“You’ve spoken with most of the major players,” Jamie confirmed, leaning back in his chair. “Unless there is a colleague or two at Kent Harrison’s school, or a mystery man you don’t yet know about, I’d say you’ve done rather well.”
“I’m going back to the school,” McLaren explained. “The head master is away, but I set up times to talk to some of the faculty who knew Kent rather well.”
“Then I don’t see what your problem is, Mike.”
McLaren set the glass down but kept his hand on the stem, as though needing an emotional anchor. “I just feel like I’m missing something, like there’s a big secret, and I’m the last person to know about it.”
“There usually are secrets in a murder case.”
“But something more than the killer’s identity. Like everyone is lying to me, only I’m too stupid to know.”
“Well, if it will give you an edge on your suspects, you might want to know that the only things that came to light in the original search of the scene where Kent’s body was found were a guitar pick and a grommet.”
“Grommet?”
“Besides the usual rubbish of our uncaring public, I mean. You know.”
McLaren nodded, picturing the scene and the others he had processed as a young constable. All the refuse of indifferent people—cigarette ends, water bottles, food wrappers, beer cans, used facial tissue… “A grommet—like from a rucksack?”
“Shouldn’t think so. It was small. Like on a belt buckle, purse strap or shoe.”
“And the pick doesn’t particularly mean anything. Lots of kids probably use the spot for get-togethers and singing.” He thought a minute, looking at the mandolin. “What kind of guitar pick? Anything unusual?”
“You’re the expert on that, Mike. It just looked like a guitar pick. Flat, plastic, tortoise shell color and pattern. Any good?”
“Does nothing for me, no.” He pushed the glass away from him. “Not much closer to a solution than we were before.”
“I guess the medical report is old news to you.”
“Why? Anything more than what Cheryl’s already told me?”
“You’ve talked with her, then. No, nothing new. Not if she didn’t say anything.”
McLaren nodded. “Cyanogenetic glycoside in his stomach, death by asphyxiation some time between ten o’clock and midnight on Sunday night.”
“He was strangled.”
“No signs of manual strangulation. Garroted,” he added, somewhat reluctantly. “Not exactly in line with fair play.”
“Kent had to have been jumped, I suppose, because there’s that indication on his skull that he’d been hit with a rock or similar object. Some person got bloody well close enough to him to do that, even if he was jumped. Not a fight, because there were no defense wounds on his body.”
McLaren snorted. “There’s always that pesky problem of how his body ended up in the wood. His car was at his home, remember?”
“What’s to prevent some chap from following Kent home from the Minstrels Court, or arranging to meet him somewhere—”
“At his house, most likely.”
“Anyway, they meet up, walk nonchalantly to the wood and, Kent being off his guard because he’s set up the rendezvous—”
“—is taken unaware when the bloke jumps and kills him,” McLaren finished. “Fine. A lovely scenario, but again…who?”
“Dave Morley, Kent’s sporadic singing partner, said they were to have talked that night,” Jamie reminded McLaren.
“I heard. I don’t suppose they actually met and Dave’s just a tad sketchy with his memory…”
The musician was sitting on a stool, tuning her mandolin. The notes were drowned out by the conversation coming from the Minstrels Round area.
“Lies, faulty memories. Doesn’t make much difference. You still don’t get any truth, no matter what time you look into the case.”
“Speaking of time…” McLaren stood up as he glanced at his watch.
“The frying pan calls, I know. Give Dena my best, Mike.” He reached for his glass as McLaren left the table.
McLaren strolled up to Blossom Armitage, who was just concluding a sales transaction. She looked up, recognized McLaren, and smiled.
“I doubt you’ve already brewed up all that mint tea, so you’re here for some other reason.” She tilted her head so that she wasn’t looking directly into the light. Her hair fell away from the side of her head, revealing her long, silver earrings.
“I haven’t even been home to brew it,” McLaren said, grinning. “I hope to taste it tonight, thanks. Do you participate in this every year? I hear it’s an annual fundraiser for a scholarship.”
