Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Unlike the stony, traditional front of the building that seemed to muscle room for itself between the bookstore on its left and the bakery on its right, the interior was light, airy and open. One wall held guitars, banjos, mandolins and lutes, while across the aisle woodwind and brass instruments waited to be bought. Large glass-front cases of accessories squeezed in between racks of sheet music and shelves of concertinas and tin whistles. Leather-cushioned stools dotted the interior, inviting the customer to sit and try out an instrument.

  Dave Morley turned from dusting a 5-string banjo, saw a potential customer in Dena, and laid down the dust rag. He smoothed his thinning, dark hair and gave her a hesitant smile. Browser or serious shopper, he wondered before asking if he could be of assistance.

  “I hope so.” Dena fought a sudden surge of panic. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She had no credentials like McLaren did; she had no authority like a police officer; she wasn’t even a friend or family member of Kent Harrison’s. Why would Dave Morley talk to her?

  “I hope I can, too,” Dave returned, coming up to her. He was tall and thin, with a receding hairline that visually added more years to him than was warranted. He had musician fingers—long and thin, good for playing a stringed instrument. Or a piano, she mentally added, remembering some of the nearly impossible note reaches she had attempted. Her hands had been too small, barely stretching an octave, so she had resorted to a quick roll of the chord. Glancing once more at his fingers, Dena thought how strong they probably were. Just chording alone developed muscles.

  “Do you wish to see an instrument?” Dave said, breaking her reverie. He rolled down the long sleeves of his pinstriped shirt and flicked a piece of lint from the cuff, giving her an optimistic smile. He leaned forward slightly, as though on the balls of his feet and ready to spring into action at her first word. “Or are you interested in an accessory or sheet music?”

  “Actually, I’d like to speak to David Morley. Are you he?” she asked, glancing at his nametag.

  “Yes. Did someone recommend me to you?”

  “I have a few questions, if you have a minute or two.” I should have phrased that better, she thought. He thinks this is about music. She started to explain further, but he said, “That’s why I’m here. Ask anything you’d like.” He gave her a quick smile, expecting to help her in the decision of an instrument purchase. The smile faltered, then vanished completely when she spoke.

  “I’d like to ask you about Kent Harrison, about the night he died. You knew him, I understand.”

  Dave’s dark eyes seemed to spark fire. He folded his arms across his chest, as though ready for a physical fight. A roughness colored his tone as he said, “What’s that to you? I don’t know you. Why are you asking about Kent a year after his death? Did Sheri send you?”

  Dena blinked, startled at Dave’s reaction. “I’m sorry?” Who was Sheri?

  “She must have done. She or Fay. Who was it?” A muscle in his forearm twitched.

  “I assure you, Mr. Morley, neither of those two people sent me. I don’t even know them.”

  “Then why are you here? You from the cops, then? You can’t be, or you’d have shown me your warrant card.” His brows lowered, mentally sizing up her authority and interest in him. He nodded slightly, having satisfied himself of the answer. “Newspaper. That’s it. You’re a reporter.”

  Dena opened her mouth to protest, but Dave rushed on. “Sure.” His voice took on a smooth, sugary sound now that he was certain of her identity. “One year anniversary of the murder. Nice thing to remember. Give the public the update on his friends and family, how they’ve coped during the year. Perhaps throw in a personal touch if anyone’s written a poem or song about Kent. And to help you out,” he added, his speech slowing so that she could distinctly hear him, “I’ll tell you straight off that no, there’s no planned vigil or prayer gathering or demonstration outside the police station. None that I know of, at least. And I think I would’ve been told, seeing as how Kent and I were singing partners.” He stopped so abruptly that it was several seconds before Dena could think of something to say.

  “You’re under the wrong assumption, Mr. Morley. I’m not a reporter.”

  “You’re not a cop, either.”

  “No.” She was tempted to say that her boyfriend had been, but that wouldn’t add any weight to her basis for being here. “I was at the Minstrels Court festival at Tutbury Castle today.”

