“Time it from when you drop me off, then. Make it six minutes total by your watch. You can break off the survey when the six minutes are up. I don’t dare risk giving you a vocal signal.”
“Her husband or kids won’t be home? No maid to worry about spotting you?”
“I’ll have to chance it. Anyway, I’m just going into the bedroom.”
“Oh, cuts your chance of discovery way down, then.” She shook her head, her mouth screwed up. “What about burglar alarms?”
“If she’s home, it won’t be turned on. Especially not if she answers the door.”
“Which is why you don’t want to do this at night.”
“Not with a damned alarm ready to announce my presence.”
“Well, I hope you’ve thought it all out, Mike. If not, I’ll bring you flowers on visiting day.”
“Just talk loudly when you’re questioning her. I need to know when you start.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
McLaren had no trouble gaining access to Eva’s back garden, but he found himself sweating as he walked up to the back of the house. Breaking into Charlie Harvester’s house had been a snip compared to this. He waited until he heard Gwen’s voice before trying the back door. It opened.
Once inside, he eased the door shut and stood in the utility room. No alarm rang, no one rushed into the room to see what had happened. Eva’s dog didn’t even investigate. Only Gwen’s and Eva’s voices sounded in the otherwise stillness.
He glanced around the area. It was perhaps ten by fifteen feet, with another door on the opposite wall from the back door. A coat rack, umbrella stand, small wooden chair and metal baker’s rack took up one of the solid walls; a washer, clothes dryer and small shelves occupied the other wall. A basket of clothes sat on top of the washer. McLaren hastily searched through the contents for the pair of Firetrap jeans. Nothing. Next, he looked in the washer and clothes drier. They were empty.
He tiptoed to the doorway. Gwen was still talking, asking about the dog’s exercise routine. Good ole Gwen. He’d have to do something nice for her when this was over.
McLaren glanced down the hallways. There were two of them, each coming from a different side of the house and meeting at the vestibule that ran into the utility room. He tiptoed a few feet down one hall before stopping. It seemed to lead to the front of the house, for Gwen’s voice was decidedly louder in this hallway. He eased back to the vestibule and hurried in the opposite direction, toward what he hoped was the bedroom wing.
Evidently, he had guessed correctly. The hall was carpeted in the same creamy color as the front rooms and held three closed doors. He crept up to the nearest door and, after listening with his ear against it and hearing nothing, went in. The room evidently was a guest room; no personal items ornamented dresser or night tabletops. The second room mimicked the first and McLaren moved on. He struck pay dirt at the end of the hall and eased into the room, shutting the door behind him.
The room was unexpected. It didn’t match Eva’s penchant for gold and white tones. Instead, the walls, bedding and upholstered chairs were done in shades of lilac and blue. The old English style furniture was about as far from the front room’s modern minimalism as one could get. Maybe Eva’s husband had insisted on the romantic look here.
Two large closets on McLaren’s left were adorned with full length mirrors on their outside panels, and McLaren jumped as he crossed the room, momentarily startled by the reflection of the blue-costumed worker. He laid his clipboard on a nearby chair and opened the first closet door.
Obviously Eva’s things, he thought, looking at the line-up of clothes. He pushed the hangers apart, noting every bit of clothing in the long line. There were no jeans.
The husband’s closet was as packed with clothes as Eva’s, but the jeans hanging there were a different brand. McLaren closed the doors in disgust. Were the jeans at the dry cleaner’s? Had she loaned them to a friend? Did she even wear jeans? Had he zeroed in on the wrong person?
He was making for the door, ready to end the hunt, when he heard the click of the doorknob turning. He froze, glanced at the closet, then ran to the four-poster bed. He squeezed himself beneath the bed frame just as the door opened.
McLaren flattened himself against the floor and held his breath. From beneath the edge of the duvet he saw the person’s shoes walk into the room, hesitate slightly, then move straight ahead. Making for one of the dressers, McLaren thought, and was rewarded with the sound of a drawer opening and closing. The shoes—sensible, sturdy, and highly polished—moved slightly to the left and went up on their toes.
