A Christmas Peril Read online

  Copyright Information

  A Christmas Peril: A Theater Cop Mystery © 2017 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.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  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 © 2017

  E-book ISBN: 9780738754789

  Book format by Bob Gaul

  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: A Christmas peril / J. A. Hennrikus.

  Description: Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2017] | Series: A theater

  cop mystery; 1

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017017353 (print) | LCCN 2017029576 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738754789 | ISBN 9780738754154 (softcover: acid-free paper)

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

  | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.E56454 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.E56454 C48 2017

  (print) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017017353

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  To Jason Allen-Forrest, my first reader, fellow theater lover,

  prime cheerleader, and dear friend.

  • One •

  You could kill him without getting caught, couldn’t you, Sully?”

  I assumed Dimitri was referring to Patrick King, Scrooge in our production of A Christmas Carol. I’d considered killing Patrick myself, but purely for stress relief. The considering part, that is. Some people do yoga. I try to plan the perfect crime, and then I figure out what would trip me up. A cop may retire, but she never really leaves the job.

  I’d stopped listening to Dimitri ten minutes earlier, so his question caught me off guard. How did we go from production problems to murder? When I realized I’d forgotten my dry cleaning in the office, I’d thought, foolishly, that I could get a head start on my to-do list before the Whitehall funeral. Forgetting what was in which office was commonplace these days, since I was working out of three offices at the moment—a temporary one at the high school, where the Cliffside Theater Company was performing A Christmas Carol; one at my house; and one here in the basement space that our company rented from the town for our costume shop, prop storage, and administrative center. I’d been hoping to find my dry-cleaned suit, and expecting to find a pile of paperwork. What I hadn’t counted on was the artistic director being here. Listening to his dramatic rendition of our production woes as he paced in our cramped space was too much this early in the morning. I chose to nod appropriately and tsk in sympathy, assuming that the diatribe was directed at our star. I hoped for a break from another long story about why our Scrooge deserved a dire end. Or why he deserved said dire end so early in the day. Now Dimitri was questioning my murder competence.

  “I might get caught,” I said, choosing to take his question seriously. I stood and removed my skirt from the dry-cleaning hanger, slipping it on over my workout pants. “I doubt I’d get convicted though. I’d leave too many holes for reasonable doubt.”

  Dimitri stopped pacing and turned toward me. “So you’ve thought about killing him?”

  “Dimitri, how could anyone work with you for three years and not think of murder?” I asked with the most serious look I could muster. I reached under my skirt and removed the workout pants. The skirt fell very low on my hips, exposing the top of my underwear.

  “You had me going for a minute, you really did,” he said. His ego normally never would have let him believe I’d want to kill him. But these days he was off his game. I felt guilty when I looked at the dark purple smudges under his eyes from the stress of the past few weeks of rehearsal.

  “We can’t kill Patrick, Dimitri,” I said. “His name is over the title. We would have to refund the tickets.”

  Dimitri sighed and flung himself across the too-short loveseat I’d impounded from prop storage. His knees hung over one arm while his head rested on the other. I’d selected a loveseat rather than a couch so Dimitri wouldn’t be tempted to nap in our office. It hadn’t worked. But at least he could only sleep solo. Dimitri might be getting older—with his hairline beginning to recede, a little more flesh around his jowls, and a slight roll over his belt—but the animal magnetism that made him a brilliant director and catnip to investors was only growing stronger. I’d inoculated myself against the Dimitri charisma—years of dealing with crooks and liars will do that to you—but I still appreciated it.

  When I was sure his eyes were closed I pulled my fleece off and replaced it with the silk T-shirt that went with the suit. It was too short to meet the top of the skirt. Damn. I had to leave in ten minutes if I wanted to get to the funeral on time. Going home for another outfit wasn’t an option. Besides, this was “the suit” I always wore to funerals and court appearances. Though I still topped off at almost six feet and was far from model thin, I was in better shape than I’d been in years. On one hand, I was absurdly pleased the skirt was too large for me. On the other, I didn’t want to invest in a new funeral suit, and I didn’t want to taint anything else.

  Calling a funeral a social event might seem crude, but it was appropriate with this one. Peter Whitehall was a very rich, very important citizen of Trevorton, Massachusetts. Hell, he ranked up there in all of New England, and that was saying something. Peter’s financial generosity would be missed by many, including our theater, but the man himself? Not so sure about that. I’d seen him many times since I’d moved back to Trevorton, and found him charming, but it was the same type of charm I’d found in the con artists and sociopaths I arrested in my previous career.

