With a Kiss I Die Read online

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  With a Kiss I Die: A Theater Cop Mystery © 2019 by J. A. Hennrikus.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2019

  E-book ISBN: 9780738755861

  Book format by Ted Riley

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Bill Bruning/Deborah Wolfe Ltd.

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hennrikus, J. A., author.

  Title: With a kiss I die / J.A. Hennrikus.

  Description: First Edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |

  Series: A theater cop mystery.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018053963 (print) | LCCN 2018056394 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738755861 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738754697 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | Women detectives—Fiction.

  | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.E56454 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.E56454 W58 2019

  (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018053963

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  Midnight Ink

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To the StageSource community, and in memory

  of Jack Welch. The arts matter, and these folks prove that

  with the work they do to support the New England

  theater community in dozens of different ways.

  • One •

  What happens when your late father’s best friend owns a restaurant/bar, and you hate to cook? Especially when the bar has Wi-Fi, more heat than your office, and someone to talk to? You gain weight. Gene had called me that morning and asked me to come to the Beef & Ale to help him move some tables around. We both knew he was making an excuse to see me, but I’d come in bright and early with my laptop, elastic-waist pants, and an empty stomach, more than happy to play along. I didn’t have the corner on the loneliness market during the bleak midwinter of a Trevorton February.

  Gene O’Donnell put another plate of fries in front of me. “Truffle fries,” he said. “Hear they’re all the rage.” It was barely ten o’clock in the morning, but Gene was already experimenting in the kitchen. Though he didn’t open until the evening in the winter, he fed his regulars, of which I was one. With a last name like Sullivan, eating potatoes for every meal was part of my DNA, so it was never too early for fries.

  “Does a great seasoning go out of style?” I asked. Truffle fries had been all the rage for a few years, hadn’t they? Gene had never been one to glom on to fads, so he was probably waiting until he could trust that truffle salt had grabbed hold. “I love them. Let me give yours a try.” I blew on one and took a small bite. I ate the rest of the fry quickly, risking the burn. Yum.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Too good. Much too good,” I said. At this rate, with Gene’s cooking and the beer he served, I was going to gain twenty pounds before spring. Maybe I should start walking to and from the bar to burn off some calories? It was what, five miles? No sidewalks? Dead of winter? Nah. I ate another fry.

  It had been a while since all the brouhaha of December and the closing of our production of A Christmas Carol. For most of January, I’d looked forward to and enjoyed peace and quiet. But now, halfway through February, I was bored. Sure, there was work to do, but none of it was as exciting as being in the middle of the theater season. Still, if I could get these grants done, the summer season would be more than exciting. It would be a game-changer for the company. I sighed loudly and went back to my computer screen.

  “I’ve been staring at this screen so long my eyes are crossing,” I said.

  “What’re ya doing there, Sully?” Gene asked. He was behind the bar, lining up empty ketchup bottles to be refilled. It was Monday, deep-cleaning day at the Beef & Ale.

  “Trying to get this grant done for the Century Foundation.”

  “Century Foundation? Anything to do with those Century Pro-jects?” he asked.

  “Yup. Both are part of the Cunningham Corporation. The Foun­dation is the Century Project’s charitable arm. They donate big money for nonprofit construction projects. I’m trying to get a grant so we can finally build that new production center for the theater we’ve been talking about for years.”

  “Production center?”

  “We want to build it next to our outdoor amphitheater. The lot was donated to us a few years back. In order for the Cliffside Theater Company to move up to another level, we need to expand and update. As a summer theater, we do a lot outside, and in the high school during the winter. But we’d love to expand our season, and having our own production center would allow us to divert the money we spend on rent to other needs.”

  “That sounds terrific. Seems to make sense, so long as you can afford it.”

  “Exactly. It’s only been a dream for the past few years. But now, with this grant and some other funding we’re working on? This dream may come true as soon as this summer.”

  “So that’s what the grant is for?” Gene squinted at the ketchup bottles arrayed in front of him.

  “Yes, making the case. Of course, the challenge is to put all of this into five thousand characters or less, but I’m giving it my best shot.”

  Ketchup refilling was quite an art the way Gene did it: never forcing, adding a bit to each bottle, waiting for gravity to help pull the tomato magic down. He used high-end ketchup and treated it like liquid gold. He had packets of the commercial stuff for folks with pedestrian tastes, but those of us in the know always asked for house ketchup in our to-go containers. I, myself, was not normally a ketchup girl with my fries, but I did enjoy the house ketchup on occasion.

