A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  “Josh Darnell, but he’s over in California, visiting with his American cousins. He was just informed; he’s devastated. I know; I was the one who informed him.”

  “Was she seeing anyone else? Did she ever mention being pestered by anyone else?” Jackson asked.

  Again, Jameson’s weathered and lean face crinkled into a frown. “Come to think of it,” he said, “there was someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea. But…someone she saw pertaining to the May Queen pageant. She started to tell me about it, but then said that she was a big girl, she could manage on her own. I’m assuming that she meant the man who killed her and the other young woman, though….”

  “Though?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t know what the janitor would have had to do with the pageant,” he said.

  “Please try to think; try to think of anything at all that might be helpful. It was someone she saw in town.”

  “Yes. Now, I wish that I had pressed her.”

  “Can you direct me to any of her friends?”

  “Any young person out there,” Jameson told her.

  Jackson stayed and spoke with the professor a few more minutes, hoping there was something else of value he might provide.

  The professor called in a young woman named Jill St. Claire, a Canadian student who had been close with Cindy.

  “I’d have never thought….” Jill began, before sobbing for several moments. Jackson waited, trying to soothe her.

  “It was someone to do with that damned pageant,” Jill said. “But all that Cindy told me was that some big shot was being obnoxious and she was pretty sure that he was sleeping with or at the very least fooling with a few of the girls. Maybe someone who is going to be a judge—I wish so desperately she had given me a name.”

  When he left at last, having spoken with a few more of Cindy’s friends, he was convinced himself that Finley McConnaugh had been badgered into making his confession. The tactics used had probably been fair and legal but Jackson knew that there was much that was fair and legal that might drive such a man to take credit for the crimes.

  He looked at his watch. The afternoon was wearing on.

  He still wanted to reach the florist shop; he was suddenly quite certain that he would discover that someone had been improperly making suggestions to Brenda Ahearn as well.

  The someone who had killed the two of them—someone in a far loftier position than that of janitor.

  A big shot.

  Not likely to be a janitor.

  ***

  Dr. Joseph McGregor was in, his receptionist assured Angela. He was, however, a very busy man. He’d just sent a patient south to a major hospital—accident with a caber—and patched up a pretty young dancer with a twisted ankle.

  Not to mention two autopsies to be performed. Was Angela unaware of the tragedy that had struck the village?

  Angela assured her that she was very aware and hoped that she didn’t sound too much like an ugly American when she insisted that she was American law-enforcement and had witnessed many an autopsy.

  She bullied her way into the far back; the examination rooms for the living who were sick or ailing or in need of being patched up were to either side of the hallway just in back of the reception room; they were empty and a nurse was cleaning up as Angela passed by.

  “Excuse me—“, she called, but Angela pretended not to hear.

  She entered through the far rear door where Dr. McGregor was at work over the corpse of Cindy Sweeney, an assistant at his side.

  The Y incision on Cindy had been sewn. McGregor was just pulling a sheet up over her body as Angela entered.

  “Ah, Agent Hawkins from the United States,” McGregor said. “Have you come to see if we’re capable folk in a small village that’s out of place and time?”

  “Keeping to tradition, sir, does not put the village out of time and place. Being small might mean that you don’t have facilities or capabilities of a larger environment,” Angela said.

  McGregor nodded as if well pleased with her answer.

  “What can I tell you, Agent Hawkins?” he asked her.

  “Did the girls have intercourse before their deaths? Were they raped?”

  He looked at her with surprise. “Yes, to the first. No, to the second. I don’t believe so. They might have been coerced—but there is no bruising or tearing to indicate rape. No sperm—we’ll not be getting DNA from that venue. Nae, the lasses might ha’ been with boyfriends before they died—it’s very difficult to tell. And don’t be thinking it’s small town lack of capabilities; we’ve done nail scraping, photography, everything that might be done even in so big and incredible a place as your New York.”