A muttered “Damn” crept into the silence, thin and high toned. The lower portion of black trousers and hands came down quickly on the blue carpet, and the toes of the shoes dug into the plush pile.
McLaren tried to scoot towards the other end of the bed, putting more space between himself and whom he assumed was the maid. He pressed his cheek into the carpet and inched his head backwards. His flesh stung as he squirmed out of her line of sight and he felt his chest rub against the bottom of the mattress. As the maid’s fingers grasped the edge of the duvet his hand found a piece of fabric at his shoulder. He pushed it in front of him, glad of the carpet that silenced any noise. Punching it up in front of his face, he prayed every prayer he knew and waited.
Barely two feet from McLaren’s face the fingers enlarged into a hand that crept farther underneath the bed frame. He swore silently and felt the perspiration roll down his face and collect around his shirt collar. An exasperated “Hell” shot nearly into his ear as the hand patted the carpet. The edge of the duvet lifted suddenly and an eye seemed to stare at him.
Slowly, the nose, right cheek, ear, chin and mouth presented themselves to McLaren’s nervous gaze. A hand swept a long strand of dark hair behind the ear, then rested on the carpet, supporting the upper torso as it bent lower.
McLaren inched his fingers behind the bundle of fabric, keeping hold of it with his teeth as his hand came to rest against his chest. He waited, not daring to breathe, hoping all she saw was darkness.
The edge of the duvet dropped but not before the light illuminated a small silver glint nearly touching McLaren’s left elbow. He grabbed the earring and carefully placed it within a few inches of where the woman’s hand had been. Seconds later, the duvet’s edge stirred. Another portion of the bottom of the dresser presented itself to McLaren’s view, and the searching fingers again crept beneath the bed frame. He snatched his hand back as her fingers slid over the earring.
After the hand retreated from his view and the door closed behind the maid, he let out his breath and muttered a prayer of thanks. He lifted the duvet’s edge slowly, prepared to drop it should he need to. No one else appeared to be in the room, yet he counted to fifty before moving. He would have liked to have stayed where he was for several minutes, would have liked to make sure the maid didn’t come back. But he’d lost track of time during the earring hunt and didn’t know if Gwen was still at the front door or had left. Eva might come into the room any moment.
He pushed the fabric away from his face. He wriggled out from beneath the bed and slowly, quietly stood up. No one was there. As he glanced at his feet he nearly collapsed in astonishment. The fabric that had shielded him under the bed was a pair of Firetrap jeans. A button was missing.
Why would Eva hide them? Did they have telltale soil traces from his front garden hiding along the seams? Was she waiting for the case to die down before she risked washing and wearing them? Were they even hers; perhaps she was hiding them for a friend.
He picked them up, holding them at arm’s length as he studied them. They seemed to be Eva’s size, though he wasn’t certain. He stuffed them under his shirt, sprinted down the hall and out the door, and ran from the house as fast as he dared.
“You seem to have eaten a very large lunch,” Gwen said when she picked him up on the main road. She poked McLaren’s usually flat midriff. “Raid the kitchen while you wer
e there?”
“Comedy is not your forte.” He rubbed Lafayette’s head. “Any problems?”
“None. How about you? Unless you call your sudden pregnancy a problem.”
Ignoring her remark, McLaren took off his cap and leaned back in the car seat. He laid his left arm across his forehead. “Damn, I’m sweaty. If nothing else happens until bedtime, it’s still a lovely day.”
“Cryptically meaning you found what you were after. Is that how your cheek got hurt?”
“Why? What’s the matter with it?” He angled the rearview mirror towards him and looked at his cheek.
“Hey! I’m driving. I need that.” Gwen repositioned the mirror and glanced at the traffic behind her. “Red and raw. That’s what’s wrong with it. What did you scrape it on? I can’t believe Eva did that. She was talking to me the whole time.”
McLaren gingerly ran his fingertips across his cheek. He winced. “Bloody hell, that hurts. I guess it happened on the rug.”