  “You working on the grant by yourself ?” Gene asked. “Why isn’t Dimitri helping you?”

  Dimitri Traietti, the artistic director of the Cliffside, was the first person I’d talked to when the grant opportunity came up. He’d already helped me with the case needs for the project, but at this point it was all about editing and budgets—not his strengths.

  “
Eric Whitehall is helping me with some of the numbers,” I said.

  “Eric’s a good number guy. He helped me figure out how to refinance this place and do some of the upgrades the town was requiring,” Gene said. “Couldn’t have pulled it off without him.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said, blowing gently on another fry. I wondered when this had happened.

  “He’s helped out a lot of folks in town. Probably to help offset some of his father’s ill deeds. Balance the Whitehall karma. Not to speak ill of the dead, mind you.”

  “Not to speak ill of the dead,” I agreed. Peter Whitehall had died—been killed—last December. His best legacies, his three children, were doing their best to get the family business back on track. Eric and I had been spending a lot of time together these past two months, and not just working on grants. Eric was my second cousin, but our relationship was more than that. He was probably my best friend in Trevorton.

  “Dimitri’s down in Boston at the Bay Repertory Theater, directing their Romeo and Juliet,” I told Gene, changing the subject. “Their director left unexpectedly a couple of weeks ago. Babs Allyn—”

  “Babs Allyn? Is that a real name? Sounds like a ’40s movie star, doesn’t it?”

  I stared at Gene for a second before responding. He reminded me of my father, making conversation connections where there were none. “Short for Barbara, I’d imagine. Maybe her folks were inspired by noir novels. She runs Bay Rep. I’ve met her a couple of times at different conferences. Anyway, she saw Dimitri’s production of R&J, and called and asked if he’d step in since he already knew the play.”

  “That’s pretty exciting for Dimitri, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I said. “Thing is, he has to live with the decisions the other director made about sets, lights, props, and costumes. That might be tough. But it’s a great opportunity for Dimitri to make Boston connections. Not enough people come up to Trevorton to see his work, and it deserves to be seen.”

  “Not that you’re prejudiced or anything,” Gene said.

  “Me? Not at all,” I smiled. “Hey, I’ll be hanging out here for a while longer—that okay with you? I’m going to text Eric and let him know I’m here.”

  “Make yourself at home, Sully. I’ll throw a burger on the grill for Eric. With Mrs. Bridges gone on vacation he probably isn’t eating too well these days.”

  “I think he’s living on wine, crackers, and cheese. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I said. That was my usual dinner when I was on my own.

  “I’ll get a salad together too,” Gene said. “Can’t have Eric wasting away. Assume you’ll have a burger too?”

  “I’d hate for Eric to eat alone.”

  “You’re a good woman, Sully Sullivan. Always thinking of others.” Gene walked back into the kitchen area. I heard him open and close the refrigerator and start to sing to himself.

  New England winters are tough. If you work from home, getting out of the house is a chore that most folks skip. It takes too much effort to dig the car out, layer the clothes, put on the boots, warm up the car, chip the ice off the windshield, get the snow off the top of the car, and drive into town. But after a few days being housebound one thing is certain: unless you force yourself out of the house, you start to go stir crazy. My tolerance for being housebound was lower than I’d expected; definitely lower than it used to be. Trevorton and the Cliffside Theater Company had changed me. For the better, I thought. But now loneliness was part of the package. I missed talking to theater people. I missed their perspective on life, their energy, being able to problem-solve together.

  Because Gene and I were the only people in the Beef & Ale, the Wi-Fi signal was strong. I kept looking at the online storage that Eric, in his role as my board treasurer, was trying to get me to use. The ex-cop in me didn’t trust files I couldn’t touch, but Eric was right. We needed to keep records where folks could access them easily. That didn’t stop me from storing my own copies on my computer and printing things out. Old habits die hard.

  I went behind the bar and poured seltzer water into my glass. Gene’s burgers always tasted better with a local brew, but I really had to focus on this grant. I was hoping that Eric would be able to give me some advice about how to better present our finances. The theater was in good shape, but we didn’t have huge cash reserves. The Whitehalls were experts at making numbers look the way they needed to look in order for people to react the way you wanted them to react.

  For a long time, I’d tried to do every part of my general manager job on my own, which had mostly worked out. But I’d come to realize that asking for help also lets folks know they can ask you for help. I’d gotten Eric out of a jam in the aftermath of his father’s murder, and I knew he was anxious to repay the debt. Not that there was really a debt. We were too close for that. But still, I knew he could help me get through this financial morass.

