Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Yes?” prompted Graham. “Why was that?”

  Carla shrugged. “Sunday he heard about the Guy Fawkes celebration, about there possibly being firecrackers planted in the fire. He was afraid of sudden, loud noises, afraid they would trigger memories of the war. He got flashbacks quite often. Triggered from ordinary, everyday things—planes, helicopters, car backfires. That sort of thing.”

  “I can understand that,” I said, remembering similar stories from veterans. “Must be a nightmare to live with.”

  “We searched Sunday morning,” Carla said. “I met up with him in the bar. Pub. Sorry. Takes a while to get my tongue and brain coordinated with your English. We didn’t find anything, but I think he felt better that we looked. Moral support. Everybody here kept telling him there wouldn’t be anything like fireworks, but he wanted to make sure. Then you came on duty, Sergeant. I saw you and told Steve.”

  Tom cleared his throat. “I strolled around the area late afternoon. I wanted one final check, in case some kid had crammed a firecracker into the torch. There was nothing obvious.”

  There wouldn’t have been, I wanted to shout, or I would’ve seen it.

  “And when,” Graham said, “did you and he part? Were you with him until tea, or until he returned to the Halfords?”

  “I didn’t look at my watch, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “An idea would be helpful.”

  “Before tea time. I don’t know where Steve headed. I expected to see him at the fire, but I really didn’t think anything strange about it when he didn’t show up. Must have had second thoughts about it. Probably thought it would be safer not to come, just in case.”

  “I suppose someone saw him after 4:00,” Graham said.

  “Not just his killer?”

  “Hopefully not. So you didn’t see him after that.”

  Tom picked up a rock and looked at it carefully before saying, “Bunch of people were here. I didn’t really think so many would show up in this small a village, but they do say it’s a famous three-day event here. Steve could have been here and we missed seeing him. Maybe the vicar saw him. He got around a lot. He was down here before the fire started. Took Carla and me on a tour of his church, as a matter of fact. Nice guy. Not at all what I expected. You aren’t either, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Graham let the obvious question pass. The response might embarrass more than Tom.

  “The man from the pub was here, too,” Carla reminded us.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer. And my condolences again on your relative’s death.”

  “Hell of a way for a marriage to end,” Tom said, throwing the rock at a tree.

  As if nervous about Tom’s response, Carla waved hesitantly, calling out, “Have a nice day.”

  God, I shuddered. They really do use that abominable expression. It’s not just a telly invention.

  I bid the Americans good morning, glancing at Graham to see if my initiative was acceptable. He didn’t seem to hear a thing, the tree evidently fascinating him. I stood there, alternately watching him and glancing about, embarrassed that he stood mutely, dazed, wondering what I should do. I could wander back to the incident room, leaving him to his thoughts, but would I hear about it later? I could interrupt his thoughts, but I might put him off an important theory he was considering. So I, too, stood, feeling foolish and impatient and inept. If I had worked with him longer I would have known what to do; if I was of equal rank I would have had no qualms about disturbing him. But now, as a newly-promoted sergeant paired with a new partner… I counted different bird songs, watched a dog run across the green, and counted to 100 before I finally took a deep breath, prayed to a saint, and asked him if we should be heading back to the pub.

  “Sorry, Ray?” He emerged from his world with a startled look, his brown eyes wide and hazy as if roused from sleep.

  “It’s Taylor, sir.”

  “Yes?”

  “You called me Ray, just now. I’m Taylor.” I shifted my eyes to his tree, wanting to avoid embarrassing him further.

  “Did I?” he said, blinking quickly. When I nodded, he rubbed his hand over his eyes and sighed. “You don’t look like Ray.”

  I was going to ask if that was a compliment to me or Ray, when he apologized again. “Oldendorf’s statement.”

  “Which one, sir? About—”

  “Hell of a way for a marriage to end,” he said, slowly repeating it verbatim. The words, so filled with anger when Tom had uttered them, now sounded heartbreaking and regretful, as though he had experienced the pain of the tragedy. When he again looked at me, he said, “That talk about the wife’s death… It bothered me more than I realized. Sorry.” The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, as though he was forcing a smile.

