I’m not going there, she told herself as the first wave of panic waned. I’m not going to die. Michael will find me. I know he will. I have no doubt of it. She choked back the last of her tears, took a deep breath, and, standing on her tiptoes, looked outside again.
Several cars had arrived during the period she’d been crying and were parked far enough away that she could see them entirely. The area still was not filled, and as she wondered if it eventually would be, a car rolled into her view and stopped. It parked quite near Dena, for all she could see were the left rear tire and wing. A slight sway of the car body—perhaps caused as the driver got out—a dull thud and muffled footsteps, and suddenly a pair of Oxfords and brown trousersed legs walked into view.
The nearness of the person so startled Dena that she stared with unbelieving eyes. It wasn’t until the person had passed the window that she pounded on the window.
It had no effect. The legs did not turn to come back. The fear that she had thought conquered broke from within her and she pounded the windowpane again, screaming to the unknown person.
This time the legs reappeared. Or, more correctly, another pair of legs, for the trousers were navy blue. She slammed her palms against the windowpane and yelled as loudly as she could for help. No face peered through the glass at her, no voice replied. The legs remained in front of her, so close that the trouser fabric touched the glass. She pounded the glass again, screaming with all the air in her lungs. Is he deaf? Does he have an ipod plugged into his ear so that he can’t hear me? Again her fist slammed against the glass and again she got no reaction.
Her hands slid down the glass, aching and red from the abuse she’d forced on them. She relaxed, settling down onto her feet. Her toe and calf muscles hurt. As she bent to massage her leg, the trousered leg outside the window lunged forward. The other leg remained where it was but bent slightly, as though the person was reaching or lifting something. Seconds later Dena heard scraping, as of a heavy ceramic object being pulled across a rough surface. Her view was cut off instantly by a large terracotta flowerpot holding an exuberant boxwood evergreen. Another pot, jammed full of hostas and more daylilies, snuggled up to the boxwood. Her vision of the outside world had been effectively cut off.
She crumpled down onto the chair, hugging herself in the realization that the landscaper was most likely her abductor. Why else would he obliterate her communication with the outside? She leaned forward, her heart racing, trying to think, desperate to know where she was, needing to escape. It was while she was thinking that she blacked out.
Dena came to slowly, pulling herself from her dream back into the reality of the pale beige room. She was quickly aware of being cold, and when she moved her head she discovered she was lying on the floor near the chair. I must have fainted, she thought, sitting up. But why—just because I was scared? Hardly. Her hand went to her head, feeling for any injuries from her fall. There were no bumps but her head throbbed. Not like a concussion, she reasoned. More like a bad headache. She got onto her knees, leaned against the seat of the chair, and stood up. Time to explore her surroundings.
The room behaved itself on the whole; only the floor angled off at odd degrees as she staggered over to the main door. But she made the journey in short steps, shuffling rather than striding, and grabbed the doorknob. The gray metal was as cool as the tile floor had been and startled her. She turned the knob and pulled. The door remained closed. She turned the knob the other direction. Still closed.
The other door was not locked. She found the light switch inside the black opening after a few seconds of fumbling and switched on the overhead light. The area was a closet-sized space, painted in the same pale beige as the main room, but held a small wall mirror, toilet and sink. No window or air duct offered an escape route.
As she moved her head she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror. The movement momentarily startled her, and she jumped, stifling the yelp nearly as soon as she uttered it. Fully facing the mirror, she was shocked at what she saw. The disarranged hair didn’t bother her as much as the red marks on the right side of her face. From banging against the open car door when he hit me, or from sleeping on the floor? Her fingers gingerly traced over the redness. The skin had swollen slightly and was tender to her touch. Perhaps it would turn into a bruise. A lovely sight when Michael saw her next…
The thought of McLaren rescuing her cheered her briefly. Giving one last look at herself, she flashed a courage-inducing smile. Then she turned off the light and closed the door before climbing back on the chair.
