A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “No. He could have done. I know he had deep feelings on topics he wanted done, but he felt that as coordinator of the whole thing it wouldn’t be right. Besides, Reed knew his strengths, and drawing wasn’t one of them. He had enough to do going around after people and fixing their sloppy work.”

  “What’s that entail?”

  “Re-working the writing for the program booklet, moving a well panel slightly so it sits at a bitter angle, maybe replacing the bunting on the stage with something else. He wanted everything perfect. You know…for the competition.”

  “Anyone get mad at him?”

  “Why should they?”

  “I can’t think of many people who’d take kindly to being told that their efforts were unacceptable. Rather take it as an insult, I’d suspect.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. Everyone wanted the Hope Valley Cup and the prize money. No one minded that Reed went about making things better. There was nothing egotistical in any of that. It was for the good of the village.”

  “Have you any idea why Reed was murdered, or who murdered him?”

  “You’re thinking it was one of us. One of the fete workers who became incensed over Reed’s meddling, as you’re implying.”

  “Not so difficult to imagine, or assume.”

  “Rubbish. We all loved Reed and were happy to have him manage the whole affair. Look at what it brought the village—the Cup, the prize money, and tourists with open wallets.”

  It also might have brought his death, I thought. I asked Kevin about his whereabouts the night of Reed’s disappearance. “Starting around seven o’clock,” I said, not wanting a recital of the entire time from tea onward.

  “I’d been in my shop.”

  “You didn’t go home for an evening meal? Were you open late for some reason?”

  “I ordered a takeaway from the Indian restaurant. It’s just down from my shop, on the opposite side of the street. You can ask them.”

  Mark made a notation in his pad of paper.

  “You and your wife have a fight?” I asked. “Is that why you worked late and ate in your shop?”

  “No, we didn’t. We’re happily married. I ate at the shop because I was working late. I was taking inventory. I do this twice a year. At the same time each year. There’s nothing nefarious in it. Ask my shop clerks. Or my friends. Ask my wife,” he offered as he stood up and grabbed his car key. “Please find the person who killed him. I-I miss him so much already. I loved my brother.”

  * * * *

  Mid-morning made its presence known by the familiar rumbling in my stomach. I wanted to stop in the incident room, grab a cuppa, and type up my notes. Mark wanted to check on Kevin Harper’s alibi and told me he’d meet me in the incident room. I nodded to his back, walked up the hill, and was sipping hot tea when Margo walked in. She tossed her shoulder bag onto the table and sank into a chair.

  “Honest, Bren, if I have to show these clothing photographs to one more person…” Her cheeks puffed out as she exhaled heavily.

  “Not your idea of a good time, I take it,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s all right. Better than digging into bank accounts. But when I get through explaining where the clothing was found and under what circumstances and I see the people’s expressions…” She grimaced.

  I leaned over to her and patted her hand. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one, Margo.”

  She glared at me but held out her hand.

  “What?”

  “Just a sip.”

  “You can get your own, you know. The kitchen is not twenty steps behind you.” I nodded toward the serving window. Its counter held stacks of white ceramic mugs, saucers, small plates and large chrome urns of hot tea and coffee.

  “Yours is closer. Just a sip, Bren.”

  I relinquished, handed her my mug, and after she’d taken a long gulp and handed it back, I said, “You and Byrd are making the rounds, right? Any headway on identifying the fabric remnant found with the bones?”

  “Yeah. That is, yes, we’re making the rounds. No to making headway.”

  “He still talking to folks?” I looked around the room but couldn’t see him.

  “He wanted to get one more finished before his elevenses. Honestly, I don’t know how he gets the energy.”

  “You’d think someone would recognize the material.”

  “Twenty-two years is a long time.”

  “You can’t assume it’s Vera Howarth’s clothing. It could have been in the ground longer than that.”

  “But it was found where the bones were, Bren. A piece had even adhered to a bone. If they’re not Vera’s bones, whose are they?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe it’s someone else. But you can’t assume she wore that.”

  “Someone else? How many murder victims are there in the wood?”

  “Hopefully, no more.” I took a sip of tea—opposite the spot Margo had sipped.

  “Vera Howarth or not aside, the clothing faded in the soil. It won’t look the same. I don’t know if I’d recognize anything that old even if it were my mum’s.”

  “You might if she went missing.”

  “I don’t think I would. Not that I’m not observant, but you don’t memorize what your family or friends have on each time you part company. If mum’s just going down to the newsagent’s, I’m not going to look at her clothes in case she doesn’t come back. It’s not natural. Anyway, I bet you can’t tell me what I wore yesterday.”

  “No,” I admitted reluctantly.

  “And we were together for hours. And remember, Bren, that Vera Howarth had no family in the village. Who would remember what she was wearing when she was last seen…twenty-two years ago?”

  “Okay, you’ve got a point, Margo.”

  “I rest my case.”

  I set aside my tea and typed up my notes. PC Byrd entered the room, grabbed a mug and poured himself some coffee. I was about to talk to him when Mark came in, spotted me, and walked over.