  I mumbled I understood—which I didn’t—and wondered why Tom’s simple statement had evoked such an intense reaction in Graham. Office rumors were rife with hints at his failed engagement, but nothing was whispered about a wife. Did she occupy an earlier corner of his life, one that was still raw with his loss?

  Graham glanced at his watch and swore. I was spared making a response as dear Colonel Wroe and Talbot converged near us at the fire circle. Either not noticing us or thinking we couldn’t hear, Wroe hailed Talbot, chattered about the pleasant morning and hideous previous evening almost as though he were describing a slightly-botched military campaign.

  Seems like he’s ready for one, I thought, taking in Wroe’s emphatic wrist watch, sunglasses and sturdy shoes. So where are we off to, then?

  Graham, sensing the meeting could be important, motioned me to accompany him back to the pub. “If Wroe can use subterfuge, so can we humble cops. Where’s your disguise kit when we need it?” Before I could reply, he signaled to Margo, who was standing in the pub’s doorway. I glanced back at the fire area. If Graham wanted Margo to stroll around and eavesdrop, she might be the perfect candidate. She hadn’t had much to do with the villagers yet. And she looked innocent. Like a tourist.

  She wandered off, zigzagging toward the circle, nonchalantly consulting a guidebook and searching her purse. We watched her perch on a bale of straw within several yards of Talbot and Wroe before we went inside.

  Quarter of an hour later, the men had separated and Margo was reading to us from her shorthand notes. They were scribbled, I noted with amusement, inside her guidebook.

  Talbot: “What the hell you want now?”

  Wroe: “Should’ve gotten you into the army. Straight to the point, no time for the fal de rol peppering most communications.”

  Talbot: “I got things to do.”

  Wroe: “Well, here you are, then. Just wanted to do my boy a favor, Tal, that’s all. Just a bit of a favor. How’d you like a bit of help snagging the lovely Ramona?”

  Talbot: “What are you on about, then?”

  Wroe: “Shouldn’t have thought it needed any clarifying, but if needs must. I’m worried about your future, Tal. You don’t look too well off to me. Could do with a bit of help in the money department, I don’t doubt. Ramona’s got plenty of her own, never mind her shaky alliance with the village’s High-and-Mighty. Now’s the time, Tal. Strike now before she marries that milk toast Catchpool. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of serving my country, it’s the value of offense. Catch the enemy unprepared and unexpecting. Worked in the war. It’ll work with a certain lady, too.”

  Margo looked up from her notes as a telephone rang. A constable grabbed it, held his hand over the receiver, and looked hopefully at us. I mouthed ‘Who is it?’ When the constable pointed heavenward, I grimaced. It was Detective Superintendent Simcock. Probably checking up on Graham’s progress. I shook my head and held up my hand, fingers spread. The constable nodded and returned to the phone. Margo, who had witnessed this pantomime, said, “Couldn’t quite hear what Talbot answered, Mr. Graham. He turned away from me. All I really heard was a belch.”

  “In keeping with his character, at any rate,” Graham said.
/>   “Then Wroe said something that I also couldn’t catch, being as he turned in the same direction as Talbot. Some agitated conversation ensued, during which Talbot sniffed, wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve, and crammed the cigarette he was smoking back into his mouth. He gestured toward Ramona’s house, which caused him to turn again in my direction. I could easily hear them again. Talbot said, “Why should you worry about my future? You’ve never done much for me in the past, only comin’ ’round to see me every few years. ’Sides, it’s all taken care of. I’ve already seen to my future security—past the plannin’ stage, even—and through no help of yours, Dad.” In a more conversational tone, Margo said, “Talbot was very emphatic about calling Wroe ‘dad.’ And Wroe seemed happy. He smiled.”

  “About what,” Graham asked. “The ‘dad’ part or Talbot’s information?”

  “That’s open to interpretation, sir. After that, Talbot said his partner has already seen to his part, then he walked off. I’ll type up these notes for you, sir.”

  “Thank you, Lynch. So what was that about,” asked Graham as we watched Margo settled herself at a computer. “Talbot and Wroe related?”

  “I thought Talbot was related to Derek.”

  “I’d hate to see his family tree.”

  “Branches kind of intertwined and tangled,” I said.