For all of her captor’s great plan, Dena could still see outside and she held on emotionally with renewed fervor to the link with the world. The flowerpots were angular and trapezoidal in shape, leaving gaps between their neighbors through which she caught snippets of her previous view.
The sun had moved during the time she’d been asleep, for the light had strengthened and altered its whitish hue to egg yolk yellow. Shadows beneath the trees, flowerpots and cars had deepened to black, hugging the foundations and roots of their hosts. Noon or early afternoon, Dena thought before realizing she’d been unconscious throughout the previous evening. Hadn’t I been talking to Michael around teatime yesterday? Hadn’t I set a time for dinner at his house tonight? The sense of elapsed time frightened her, angered her, spurred her into greater resolve to escape or summon aid.
She had discarded the idea of smashing the window with the chair legs. She wouldn’t be able to lift the chair above her head and reach the window without something to stand on—and was considering tearing a piece of fabric from her clothes and shoving it under the main door, hoping some passer-by would see it and investigate—when the door did open. She clutched the sides of the chair, simultaneously frightened and anxious. A sliver of bright florescent light slanted into the room. A gloved hand angled around the edge of the door and laid a bulging paper sack on the floor before retreating into the light and shutting the door with a finality that spoke of continuing imprisonment and despair.
FOURTEEN
There’s a finality about this place, McLaren thought as he left the South Range and walked into the open courtyard. Not the ruins that speak of despair and uncaring people, but the belief that it will survive. As long as Clark MacKay has anything to do with it, McLaren thought, glancing at the vendors opening their booths for another day’s sales. And with the list of activities Clark has planned, I hope he is here for quite a while.
McLaren crossed the grassy expanse, searching for Blossom Armitage’s tent. The sun hovered higher in the sky by this time and had burned off the early morning dew. The short grass was dry and stiff beneath his shoes, mutely testifying to the July heat that seemed to draw the moisture and energy from every living thing.
He found Blossom’s booth at the beginning of a row of crafts and art vendors. She was setting her sign out and looked up as McLaren walked up to her. She smiled, expecting an early sale, then looked surprised as he introduced himself.
“Yes, I knew Kent.” Blossom talked over her shoulder as she arranged the pomanders and sacks of herbs and dried flowers on the table. The sunlight shone through the bottles of enfleurages and tinctures, casting delicately colored rectangles on the tablecloth. Blossom straightened the line of conserves—small, squat glass jars of honey-jellied flowers and herbs—and added, “Nicest man you’d ever hope to meet. I was so sorry to hear he had been killed. He introduced me to Aaron Unsworth. He wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes that used a majority of natural ingredients. Flowers, spices, herbs, leaves. You know.”
“More healthful,” McLaren supplied, eyeing the variety of herb-flavored vinegars.
“Definitely.”
“Was Kent a customer of yours?”
“A customer?”
“Yes. Did he ever buy some of your ointments or teas? Maybe try something unusual, like galingale or angelica or calendula? I thought since you knew each other, he might have tried flowers or spices in his cooking.”
“
Kent bought some chamomile once. He had a long bout of stage jitters and he bought chamomile to make tea. It’s good for settling the nerves.”
“Did it do the trick, do you know?”
“Sorry, I don’t. He had bought rather a large amount, so whether he was just imagining stage fright, or if the chamomile helped, or even if he just got over it himself, he didn’t buy any more. At least not from me.” As though underlining the possible personal insult, she flipped her long braid over her shoulder and straightened her long skirt.
The fabric looks cool, McLaren thought. And nearly weightless. The pastel colors of the print seemed to him as light as a spring morning. He pushed up his shirtsleeves before replying, “Sorry you lost future sales.”
“I’m glad I could help him, do him a favor for once. Kent was always helping others. As he did for Aaron, helping him in a roundabout way with his cookbook.”
“Did you? Confer with Aaron Unsworth, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. We’ve had several meetings. I let him have some of my recipes, with the stipulation that he note in the book where the ingredients could be obtained, and gave him other resources for recipes. He’s finished with the writing, but I don’t believe the book is published yet. Next month, I believe. Unless it’s been held up at the printer.”