  Of course, I was prejudiced. Most of what I truly knew about Peter Whitehall came from his son, Eric. And it was for Eric that I had wrestled my funeral suit from the back of my closet after five years. Because even if your father is a son of a bitch, his death is a blow. And murder makes it worse.

  “Sully, what are you doing?” Dimitri asked as I searched my desk for a stapler or a binder clip.

&nb
sp; “I’m trying to fix my skirt.”

  “Is that what that is? Good God woman, it looks like a sack. You can’t go out in that.”

  “Thanks. You know how to charm a girl.” I tried to create a fold of material and maneuver the stapler toward it. “This is my funeral suit. I need to fix it, and if I go into the costume shop to borrow one they’ll make me take it off so they can press it. I’m already running late.”

  “Whoa, whoa. If you insist, let’s use this.” Dimitri lifted a roll of gaff tape. Gaff tape is like duct tape without the sticky residue. Theater techs use it to tape down cables. But like duct tape, it has a million other uses. Dimitri surveyed my waist and ripped a piece off. While I gathered the fullness as artistically as I could, he wrapped the tape around the skirt, creating a new waistband. He held my waist for a minute to secure it, and then stepped back to survey his handiwork. He nodded appreciatively.

  “I thought the funeral was Saturday,” he said.

  “Today is Saturday.”

  “Damn. I’m going to hell, joking about killing Patrick today of all days. I’m such a … listen, should I go with you? Eric’s a good guy. I didn’t know his father well, but still. Give me a minute to pull it together.”

  Dimitri attempted to smooth his hopelessly cowlicked hair. We both looked down at his beyond-wrinkled shirt and jeans that were a couple of days late for the washer. He looked up at me, and I shook my head.

  “You’re busy. Eric will understand if you don’t come. It’s fine.” I took a sip of my now-cold coffee and winced. It was bad enough hot, but cold it was bile. I took a deep breath and gulped down the rest of the cup, knowing the caffeine would still work its magic. There was no time to brew a fresh pot, though it didn’t really matter. I hadn’t had a decent homemade cup since my divorce. I should’ve leveraged Gus for his coffee formula before signing the papers.

  Dimitri flopped back on the couch, his foray with the gaff tape having used up his energy reserves. He sighed loudly and threw his left forearm over his eyes.

  “Things with Patrick aren’t getting better, are they?” I asked. It was as if Patrick King had a finite amount of charm coursing through his veins. He’d used it all up the first week of rehearsal. Since then, he’d become more and more like the character of Ebenezer Scrooge. Normally I’d think it was method acting, but I didn’t give Patrick that much credit. He’d only showed his true colors once it was too late to fire him.

  “Worse.”

  “Is he at least off-book yet?”

  “No. I think his memory has been pickled. He can’t remember more than a scene at a time. Thanks for suggesting Connie loop Frank into the situation. He has an idea that may help Patrick with his lines … although I still think it would be easier to kill him.” Dimitri winced. “Sorry. Though the publicity wouldn’t be a bad thing for the show. Sully, what in hell are you doing now?”

  Dimitri watched as I pulled my pantyhose up, trying not to flash him in the process. With my inordinately long legs and too-short hose, it was probably an exercise in folly, but I persisted, trying to time tugging with small hops in my traditional pantyhose dance.

  “Just finishing up getting dressed.”

  “Don’t you have anything that fits?”

  “I don’t like to wear my regular clothes for funerals. I know it sounds weird … ”

  Dimitri shrugged. “I get it. It’s your costume for mourning. A little big on you though.”

  “I haven’t had to wear it for a long time, thankfully.”

  “Get it pressed, my friend. You’ll need it opening night.” Another sigh.

  “If Frank can figure out a way to feed Patrick his lines, won’t that help?” Frank was our tech director, the anchor backstage, with expertise ranging from electronics to fly systems to lighting. I was glad, and not surprised, that he’d come up with a solution to our problem.

  “Would that it were only Patrick.” Dimitri sighed as he plopped on the desk chair. “I’m afraid I’m going to need you to have another conversation with David. He’s refusing to double as any other character in the show. Says he was only contracted for Marley.”

  “Oh, please. Everyone is contracted to double as necessary—”

  “He’s the worst Marley ever, by the way. The scenery has teeth marks he’s chewing it so hard.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I said.

  “Connie thinks Lila is having an affair with him, by the way. Patrick, not David. Or at best, she’s catching some of his bad habits. Scrooge and Mrs. Cratchit. It just feels so wrong somehow.”

  My car was shuddering up the icy hill. Usually, bone-chilling cold didn’t hit Trevorton until after the new year, but this year it had come early. We’d had a couple of storms already. The snow didn’t last long, but the ice stayed. I saw Harry Frederick fighting the cold wind a block away as he biked up the hill. I caught up, tapped on my horn, and pulled over in front of him.

