Siren Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  A young woman barely out of her teens straightened up from her bent over position behind the front desk. Giving McLaren a smile, she asked if she could help him.

  The sunlight slanted through the glass insets bookending the front door and the row of windows near the ceiling. Nice, he thought, noticing the pale blue walls and white ceramic floor tile. Bright, airy, cheery. Nice for the animals, too, if the upper windows circled around toward the pen area. Then, he suddenly knew they did. Any place touting itself an ark and shelter would see to the comfort of its animal residents. That included a light, cheerful spot for the cages. He took in the pamphlet stands and signage for dog training classes before focusing on the woman’s face.

  “We’re offering a discount,” she said, her voice eager and friendly, seeing what had held his interest. “Good until Saturday week on spaying and neutering of your animal if you adopt them through us and have our veterinary staff perform the procedure.” There was an accent to her voice that McLaren couldn’t pinpoint. “Plus,” she added, getting no response from him, “we’re giving coupons for twenty-five pounds worth of pet food—good for cat, dog, or rabbit—upon adoption. They’re redeemable at most supermarkets, pet supply stores, or here at the shelter. Does that interest you?” She smiled again, this time showing perfect, white teeth.

  “Ordinarily, yes,” McLaren said, smiling back. “But I’m never home to let a dog out. I’m allergic to cats, and I still have nightmares about Harvey.”

  She looked blank.

  “The six foot tall invisible rabbit. James Stewart starred in the film.”

  She shook her head.

  Too young, McLaren thought. Still, there are the classic flicks on the telly.

  “We have several nice birds,” she continued. “An African gray parrot, several budgies, a cockatiel…”

  “I appreciate your assistance, but I’d like to talk to your vet, if he’s not too busy at the moment.”

  “If it’s a matter of your pet’s health—” she began before McLaren interrupted her.

  “I’d just like to ask him a few questions. If you would be so kind as to get him.” He pulled a business card from the counter display announcing the shelter’s variety of veterinary services. He tapped the card with his index finger. “I assume this is he? Emlyn Gregg?”

  “Yes, it is. Doctor Gregg,” she offered, a tinge of formality in her voice.

  “Well, if Dr. Gregg, DVM can spare me five minutes.” He added the medical initials in a one-upmanship display. “I’d appreciate it.”

  Picking up the phone receiver, she said, “I’ll call him for you.”

  McLaren nodded and took a blue poker chip from the supply in the Plexiglas cube on the counter top. A clever bit of marketing, he thought, reading the advertising printed on the chip. ‘Don’t gamble with your pet’s health. Noah’s Ark.’ The other side gave the shelter’s name, address and phone numbers. Other colors of chips mixed with the blues in the cube. He pulled out a red chip. ‘When the chips are down, call Noah’s Ark.’ The emergency phone number ran in bold print beneath the slogan. The black chip announced ‘Stack the odds in your pet’s favor. Noah’s Ark health care.’ All three chips gave the same shelter information on the back. He smiled again at the slogans, stuck the chips in his trousers pocket and leaned against the edge of the counter to await Emlyn Gregg’s arrival.

  “Dr. Gregg, you’re wanted in Reception. Dr. Gregg, please come to Reception.” She replaced the receiver and watched McLaren turn over the brochure before she said, “He’ll be right out.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been in business quite a while.” He held up the brochure. “Seventeen years.”

  “There’s a great need for animal shelters. Pets currently seem to be reduced to a throwaway item. People are too busy to spend the time required for complete care of a dog or cat. When their job or schooling gets in the way, they leave the animal in the countryside.”

  “Borders on cruelty, in my book. Do you live in a village, somewhere like Elton?” he asked, eyeing the girl. “I just wondered if you saw many animals left like that.”

  She smiled shyly, her exasperation with him forgotten. “No, I live in Chesterfield. But of course I know about it, dropping off animals like that. It’s unconscionable. And of course there’s the over population problem.”