“I try to, though I can’t always get to all of them. Quite a number are held throughout the year, so sometimes I’m busy. I was lucky that my assistant could take over at the booth at the Minstrels Court tonight, or else I’d not be here. Your first time?”
“Yes. It looks intriguing,” he said, glancing at the other presenters in the area.
“Are you interested in this era?”
“Yes. Especially the history and music.”
“Then you need to talk to my husband. That’s him over there. Hart Pennell.” She nodded at the Robin Hood figure.
“Pennell.”
“Don’t apologize. I know what you’re thinking. Blossom Armitage is my professional name. In private hours I’m Beatrice Pennell.”
“I guess Blossom lends itself better to your herbal company.”
“That’s what Hart thought. Go on, talk to him, if you care to. He’ll love to find another kindred soul. History is his specialty.”
“Really?”
“Yes. He teaches history at Grange Hall Performing Arts College in Ashbourne.”
“Grange Hall…”
“Sixth form students. He’s lectured at the Minstrel Court in recent years. Go talk to him.”
McLaren thanked her and wandered over to Hart Pennell. He looked up from the beer he was sipping, put it on the table behind the stack of pamphlets, and wiped his hand on his long doublet before extending it in a handshake. “Sorry. I try not to eat or drink while there are people about. But I was thirsty.”
“Perfectly all right.”
“New to the Minstrels Round? I don’t recall seeing you before. It’s a fairly tight knit community, so I know most interested parties.”
“No, I’ve not participated.” He introduced himself and stated that he was investigating Kent’s death.
“Ah, yes. Kent Harrison. Did you know him? No? Too bad. Such a gentle, caring man. He actually came up with the idea for the Minstrels Round. He taught music at the school where I teach. He saw how attracted some kids were to the pageantry and general ‘good ole days’ of the Middle Ages.”
“Kind of an outgrowth of the Narnia books and Dungeon and Dragons and so forth?”
“Precisely. He started teaching some of this in his classes. They were very popular, so this scholarship thing grew out of that.”
“It seems like a good way to help students attain the funds for university.”
“It is, believe me. But it’s just another feather in Kent’s cap. He was always helping people. Never could do enough. He had such a passion for music—well, for teaching in general—that he infected his students with the joy of the era and with learning. He’d take them to the Minstrels Court for a day, proclaiming that they learned more by seeing and being in the correct atmosphere than a week’s worth of book study could produce. He’d bring back things from the event and use them in his classroom. He was a superb teacher.”
“Too bad there aren’t more people like him. In all walks of life.”
“Exactly. I could have easily been jealous of Kent, of his popularity, but he was so unassuming, so honest in his love, that I just couldn’t. So I try to keep his charity going and echo his enthusiasm in my own students.”
“Has anyone else at your school taken up his method of teaching? Going to the Minstrels Court or doing something hands-on l
ike that?”
“I’m about the only person, I think. Though it did backfire a few times.” McLaren looked interested so Hart went on. “One of Kent’s neighbors, Ron Brennan, phoned in complaints to the police several times. He got tired of the kids being over at Kent’s house. But they were there to work on projects or learn guitar from Kent. And acoustic guitar, at that!” Hart screwed up his mouth and exhaled loudly. “In this day of electrics and rockers and special effects…and they were interested in acoustic guitars and lutes. Anyway, Kent was only trying to teach his students, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like they were boozing it up in the yard and yelling. I mean, how loud can a few acoustic guitars be?”
“Not loud, I wouldn’t think. Perhaps something else was bothering Mr. Brennan.”
“I’d give him the benefit of one bad evening, but he complained several times. Kent chalked it up to Ron’s jealousy.”
“Was he jealous of Kent’s musical ability?”
“I shouldn’t think so. But I don’t know. Probably just a mean old buzzard without many friends.”
McLaren thanked him for his time, then drove home to start dinner.
