Lock Nut

by JL Merrow

  “What can you tell us about Jonathan Parrot?” was Phil’s opening salvo.

  She parried it with a snapped, “What do you want to know?”

  The adversarial approach wasn’t working. Phil, ever adaptable, put on his sympathetic face. “Do you think he was happy in his marriage?”

  “Course he bloody wasn’t. If he had been, he wouldn’t have left her, would he?” Tallulah’s accent was rapidly losing its middle-class polish. “I thought you were working for Lilah, anyhow?”

  “We are, but that doesn’t mean—”

  “So what does the state of their marriage have to do with his death? Unless you think my sister killed him?”

  She was sharp, you had to give her that. Phil was sharper, mind. “I’m trying to establish if there could have been another reason for him leaving his job and his wife,” he went on calmly. “Something—or someone—he was scared of, maybe?”

  Tallulah’s face went an unattractive shade of pink that really didn’t go with her lipstick. “I don’t know no—anything about that.”

  Phil changed tack. “What happened the day he left?”

  “Nothing. He came to work as usual, left as usual, and didn’t turn up next day. It was a ri—it was very inconvenient. I had to get Hazel to come in full-time after that.”

  “How many people work here apart from you?”

  “Why?”

  Bloody hell, it was like pulling teeth. “So we can be sure we’ve spoken to everyone,” Phil told her patiently.

  “Oliver and Hazel. That’s it. And Brian, I suppose, but he doesn’t deal with the day-to-day running of the business.”

  “Brian?”

  “Brian Tarbox. My business partner.”

  Phil nodded. Either he’d come across the name before or he was taking a mental note of it. “Everyone here get on all right with Jonathan?”

  “Of course.” She was lying. I could tell. Not by any sixth sense, or seventh, or whatever number I’m up to these days. I just had a feeling in my water that her and Jonny-boy would have hated each other’s guts.

  Or would they? Maybe she wasn’t a lot like Lilah, personality-wise, who our Mr. Parrot had presumably been at least a little bit fond of or he wouldn’t have married her, but thinking back to how he’d been when I’d met him . . . I couldn’t see him being bothered about Tallulah enough to hate her.

  Which would have made her hate him all the more, if I was any judge. And let’s face it, she was easily tall enough to have knocked old Jonny on the head and shoved him in the water.

  “Was he good at his work?”

  She hesitated. “Obviously there was something of a learning curve, but he was a reasonably good salesman.” Speaking well of the bloke clearly didn’t come naturally to her.

  “And he was happy here?”

  “As far as I knew. I was his employer, not his friend.”

  “Yeah, but he was family,” I couldn’t help butting in.

  “He was married to my sister. That’s not quite the same thing.”

  Phil changed tack. “Did your sister’s first husband also work with you?”

  Tallulah made an impatient gesture. “I already told you about Brian.”

  “Wait, Brian?” I blurted out. “Your business partner is your sister’s ex?”

  Her mouth went tight. “And?”

  “And he was okay with employing her current husband?”

  “Lilah and Brian split up years ago,” Tallulah said dismissively.

  That must make for some interesting family get-togethers. Then again, glass houses, stones, don’t throw.

  Maybe I should ask her for tips.

  “So they’ve stayed friends?” Phil asked.

  “Of course. They have the children to think about.” Her lip curled so slightly she probably didn’t even realise she was doing it.

  “Some men find it hard to see an ex-partner moving on,” Phil commented.

  From the way her face darkened, Tallulah clearly wasn’t deaf to the subtext. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no strong feeling there.”

  Presumably she meant Brian and Jonny. Or did she mean Brian and Lilah? And if so, did she mean ever?

  “Not the jealous sort, then?” Phil said mildly.

  She snorted. “With Lilah’s ‘profession’?”

  Ouch. You could hear the quotes around profession. Maybe that was the cause of the sisterly ill-feeling I’d picked up on.

  Tallulah unfolded her arms. “Are we done? Because I’ve got work to do.”

  “One last question: is there anything else you can tell us that might be relevant to Mr. Parrot’s death?”

  “No.”

  “Then do you mind if we have a word with your employees?”

