“Not real close, no, but I knew her. I liked her, too. She was 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. But stealing like that…” She pulled in her lips and sighed heavily. “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, Miss.”
“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.”
“Of course it does! But if she was guilty of theft…”
“It’s hard to believe, I know.”
The girl’s face flooded with color. “I like Verity. I stop by her house every month or so to see how she’s faring. I 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 that 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 her hardship by bringing her gifts. Which is it? How do you feel?”
“I hate to see anyone doing time if she’s wrongly convicted, but Verity’s the only one who had access to that money. I know, I know.” She rushed on as McLaren opened his mouth. “The Great Explanation. Marta was going to repay the money but she fell ill. But 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.” McLaren exhaled slowly, as if considering another idea. “All that brought a bit of a scandal to the shelter, didn’t it?”
The girl 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 also donations slacked off. We depend on monetary donations for about one third of our operating costs.” Her voice grew calmer now that her frustration was spent. “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 £1,000. That must have hurt.”
She frowned and stared at McLaren, as if amazed he knew about the missing reserve cash. “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. The fact that Marta was related to her boss, and the workplace rumors that she and Verity got their jobs here due to that kinship didn’t help smooth any stormy waters.”
“Was that true? Was Mr. Clark guilty of nepotism?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t delve into office gossip. But they were both hard-working employees, from what I saw.”
McLaren wondered just how much the receptionist did see or know about personal goings-on at the shelter, but didn’t ask.
She shrugged and moved slightly, leaving the patch of sunlight. “If things hadn’t ended as they did, they both would’ve been asked for resignations. Or fired.” The words sounded harsh against the chirping of a bird somewhere in the building.
“Sounds like a bad time for everyone.”
“As they say, if looks could kill.”
“Including yours?”
She hesitated before replying. “Yes. I admit it. I was furious. The missing money tainted all of us here. I figured they’d be scrutinizing me next, make me sign some kind of daily tally sheet or install CCTV aimed at my register. 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?”
She blinked, unsure if he were joking.
He glanced around the area. The dogs had quieted down. “Is there anyone else here at the moment? I thought I could talk to everyone I could. Would the vet know anything about the trouble with Verity?”
“He’s in surgery, but I doubt if he’d know anything other than what the Board decided. He doesn’t come out in front, here, and he really doesn’t go into the gift shop.”
“So he wouldn’t know Verity.” McLaren sighed heavily, thanked her for her help, and left. It wasn’t until he unlocked his car and got inside that he noticed the bag of beer bottles was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
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 interior, as though a closer proximity to the seat would clear his vision. And mounting confusion. The extra millimetres didn’t 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. And he had unlocked his door to get inside. 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 had bagged those bottles carefully to take to Jamie later today.
Rubbing his forehead, he turned his head and looked once more at the seat, now convinced he was losing his mind. He ran the tip of his tongue across his lower lip. The skin was dry and cracked, from too many hours mending stone walls 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, he thought. At least I’m not in some strange time warp. Unless the aliens have fiddled with the watch and clock.
He glanced 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. He 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. “Lose something, mate?”
McLaren fought back the urge to say, “My mind,” but merely 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,” McL
aren 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 him. 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 had 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, except that the officer stared at McLarenprobably getting a lasting mental image of his facebefore 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.
Herb Millington was outside, washing his car, when McLaren walked up to him. The Millington house was much like its neighborsa 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 running down the Millington driveway. A town with modern conveniences, yet the Derbyshire countryside minutes outside its confines.
Herb turned off the water at the outside tap, lay down the hose, and watched McLaren strode up the driveway. “Anything I can do for you?”
“I hope so.” McLaren stopped several feet from the man before introducing himself and stating that he was investigating Marta Hughes’ death.
“Marta! Aren’t you a bit late with all that? That happened a year ago.” Herb cautiously eyed McLaren and jammed his right hand into his front jeans pocket. “Who’d you say you 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 Herb’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 hands on his shorts, seemingly unconcerned about the wrinkles to the fabric. “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 suddenly felt the rage of his own injustice at the hands of Harvester. Taking a deep breath, he mentally counted to ten before continuing. “I would think most anyone would feel the same.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Herb pulled his shoulders backwards, as though they were stiff from washing the car. They were muscular, McLaren noted. And broad. The man did more than wash his car to stay in shape. It was hard to believe the man was nearly fifty, but Alan had said so, and he probably knew. “Didn’t mean nothing by it. Just curious. You know what I mean. You talking about Marta again after this long.”
“Did you see her leave that evening?”
“Naw. I don’t stand at the front windows and watch people’s comings and goings. Though, she’s the exception I’d make if I did. Ya know?” He winked and grinned as though they shared a mutual joke.
“You found her attractive, then.” This wasn’t McLaren’s intended line of questioning, and he found it distasteful, especially about a deceased person, but he pursued it.
“Sure! Who didn’t? A good lookin’ woman like that. Brunette, hazel eyes, thin. Not too thin, though. She had enough padding where it counted, if you get my drift.” He patted a lock of his sun-streaked brown hair back into place.