“The rug?”
“Beneath the bed.”
Gwen shook her head and passed a slow moving car. “I won’t ask. God knows I’m dying to know, but I won’t ask.”
“I was hiding from someone. Probably the maid. Eva strikes me as the sort who’d have a maid. She walked into the bedroom and I had to hide.”
“Eva?”
“The maid.”
“Well, wear your battle scar proudly. At least you got what you went for.”
McLaren opened his mouth to retaliate, then stared at his sister. “Bloody hell. I left the clipboard in her bedroom.”
* * * *
Gwen dropped McLaren back at his house, told him not to make a career of burglary, and waved goodbye as she drove off. He showered and changed clothes before heading to Dan Wilshaws’ house.
Dan was vehement about the pot; Janet didn’t take drugs. It wasn’t part of her culture. She had strict rules for her employees, whether the trio or her catering company. She did not tolerate drugs or drinking; if you overstepped the line, you were fired.
McLaren got a different story from Alan. He said Janet tolerated pot, but taking anything harder put you in jeopardy of your job.
Helene said she never saw Sean or anyone come to work stoned; she didn’t believe Janet took drugs. “I don’t know about her musicians,” Helene said, “but there was never a hint of drug taking connected to the catering employees. You might want to ask Tom. He was her boyfriend at that time, so he might know something. ’Course, his statement might be colored slightly. Break-up and all that, you know. I don’t know if I’d really put much stock in what he says. Jilted lovers are sometimes quite bitter, aren’t they?”
Tom Murray admitted that he could have placed the bag of pot under Janet’s couch, but he didn’t. “You’ve got your time wrong,” he said, clearly irritated with the early morning visit. “We broke up in June. What you’re talking about happened in September. And how would I have planted it? I didn’t have her house key anymore.”
“You could’ve had a duplicate made.”
“Why would I want to break into her house? To stash pot under her sofa? Why? How would I know it would be found?”
“It would be found if she was dead in suspicious circumstances. The police routinely search the home of a murder victim.”
“You’re daft. Anyway, I don’t take drugs, so I wouldn’t know how to get any. And anyone who really knows Janet would know she doesn’t smoke that stuff, so what would have been the point?”
That is the question, McLaren thought as the door closed behind him.
Still, a suggestion of revenge clung to the secreted marijuana. No fingerprints on the bag did, too. Whoever hid the pot didn’t want it traced back to him, and that strongly suggested Janet’s killer. For, to make sure the pot was found, there had to be a crime large enough to involve a complete police investigation. That large crime was murder.
So it came back to who wanted Janet dead. He sat in his car, re-reading the list of names and the notes he’d made beside each one. Only Stuart, Sean and Alan had the obvious motive of anger, but motive didn’t always present itself so blatantly. He rang up Nora, asked if he could see her, then drove back to Buxton.
“I have them here,” Nora said as McLaren entered her house. She led the way to the dining room table and switched on the chandelier. The shoebox bulged with bank statements and canceled checks. “Is this what you want to see?” She stood beside the chair, looking up at him, her voice hesitant, as though she wanted a passing mark.
Smiling, McLaren pulled out a chair for Nora. “Smashing.” He sat down and pulled out the statements nearest to him, then paused. “You are certain you don’t mind me doing this? It’s not idle curiosity about Janet’s finances. I thought I might get a different slant on the case. Money is one of the major motives in crimes.” He eyed her, assessing if she understood.
Nora nodded emphatically and squeezed his hand before standing up. “There’s a reason for the saying that it’s the root of all evil. You go on. I don’t mind if it helps you find my daughter’s killer.” She told him she’d bring him a cup of tea and disappeared into the kitchen.
McLaren had finished his tea before he found what he wanted. He laid a dozen statements side by side on the table and read the items carefully. After writing down the information in his notebook he went over to Nora.
She had been reading but laid the book on the sofa and looked up at him. “Did you find what you wanted?”
“I believe so, yes. Did Janet ever mention anything to you about the rating of her catering company?”
“The rating?”