  “And they had a minute of silence for Kent?”

  “No.”

  “The curator made a speech about what a super lad Kent was?”

  “No.”

  “The cops had a large poster at the entrance asking for the public’s help in solving the crime?”

  Dena shook her head. The interview was going all wrong.

  “No. I don’t think any of those things happened. So what spurred you to come here?” He waited, his muscle again twitching.

  “I have a friend,” she began, unsure if this were the best approach.

  Dave snorted. “Smashing. Is that some great achievement for you, something your counselor told you would make you a happier person?”

  “Mr. Morley, please. If you’d let me explain.”

  “I’m all ears. Honest. I’m fascinated. Go on.”

  “My friend,” she said, blushing at the phrase. But Dave remained mute, his lips pressed together, glaring at her. She took a deep breath and continued. “I think he could look into Kent’s death and find out who killed him.”

  “Your friend can do this even though Derbyshire’s Finest failed. Who is he…Superman?”

  “I should think you’d want Kent’s killer caught. You were his friend.”

  “Right on both accounts, luv. But you could be telling me anything. I don’t know you from Adam. Well…” He paused, his eyes taking in her well-proportioned figure and trendy hairstyle. Her understated clothes spoke of Money. “Eve. Like I said a minute ago, Sheri could have put you up to this. I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I’m not accusing you of Kent’s murder.”

  “I should bloody well hope not.”

  “But I just want to ask you about something you mentioned in the newspaper article at the time.”

  “You been nosing around, or just got a superior memory? Never mind. I’m not answering any of your questions.”

  “I’m just trying to sort out why you waited twenty-four hours to look for Kent. If you and he were such genial mates, I’d have thought you would have looked for him much sooner.”

  “You would, eh? Well, you’re not me. And how do you know that I didn’t ring up someone who looked for Kent?”

  Dena opened her mouth, then thought better of her response, and merely looked at Dave.

  “You don’t know, do you? ’Cause you’re no copper. And speaking of which, I’d like you out of this store.”

  She made no move to leave, astonished at his reaction.

  “Hard of hearing? I want you to leave. Now. Or I’ll call the cops and the manger to escort you out.”

  “But you went over to Kent’s place Monday night. Why not that morning, if you still couldn’t get him on the phone?”

  “Guess that’s just something you’ll never know.”

  The shop door opened and a woman and teenaged girl entered, the girl chattering about the merits of a used Goya versus new Martin, Cordoba or Ramirez classical guitars.

  Dave unfolded his arms and straightened his name badge. “Sorry to end our little chat. I have a customer. If you’ll excuse me.” His hand went to the knot of his necktie. Pulling it tighter and straightening the tie, he said, “Oh, and give my best to Sheri and tell her better luck next time.” He stepped aside to allow Dena to precede him to the front of the shop, watched her as she exited, then turned with a smile toward the mother and daughter.

  The bell attached to the top of the door jangled as Dena hurried out. Its jangle seemed to follow her into the street, multiplying into a dozen gonging tongues, deafening and
whispering simultaneously. Trying to shake the clatter, she turned right and hurried up the street. Shoppers and workers crowded the pavement, slowing her escape. But she pushed through the sea of bodies, concentrating on the snippets of conversation and traffic noises. Dave’s hiss and the bell’s clamor seeped into the surrounding sounds. At the top of The Slopes she stopped. She had shaken off the din. And the embarrassment.

  But she hadn’t shaken off the memory of the sound of hand bells. Hand bells and mockery.

  She sat on a nearby bench. It had been…what? Twenty years ago? Yes. She nodded, the group of teenagers and the church hall once more standing before her, dredged up from some recess in her memory. They had been practicing their music for the village wakes. The weeklong celebration would begin the following day, opened by a village luminary who had blazed into fame through the music world. And therefore not only created excitement in the teenaged bell ringers but also added to the pressure to perform perfectly. They were on edge. Dena’s concentration had faltered during a passage; she had not put down her hand bells to use the choir chimes. Consequently, the melody dipped into and out of prominence and eventually produced more foul ups. Normally Dena would have shrugged off the mistake, making a humorous excuse. But the jests and name calling hurt more than usual, cut deeper and stayed longer. Remained with her even now, twenty years later. Nerves may have produced the initial verbal storm, but personal gripes and animosities flamed the exasperation into hatred. And the hostility turned into sharp-tongued gossip, following Dena for the rest of the year.