  “Are you heading to the church?” I asked, knowing the answer. Harry was our Bob Cratchit. He was also Eric Whitehall’s sometime boyfriend. Last I knew, the relationship was in an off phase, but I wasn’t sure. “Want a ride?”

  By taking the front wheel off the bike, we could fit it in the back seat of my car. We’d done this dance before, many times. I even had a special towel I laid out on the seat to protect it from grease.

  “Thanks,” Harry said, rubbing his hands in front of the heater to warm them up. He took his bike clip off and patted the crease out of his pants, and then pulled a tie from his knapsack and put it on.

  “Not a problem,” I said. “I should have asked last night if you wanted a ride, but … ”

  “But you weren’t sure if Eric and I were back together yet?”

  “There’s that, yes. Are you?”

  “No,” Harry said. “It may really be over this time. But I still think I should go to the funeral, show my support.”

  “My mother always said that you didn’t go to funerals for the dead, you go for the living. She always went to funerals and dragged me along.”

  “Plus, I want to make sure the old man is really dead,” Harry said.

  Harry was one of my favorite people, due in no small part to his incessantly good humor. I paused to let him explain this harshness, but he watched the scenery going past the window.

  “Now that sounds like my father,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I can actually hear him now: ‘Sully, my darlin’, I heartily doubt that a thimbleful of sincere tears will be shed over a first-rate bastard like Peter Whitehall.’”

  “So, your father knew him?”

  I laughed. “He did indeed. My mother and Eric’s mother were best friends. Also, first cousins. When I was little the families used to get together regularly, Sunday dinners, beach outings, Thanksgiving, Easter. The Whitehalls had a lot of money, even then, and I loved visiting the Anchorage. What a great name for their house. A sailor built it, did you know that? It was magical. But then one day my father came home and announced the visits were over. He wouldn’t budge. So, they stopped. You couldn’t even say the words ‘Peter Whitehall’ in my house after that.”

  “What happened?”

  I looked over at Harry. “I really don’t know. We never talked about it.”

  “And you never asked?”

  “Nope. If you’d ever met my father, you’d understand. He was a truly lovely man ninety-nine percent of the time. The other one percent? Don’t cross him. Peter Whitehall was in the one percent.”

  For the rest of the ride over to the church we were silent, and I thought about Peter’s death. I admit I was surprised when I heard someone had shot him. Not necessarily that he’d been shot, but that the police claimed to have no suspects. I could immediately name at least three possible killers, and I didn’t know the man that well. If ghosts could return, I would have added my own dear dad’s name to the list. But ghos
ts were ghosts, and Dad was off the list.

  Five years ago, I’d moved back to the small town I had escaped years earlier. Ostensibly, it was to take care of my dying father. I’d already buried a career and a marriage that year, so I decided to stay in the safety of Trevorton and recreate my life, which I did. Now a murder had happened in my refuge, and I was as informed as anyone else who watched the news or read the paper, which is to say, not very. Even though the murder was in the news every day, there were few facts known beyond what was reported. One, Peter Whitehall had been shot and killed at home after midnight a week ago. He’d been on a conference call at midnight, which helped set the timetable. Two, his family and a few friends were the only people home at the time. I hadn’t heard a lot of speculation that it was an intruder, and I didn’t know why that wasn’t being floated as the prime idea. Three, his youngest daughter, Amelia, had found the body. And four, she was hospitalized that night and sent home a few days later. Previous bouts with depression were alluded to circumspectly by cautious reporters, well aware of the deep Whitehall influence in the commonwealth. These were all facts.

  But rumors were running rampant. Even if I hadn’t wanted to hear about the murder, gossip would have seeped into my consciousness. It couldn’t be helped. As a small coastal town, Trevorton swells at the height of the season when the summer folk descend. During winter, only the very hardy are in residence: the year-rounders. And by virtue of the fact that we’ve all decided to brave the New England winter together, we’ve formed a bond. This bond creates a link through which all gossip passes with such speed and accuracy that someone can get a tooth filled by the dentist and when they stop by the grocery store on the way home, the cashier will suggest a home remedy for the ache. Peter still had the canonized glow of the recently deceased, but I knew that would change soon after the funeral. Anyone’s murder would take over the gossip mill, never mind the murder of the town’s richest and most important citizen.

  Gossip had it that Amelia was the prime suspect. Gossip had it that the family was using their clout to cover up the crime. Gossip had it that Emma Whitehall Holmes, Amelia’s older sister and family matriarch since the death of their mother twenty years ago, had made a deal with the police to hospitalize Amelia rather than send her to jail.