  “Which is why you’re running the special on spaying and neutering.”

  “Actually, we aren’t—”

  “You wished to speak to me, I believe?” A male voice sounded behind McLaren and he turned to find a fifty-ish year old man with brown eyes and hair, extending his right hand. His white medical coat gaped open, revealing his blue printed shirt. It complemented the jeans he wore.

  “Thank you, yes.” McLaren stuffed the brochure into his pocket and shook the vet’s hand. “If you have a minute or two.”

  “Of course. What’s this in regard to—an animal of yours?”

  McLaren had begun walking slowly to a corner of the reception area and Emlyn Gregg had followed, replying that he could give McLaren fifteen minutes or so. They stopped beside a shoulder-high cardboard display stand offering sample packets of various dry pet foods. McLaren turned so his back was toward the corner and he could see the receptionist and the front door. Old habits die hard, he thought before turning his attention to Emlyn Gregg.

  After introducing himself, he explained succinctly why he needed to talk to the vet. Emlyn frowned and pressed his lips together and for a moment McLaren feared the man would refuse to help. A dog barked from the kennel area behind them, enticing several more dogs to answer before Emlyn shook his head.

  “Bad business, that.” He plunged his hands into his coat. He stood in a shaft of sunlight that illuminated the top of his head. Dyed, McLaren thought, glancing at the dark brown hair. What’s he afraid of—losing his youth or business competition?

  “Were you here when the money was stolen? That was last—”

  “A year ago this past May,” he said, shaking his head again. “Bad.”

  “So you were here then. You knew Verity Dwyer?”

  “Yes to both questions. I’ve been here since the shelter opened. ’Course, I was an assistant vet when I first began. Not that I was just out of school. Well, I wouldn’t be, would I, at my age?” He smiled hesitantly before continuing. “When the senior vet left, I moved into his slot.”

  “That must have been nice. Not only the promotion, but the salary increase and all the things that go with it.”

  “Things that go…”

  “The usual perks from a larger salary. Newer car, exotic holidays, bigger house. I like a big house in the country…in a village. So quiet.” He smiled, his voice light. “You live in a village?”

  “No, I don’t. I live here in town, near to the shelter, if you must know.”

  “Just wondered. When I make my first million that’s what I’ll buy—a house in a village.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t afford that luxury. I have to be near work in case of an emergency. I bought the former vet’s home, by the way.”

  “He left after…how long?”

  “I’d been here five years by that time. Dr. Doyle was the lead man. Don’t know where he’s got to.”

  “Back to Verity—”

  “Right. Yes, I knew her. A splendid worker and an equally splendid person. That’s why this was all such a shock, you know. I would have sworn she was honest. Stealing like that—” He pulled in his lips and shook his head. “Well, you never know, do you? No such thing as a criminal face, is there?”

  “You didn’t hear her explanation about the missing money, then?”

  “Yes. Both from her when the financial officer discovered the discrepancy and during the court trial. I wanted to believe her, but…”

  “Why didn’t you? If you believed initially that she was an honest person—”

  “The story was absurd! I also knew Marta. She hadn’t any more of a gambling problem than I’m the Lost Dauphin.”

  �
�She evidently kept her gambling secret from many people, Dr. Gregg.”

  “That may be, but it still doesn’t replace the money that Verity took from the cash register. Since it was her register, she was responsible for it.”

  “So her sentence doesn’t bother you in the least, then.”

  “You’re making me out to be a cold-hearted clot!” he snapped.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Emlyn’s face flooded with color. Taking a step toward McLaren, he barked, “The hell I’m not! I like Verity. I stop by her house every month or so to see how she’s faring, take her a little something to cheer her up. That’s a rough sentence, doing community work.”

  “Isn’t this rather a contradiction? First you state she’s responsible for the money in her till and therefore, since it’s missing, it’s her fault. Then you tell me you ease your conscience by bringing her gifts. Which is it? How do you feel?”

