A Well Dressed Corpse

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “No. Later in the year. Harvest home or some time.”

  “Were you the only guest?”

  “What? Oh, yes. We hadn’t decided on anything definite, just in the talking stage. When the event took shape we would invite others to think through the details. But that was a long way off.”

  “Reed’s wife and daughter?“

  “Not there. His wife had fixed a nice cold chicken salad for us—left it in the fridge—and baked rolls that we just had to heat up. She was out shopping or visiting someone, I believe. Maybe I never was told.” His hand slid down to his lap. “Whichever it was, she wasn’t there. The daughter, Ilsa, was at school—or I just assumed she was.”

  “How did Reed seem that day?”

  “How did he seem? What’s that mean?”

  “Did he seem worried or anxious about anything? Did he keep checking the time on his watch? Did he jump at ordinary sounds?”

  Chad’s lips pressed together and he glanced towards his right. He frowned, as though recalling that day five weeks ago. Rubbing his chin, he said, “No, nothing like that. He cracked a lot of jokes about the rivalry being dead, and wondered if his half of the cup would stand upright without needing to be propped up. Stuff like that. No, he wasn’t worried about anything. Just confident and smiling as usual. In fact, when I rose to leave, he asked if I didn’t want to stay a bit longer.”

  Mark shook his head. “He asked you to stay longer? What for?”

  “Damned if I know. I thought we’d concluded our talk. The discussion had lapsed into the subject of healing wounds, on the personal and communal level. He said our villages needed this common fete, that it would benefit people in ways they couldn’t imagine, that his family needed it more than anyone he could think of.”

  “He said that? He said his family needed to heal?”

  The corners of Chad’s mouth scrunched up and he looked faintly ill. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said, his fingers digging into the back of his neck. “Didn’t that strike you as an odd thing to say?”

  “Yeah, but I thought maybe he was exaggerating. You know how people do…say stuff to drive home a point or sway an opinion, make it sound worse or more exciting or glamorous than it is.”

  “How long have you known Reed? Were peculiar statements normal with him?”

  “We’ve been friends for about twenty-five years, I guess, give or take a year. I could figure it our precisely if you need that.”

  “That’s fine. Where did you meet?”

  “At the Cauldham fete, actually. I’d heard it was nice…well, especially nice for a small village. I had just taken on our village’s well dressing event, so I made the rounds of other fetes in the district, hoped to get some ideas. Reed hadn’t yet taken over the managerial duties of Cauldham’s fete, but he was the mastermind behind the well dressing panels. I wanted to glean the best of all the surrounding villages, polish up the ideas and make them our own. We needed to have the best fete, create the best well tableaux. That’s the only way you bring in the busloads of tourists and their money.” He waited for Mark or me to say something, then plunged on when we didn’t. “Please don’t think me greedy or unfeeling, but competition for the Hope Valley Cup is fierce. A dozen villages vying for the prize money and the prestige of winning, the prestige that guarantees tourists by the hundreds. Everyone wants to see the best well dressing panels, don’t they?” He looked hopeful, willing Mark and me to understand and not condemn him.

  “Do you know of anyone who might have been angry with Reed? Not necessarily connected with the village fete, but perhaps some other reason?”

  Chad exhaled slowly and glanced at the workers in the room. “Not a soul. That’s what makes this such a nightmare. Reed was highly respected. He did wonders for his village, garnering the prize and the assurance of the tourist trade. Why would anyone want to kill the golden goose?”

  That’s what we’re trying to discern, I thought, looking at the worktables and the villagers arriving with boxes and buckets of material to create the well panels. “Your well dressing must come before Cauldham’s, Mr. Styles. They’ve not begun even setting up yet.”

  “Yes. We’re the day before Cauldham’s. Our dressing is this coming Thursday, the twenty-eighth. That’s St. Basildes’ day. Our church is St. Basildes.”

  “What’s your theme this year?”

  “Przewalski’s wild horse. The wild horse of Mongolia,” he explained when I looked blank. “They’re endangered. A beautiful creature. We hope that with our panels we can bring attention to their plight and do some good for them.”

  Mark and I thanked him for his time, gave him a business card, and got his assurance that he’d phone us if he thought of anything pertinent to the case.

  We were just to the door in the church hall when a man of about nineteen came into the room. He nodded to the greeting thrown out by the woman at the front table and brushed past Mark’s shoulders when I turned and called out his name.

  “Trevor?”

  He stopped mid-stride, spun around on his heel, and asked if I needed to speak to him.

  “If you’re Chad Styles’ son, I do,” I said as Mark came up behind me.

  Trevor’s eyebrows raised in curiosity when I introduced Mark and myself and explained that we’d like to ask him some questions about Reed Harper.

  “Sure. Anything.” We walked to a quiet corner of the room. “Not that I’ll be much help. Dad knew Reed a lot better than I did.”

  “How long had they known each other?”

  “Hard to say. Longer than I’ve been alive, I know that. Maybe two decades, maybe longer.”

  “Were your father and Reed merely business acquaintances or were they also friends? Business acquaintances as in they were both directors of their respective village’s fetes.”

