved as he headed down the school-facing lane of cars to a silver Toyota. Then I turned away and walked to my own vehicle; well down the lot to the only visitors' spots I could find. I had my key in the lock when another car pulled into the lot at the entrance near me; I saw a flash of blue as it went past. The clown has arrived, I thought. But no—Jenny and her friend had said that the clown was already performing in the gym, with all the children gathered around. A late teacher, perhaps.

There was the envelope from Jenny on my driver's seat; I reached in and picked it up, reading the note that Jenny had attached. Vaguely I heard the sound of a car window rolling down. Someone was going to chat with the man in the red suit. Then Santa's voice said, “Oh, here you are. I was just
coming to you—seriously? Hey, give it back!” and then I heard a loud popping sound. Then an eerie silence.

I had already climbed into my seat, but I hadn't yet shut the door, and I immediately stepped back out and turned toward the lot; the blue car had made a U-turn and was driving right past my car, slowing slightly as it passed, then speeding up. I stared at it as it went by. There was a glare on the windshield; all I could tell was that there was one figure in the car. A moment later, with a squeal of brakes, the car exited the lot and drove out of sight. “Some people don't deserve driver's licenses,” I murmured. I hadn't thought to look for a license plate, and now, from the corner of my eye, I saw that Santa wasn't where he belonged. He was prone, a red slash in the light dusting of snow.

Suddenly I was running, then kneeling in front of him. His eyes were open, but they weren't focused. “Are you okay?” I asked, even though I saw that a puddle of blood had started to form underneath him and an ugly rip marred the front of his suit. “Santa?”

I felt for a pulse in his neck; I did not find one. I looked around, but the lot was deserted.

I scrambled back to my car and fumbled for my purse; I wasted precious seconds trying to find my phone and then attempting to dial three numbers with trembling fingers.

The emergency operator asked if she could help me.

“Yes—a man's been shot. John F. Kennedy School, on Breville Road.”

I could feel her tension over the phone. “Is there an active shooter on the premises? Are the students in danger?”

“No—no. Whoever did it drove away. It's just him lying here, and—I think he's dead.”

She promised to send an ambulance, and I went back to keep vigil over the man who had been Santa.

A slight wind lifted his beard and created the illusion of life and movement, but his skin had grown almost as pale as the snow that fell around us.

T
he school was in a “soft” lockdown; Jenny texted me so from inside. It did not seem there was immediate danger, but the police didn't take chances these days, not when children were involved. Meanwhile the parking lot was awash with blue and red lights, and Brad Whitefield was placed on a stretcher and put into an ambulance.

“Can you save him?” I asked.

The ambulance attendant looked surprised, then shook her head.

I had already known this, but it horrified me to confront the reality. “We'll need you to stay here,” said a police officer, looming in front of me with an official air. “We'll be taking a statement in just a moment.”

I sighed, feeling shaky, and sat in the driver's seat of my car with the door open and my legs sticking out into the
parking lot, wishing I could go home. I texted Jenny again.
Don't tell the kids what happened. Will they still get their party?

She texted back, assuring me that they were downplaying the flashing lights, at least to the tiniest children, and that the clown had already agreed to give out the special gifts that Whitefield, as Santa, had been set to deliver.

But they would all learn of it sooner or later, poor kids, and it would be woven into the tapestry of their grade school memories: the time that Santa Claus was shot to death in their parking lot.

More vehicles pulled up. Someone was cordoning off the lot and preventing street traffic on one block of Breville by setting out orange cones. A few parents showed up, then a few more, demanding to see their children. The police kept them on the periphery of the lot; a female officer had seemingly been assigned to them, and she continually assured them that all the children were safe and currently in lockdown for their own protection. The snowflakes continued to fall, but now they seemed a weird accompaniment to the evil that had just occurred.

A shadow blotted out the sun; I looked up to see Jay Parker in front of me. His blue eyes were wide with surprise. “Lilah? You're the witness?”

I shrugged. “I'm not a witness. As I told the other officer, I was facing away from him when it happened. I just glimpsed the car when it drove in and out. It was blue. Kind of a metallic blue.”

Parker still couldn't get over it. “How is this happening again? How can you possibly have witnessed another murder?”

I stood up, hugging myself against the cold. “Are you suggesting that I somehow arrange to watch murders, Detective Parker?”

He huffed out some breath. “No. No. It's just—I think the odds of this happening are just astronomical—”

“Lucky me, then.” My voice sounded quavery; Parker heard it, too, and his demeanor changed.