“How quickly it received such a superior ranking, if she had to ask many food or restaurant critics to review her menus. That sort of thing.”
“She never said anything to me. I admit I was more interested in her singing. That seemed to be where her true talent lay, in my opinion. But I think she would have said something if she’d been struggling for recognition for her catering company. It’s not easy getting noticed, no matter if it’s a book or CD or painting. I would have heard if she’d been frustrated by the lack of notice for her company.” She angled her head to avoid looking into the sunlight. “What did you find?”
“Withdrawals from her current account, each month for a year, up until the month of her death. A consistent amount, never varying. Does this suggest anything to you? Did she always go to a casino, perhaps, or bet on dog or horse racing, or give to a charity?”
Nora shook her head. “That wasn’t Janet. Oh, she gave to one charity, but that was always in December. I know that for certain because we always joked about our yearly gift to this animal rescue shelter. Other than that, no. I can’t imagine why she’d always withdraw the same sum each month. Was it a lot?”
“One hundred pounds.”
“Lord! That’s over a thousand pounds a year!”
“So she wasn’t helping a friend, perhaps, who’d fallen on hard times, or paying off a new car.”
“She had the same car for several years. And I never heard of any friend or employee that she was helping.”
“Had she a bookkeeper or financial adviser?”
“Yes. A bookkeeper. Do you want his name? Nick Sayle. He’s in Ashbourne.” She related the address. “How does this information about her finances help you?”
“As you said, Nora, money is the root of all evil.” He re-boxed the sheets of paper and put the lid back on the box. “Would you like me to put this back for you?” he asked, calling from the kitchen. He set the tea things on the worktop as Nora came into the room.
“I’ll see to it later, thank you. You didn’t have to bother with the teacups and such, Mr. McLaren. I would’ve got to that.”
“I’m sure you would, but my mother taught me to clean up after myself.”
“She sounds like a brilliant woman. And you’re a very polite person, if I may tell you that.”
“She’d be glad to hear that, thank you.”
“You’re s
o relaxed and confident. Did you get that from her?”
He laughed. “I don’t know if many people would tell you that I’m relaxed, Mrs. Ennis. It’s something I’ve had to learn. I still struggle on certain days to attain that.”
“Due to your police career?”
“Yes. There’s a lot of stress connected to that job. You have to find a way to lose that stress or it will take its toll.”
“If you won’t take offense—not that you seem to need it now, but you might in the future…” She stopped, perhaps unsure if she was overstepping the boundary between client and employer. Something in McLaren’s eyes silently urged her to continue. “Janet had a place she’d go to when she needed to relax. She loved her singing career, but it, too, could be stressful. She’d go to this small cottage for a weekend or a few days, to unwind and think and write songs. She’d watch the birds gather at the feeders and sketch them. She loved it there, so peaceful and close to nature.” Nora took a key from a ceramic box on the coffee table and gave it to McLaren. “She’d like for you to use the house, I know.”
McLaren stared at the key, then at Nora. Her eyes smiled at him. He sputtered, “I can’t. This is entirely too much, Mrs. Ennis. I can’t pay you back.”
“More than Janet wanting it, I’d like you to use it. You seem to understand her, to like her. I believe you two would have been great friends if you’d met.” She gently closed his fingers over the key. He could feel the smooth metal laying on his palm.
“Mrs. Ennis—”
“The cottage needs to be lived in, Mr. McLaren. It needs to be loved as Janet loved it. Things…and people, too…fall apart if they’re not loved. I don’t want to see something my daughter felt so strongly about deteriorate and fall into ruin.”
“But Mrs. Ennis—”
“Now, not another word. Janet and I want you to use the place. For as long as you like. Until the end of time, if you can. Please, Mr. McLaren. For her sake.” Nora’s eyes pleaded with him to accept the gift.
He nodded, suddenly feeling Nora was right. He believed Janet would have liked him to stay in her cottage. McLaren nodded again and kissed Nora on the forehead. “Thank you, Mrs. Ennis. It’s just what I need.”
Torch Song Page 22