  I could tell she was itching to say yes, actually, she did mind, but controlled herself womanfully. “I suppose you can. But please remember I have a business to run here.”

  Phil nodded. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Yeah, cheers, love,” I smiled, but could have saved myself the effort. She barely waited for us to shift out of her way before barging out of that tiny office and back onto the shop floor.

  “Well, she loved us and left us,” I muttered. “Except without the loving us part. Or anyone else, for that matter. Didn’t sound like she’d be crying at old Jonny-boy’s funeral, did it?”

  Phil shrugged. “Families. Never easy when money gets involved.”

  “Money?”

  “I’d hope she was paying him. Maybe she resented getting him foisted on her by her sister.”

  “Nah, he was a good salesman. She said it herself. I’d reckon the bottom line’s what it’s all about, with her.” I grinned. “She definitely got the short straw when it came to nicknames, didn’t she?”

  “What would you shorten Tallulah to, then? Tall? That’d look like she was taking the piss. Come on, then. Work to do.” Phil led the way out onto the shop floor.

  “Who are we tackling first?” I scanned the shop. Oliver wasn’t visible, but now we were out of that shoebox of an office I could hear his smooth tones somewhere downstairs, extolling the virtues of some unidentified item of old tat that’d be perfect for his unseen listener’s conservatory. “Better make it Hazel,” I said, because if we lost Tallulah a sale, she’d probably drop that anvil on us. Phil nodded, and we set off at an easy pace, browsing the shop for someone who looked like they worked here.

  We found Hazel busy tidying knickknacks over at the far end of the top floor. A well-rounded sort of girl, not what you’d call fat but definitely not thin, she was wearing a big goggly pair of glasses that made her face appear even rounder. I guessed she was in her early twenties—certainly not older, despite the fuddy-duddy outfit of officey trousers and blouse that could have been picked out of a catalogue for fashion-unconscious over-fifties. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail. The quirky Star Trek insignia she’d pinned to her top to give it some geek cred seemed embarrassed to be there.

  “This one’s yours,” Phil murmured in my ear.

  “What? Why?”

  “Look at her. Give her a bit of the old Paretski charm and she’ll be putty in your hands.”

  I looked. She glanced round, caught me staring and averted her eyes, blushing.

  I had to agree she’d probably find me less intimidating than my beloved. “Fine. But no moaning if I forget to ask something vital.”

  “You must know the drill by now. How well did she know him, when did she last see him, was there anything odd about him, all that sort of stuff. And no leading questions.”

  “Would I?” I girded the metaphoricals, pasted on a friendly smile, and ambled over to Hazel. Phil followed, keeping back and to one side of her, where he wouldn’t be right in her face but could still hear what was going on, and picked up a brass box with a cuff link stuck to the top. I made a mental note of it, because he’s a bugger to buy gifts for and I had no clue what to get him for a wedding present. Did couples buy each oth
er wedding presents, anyway? I mean, he’d be getting me, which some might say was quite enough to be getting on with.

  Hazel looked up at my approach and took a breath, presumably steeling herself to ask if there was anything she could do me for.

  I beat her to the punch. “Hi, I’m Tom Paretski. Me and my partner are investigating Jon—uh, Mr. Parrot’s death. You heard we were coming?”

  “Oh.” Her smile, already strained, gave up the ghost completely. You’d think I was the grim reaper here to make up the soul quota. “Yes. Oliver said.”

  “You’re Hazel, right?” I tried to keep the smile going as I waited for her nod. “You must have known Jonathan Parrot pretty well?”

  Hazel sniffed. Close up, I could see her eyes were red and swollen. “Yeah. I can’t believe he’s g-gone.”

  Hugging the witness would probably be unprofessional, so I patted her arm gently. “I know it’s hard to think about it, but have you got any idea who might have had it in for him?”

  “I’m not sure I ought to . . .” Her eyes darted around and behind me.

  “Don’t worry. I had a word with your boss. She’s fine with us having a quiet chat.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, any ideas about who might have taken exception to Mr. Parrot?” I prompted her when she clammed up.