  “Dr. McGregor, I don’t doubt you in any way.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Trying to understand.”

  “You have no authority here,” he told her.

  “I’m not trying to step on authority, Doctor. I’m looking for the truth,” Angela told him earnestly.

  “The truth is that a sad and lonely old custodian went demented in his head and raped and killed two beautiful young women. If there were more to tell you, so help me, lass, I would. But, there is no more to this story. We’ll mourn the girls tonight. Their families will mourn them for the time they have left of life themselves. But, for the living, life must go on. Now, I’ve another lass to sew up—if you don’t mind.”

  “Have you checked the contents of their stomach?” she asked him.

  “It will all be in my report,” he said, and added, “I don’t have lab reports yet—surely you realize that.”

  “Of course. I’m grateful,” Angela said. She decided she’d make a quick retreat and not make more of an enemy of the man. “Thank you; thank you so much.”

  “This isn’t your concern.”

  “Miss Sweeney was an American.”

  “On our soil.”

  “She’s still…my concern,” Angela said. “Thank you,” she repeated, and made a hasty retreat.

  When she left the doctor’s office-slash-morgue, she put a call through to Jackson. She told him her findings; he told her that he was going to visit the florist shop where Brenda Ahearn had worked and about his conversation with Cindy’s professor and about speaking with her friends.

  “I don’t believe they have the right man,” he told her. “I think that they might have been seeing a married man or a man who was older and had a position of power. And yet, even then—why would he kill the girls the way that he did?”

  “Obsession?” Angela asked.

  “Obsession?”

  “With the past—with May Day. With young women. I’m not sure. There’s either a reason—or he wants us to think there’s a reason. I’m going to speak with the other candidates for May Queen; we have to try to find out who this person is,” she told Jackson.

  “We will,” he said, determined. “I’m on my way back in; tonight, it will be interesting to the see the memorial. I’ll be back with you soon.”

  “We haven’t found the truth,” Angela said.

  “We will.”

  “Yes, but, tonight is the memorial—and then they pitch back into their May Day celebrations,” she said.

  “Twenty-four hours will be up, yes, but…Conar doesn’t accept Finley McConnaugh as the killer either, Angela. We won’t stop.”

  “What I’m afraid of is, neither will the killer,” Angela said.

  As always, they promised one another to be careful. As they rang off, Angela noted that the village square was filling in with costumed—or kilted!—men. Since a number of the villagers did wear kilts in their family tartans, it might have been difficult to tell—except that they were wearing swords and carrying shields as well.

  They came with horses, too. Beautiful horses, trapped out in fine livery.

  There was a difference, Angela realized. The men were dressed with gear that might have been worn in a long ago battle. She thought the l
ook of them odd for the coming memorial. Finding a kilted warrior of one manner or another, she asked him what was going on.

  “Ah, just a rehearsal,” he told her. He had rich whiskers on most of his face and as he looked at her. “American, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry for the sadness. I hope you’ll love the land, and know most of us as givin’ and welcoming souls.”

  “I will, sir, sincerely. But I didn’t know about the riders or a battle re-enactment.

  He grimaced and answered with a flush. “We do love our pageantry here. We rush the tor, as in days of old, and rescue the May Queen, lest harm come to her. We won’t be about long,” he said, and sighed. “Tonight—tonight we mourn the lasses taken from us! We’ll have the green cleared in no time. Most of the village will turn out, you know. A time to reap and a time to sow, as the Good Book says.

  She thanked him. Walking around the square, she had to admit that the men made a fine and dashing group. With their kilts and swords and shields and beautiful mounts, they were impressive indeed.

  She’d seen such re-enactments at home—Civil War battles refought, Revolutionary battles refought. It was good that history was remembered.

  Except when it was remembered by a cruel killer.

  She kept walking, about to head for the police station and find out if Conar had learned anything new and ask about the possibility of interviewing the other young women in the May Queen court when she looked up and noticed the tor.