  A woman’s mobile phone chimed as she passed, and the adolescent recollection faded. Dena got up slowly, glancing around to see if anyone stared at her, guessed her inner turmoil. But the human rush concentrated on its own wants and problems, having no time or desire to notice a solitary figure sitting idle. She returned to her car, questions resonating inside her head. And the questions rang with the voices of McLaren, Gwen, Jamie Kydd and Dave Morley. And, most upsetting, herself. Approaching the music shop, she glanced at its front, half expecting to see Dave Morley leering at her. Or at least standing in the doorway. But the shop front harbored no one. Somewhat placated, she slid into the car’s driver’s seat, questions in her mind as persistent as the noise in the street. Why won’t Dave Morley talk to me? Perhaps more to the point, why is he so certain Sheri Harrison prompted my appearance? Does that mean she knows who’s behind Kent’s death?

  NINE

  Did that mean Sheri was happy about Kent’s death? McLaren wondered. Or merely making an observation about coincidence? He left the castle car park, shaking his head, swearing he’d had enough of women, cold cases, and poking his nose into other people’s lives.

  When he got home he showered and changed clothes. He pitched the perspiration-soaked shirt into the linen bin, glad to be cool and dry once again, and, standing at the kitchen sink, downed a large glass of water in long, deep gulps. The wet leather cord of his necklace left damp impressions on his T-shirt.

  McLaren made himself a cheese and tomato sandwich and took a bite from it as he carried it into the front room. Still chewing, he put the plate on the coffee table and got out his guitar. He sat on the couch, his back to the front window, and strummed a few chords, deciding on a song. The first verse of ‘The Swans’ Courtships’ poured from him in a soft, emotional rendering, as though he were singing it at Kent Harrison’s funeral. Startled, he paused, his pulse racing. Then, realizing it was his subconscious reaction to the day’s questioning, he went on, singing the entire song.

  Ah, says the swan a-swimming on the lake;

  I’ll tell you why my heart did break.

  Once I courted a love so fair

  And when he left I did despair.

  And the swan sings alone and lonely,

  The swan sings so lonely-o.

  Ah, says the cob with his feathers white;

  I loved a lass in the pale moonlight.

  She proved untrue and from me fled

  And since that day I bow my head.

  Ah, says the pen on the wide millrace;

  I knew a cob with a handsome face.

  His words of love, they did deceive,

  Now night and day I sit and grieve.

  Ah, says the cob a-sitting on a stone;

  I had a love but now I’m alone.

  I brought her gifts by night and day

  But she from me did fly away.

  Ah, says the pen on the grassy bank;

  I’ll tell you of a cruel prank.

  He I loved, he did me woo;

  Alas for me, he proved untrue.

  Ah, says the cob with a saddened air;

  Once I courted a lady fair.

  She proved false, from me did turn,

  But for my love I still do yearn.

  Ah, says the pen with a mournful cry;

  I loved a cob with a roving eye.

  With words of love he filled my heart;

  When he did leave it broke apart.

  Of course the title was tongue-in-cheek, but as the last chord of the song hung in the air, McLaren thought about himself and Dena. The past year they had been much like that swan couple, but Dena had done more of the grieving. At least demonstrative, he corrected, setting the guitar on the floor and leaning its neck against the edge of the sofa. And if I were truthful, I’d admit I was just as lonely. And hurt. He slowly shook his head, lowering it as his shameful behavior toward her welled up inside him. He would never treat her like that again. Her or anyone else he loved. It was a sin against God and a slap of her face.