“Lilah, listen. I'm sorry you've had to go through this again. It must have been a terrible shock.”

“I was alone with him, Jay, and I couldn't help him. He just lay there in the snow, in his Santa suit, like an evil Christmas card, and there was blood—”

He pulled me against him in a quick hug. “Okay. Come on—it's cold out here. I'll take you home and get the information there. All right? Give me one minute.”

He disappeared into the throng of uniforms. I sat back down, suddenly weak-kneed. I wished that Mick were on the seat beside me.

Then a policeman who said he was Officer Wilson pulled me gently out of my car and asked for my keys. He would be driving my vehicle home, and I would be riding with Detective Parker.

I didn't question this; apparently they didn't trust me to drive a car after witnessing a man's death. I couldn't say that I disagreed with that assessment. Then Parker appeared and led me to his Ford. I climbed into the passenger seat and buckled in. Parker turned on the motor and fiddled with the heater, and soon enough I began to feel warm. He drove slowly out of the cluster of people and then out of the parking lot. He knew the way to my house; he'd been there on several occasions, so I didn't bother to give him directions.

Two blocks down Breville Road he cleared his throat. “Listen, Lilah—”

I interrupted him. “I'm sorry I didn't talk to you at the grocery store last month. I didn't want to be alone with you. I was afraid to be, I mean.”

He sighed. “I know.”

That brought another two minutes of silence. In my head Linda Ronstadt, angry yet melodic, asked when she would be loved. I finally said, “What did you want to talk to me about? Were you going to explain why you never called me again? Because I thought you made that fairly clear from the start: you considered me a dishonest person, and you weren't going to sully yourself with the likes of me.”

Parker's eyes narrowed, but he kept them on the road. “You're purposely making me sound like a jerk.”

“So what were you going to tell me? That you're not one?”

He turned onto Dickens Street, sighing again. “We're going to have to put this conversation on the back burner. I have an investigation to conduct. In fact, I would have asked Maria to do it, since I am obviously not unbiased in regard to you, but she happens to be on vacation.”

“Huh.” I stared moodily out my window. Maria was Parker's partner. She was dark haired and elegant and, as far as I knew, romantically unattached.

“But I will say this,” Parker said, clearly irritated. “I wanted to talk to you to tell you that I missed you. And I saw you at the store, and you looked pretty, and I wanted it to be the way it was between us. That's why I called after you. But I see now that you're angry with me.”

I had done a good job of putting October behind me, but
now the memories came flooding back. I had made a pot of chili for a woman from my church named Pet Grandy. She liked to tell everyone that she made the famous chili that people wolfed down at bingo night, and that night in October had been no different—except that someone poisoned the chili and a woman died. Pet had asked me not to tell anyone that I was the chef. She wanted to preserve the illusion of her cooking skills. Against my better judgment, I had gone along with Pet's charade, and I hadn't told Parker that I'd made the chili, despite several opportunities to do so. When Parker found out, he walked out of my life.

I turned to him, surprised by the intensity of my feelings. “Yeah, I am angry. You know why? Because I thought about it, and no one is perfectly honest, not even you, the upright policeman. I did lie to you, and that was wrong, but I was trying to do right by Pet Grandy. She's a nice person who was put into a very bad situation. So at first I wallowed in guilt, but then I decided that if you really liked me, you'd be able to forgive me, because it's not like I was, in fact, a murderer.”

All of this flowed out of me in almost one breath, and then, with the word
murderer
, I realized that someone had driven right up and shot that poor Santa Claus at point-blank range, and I started to cry.

Jay Parker's face turned red with some emotion—anger or shame. “Lilah, I'm sorry. Don't cry.”

“I'm not crying,” I sobbed, wiping my eyes on my jacket sleeve.

“Here we are. Home sweet home,” he said with forced brightness, like someone comforting a cranky child. He pulled into my long driveway and up to my little caretaker's
cottage, which pleased me every time I saw it. Back in October, Parker had visited me at this little house many times, and on the last night he visited he had kissed me and played with my long hair and told me that he wanted me in his life.

We got out of the car just as Officer Wilson drove my car up beside Parker's. He handed me my keys, gave Parker a brief wave, and then jogged back down the drive to a waiting cruiser. Parker focused on my car for a moment; then he walked around to the back hatch and stared at the rear bumper. I moved there, too, wondering what he was looking at. My bumper was undented and relatively clean. It bore a bright new sticker that said “Ask me about Haven of Pine Haven!”

