Cheddar Off Dead (19 page)

The song had ended, Wendy's text had been sent, and Terry was back at the jukebox. “Get a load of this. I found all these rare covers of other great songs. Listen.”

This time he played us Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” No one sang it the way Judy did—sweet and sad—and the melancholy lingered in me long after Terry stopped the music and Britt led us up their grand staircase to a carpeted hallway and to the adjacent rooms that Wendy and I would borrow for the night. It truly looked like the floor of a castle—there was even a full-size suit of armor in one corner.

In my room, which had hardwood floors and a giant maroon rug with thick gold tassels, the large bed dominated the space and faced a stone fireplace that housed not flames but a basket of pine branches. The heater was modern and functional, and the room was warm as toast. “Let me know if you need anything, sweetie. Terry and I are at the end of the hall,” Britt said, patting my hair.

As I pulled back the feather bed and climbed between soft sheets, I could still hear Judy singing in my ear, telling me we'd have to muddle through somehow, because next
year it would all be better. Next year, I realized, was only a couple of weeks away. Poor Brad Whitefield hadn't made it out of this one.

I looked at the bedroom window, illuminated by Terry's subtle Christmas lights, and saw a light snowfall swirling in a winter wind. How many days in a row had it snowed? It was beautiful, but relentless. Judy Garland, Brad Whitefield, and an anonymous gunman twirled in my thoughts like the helpless snowflakes. Despite it all, I was asleep moments
later.

B
y the time Wendy and I left Terry's house the next morning, still voicing our extravagant thanks, we saw that my window had already been repaired. That, it was clear, was another debt to Terry and his generosity; I was sure that he had secretly paid someone hefty overtime to get it done quickly. Wendy and I went to examine the new window, which was just as lovely as the old one, but seemed thicker.

“He probably got bulletproof glass,” Wendy joked. She was holding Mick on a leash, and he sniffed the newly cleaned area with interest. When he looked up, there was snow on his nose. “He cracks me up,” Wendy said, grinning. Then she handed me Mick's leash and opened the door with my key. Mick and I entered the warm foyer, but Wendy
insisted on checking the place out first. She returned after five minutes. “It's fine,” she said.

Relieved, I went to my kitchen and saw my answering machine light blinking. My mother was one of the few people who still called my landline. “Looks like I need to call Mom. We're baking cookies today.”

Wendy groaned. “So much food,” she said.

“Did you ever talk to Betsy? It would be fun—a girls' day out. And then my mom will get to know you both before our Christmas dinner.”

“That's right! Let me call her and check in.” Wendy took out her cell and moved into the living room to talk.

Meanwhile I returned my mother's call. “Are we on for today?” she asked brightly.

“Yes, we are. But you know I have this bodyguard, right? Wendy. She's been great. Can I invite her and her roommate Bets?”

“Of course! The more the merrier,” my mother chirped. She loved company, and she and my father had recently revamped their kitchen, which she liked to show off to visitors. “Try to be here by noon,” she said. “I have all kinds of ingredients.”

I promised that I would, and hung up the phone, only to have it ring again. It was Parker.

“How are you?” he asked. He sounded affectionate, but distracted. I imagined him at his desk, sorting through his notes.

“I'm fine. Terry treated us like royalty, and he's replaced my window.”

“Great. And what are you doing today?”

“We're making cookies with my mom.”

“Good, good.”

“Is something wrong?”

A pause. “I don't know. And I'm probably stupid to bring it up, but it's been nagging at me.”

“What?”

“You said, at the Christmas party, that you were angry with me, but you couldn't remember why. I know I'm opening Pandora's box, but . . . I need to know what it is. Especially because—things went so well with us the other night. I don't suppose you remember it now?”

With a muffled sigh I walked to my back door and looked out at my white yard. “I do.”

“Okay.”

“The thing is—the other day, your mom called me and told me she'd had a cancer scare. She said she hadn't told me because she didn't want me to worry unless I had to.”

“Right,” Parker said.

“But she called you, when we were at Cam and Fina's, and she told you how worried she was. And I asked if it was your mother on the phone, and you said no.”

“She asked me not to tell you.”

“Exactly, Parker. The way Pet Grandy asked me not to tell
you
that I made the chili that ended up being poisoned. She didn't want her secret to be revealed, and I was trying to respect her wishes.”

“That's not the same.” His voice was defensive.

“Why?”

“You lied to the
police
, Lilah! It's against the law. The law that I respect.”

I understood this about Parker. He loved his profession because he was an idealist, and he believed in rules and in
justice, however flawed they might be. “Yes, I did. But only because I knew I was innocent, and so it didn't matter to the case whether I was the chef or not.”

Another pause. I knew that Parker was making his rumination face—the one where his eyes darted around like his darting thoughts. “I understand what you're saying. But I still see a distinction between the two.”

“Well, here's my dilemma, Jay. You cut me out of your life, didn't speak to me for two
months
because I failed to tell you the truth about something I cooked. Then you looked me in the eye and hid the truth from me about your mother, who happens to be my friend. But I understand: Ellie asked you to keep silent. If you hadn't treated me so badly for similar behavior this wouldn't be an issue at all.”

“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.”