  “They’re both a little squirrelly, but who will turn out to be the nut?”

  “I’d rather be the nut off the tree than the poor sap.” Graham grimaced and I quickly said, “Just how successful were we in all this? What have we really learned?”

  “Aside from us not being Tom’s idea of English police detectives, you mean?”

  “What’s he want? Deerstalker hat, or monocle and manservant?”

  “Most likely a crossword sticking out of one jacket pocket, and a bottle of Samuel Smith jammed into the other. You may ask him if you feel so inclined. Only, I’d wait a bit. He’s had a nasty eighteen hours, what with the murder, us and Upper Kingsleigh’s dear vicar tarnishing his images.”

  “What’s wrong with the vicar, then?”

  “Suffers from the same malaise as we do. Uncooperative costume or personality, or something like that.”

  I muttered that Tom should leave his prejudices and preconceived notions behind, and maybe he’d not only learn something but also have a better time on holiday.

  “I think he’d have had a better time if he hadn’t gone on holiday with Steve Pedersen. Don’t think his first taste of Old Blighty is exactly his cup of tea.”

  “The Super rang up just now,” I told him.

  “What’s he want? No, don’t tell me. A miracle. Right.”

  He reached for the phone and I excused myself, disappeared for a few minutes and returned with two mugs of tea. “Everything all right?”

  “Heavenly,” Graham said, hanging up the phone. “Just asked if we’d had any luck with tracing the jacket found on Pedersen.”

  “Speaking of which, Ramona was in charge of the effigy’s clothing. She got the cast-offs this year from Arthur. Do anything for you?”

  “Convenient, keeping it in the family like that.”

  “Sir?”

  “She snags Arthur and gets a suit of clothes for the effigy all in one transaction.”

  “Yes, sir. Conserves energy. Anyway, Ramona wasn’t at Friday’s dole. She was still in Buxton, doing her weekly grocery.”

  “Small world, TC.”

  “She works in the Crescent—at the visitor’s center.”

  Graham nudged the handle of his mug, rotating it three hundred sixty degrees before replying absent-mindedly, “Probably seen her a hundred times, and I don’t even know her.”

  “Quite a striking woman. Blonde, figure reminiscent of the 1950s. Curves,” I answered in response to Graham’s confusion. “Very nice figure, if that doesn’t make me sound envious.” I sucked in my stomach, and thought again that I should lose 15 pounds.

  “I think you can safely voice your opinion of the lady without my spreading gossip.”

  I announced my gratitude. “In her early 40s, I’d judge. Widow. Local gossip has it she’s after Arthur for his money.”

  “And all this before our walk this morning? You have been busy, TC. Who else have you been talking to? I’d bet my undernourished pay packet the desirable widow didn’t tell you all that.”

  “No, sir. Well, I have been walking about a bit this morning, listening. Did you know Kris Halford’s the product of an English father and American mother? One of the few British-American marriages to have endured over here, I’ll warrant. What is it—our climate, food, culture differences? Why do most mixed marriages fizzle?”

  “I’ll leave that to psychologists,” Graham said. “You are a wonder of eclectic information.”

  “Also talked to Eleanor Conway, owner of the gift shop.” I related my conversation, trying to keep the pride out of my voice, hoping he would realize I hadn’t been assigned the duty.

  Graham said, “I repeat, TC, with all awe—you have been busy.”

  I shrugged, trying to keep my pleasure from showing. “I guess they don’t mind talking to a woman.”

  “The motherly attitude? You don’t in the least look matronly, TC.”

  “Thank you, sir. Must be my face, then.”

  “Either that, or you’re a born gossip. You’re a gem, TC. Glad you’re with us and not the Sun.”

  I muttered that I’d probably be paid better by the publication.

  “Then let’s applaud your devotion to detection, and distaste for wealth. We’ll file that with the rest of the pertinent info.”

  “Our Ramona remembers Tom and Carla in Buxton’s visitor’s center. She recommended Catchpool Manor. Even phoned the reservation through for them.”

  “We could assume she was feathering her fiancé’s nest, but I’d like to believe she’s more honest than that would indicate. Nothing wrong with suggesting the manor house. It’s handy to the festivities, grand, and probably just what the Americans were looking for. Don’t they have this thing about staying in castles and such?”