* * * *
The trout, covered in a crisp oatmeal batter, was ready for frying as soon as Dena got there. The broccoli, water chestnuts and carrots were gently sautéing in the skillet—the slivered almonds and Worcestershire sauce would be added in the last minutes of cooking. Lettuce and baby spinach were mixed for the salad and keeping cold in the fridge. All he had to do was warm the rolls in the oven, but that would be done right before they sat down to dinner.
He paused, a dishtowel over his shoulder, and looked around the dining room. A sky blue tablecloth and matching serviettes perfectly complimented his mother’s white china; a white pillar candle waited in the hurricane candleholder; a bunch of red roses beamed from their glass vase. Everything was under control and running along smoothly. It just lacked the guest.
He picked up the water glass on the table—a cut glass goblet of his mother’s—and downed the cold liquid. Why were his palms sweating and his heart racing? It was just Dena; it was just dinner. She’d been over many times previously. He put the glass back, unaware of the drops of water running off the glass’ base and onto the tablecloth. Should he refill his glass now or should he just wait? Maybe he should have just got a single long-stemmed rose and laid that across her dinner plate—would she think that was more romantic than the vase of roses? And the silver serving bowl for the dessert…he hadn’t had time to polish it. Would she notice? Would she think he didn’t care enough of her to shine it up?
But she wasn’t like that. Although very well off, Dena took people as she found them, equally content with bread and butter or fancy fare for tea. That was one reason he loved her. His fingers traced the edge of her napkin. He knew that now; knew it as deeply as he knew the sun rose in the east. He loved her with a fire that burned within him, with an ache that he could not placate if they were apart. At dinner tonight he would tell her, ask her again to marry him.
McLaren walked back into the kitchen and gave the vegetables a stir. He glanced at the wall clock and lowered the heat. If they burned he had only frozen peas to fall back on. And while there was nothing wrong with peas, he had wanted the broccoli and carrot dish. It was a family recipe and would impress Dena.
He opened the fridge and checked on the chocolate mousse. He had made it this morning, before he had left the house, so he wasn’t worried that it hadn’t set up. But he liked to make sure of everything, so he lightly tapped the cling wrap draped over the top of the dessert. Firm. Smiling, he closed the door.
At eight o’clock he turned on the CD of Claudio Arrau playing Liszt etudes. The lyrical, haunting strains of a nocturne filled the house, Arrau’s mastery of scales and arpeggios sounding like liquid gold on the piano.
At two minutes past eight he lit the candle and dimmed the overhead light. The table jumped from Ordinary to Romantic.
At five past eight he turned the heat under the vegetables to the lowest setting.
At ten past eight he filled his water glass, removed the dish towel from his shoulder and hung it on the handle of the over door.
At twelve minutes past eight he took the salad cream from the refrigerator and put it on the table.
At a quarter past eight he rotated the wine in the wine cooler’s ice bath.
At seventeen minutes past eight he lifted the receiver of his phone. The dial tone assured him the line was working. He replaced the receiver and sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion in the front room and looked out of the front window.
At twenty-five past eight he rang Dena’s home phone number. After ten rings the answering machine clicked on and he left a message, hoping she was on her way and that she hadn’t forgotten their date.
At twenty-six minutes past eight he rang her mobile phone. It rang until he hung up.
At half past eight he phoned her father. No, he hadn’t heard from Dena in several days. No, he didn’t know where she was but he’d have her ring McLaren if she phoned or showed up. He next phoned the few friends he knew. Ditto Dena’s father.
At a quarter to nine he phoned the nearby hospitals. No one resembling Dena or having her name had been admitted. He phoned her house again, fearful she was hurt and couldn’t answer. He left another message, this time voicing his growing fright. He rang her mobile again, got no answer, and left his third message. He hung up, his body frozen poker stiff, his mind racing. Three minutes later he slumped against the sofa, concern for her safety no longer paramount in his feelings. He stared at the candle flame dancing in the dimly lit room. Had she changed her mind? Was she sitting in her home, looking at the phone’s caller ID, not picking up his calls on purpose?