  She shook her head jerkily, and a lock of hair escaped from her ponytail to hang forlornly in front of her ear, as if it had no idea what to do with its newfound freedom. “No one. I mean, he was lovely. It must have been an accident, mustn’t it? He slipped and hit his head on something in the water?” She seemed desperate to believe it.

  “We’re not ruling anything out at this stage.” I was pretty sure I’d heard Phil use that phrase. Or some copper on the telly. “He worked here up until a few weeks ago, didn’t he? Did he seem worried, last time you saw him? Did he mention he was leaving?” Whoops. That was probably too many questions all at once.

  Hazel shook her head once more, this time a tiny, rabbitty motion. The stray lock jiggled, and she tucked it behind her ear. “No. He didn’t say a word. But he always . . . I mean, he wouldn’t have.”

  “He didn’t talk to you?”

  She gave me a twisted smile. “All the time. But not about stuff that mattered.” She sniffed again.

  Lucky I had a clean hanky. I got it out and offered it to her. “Go on. Have a good blow.”

  She eyed it as if it might bite. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Course you can. That’s what it’s there for.”

  With a hesitant hand she took the hanky, gave a dainty little toot, crumpled it up, and dithered for a moment. Then she handed it back to me with a “Sorry.”

  “No problems.” I shoved my no-longer-clean hanky back in my pocket. “I’m a plumber by trade. Trust me, love, I’ve dealt with far worse than a bit of snot.”

  Hazel giggled, then looked appalled at herself.

  “Now, I know he didn’t say anything directly, but— Well, you’re pretty intelligent, aren’t you?” I tried not to cringe at myself. It came out sounding so flippin’ fake, which was ironic seeing as I reckoned it was probably true. Although maybe I was letting the glasses influence me? “I bet you noticed there was something going on with him, even if he didn’t come out and say it, am I right?”

  She stared down at her fingers, which were going through the motions of cat’s cradle without any string. “I—I think he was worried about . . . about something.”

  Finally. “Any idea what it might have been? Health? Money? His marriage?”

  Hazel glanced up with a jump. “I couldn’t tell you anything about that. It was fine, anyway. Everything was fine.”

  She’d closed her shutters so fast I could still hear echoes of the slam. Was she worried she’d get in trouble for gossiping about the boss’s big sis? “You know, whatever you tell me will be in strictest confidence,” I encouraged her, then spoiled it with a conscience-prodded caveat: “Unless the police need to know about it.”

  “No. They don’t. I mean, if there was something. But there isn’t.”

  “Maybe he’d been getting calls from his ex? Threats, even?” I couldn’t see it—why would the bloke have gone back to him if so? But Hazel grabbed hold with both hands like it was the last lifebelt on the Titanic.

  “Yes. That was probably it.”

  “That might have caused a few domestics. If Mrs. Parrot got wind of the calls, I mean, and jumped to the conclusion the bloke wasn’t as ex as he ought to be.” I tried to make it sound sympathetic, and also open, sort of like a question but not. It was flippin’ hard work, this digging for information lark.

  Hazel turned wide eyes on me. What with the glasses, she looked alarmingly bug-like. “Oh, no. They didn’t argue. They were happy together,” she finished with, but I got the impression she was trying to convince herself.

  “Did you see them together much?”

  “Well, yeah. Course I did.” She gave me a strange look. “You know, don’t you?”

  “Know what?”

  “I still live at home.”

  Where else was she supposed to hang her hat? Then it hit me. “Wait a minute—you mean at Lilah’s place? You’re her daughter? Lola?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice. She wasn’t anything like Lilah. Not in appearance, not in the way she spoke—not in anything.

  She’d turned a shade of pink that would have really suited her mum. Hazel just looked hot and uncomfortable. “Only Mum ever calls me that.”

  “Sorry. Should’ve realised it was a pet name.” I did the self-deprecating eye roll, what-am-I-like thing, and gave a little laugh for good measure. “Lilah and Lola—get real.”

  “It’s short for Lorelei.”

  Oops.

  “But I’ve always preferred Hazel. It’s my middle name.”

  “Uh, yeah. Nice name. Suits you,” I said quickly, trying to get back some ground.

  She hunched in on herself, which was totally the opposite of what I was going for. So much for the old Paretski charm. “My brother says it’s boring.”