  She had to get up there.

  There was a shadow like a haze of smoke rising above it again.

  And a ghost had come to her after a dream.

  Both seemed to beckon in her mind.

  Chapter 6

  Jackson was due to meet Angela at the police station. She wasn’t there when he arrived but he made it back a few minutes earlier than it expected. One of the hardest things for a couple in their line of work was just that—to let the other work. His wife was very capable; he’d been with the FBI before they’d become Krewe—Angela hadn’t. But she’d gone into the academy. She’d passed with flying colors. They’d worked many cases in which her fast thinking or her protection of a possible victim had saved the day.

  He never stopped worrying. He was never able to stop his heart beat from increasing if he was worried, if he didn’t see her, if he didn’t know that she was okay. While that very fact made it difficult for most couples to work in military or law enforcement agencies, with the Krewe, Adam Harrison, the creator and overall director of their unit, believed it made “special” agents work with greater clarity—they seemed to sense when the other was in danger.

  But, when he reached the station, he discovered that Conar had asked that Mrs. Clara Jensen of Highland Flowers come to the station. She owned the company—she had employed Brenda Ahearn for years.

  She was happy to speak with Jackson between tears.

  “Such a lovely girl, so, so lovely. Her parents had come across from Ireland years and years ago—they were a mixed couple, you know, Agent Crow?” she said. She was perhaps sixty, petite and certainly very beautiful when she’d been young.”

  “Mixed?” Jackson asked. That could mean so many things. He was “mixed.”

  She nodded gravely. “Catholic mum; Protestant dad. And over in Ireland you know, the ‘troubles’ continued with so much sad violence up until not so long ago at all. Thankfully, the dear blessed people have gone on before her. She’s a brother—but he’s comin’ in from Australia and they couldn’t reach him at all at first—the boy takes tours to the Outback. Have you ever been to the Outback, Agent Crow?”

  “No. I would love to see it. But, please, can you tell me more about Brenda?”

  “So sweet, so lovely—and ever mindful to be a good girl. She wasn’t a flirt at all. She was looking for the right lad, you see. But, of course, she was lovely—so excited to be up for the Queen of the May.” She leaned toward Jackson. “We’re not a’tall elitist, you know. We had that poor dear American lass and Brenda, neither having come from the area at all. And either might have been Queen of the May. Spring is like that, you know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Spring—the earth. Rebirth, Agent Crow. New seeds are carried on the breeze from place to place. A strong wind carries seeds high on the air and new plants and growth flourish in new places. Rebirth. Ah, that’s the whole idea of May Day—celebrating the new growth and new life all around us. But, now—this,” she said, and lowered her head to cry again.

  Jackson reached across the table to hand her a box of tissues and she thanked him.

  “Was Brenda seeing anyone special?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “She had taken up dance,” she said. “For the pageant. She said that Mrs. Toddy was a stickler. I mean, a May Pole just signifies joyous and natural dancing. Once upon a time, everyone danced and played together and the people simply chose a pretty young lass among them all and set a crown of beautiful flowers upon her head. How it all became such a staged thing, I don’t know. Anyway, she loved to dance. She came to work, she went to rehearsal, and she came to work again. She didn’t have time for the lads, not now.” She frowned suddenly.

  “What?”

  “The other day, she seemed a little down, a little distressed, in the morning. I asked her what was wrong. She gave me one of her brilliant smiles and said nothing, nothing worth bothering about at all. She said that the girls were all becoming friends and they would handle it all themselves. She was happy—they were all strong lasses, she assured me.”

  “Someone was bothering her?” Jackson asked.

  “I suppose. But, whatever, I don’t know who. I don’t know why I didn’t press her. I supposed I was so proud of her becoming such a strong young lady!”

  She began to cry again. Jackson looked toward the one-way mirror in the room, aware that Conar was watching from his side.

  Jackson reached over and touched her hand gently. “Mrs. Jensen, thank you. Thank you so much for speaking with us.”