  “Look, McLaren. I don’t know who put you up to this. Probably Verity, wanting to clear her reputation. But you’re a bloody amateur in your technique.”

  “Really?”

  “I hate to see anyone doing time if he’s wrongly convicted, but Verity’s the only one who had access to that money. I know, I know,” he rushed on as McLaren opened his mouth, “the Great Explanation. That Marta was going to repay the money but she was ill. That still doesn’t excuse the fact that Verity stole the money from the shelter in the first place. It’s too bad she did it and too bad she got caught, but facts are facts. We can’t change the past.”

  “I agree.” He exhaled slowly, as if considering another idea. “All that brought a bit of a scandal to the shelter, didn’t it?”

  Emlyn nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. We were in the newspapers and on television for weeks. People were reluctant to patronize us.”

  “How long did that last? Did the shelter suffer, either financially or with fewer animal adoptions?”

  “It was difficult for a few months, yes. Not only weren’t the animals adopted out but donations slacked off. We depend on monetary donations for about one third of our operating costs,” he explained, his voice calmer. “With no animals going to people’s homes, we had more animals to provide for and less money coming in to buy food.”

  “Plus, the shelter was minus the missing a thousand pounds. That must have hurt.”

  Emlyn frowned and stared at McLaren, wondering how he knew about the missing reserve cash. Probably followed the trial, he thought, and crossed his arms. “That wasn’t the half of it. The board and a few of our staff were furious at the position Verity and Marta had put us in. If things hadn’t ended as they did, they would’ve been asked for resignations. Or fired,” he added, his voice hardening.

  “Sounds like a bad time for everyone.”

  “As they say, if looks could kill.”

  “Including yours?”

  Emlyn hesitated, then said, “Yes. I admit it. I was furious. The missing money tainted all of us here. I could’ve been involved, but I wasn’t. I could’ve been fired, too.”

  “But you weren’t. Know anyone who was mad enough to kill Marta, then?”

  McLaren got the same negative response from the receptionist when Emlyn retreated to the backroom surgery. He thought she was telling the truth, for she didn’t seem bright enough to fabricate anything as complicated as a name and a motive. Especially when it came to thinking on her feet. He took another business card—for the shelter’s owner, Derek Fraser—and left. It wasn’t until he unlocked his car and got inside that he noticed the bag of beer bottles was gone.

  TWELVE

  McLaren stood in the car’s open doorway, his hands propped against the doorframe, his arms stiff and holding him upright. He leaned slightly into the car’s interior, as though a closer proximity to the car seat would clear his vision. And mounting confusion. The extra inches did not help; the seat was still empty.

  His hands slid off the car body, making small squeals as they rubbed against the metal, and he slowly sank onto the driver’s seat. He stared, disbelieving, at the closed passenger door. It was shut. And locked. He had unlocked his door to get into the car. He exhaled slowly as his head hit the headrest. He wallowed against the upholstery, thinking, replaying the scenario in his mind. It didn’t make sense. How could his car have been burgled?

  He closed his eyes, going through every minute of his morning. There’d been Jamie’s phone call, the details of the area where Marta’s body had been found, then McLaren’s hasty shower and dressing prior to his grabbed breakfast and leaving his house. Twelve beer bottles had been placed on his car sometime during the night. He bagged those bottles carefully to take to Jamie later on today. Rubbing his forehead, he turned his head and looked once more at the car seat. Am I losing my mind? He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. The skin was dry and cracked from too many hours mending stonewalls in the sun and wind. His tongue had no moisture, either, to remedy the roughness.

  Sitting up, McLaren glanced at his watch, then at the clock on the dashboard. Both registered the same time. Good. At least I’m not in some strange time warp. Unless the aliens have fiddled with the watch and clock. Across the street, a road sweeper was brushing up a bit of litter with his broom; a police officer was directing traffic around two cars that were involved in an accident.