  Collapsing into one of the chairs, he said, “Check off Kevin Harper as having a solid alibi during the time of Reed’s disappearance. He was working at his shop—two employees just confirmed they were with him, Ilsa Harper also helped out.”

  “Reed’s daughter?”

  “Happens to be Kevin’s niece, too. Plus, the Indian takeaway sold four meals to Kevin and his energetic crew.”

  “At what time?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “But Reed didn’t go missing until the meeting ended at half past nine. That one’s no alibi.”

  “I agree. But we have another witness who can place him there from nine forty-five till a bit past ten o’clock.”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “You tell me, Bren. It’s Clayton Warson, a fellow cop.”

  EIGHT

  Clayton Warson showed no surprise when Mark and I showed up at his house. After all, the village grapevine spread the word about the discovery of the body faster than a bent lawyer learned of a potential client. So where was the surprise that we were investigating?

  The time had just gone half past eleven, and I was surprised to find him at home. But Clayton was on a later shift, so he had time to talk. We sat in the home’s front room, in a patch of warm sunshine, and declined the offer of tea.

  The room’s décor belied the impression I had on looking at the ancient home’s exterior; it was done up in sleek, modern furnishings and hues of white, black and yellow. I tried not to stare at the cubist painting above the sofa, expecting to hear the arguing couple’s tirade. At least, I think it was an arguing couple. It could have been a frog dealing a poker hand.

  “I heard you lot were in the village,” Clayton said, unconcerned about the game-playing amphibian. Dressed in his uniform—black trousers and tie, white shirt—Clayton looked ready for whatever the day would hand him. In the way of his job. He didn’t look as confident when I took out my pen and notepad. “It’s about Reed, then, that you’ve come.”

  “You’
ve heard that his body was recovered,” Mark said.

  “I should think the entire village has done. It’s not the sort of thing that can be kept quiet. Anyway, there’s no need to. Everyone knew the minute they heard that it meant a police investigation. Even if he eventually walked home of his own volition, the police needed to be brought in that night, and the media alerted.” He jiggled his foot—his right leg lay horizontally across his left, the ankle resting on his left thigh. The faster he talked, the faster his foot shook. “It’s fortunate for Reed, and Marian, despite its horrendous implication. It’s a terrible thing to think about, what she must have felt not knowing where he was. At least now she can come to terms with it all, maybe get some peace, however cruel the outcome for them both.”

  “You knew Reed, I assume.”

  “Oh, yes. I should think everyone in the village did. If they didn’t from the well dressing festival, they knew him as a neighbor.”

  “Was he well liked?”

  “Well liked and well known. He’s been the coordinator of the festival for probably fifteen years.”

  “As long as that?”

  “Give or take a year. Reed’s forty. I know because I’m two years older. He took over as director when he was twenty-five.”

  “You’re certain.”

  “Certainly. He made a big thing of it all—twenty-fifth birthday, directing the fete… He had a bash at his house. His wife hired a band and had a catering company do the food. Quite nice do, actually.”

  “Is that usual in villages, to hold the managerial position for a fete for such a long time? Wouldn’t there be others who would want to try their hand at it?”

  “There may have been. I don’t know specifically.”

  “You don’t help make the well panels or do anything else?”

  “I’ll take my hour with the panel or puddling the mud, but it’s sporadic help. Some people always work on the school panel, for example, or get the flowers from the florist, or design the program booklet. I never know when I’ll be able to help, due to my work schedule, so I just fill in whenever and wherever I can. It works out all right.”

  “So there’s no history of a villager wanting to be fete director—the publican, for example—but Reed never relinquished his position.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard. And I think I would. Cauldham is a small village, detective, and ill feelings circle our community quicker than buzzards circle carrion. Everyone was content with whatever job of work he had. And to tell you the truth, I think most of us were glad Reed took on the managerial role.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Too much work.” He leaned forward, as though about to impart a secret. “Way too much time involved for most of us to take it on, as the greater percentage of residents work outside the home. Then there’s also the pressure of making the festival better each year.”

  “Some sort of competition among other villages?”

  “Yes. Especially between us and Upper Hogsley. Chad Styles manages their well dressing and fete—has done for donkey’s years. It’s a friendly rivalry but it does carry the prestige of the Hope Valley Cup with it. A trophy awarded yearly to the best overall well dressing display, as judged by a five-person committee. Along with the silver cup goes a monetary award. Quite nice, too, actually. Five hundred pounds that is to be used for the village. We fixed up the children’s playground with last year’s prize money.”

  “How long have Chad Styles and Reed been vying for the Cup?”

  “I don’t know an exact number, but at least as long as Reed’s been directing our fete. Chad’s a few years older than Reed, so maybe that’s got something to do with the competition between them. Then, too, there’s the practical end of it.”

  “What’s that? The loser stands the winner a round in the pub?”

  “Could do, I guess. But it’s the practicality of the previous year’s win. The Cup designates that the well dressing display as well as the fete in general are superior, so that brings in more visitors.”

  “And more visitors bring in more money for booth and food purchases.”

  “It all boils down to money, doesn’t it?”

  “Probably more times than we’d like to admit. Had you seen Reed the night of his disappearance?”