  “Yeah, but what does he know?” I coughed. “I, uh, met him earlier. Round at your mum’s. He seems really cut up about his stepdad.”

  “We all are,” she said, giving me the bug-eyed stare again. “You don’t know—everyone thinks we ought to hate him, but he was lovely, and he made Mum happy.”

  Until he left her, I didn’t say.

  “I still can’t believe he’s gone. It doesn’t seem fair. Just . . . One wrong step, and now he’s . . . It shouldn’t be like that.”

  Christ, I felt old next to her. What age had I stopped thinking of me and mine as invulnerable and realised how bloody fragile life is? I mean, seriously. People pop their clogs all the time, and for the daftest of reasons—nipping over the road to get a pint of milk right when some half-blind old codger tootles along; plugging in the Christmas tree lights without checking the wiring; rushing headlong into danger to save their significant other from some murdering bastard . . .

  Okay. It has to be said, my appreciation of the fragility of human existence has definitely increased since I got together with Phil. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Most days.

  I realised Hazel was looking at me expectantly, so I tried to dredge up a suitably comforting platitude. “So you still reckon it was an accident?” was what I actually blurted out.

  “It must have been,” she said, doing the phantom cat’s cradle routine again. “No one would’ve wanted to hurt him.”

  “Do you know why he left your mum?”

  “He didn’t leave her. He just . . . went away for a bit. He was going to come back.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No, but . . . he didn’t even take all his things.”

  Not a lot of use for a set of golf clubs in Camden, unless he was planning to flog ’em in the market. I didn’t say it, obviously. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “You know when he
left, don’t you? Didn’t Mum tell you, when she asked you to find him?”

  “Yeah, but—” I took a deep breath; this was the sixty-four-dollar question “—did you see him at all after that?”

  “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt your chat.” The gentleman—and you can take that as a euphemism for git—who’d interrupted us was the sort you get knocking on your door around polling time, trying to browbeat you into voting Conservative. He had that weird, excessively straight posture you get with blokes not overly gifted in the height department who’re nonetheless bloody well determined to sneer down their noses at the world even if it knackers their backs. “I was looking for some of your hand-knitted gloves for my wife, but you don’t seem to have any in purple.”

  “Oh—I think we’ve got some out the back. That is, I know we have. I’ll get them for you.” Hazel flashed me a guilty glance. “Sorry. Um. We were finished anyway, weren’t we?”

  She scuttled off without waiting for an answer.

  As I watched her go, I noticed Tallulah giving me the evil eye from behind the till.

  Metaphorically, that is, which my hip for one was glad to see. It still hadn’t forgiven me for that tumble in Camden.

  “What’s the betting she sent that customer over?” I muttered to Phil, who’d come out of lurk mode and joined me by the knickknacks. “Reckon she was trying to stop Hazel spilling too much?”

  “More likely just pissed off about us stopping Hazel from doing her job. She couldn’t have heard what the girl was telling you from there, and they’re not exactly overstaffed. Doesn’t matter. We can follow up with Hazel later.”

  “Yeah, I s’pose. Course, it’d mean going back to Lilah’s. You heard all that, right?”

  Phil nodded.

  “Talk about your apples falling far from the tree. That one rolled across half of Europe. And then bounced on board a slow boat to China. What do you think about her banging on about it being an accident?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Bloody hell, and you accuse me of being reluctant to commit.” I winced. “Uh, forget I said that. Oliver?”

  “Oliver.”

  We headed down to the ground floor.

  Oliver was still charming the pants—or at least, the contents of their pockets—off the customers. Or possibly he’d moved on to some different customers. They all looked the same to me: white, middle class, middle-aged. But whatever Tallulah was paying young Ollie, he was definitely doing his best to earn it. Me and Phil hung around for a while, pretending to consider a case full of tiny stuffed birds. Then we hung around a bit longer, actually considering it—would Greg and Cherry like it as a back-from-honeymoon present? Did Greg like dead animals in general, or only ones he’d taxidermied himself? Would he see it as an inspiration, or as us saying we didn’t reckon he could do anything as good? After all, they were a lot more delicate than any of his morbid little “family.”