“And you helped Aaron…when?”
“Oh, late last summer. Into the autumn. Kent introduced us at last year’s Minstrels Court. Aaron had been considering the cookbook idea for some time, but he never did anything with it. Maybe he hadn’t the time until last July.”
When his wife left him…
“Anyway,” Blossom said, straightening up from the table and looking at McLaren, “that’s all I know.”
“You didn’t see him leave the night he was killed, then. Or hear an earlier argument he may have had with someone here.”
“No.”
“Do you know what time he actually left the castle? Maybe you saw him in the car park.”
“I’ve no idea when he left the car park. Or the stage area. It’s easier for the musicians to pack up and walk out when they’ve finished. Most of them just have an instrument. When it’s closing time we vendors have to put away our wares, take down our signs, and stow any outdoor tables and chairs and tablecloths inside our tents. There’s a lot of work before we can go home.”
“When did you finally get to leave?”
“Sometime a little past 11:30. Clark MacKay saw me. He always walks around the area, making certain everything is all right, checking to see if anyone needs help and has left the castle before he locks everything up. He waved and we exchanged a few words as I was making for the main entrance. The car park attendant saw me, too. He and a few of the security officers Clark hires for these large events were standing near the ticket booth. There weren’t that many of us here at that time and the car park was nearly deserted. That came out during the police investigation.”
“Do you know when Kent’s musical set finished? Not precisely, but some idea—seven o’clock, half past eight, ten?” He waited, mentally crossing his fingers that he’d get a lead.
“Sorry, but no. I didn’t pay any attention to who was performing. I usually don’t. I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but after so many years selling here the music’s become little more than background noise. Like music to shop by, if that’s not too indifferent. There’s always a crowd of people in the vendors’ area. If I’m not answering questions or making sales, I’m watching the people at my tables. Theft,” she added rather reluctantly, slipping her foot into and out of her leather sandal. “It’s a shame sellers have to be like that, but that happens.”
McLaren agreed that theft seemed to be on the rise.
“So, you can understand why I didn’t know when Kent or any of the performers left the area. As I said, the music isn’t much more than background noise—if I’m not insulting anyone by saying that.” She watched him examine a small bag of dried mint leaves. “Very useful plant, mint.”
“What else can you use it for besides mint sauce?”
“Many things. Medicinally to treat stomach ailments such as cramps, nausea, vomiting, and colic. For fevers and reduction of arthritis and chronic joint pain. As a facial wash and an additive in toothpastes to ward off bacteria and viruses. You may also get the same protection against bacterial growth by chewing on the leaves after eating starchy or sugary foods. Mint is helpful as an herbal bath and foot soak. In cooking you can make mint vinegar—a delightful mouthwash. Also it’s used to flavor teas and baked goods. Many perfumes and oils for massages include mint in their ingredients.” She tapped the front of the bag, drawing McLaren’s attention to the writing on the label. “Some of those uses I just mentioned are listed here. Many people are surprised to learn there are nearly 3,200 types of mint, the best known types being lemon balm, horehound, catnip, lavender, rosemary and sage.”
“Sounds like a wonder plant, all right.”
“It is, for the most part. But like anything else natural, we always recommend using caution. You may be allergic and not know it. That’s why I advise you consult your doctor before you eat or use any type of herb. Pregnant and nursing women, especially, should talk to their doctors before they use any mint. This applies to cosmetic preparations, medicinal use, as well as in foods.”
McLaren turned the bag over and read the back sticker. “Is this for making tea? I don’t want to buy the wrong kind. You have a recipe here on the label.”
“It is very good for tea. That’s why the recipe is included.”
“I suppose Aaron devoted a large section of his cookbook to mint, if it has all those uses.”
“I don’t know. I gave him what recipes I had and, as I said, referred him other sources. I don’t know what he did or didn’t include in his book. There are hundreds of recipes.”