  “We were at the meeting in the church hall.”

  “What time did that break up?”

  “Near half past nine. Lynn—my wife—and our neighbor Angela, who’s the vicar’s daughter, walked home. I think Reed was the last to leave. I don’t know why. He lives the closest—well, excluding the vicar, of course. But he lagged behind, seemed to be waiting for someone.”

  I asked if Reed had mentioned anything specific about having an appointment at that late hour.

  “No. But he wouldn’t tell me things about his personal life, would he? Not many people would. No, it’s just a feeling I had, an impression of the way he paced a bit, rocked on his heels and smoked. He just stood by the gate and kind of looked off down the lane.”

  “Did you three go straight home?”

  “I saw Angela to her door. We get to her house before ours. Then I dropped Lynn home and I walked into the village proper.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I fancied a pint at the pub. Vicar doesn’t serve beer at the meeting.” He smiled and laid his hand on his foot. It stopped bouncing.

  “So, you walked into the village. How long does that take from your house?”

  “Two, three minutes. The pub’s at the bottom of the hill, closest building to my house, actually.”

  “And you saw nothing unusual all that time, heard nothing odd like a yell or a car’s motor.”

  “You want to know if I heard Reed being abducted, clobbered on the head and driven away at a frantic pace. No. I didn’t. But I did hear the burglar alarm sound at the gift shop. Kevin Harper’s place—you know him?”

  I nodded. “What happened with the alarm?”

  “I ran over there. I was close by, wasn’t I? The gift shop is directly across from the pub. No one was at the front door so I ran around to the back. I could see the lights on inside, so I thought maybe I had a real burglary in progress. But not ten seconds after I got to the back Kevin barged through the back door, swearing. The alarm stopped and Kevin called inside to someone, saying the alarm company must’ve turned it off.”

  “He has a contract with a professional company, then.”

  “Yes. Many of the shops in Cauldham do. It’s sort of a necessity these days, isn’t it?”

  “Did you see the person Kevin spoke to?”

  “Yes. It was his niece.”

  “Ilsa Harper.”

  “Right. She came out—the back light fell full on her face. She joked about next time they take inventory he should supply earmuffs. Someone laughed from inside the shop. I walked up to them to make sure everything was all right. Kevin apologized for his stupidity at setting off the alarm. I said it was fine and that I’d supply a report to the alarm company if it were needed. I walked around the shop, looked in all the storerooms and closets and the back room. Looked behind the checkout counter. No one other than Kevin, the two shop clerks and Ilsa were there. The windows and front door were secure; there were no signs of an attempted entry inside or out, so I proceeded to the pub for my pint.”

  “Nice that you were so close and could take care of that.”

  “Don’t know that I particularly took care of anything, but I was glad to hear of the false alarm and that everyone was safe.”

  “When did you leave them and go to the pub?”

  “Around ten minutes past ten. I looked at my watch, in case I’d need to testify to anything about the insurance or alarm.”

  “So when you left Reed, everything was quiet. No suspicious cars waiting beside the road, no one standing by a tree, for instance.”

  “No. All the excitement was in Kevin’s shop. The rest of the village, including the church and churchyard, was quiet as the grave.”

  “
Did you happen to see anyone walking up the hill, perhaps in the direction of the church?”

  “No. I was nearly the last person to leave the pub, and the road was pretty well deserted by then. Besides, I just have a short walk to my house from the pub. The church is too far away for me to see.”

  “Have you ever heard of any ill feeling toward Reed? Perhaps connected with the well dressing?”

  “If you’re looking for motive, you’ll have to look outside the village. Everyone liked the bloke. He helped a lot of folks, too. Why kill someone like that?”

  “But someone did, didn’t they?”

  Clayton resumed his foot bouncing. “There’s always accidental death.”

  “Then why was his body buried in the wood? Why not ring up the police right then and tell them what had happened?”

  “Why do people run from the coppers when they have just a traffic offense? Why do folks make a lot of things tougher than they need be?”

  I debated with myself for a second, then pulled the photos of the clothing remnants from my shoulder bag. I glanced at Mark as I handed them to Clayton. “Does the fabric look familiar?”

  He stared at the photographs, his eyebrows lowered as he tried, perhaps, to remember where he might have seen them. Shaking his head, he returned the pictures. “Sorry. Nothing comes to mind. These from Reed?”

  “They were found with the bones. You heard about their discovery yesterday?”

  “Yes. Quite a shock. None of us was expecting another body—well, bones—to be found. Do you know who it is?”

  “Not yet. Have you any ideas?”

  He shrugged, his gaze on something outside the window. “I would have thought them to be animal bones, of course. That’s a common discovery. But if you say this fabric was found with the bones…” His eyes shifted to my face. “Was the clothing actually found on the bones or just nearby? It makes a difference, doesn’t it, to the assumption.”

  “On the bones.”

  “Well, then, that changes the animal theory.”

  “You’ve no suggestion whose bones these are, or haven’t seen this material before, then.”

  “Maybe if the fabric had been in its pristine condition, but it looks to be quite faded. Who knows what its original color had been?”