What a jerk. First class nit. He suddenly felt very sorry for Marta if she had been subjected to this salivating nerd. He went on with great restraint. “Were you on friendly terms with the Hughes family? Did your son and the Hughes lad get on well? Hang around together, play football, perhaps?”
“We don’t have a son, or any kids. If we did, I wouldn’t want my son hanging out with Chad Hughes. I consider that boy a bit of a wimp.”
“Why is that?”
“The kid won’t join any of the neighborhood lads on anything.”
“You know Chad has been invited to do things, have you?”
Herb shrugged and ran his thumb behind his ear lobe. “I don’t make it a habit of spying on anybody, but I’m outside enough to see the other lads doing things. That Hughes kid is never with them.”
“Doing things like what, for instance?”
“Oh, different stuff.” He bent over and started coiling the hose into a neat circle.
“Playing football? Taking in a film? Going to a concert?”
Herb let the hose sag to the ground. He straightened up and frowned. “What the hell do I know? I’m a bit old to keep track of kids who aren’t mine. If you’re so damned interested, go next door and talk to Chad.” He nodded toward the Hughes house.
“Did you see anyone around their house when it was burgled?”
Herb snorted and finished coiling up the hose. “What the hell difference does that make in finding Marta’s killer?”
“Just wondering if you could add any information about it.”
“Like what?”
“If you knew anyone who might have been angry with some member of the Hughes family.”
“You mean, like one of the neighborhood lads mad with Chad for some reason?”
“That, yes, or someone angry with Alan or Marta.”
“Man, you’re round the twist. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Nobody on this street would be mad enough to do that to anyone. That’s kid stuff.”
McLaren shrugged, looking rather disappointed. “I suppose not. It’s probably just a run of the mill burglary.”
“Why’d you think it could’ve been something else?”
“Oh, just that there could’ve been some kind of history with Marta.”
“History?” Herb straightened up, running his hands again over his shorts. “What’s that mean?”
“While the cat’s away the mouse will play.” McLaren flashed a grin.
“You suggesting Marta had a little something on the side and Alan didn’t know what was going on?”
McLaren shrugged again. “Not so unusual any more.”
“Yeah? News to me. Anyway, if something like that was going on, how’s that related to the burglary?”
“If things got dicey between them, or if she refused the bloke’s advances in the first place…” He let the inference build, hoping for a reaction from Herb, but the man merely picked up the coil of hose.
“Did your wife like Marta?”
Herb shouldered the hose, sighing. “She never came straight out and said, ‘Gosh, I sure like Marta,’ but I think she did. They didn’t chat over coffee in the morning, but they talked when they met on the street. Talked about spring flowers and such. You know. Woman talk.”
“Did your wife see anyone at the Hughes’ house that night?”
“Nope. We were either asleep or I was in my workshop in the garage and my wife was in the back room watching a film on the telly. I can’t say definitely where we were ’cause no one ever established the exact time that it happened. But this all came out in the trial. No reason to rehash it.”
“And you didn’t have anyone over that evening who might’ve seen anything?”
Herb scratched his ear lobe as he turned toward McLaren. “My
mate, Danny Mercer, was over earlier. We worked on my Class Seven.” He paused, his gaze wandering to the car in his garage. “Then he stayed for tea and we watched some telly afterwards. But he was gone by seven o’clock.”
“You’re sure of the time?”
“Sure I’m sure! What the hell is this? The trial’s over, mate.”
“And the break-in was later.”
“Don’t know when, exactly, but later that night.”
“I understand Marta found the mess herself, that her husband wasn’t home.”
Herb tilted his head toward the house. “Pity, that, but my wife was home that evening. So I couldn’t have gone over to console her anyway.” Herb spread his hands, as though he were a helpless pawn in the Whims of Life.
McLaren left with a noncommittal “Thanks” on his lips and in agreement with Verity Dwyer that Herb Millington was a jerk.
He was headed toward his car when he saw a young man working in the front garden of the Hughes house. McLaren jogged over as the boy threw a weed onto the small pile beside him. Looking at McLaren, he stood up. “Do you want something?”
“Are you Chad Hughes?” McLaren had seen Marta’s photograph, and even if Marta had been a brunette and this boy was blond, there was no mistaking the same hazel colored eyes. Or the expression that stared at McLaren.
“Yeah. I’m Chad. And you are…”
McLaren introduced himself in the way that was quickly becoming a rote rendition. When he’d finished, he asked Chad how he was getting on.
“What you really mean,” the boy tossed his trowel onto the stack of weeds, “is how I’m coping with Mum’s death. What it’s been like this past year. What am I supposed to say besides rotten? It’s been hard for me, sure, but especially for my dad.”
McLaren nodded, knowing that Chad and Alan were constantly reminded of Marta; she was everywhere in the house.
“And you’re also wanting to know if I’ve got any ideas about the whole thing.” He tilted his head so he could see McLaren’s eyes. “You are, aren’t you, or you wouldn’t be chatting to me. Nice as you might be, you’re a stranger, and strangers just don’t pop over to talk. So you want to ask about her death, who could’ve done it or a motive.”
Cold Revenge Page 13