  McLaren got out of his car and crossed the road. As he stopped on the curb, the road sweeper looked up. When McLaren made no attempt to move on, the man leaned against his broom and asked, “Lose something, mate?”

  McLaren fought back the urge to say, “My mind,” and replied, “No. I was just wondering if you saw anyone in the car park across the road.”

  The man squinted into the sun, shielding his eyes with his hand. The parking area was barely visible beyond the constant stream of vehicles crowding the road. “What? At the animal place?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Just now. Well, a few minutes ago.”

  “What’s your game, mate?” The man eyed McLaren with suspicion, as if expecting a man-on-the-street interview complete with video camera and microphone.

  “I just need to know if you saw anybody over there, possibly near that red Peugeot.”

  The man sniffed without giving the shelter another glance and went back to sweeping. “Not likely to, am I? I’ve got me work to do. I don’t have time to gawk at the landscape.” He made a vigorous jab with his broom at a piece of paper stuck to the tarmac.

  “This was just a few minutes ago,” McLaren insisted, following the man’s progress down the street. “Not more than ten, probably.”

  “Here, now.” The man turned to face McLaren, his broom held upright like a rifle at attention. “I don’t know why you’re so interested in that car. If you want to know something, go ask that copper.” He pointed the end of the broom handle at the officer standing in the center of the road. “I’ve just got here, myself. So you ask that cop. I don’t know nothin’ about no car. And I don’t like your nosiness. Now, bugger off!” His turned back dismissed McLaren as clearly as if he’d waved goodbye.

  The police officer directing traffic had no time to talk to McLaren. Or inclination. He viewed McLaren’s question with the same suspicion as the road sweeper had, except that the officer stared at McLaren—probably getting a lasting mental image of his face—before telling him to file a police report if his car had been damaged.

  Sighing heavily, McLaren returned to his car and drove to the house of Marta Hughes’ neighbor.

  * * * *

  Tom Millington was outside, washing his car, when McLaren walked up to him. The Millington house was much like its neighbors—a detached dwelling of brick and wood, built years ago as Chesterfield grew beyond its status as a 13th century market town and 19th century industrial center. Suburbs had stretched the town’s boundaries, yet unspoiled countryside still flourished just outside its thoroughfares. The town’s residents had the best of both worlds, McLaren thought, stepping over the water runni
ng down the Millington driveway. A town with modern conveniences, yet the Derbyshire countryside minutes outside its confines.

  Tom turned off the water at the outside tap, lay down the hose, and watched McLaren walk up the driveway. Drying his hands on his jeans, Tom asked, “Anything I can do for you?”

  “I hope so.” McLaren stopped several feet from Tom. He introduced himself, then stated that he was investigating Marta Hughes’ death.

  Tom bent down to straighten one of his socks, then slowly straightened up before he said, “Marta! Aren’t you a bit late with all that? That happened a year ago.” He eyed McLaren, assessing who he really was, and jammed his right hand into his front jeans pocket. “Who you say were are again? Police?”

  “I’m retired.”

  “Retired, eh? Then you’ve really no authority—”

  “I’ve been retained by someone to look into the case.”

  “Well, you would say that even if you’re poking about on your own.” He squinted against the sunlight on the car’s body. “I suppose it’s her family who want answers.” His gaze shifted to the Hughes family home. He cracked his knuckles, then flexed his fingers. “Alan’s still grieving.”

  McLaren took in Tom’s slicked-down hair, muscular build and combatant stand, sizing up the man in one word. Arrogant.

  “They never figured out who killed her, did they?” He dried the back of his hand on his shorts. “The cops, I mean. That why you’re talking to people?” He stared at McLaren through slightly lowered eyelids.

  “It’s an instance of a killer getting away without coming to justice,” McLaren said, suddenly feeling the rage of his own injustice at the hands of Harvester. Taking a deep breath, he mentally counted to ten before adding, “I would think most anyone would feel the same.”