  It wasn’t all altruistic, though. Our accountant at the Cliffside had sat down with Dimitri and me and talked about the finances for the theater. They were good. Better than they had been in years. We had a strong surplus. But that meant we needed to pay more attention to what we were doing moving forward. Now that we could actually do improvements instead of patching things and holding our breath, hoping they’d last through the summer, we needed to be more intentional about raising money. Funny how I never understood this until I started running a theater, but you can’t raise money unless you have money. And now the Cliffside had money.

  Running a summer theater, I’d discovered, was very interesting. I looked forward to the summer people coming back to town as much as I look forward to them leaving by the end of August. But still, having visitors come specifically for our theater company? That would be a turning point.

  I heard a rap at the door of the Beef & Ale and walked over to peer through the window shade. Eric was stomping on the front mat, either keeping warm or getting the salt off his shoes. Given his good manners, he was probably desalting. I smiled as I turned the lock and opened the door to let him in, closing and relocking it behind him. I gave him a big hug.

  “Something smells good,” he said, taking his coat off and throwing it over one of the barstools.

  “Gene’s making you a burger and a salad.”

  “And fries?”

  “Oh yeah, fries. He’s testing out new combinations on us.”

  “Combinations?”

  “You know, like hot chili sauce with Cajun fries. Spicy fries with Gorgonzola sauce. He’s even talking about cinnamon sugar fries with frosting dip.”

  “That should sound disgusting, but it sounds sort of delicious.”

  “That’s because it’s February,” Gene said, coming back into the room with two plates of food. “In February, greasy sugar is a necessity. Have a seat, the both of you. What can I get you to drink, Eric?”

  “Wow, that was delicious,” Eric said, pushing back from the table. “An extra hour in the gym for me tonight.”

  “Just one hour?” I asked. “How about an hour and a half and we have a brownie sundae?”

  “I really shouldn’t …”

  “Come on, you know you want to. Besides, I need extra dairy these days. Vitamin D is a necessity.”

  “Why, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

  I walked over to the bar and took the brownie sundae from inside the ice chest, where Gene had left it after he’d made it. I brought it back to Eric along with two spoons, and then went and grabbed two cups of coffee. Gene was in the back, prepping for the evening. He looked up and gave me a smile. I lifted the coffee pot, and he shook his head then went back to chopping. He really did take good care of me. My dad would be so grateful. I came back to the table and asked Eric if he wanted sugar.

  “No, black’s just fine,” Eric said. “So, I’ve got some notes on the budget you sent me. Thoughts on where else the Cliffside can go for funding
if the Century Foundation doesn’t come through.”

  He opened his bag and took out a manila folder. Opening the folder, he handed me a stack of clipped papers and took out his own copies. I took the binder clip off and looked at each of the pages carefully. More than notes. A complete budget, with different scenarios, for the production center.

  “Wow,” I said. “This is amazing. Thanks so much—”

  “Well, isn’t this what a board member is supposed to do? I’m used to sitting on foundation panels giving money away; I know what folks are looking for. I enjoy this kind of work, looking at budgets, seeing opportunities. This is a great project. Getting the Cliffside funding is good for the entire town, and a great investment. You’ll see I put a couple of notes in for additional ways you might be able to frame this, to get some funding from other foundations too.”

  “What do you mean?” I slid the rest of the sundae toward Eric. The thought of adding more fundraising work for the overextended staff of the theater didn’t sit well with me.

  “Highlight the work you do, and look for funding options that fit it. Add more opportunities for students to work in the shop in the summer, for example. Make A Christmas Carol a votech project for the high school. Talk about the way the costume department might be able to help fix clothes for the thrift shop in town. You know, that sort of thing.”

  “Great idea,” I said. “Getting some funding opens the doors for other funding. At least that’s the hope. The good thing about the Century Foundation is that it’s a big chunk of money all at once, without a lot of hoops to jump through. We’ve got that matching grant we can leverage, too, as long as we get some cash in by April 1st.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Eric said, using a fry to get the rest of the ketchup off the plate. “Why don’t we approach the Whitehall Foundation as one of the funders of the construction project, so that you hit the matching dollar amounts—?”

  “Thank you so much, Eric. You know how much I appreciate that. But let’s go to the Century Foundation first. If I can’t pull this off, or get support from one of the other avenues, I’ll definitely come back to you.” I knew the Whitehall family business was going through some challenges. While I had no doubt that between Eric and his sister Emma, they would come through it, it had been a rough couple of months.