  “Catchpool Manor’s quite popular. Even Chesterfield and such places give it a good push to their tourists.”

  “It is in the books. Well,” Graham sighed, stretching. “Ramona likes to dabble in straw and old clothes, does she? Probably likes amateur theatrics, too. Does she actually make and hang the effigy?”

  “I think,” I said slowly, flipping through my notebook to the desired information, “Arthur did that. Yes. Here it is.” I rattled off the facts. “Arthur volunteered to make it this year. Normally she does it. Arthur usually drops the clothes at her house, and she then lets her artistic juices flow and creates the Guy. It’s probably not so hard to get it over to the fire circle when it’s finished,” I concluded, mentally judging the weight and length of the dummy. “And there’s really no lifting involved. Just tie the rope around its waist, run it up the back beneath the jacket, loop it around the neck to simulate a noose, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Then she hoists it to keep it off the damp ground and free from creepy-crawlies,” Graham said, throwing his pen at the mug. “Only this year, of all years, Arthur makes it. Tell me, Taylor, could Arthur have dressed Pedersen up in place of Mr. Guy Fawkes?”

  “A very stimulating idea.”

  TWELVE

  Graham’s fingers drummed on the outside of his mug. I could imagine he was good at playing his keyboard instrument. His fingers moved quickly and easily. I wanted to hear him, wanted us to be in his flat, having tea, talking music, playing duets. I tried to recall something my brother had told me of the Baroque musicians, something that would impress Graham so he would see me as something human instead of a police badge. But all I could remember was the tidbit of Bach and his 20 children. So I sat, feeling another chance of developing a friendship had passed, hating myself for my stupidity.

  After many moments, Graham said, “Wonder how we can find out if Arthur had opportunity. Did Pedersen
disappear some time close to the dummy’s delivery?”

  The crisp flip of pages soared over the incessant tapping, like a descant to a bass continuo. My pen jabbed at the note page. “The two don’t jive, sir. The dummy was originally delivered and hung Thursday morning around ten o’clock. Arthur—perhaps to impress his girl friend with the size of his muscles—lugged it out of the car himself, and brought it to the fire circle. And Pedersen—”

  “And Pedersen was still walking around very un-effigy-like until tea time on Sunday. Damn.” Graham muttered the oath rather than hurling it at someone specific. “Hate to waste great theories. Damn.” He repeated the word, more as a feeling of loss than of anger.

  I gave him time to sip his tea. “It’s a bad case. I mean, here Kris sees her ex-fiancé after thirty years, and then, in the next minute you might say, she sees him hanging there in front of her. Not a pleasant thing to remember. Almost make her wish he’s stayed in America, and spared her and Derek any brief pleasure they might have had with their reunion.”

  “I wonder, Taylor, if Kris married Derek because the two men looked alike. Well, there is a similar appearance about them. Like relatives.”

  “You mean like being proposed to on the rebound? Wouldn’t be quite the same as true love.”

  “It wouldn’t. Still, if you have a fixation about someone, and that person’s out of reach, you might grab at the available person because there’s a resemblance.”

  “And you think Derek offered that option to Kris?” I tried remembering the faces of the two men.

  “Yes, but it was probably not a conscious thing on her part. Wish I had a photo of the three of them in their rowdy university days. I just bring this supposition to you now because it struck me that there is marked sameness to the men. Same height, give or take an inch, same hair color and build. Could the one have been mistaken for the other?”

  “But why would Arthur try to kill Derek?” I said, jumping in on Graham’s idea. “That’s what you’re leading up to, isn’t it? Asking about Arthur making the dummy and such. If it is mistaken identity, there’s the problem of motive. And I, for one, would think it obvious. I mean, wouldn’t the finger point to Arthur as substituting the corpse for the effigy if he’s the one who made the effigy? And he can’t have needed the money that badly, if you’re thinking along the lines of him stopping the yearly dole. Three hundred pounds is a lot of money to the average person, which Derek certainly is, and Arthur certainly isn’t. Why kill someone just to put an end to that payment? After all, Arthur’s lord of the manor.” Motives are such a nuisance, probing into each suspect’s personality and past.