  He rose; she did the same.

  “Thank the Good Lord you’ve caught the monster!” she whispered.

  “We’ve just got some ends to tie up,” Jackson told her. “And you’ve been so helpful.”

  She hugged him; he hugged her back, patting her shoulders as she cried. She got herself together and said, “I must be ready for the memorial.”

  He joined Conar in the central office for the constables of the village and discovered that Mayor McPherson, Brendan Malone, and Dr. McPherson were with him.

  Brendan Malone stared at Jackson with annoyance. “What are you doing, Mr. Crow?” He emphasized the ‘Mr.”—trying to make certain Jackson knew that he had no ranking in the village. “That monster to whom I offered the mercy of a job has admitted his guilt; you’re doing naught but torturing a poor dear woman suffering a terrible loss.”

  “Don’t you want to make sure you have the real killer?” Jackson asked him.

  “We have the killer,” Mayor McPherson said. “It’s not at all that we’re not appreciative of you wanting to help, sir. Aye, it’s a wonderful thing. But….”

  “I’m reopening the wax museum tomorrow,” he said. “And the May rites will continue.”

  Standing there, at that moment, Jackson realized that McPherson might be the mayor—but Brendan Malone, owner of the museum, called the shots.

  “We can’t let the village die; we’ve had enough death,” Dr. McGregor said.

  Brendan Malone turned to Conar. “And you’ve scores of constables to keep in good order, Sheriff!” He said. “Some grow rowdy, there’s the danger of too much drink…you canna spend your time, Conar, seeking a killer when a man is in custody—and more danger awaits!”

  Jackson was glad to see that Conar stood his ground. “I will conduct my office in my way, gentlemen. You wish that we move on, so we shall. But I will continue to conduct my affairs as I see fit. Brendan, open your wax museum. Mayor—proceed with your ceremonies. And Dr.
McPherson, conduct your business patching up those with too much drink. Leave me to my offices; I will do my duty as I see to those who have died.”

  Brendan Malone turned and stared at Jackson angrily, as if he’d been the cause of it all. He pointed a finger at him. “You, sir, should see to yourself. Mrs. Toddy is an old fool—we may accept outsiders here, but we’ll not have their interference!”

  He turned and strode from the office. McPherson looked uncomfortable. “Agent Crow, believe, please, that you are always more than welcome here.”

  He then left as well, awkward as he bid them both a good evening—despite the sad occasion of the memorial.

  Dr. McGregor looked at him hard, then turned to leave as well. And Jackson realized that the three men together were the law in the village.

  “Who chooses the May Queen?” he asked Conar.

  Conar turned to him sheepishly. “You’ve just seen the judges—Mayor McPherson, Brendan Malone, and Dr. McGregor. Oh, and me. I’m one of the judges, too, Jackson.”

  ***

  The village seemed to be in a strange wave of emotion and activity. Elders were setting up chairs at the village green for the services that night while the Highland warriors were finishing their rehearsals on horseback.

  Wondering just how she would head to the tor—grab a taxi to the base and walk on the winding trail to the crest seemed the most logical—she met a lovely white-haired and white-bearded fellow, named Hamish Campbell. He had a very thick and musical burr to his voice as he explained that he carried the Queen and her court to rule at the May Pole when the festivities were in full swing. He offered to take her to the base of the tor.

  She thanked him. They talked as he drove his fine ‘pony,’ a strapping dapple gray horse, named Molly, as far as Angela needed. She managed to get him to talk about the other lasses in the running. There was Elysse, of course. Lovely Elysse who worked for Mr. Malone. Then there were Annie Fraser, Jane Gibson, and Deborah Gordon. Molly was a dancer with one of the pipe bands, Deborah was a docent at Lord Manor, and Jane worked at the tourist board. All sweet and lovely. All fit to be May Queens. Lovely lasses, sweet and kind and good—just perfect.