“What?” I asked.

“Let's go inside,” he said. Wordlessly we climbed the steps; my landlord, Terry, who lived in the big house on the same lot, had brought me a gift of a real pine wreath with a giant gold bow that now hung on the front wall of my home. On the door was a smaller pine swag with little dangling gold ornaments. I had lined the windows with gold lights, but they weren't shining now.

“Your house looks nice,” Parker said. “Will you make me a cup of coffee so that we can talk?”

“About the murder, or about us?” I asked, still sniffling and fumbling for my key.

“Both.”

“Fine.” I let us into the house, where Mick confronted Parker in the tiny hall by planting two giant paws on his chest. No one was immune to Mick's charms—not even Parker. He smiled and practically embraced Mick, then settled for scratching his head and playing with his floppy ears.

“Hey, boy,” he crooned. “Long time no see.”

I marched to the kitchen, hung my coat on a back door hook, and started making some coffee. I opened my refrigerator and found half of a cake that I'd made for my parents' anniversary, which we'd celebrated two days earlier. It was an almond torte, resplendent with vanilla crème and a shaved nut and streusel topping. I took it out and placed it on a tray, slicing it into four pieces. I set this on the kitchen counter, which overlooked my little living room. Parker had sat there twice before, eating food that I'd made for him.

Now he wandered in, hung his coat next to mine, and washed his hands, clearly still uncomfortable with my sniffling. I let Mick out to wander the backyard and do his business; two minutes later he was at the door, ready to greet Parker and me.

While the coffee brewed, I turned to face Parker, and he sat on one of the stools in front of the counter. He had a laptop with him, and he set it on the counter to make his notes. “First things first, okay? Did you know this man, this Brad Whitefield, before today?”

“No. I don't even know what he looks like without the Santa suit.”

Parker typed, then said, “And you were at the school because—”

“Jenny Braidwell was my roommate in college. Now she teaches at JFK, and she happens to be one of my clients.”

“Ah.” He typed some more. “And you were there because—?”

“Because they were having a party, for which Jenny wanted to make some food. She's actually a terrible cook.
I make it for her, and she pays me. I'm a secret caterer, as you know.”

“I hear you're an aboveboard caterer now, too.”

I sniffed. “Who told you that?”

“My mother, of course. She reminds me on an almost daily basis that you and she are good friends, and that I am a rude and ungrateful son.”

I felt a burst of warmth and gratitude toward Ellie Parker. It was she who had tried to set me up with her son in the first place—and it had almost worked. Luckily Ellie and I had remained friends.

Parker was still looking at me. “By the way, that casserole that you made for Mom last Sunday—which my brothers still believe she made—was delicious.”

“Thanks. It was a new recipe. Kind of a German theme, with the sauerkraut and the cabbage.”

“People were raving about it all night. You're a very gifted chef.”

“Okay. Go on with the questions.”

He sighed. “So you made food for Jenny Braidwell.”

“Yes. Two giant pans of macaroni and cheese bake. Kids love it. Jenny came out with this other teacher named Ross, and they said that someone named Brad was going to be the Santa, and we talked about some other things. They said there was a Christmas clown. I didn't see her, just the Santa. He came out reading a message on his phone just as I was about to leave.”

Parker sat up straighter. “What phone?”

“He got some texts while he was talking to me. They made him mad. He read one and said he was going to have to take a trip.”

“Wait.” He got out his own phone, punched in some numbers, and spoke tersely to someone who answered. “Finn? Miss Drake says that the victim had a phone. Right.” He looked at me. “What kind?”

“An iPhone, I think. Black. But I think they took it from him.”

“What?” Parker, about to relay the message, paused and stared. “Who took it from him?”

“Whoever was in the car. Because he said, ‘Hey, give it back,' and then I heard the shot. They snatched something, then shot him.”

Parker got up from his stool and went into the hallway, where curious Lilahs couldn't hear what he was saying to Officer Finn. He talked for quite some time. The coffee was ready, so I poured two cups and set one next to the plate of sliced cake. When Parker returned, he sat down and stared at his plate without really seeming to see it. “Tell me everything he said,” he told me, pushing the food aside to center his laptop.

“Um—okay. He came out and was looking at his phone. First he was playing some kind of game—like a video game. And it was about knights or something. Somebody's
Kingdom
—I didn't catch the name. But I was sort of trying to see it because the image looked pretty.”