  He glanced at the partially eaten sandwich, wondering why he had thought himself hungry, and grabbed his guitar again. After a quick tuning, he sang ‘Some Rival Has Stolen My True Love Away.’ The words hit him with a fierceness he couldn’t contain, especially the last lines of the final verse.

  But it’s I’ll be as constant as a true turtle dove,

  For I never will, at no time, prove false to my love.

  * * * *

  I should take that as my motto. He laid the guitar on the sofa. Tattoo it on my cheek so I’ll see it when I shave, chisel it on the side of the stonewall. Seal it in my heart. Better than my flippant phrases that my group hears all the time. He left the sandwich on the table and went into the kitchen.

  He passed the next half hour phoning the Harrisons’ friends, making notations and tick marks next to the individual names on Sheri’s list. Everyone, in varying frequencies, had been to their home for dinner, had joined them in other social activities, had seen their marriage deteriorate over several years and finally fall apart, and had felt sympathy for them. Some had taken sides, some had abandoned the friendship, some had offered philosophy and shoulders. No one, however, harbored any suspicion that Sheri Harrison had killed Kent Harrison. She wasn’t that sort of person—even if she did end up hating Kent’s guts. Besides, hadn’t Sheri been working late that night? So, you see, she couldn’t have been in two places at once.

  So much for opportunity, even if motive is still rife. Besides, would all these people lie?

  McLaren was pouring himself a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. As he walked into the front room, he glanced out of the large window. Dena’s red MG sports car sat in the driveway. Smiling, he put the cup on the side table, opened the door, and pulled her toward him.

  “I was hoping you’d drop by,” he said, his lips against her cheek. “It’s been a while.”

  Dena gave him a swift kiss and struggled out of his embrace. “Just two days.”

  “Seemed more like two weeks. You’re not working at the sanctuary today?” He followed her to the sofa but remained standing while she seated herself. “Want some tea? Coffee? Wine?”

  “Nothing, thanks. I just dropped by for a minute.”

  “Then let’s make the most of that minute.” He took the seat next to her and waited for her to find the words.

  “You got the message I left on your ansafone, I guess,” she began, already wondering if this were
the best way to open the topic. Before she could add anything, McLaren said, “Yes. I couldn’t quite figure it out so I played it a few times. A murder case gone cold, right? At Tutbury Castle—well, the body was found elsewhere.”

  “It’s that murder that happened last year. Kent Harrison. He was performing at the Minstrels Court.” She rushed on with her explanation now that he was intrigued, now that he was leaning forward, intent on the case. Not that she was glad of Kent Harrison’s death, but it was the sort of case that McLaren liked. It might bring him even more out of his reclusive life, and that would be good for her and everyone else who liked him. “Do you recall the facts?”

  “I reread the newspaper account. Is the castle curator making noises about the death? Is that why you want me to look into it?”

  “No. Not that I know of. I just thought that since it’s been a year, and since the police don’t seem to be making any headway, and since—”

  “Since I cleared up another little cold case last month, you thought I might as well strike while I’m hot and clear this one up, too. Right?” He smiled as she glared at him.

  “Not at all. It’s a matter of justice, that’s all. You care about justice.”

  “Without saying the obvious that everyone should, I’ll comment that I just got out of that previous case by the skin of my teeth. Harvester and some other not-too-friendly coppers weren’t half pleased with me popping up again. You want me to go through all that a second time, maybe get stopped for something that will stick, something other than a suspicion of driving under the influence?” He felt a surge of heat to his cheeks and was painfully aware that his heart rate had increased. Talking about Charlie Harvester, his former coworker and current nemesis, did that. The fact that Harvester had nothing to do with the driving incident wasn’t the point; Harvester had been the driving force in McLaren quitting his police job. A job he had loved. He would always hold that against Harvester. “Do they allow prisoners to get mail these days? We’ll have to look up when my visiting days are.” He leaned back, the red in his cheeks starting to fade, and looked at Dena.