McLaren pulled his wallet from his trousers pocket. “I’d like to buy this.”
“You’re under no obligation to pay for my information.” Even if the phrase came off businesslike, her voice held a suggestion of gratitude.
“I realize that. I still want it. I like mint tea.”
Blossom accepted the money, slipped his purchase into a logo-covered paper bag, and thanked him. “I appreciate the sale. My address is on the back label, if you should wish some more mint and can’t locate me at a certain venue.”
“Thank you.” He put away his wallet, then said, “I’m just wondering. Did you and Kent initially meet here, or had you known each other before you both came to the Minstrels Court?”
“We met here. He came over to my booth and we struck up a conversation. I thought him intelligent, good humored and kind. He mentioned he was one of the musicians appearing here and I wandered over to the stage area to listen to him sing. He had a magnificent voice—pure and strong that sent shivers coursing through your body when he hit high notes. A great performer, too. He knew how to work a crowd, had some funny dialogue. He would throw out handfuls of his guitar flat picks to the crowd as souvenirs. Sometimes he made a little contest of it.”
“How’s that?”
“The person who caught a certain pick would get a free autographed CD. Things like that.”
“Do you know how he designated the specific pick? Cut part of it off or pasted a decal on it?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think he cut off anything because his picks already had a hole in them. I was in the audience when he threw them out as souvenirs. I asked him about it later, when he came to my booth. I thought it so weird.” She paused, smiling as she remembered. “He said his hands sweated so much—from the lights and his nervousness—that he punched a hole in the center of each pick with a paper punch. His thumb and index finger could then touch when he held it, you see, and the pick wouldn’t slide around in his fingers.”
McLaren nodded. I do the same thing.
“Just an instance of his popularity, though he didn’t have to give away things to be so well liked and sought after. I know for a fact,” Blos
som lowered her voice and moved slightly closer to McLaren, “that Ellen Fairfield was after him.” She raised her eyebrow and nodded her head, underlining her implication.
“Who’s Ellen Fairfield? An ardent fan?”
“Yes, but not in the way you’re imagining it. She’s the curator at Rawlton Hall. She’s trying to set up historical events and fetes like Clark has done here at Tutbury. She’s been after Kent for years, it seems.”
“Trying to lure him to her place so the crowds will move over there.”
“You got it. How she did rabbit on, too. Telling him of the extra money he’d make, the great promotion she was going to do. I thought most of it rubbish what she was telling us.”
“So she was trying to lure other performers and vendors to her Hall, then.”
“Too right. Kept coming around, bothering us. I thought she and Clark would come to blows one day. She wouldn’t leave off. But she calmed down and we didn’t see her for a while.”
“I suppose she did this all the time—appeared at the other events held here at the castle.”
“That’s what I heard. She had a good eye for talent and for what sold well. I know she was just looking out for her own job, but it got up Kent’s nose, her pestering him all the time. And him such a nice chap. Always helping people—that’s one of the things I liked most about him.”
“Do you know anyone in particular he helped?”
“Well,” Blossom said, “the only person I know specifically is Dave Morley.”
“His sometime singing partner?”
“That’s the one. I didn’t know the particulars about the act, but I know what Dave always said.”
“And what was that?”
Blossom straightened her strand of beads before replying, “That Dave needed Kent to boost his career.”
* * * *
Luckily for McLaren, he found Dave Morley in the stage area. It had just gone half past nine and the festival wouldn’t open for another half hour, but Dave was getting ready for his performance. He was still in his street clothes, but his costume—short doublet with dagged sleeves, opaque hose, and pointed-toe shoes—sat on top of his guitar case. A battered brown trilby, frayed around the front edge, perched on the back of his head. Not doing much for sun protection. Probably vain about a balding spot. Dave sat on the edge of the stage, his guitar resting on his right thigh and ready to play. His head was turned and lowered over the guitar body as he tuned, listening intently to each string as he plucked them separately and slowly. He sat up, startled, as McLaren walked up to him, calling his name.
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