McLaren stared at the road skirting his front garden. No car headlights approached his drive. The tarmac lay undisturbed and quiet in the dusky light. Suspicions whispered in his mind, fueling the pain exploding in his forehead. He rubbed his neck, trying to ease the growing tension and, in so doing, his fingers touched his necklace. He rolled the strip of leather beneath his fingers, then felt the ceramic and wooden beads. Like worry beads, rolling them between his fingers and his palm. Each caress produced Dena’s face or voice or laughter. His hand slid from the necklace and fell heavily onto his lap. He sagged against the sofa and closed his eyes.
At half past nine he blew out the candle, scraped the vegetables and fish into plastic cartons and put them into the refrigerator. He turned off the kitchen light, turned off the dining room light, turned off the front room light, turned off the music. The house plunged into darkness as complete and heavy as his soul. He wandered into his bedroom, sat on the edge of his bed, and took off his shoes. Without bothering to wash or undress, he fell back onto the quilt and stared out of his window. The willow at the front of his garden was barely visible against the black sky. A bank of clouds streaked before the wind, racing for the sprinkle of stars in the eastern sky. The world beyond his window was silent except for the occasional rasp of a tree branch against the side of the house. He turned over onto his side, his eyes staring into the darkness, hearing Dena’s warm voice as she accepted his dinner invitation, wondering if it had all been a trick to get back at him for their months of separation.
A verse of a song crept into his mind. He usually sang it with fervency, looking at Dena if she were in the audience, imagining her if she was absent. Either way, he considered it her song, his declaration of love. His hand slid beneath his head, cradling his body as well as his thoughts. The lyric and tune spun around him, drowning him in feelings. ‘I’ll love you till the seas run dry and the rocks all melt in the sun. I’ll love you till the fires freeze and the streams no longer run.’
He pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling hurt, betrayed and alone.
SEVENTEEN
McLaren woke early the next morning, having spent a fitful night. His sleep, when he had finally dozed around half past four, had been punctuated with dreams of Dena�
��taunting him, playing hide and seek with him, mocking him. He sat in bed now, aware that he was in his clothes, aware of his mussed hair and the staleness of his mouth. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he glanced at his bedside clock. Quarter past five. He showered, shaved and dressed as fast as his headache would allow him, then stumbled into the kitchen.
The remnants from last night’s supper were littered around the room, tacitly ridiculing his romantic effort. He ignored the used mixing bowls and skillets and heated up the leftover coffee.
The liquid was hot, nearly scalding his throat when he drank it minutes later. But he needed the heat to jolt him awake and think through last night. The replay of their earlier conversation convinced him that Dena had neither forgotten their date nor had deliberately not shown up. She didn’t hold grudges or get even. And, he reminded himself, she had instigated their reunion, phoning him last month. She hadn’t done that to set up this ‘trick.’ Dena didn’t play around with people’s emotions. He stared at the bubbles on top of the coffee in his mug, watching them cluster together. He took another sip. When he set the mug on the table, the bubbles had scattered. No, car trouble was not an option, as she would have phoned to say she’d be late. Therefore, the alternative was that she was ill.
But even that didn’t seem right. As with the supposed car trouble, she would have phoned. Something was decidedly wrong. Something had happened to her.
That suggestion both frightened him and prodded him into action. Any dregs of self pity, of thinking she hated him and had deliberately stayed away, were erased in his unshakable conviction that her absence was beyond her control. She needed him.
The recorded messages on both her home and mobile phone numbers chilled him now that he realized she wasn’t cruelly playing with him. Her voice smiled to him over the phone receiver, asserted that she loved him. Getting no answer, he carefully hung up, his mind racing. Where was she? What could have happened so that she was unable to contact him? The hint shook his very core; he rang up Jamie. It was time for professional help.
Swan Song Page 14