  “They talked occasionally about their festivals—you know, discussing the funding that was drying up from the councils and how to attract more people to their events. But it wasn’t all business with them. They’d go fishing together, or go to a football game, but it wasn’t what I’d call regular. Not like a pint at the pub every Friday night.” He looked at us with wide, honest eyes. They were hazel, nearly matching his dark blond hair color. He hadn’t his father’s height, being approximately five foot eight, and he was thin—a contrast to Chad’s bulky build. But where Chad’s strength may have been in his managerial prowess, Trevor’s strength lay visibly in his biceps. Probably from shifting those heavy well dressing panels about, I thought, envisioning Trevor throwing the thick-beamed wooden frames over his shoulder.

  “Did Reed irritate anyone?”

  “What do you mean irritate? He came on a bit thick at times, all gung ho and my way or the highway attitude, but he got results, didn’t he? Look how often Cauldham’s won the Hope Valley Cup. You can’t argue with success.”

  “Some might,” Mark said, drawing Trevor’s attention. “Is it the end justifying the means, or is it do unto others?”

  “So he was a bit ruthless. No one got hurt from his bulldozing method. He’s a ruddy good manager and his whole village probably thanks the day he took over that job.”

  “Did his job intrude upon his home life, do you know?”

  “Can’t say. I know he had his nine-to-five job at the ad agency. That must’ve taken a bunch of time in itself. Then he’d be working on the fete on his time off most of the year. People don’t realize how much time and planning those things take. If you’re going to bring in name talent, that takes time to negotiate. Then, there’s also the judging of the well panel art submissions, the judging of the queen and princess contests, not to mention booklet design and printing and hunting down the info for those, the concessions and game booths and rides.”

  “I understood he had assistants and volunteers to help with that.”

  “Sure. Every village does. But he’s got to meet regularly with the committees to see if there are problems. It takes a lot of time. Why, ne
arly as soon as this year’s well dressing is over they’ll start in on planning next year’s.”

  “So, what you’re alluding to is that Mrs. Harper might not necessarily see her husband all that much.”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t see how. Ilsa, their daughter, complains a lot that her dad was never around to do things with her or go to her recitals and stuff. It was hard for her.”

  I asked how he knew that.

  He averted his gaze and fell silent for a moment. The hubbub of the room filled my ears—table legs scraping across the linoleum floor, metal buckets clanging together as someone carried them to another place, doors opening and the kitchen hatch rolling open, ceramic mugs clinking as they were stacked onto a plastic tray… Trevor looked at me, his eyes suddenly filled with pain. “Because she told me. Because we love each other and we’re going to be married. Because she’s ready to strike out on her own, away from her parents, and control her own life.” He finished in a rush of words and feelings.

  “What does she want to do? You mentioned her recitals. She performs, obviously, but what? Is she a pianist?”

  “That, yes, but she’s mainly a singer. She’s star quality. Really.” He smiled tentatively, willing us to believe him. “I’m not just saying that ’cause I love her. Ask anyone—here or in Cauldham. She’s super.”

  “Does she perform at the fete?”

  Trevor snorted, as though that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Not allowed to, is she?”

  “Who won’t allow her to sing? Some committee? Is there a talent committee?”

  “Harding Lyth won’t let her.”

  “The vicar?” I didn’t believe Trevor but asked, “What right does he have to stop her?”

  “His daughter, Angela, is the MC of the fete. She’s also the main singer. Well, except for any name group they might have performing. Angela’s using the fete as a springboard to fame and fortune. She figures if she can get noticed, she’ll have no trouble landing a job in some musical. Or even get offered a solo contract. And Harding, being a supportive, doting father, does the fatherly thing by keeping all rivals from Angela’s microphone.”

  “I can’t believe the vicar can get away with that. Surely there are other artists besides Ilsa who want to perform.”

  “Probably, but until Angela has her hard won contract, the good people of Cauldham will probably have to put up with her MCing for years to come.”

  “How do you feel about Ilsa’s singing career?”

  He glanced again across the room. A woman tidied a stack of brochures she’d just set on the information table. “That’s the trouble with this whole thing,” Trevor said slowly. His right hand fingers curled into a fist and he slammed it into his open left palm. “I love Ilsa, desperately and completely. I want her to follow her star, to become the person she needs to be. But I don’t want to lose her.”

  “How would you lose her? If you two get married—”

  “I’d lose her if she maybe becomes the village MC one year. I’d lose her if she gets too famous and doesn’t want to marry or settle down ’cause she thinks it will hurt her image with her fans…or she won’t be able to shoot off for some venue in the antipodes. I’d lose her if her dad succeeded in getting Harding to let Ilsa MC and sing one year. Reed’s like that…bribery to Harding in some form, or to Angela by getting her an agency contract. Reed may be a busy man but he does love Ilsa, and if she finally talks him into twisting Harding’s arm so she can sing at the fete…” He sniffed, as though he was about to cry. “I mean, Ilsa is seventeen. She should live her own life.”

  I thought Trevor had just provided someone with a great motive for getting rid of Reed.

  EIGHTEEN

  Diary Entry, 26 February 1989

  Another birthday is looming. Two months from today I’ll be eighteen. It’s time for serious planning. I mean, I’ve got the rest of my life ahead of me. Clayton is pressing me for an answer, but I’m not that sure yet. I mean, I love him, and I hate it when we’re apart, but how would it feel to always be with him? Always. A date is one thing—you spend the evening or the day together, but then you part and you go back to doing your own thing and you live with Gran and stuff. But when you’re married you’re together all the time. You go shopping or spend the evening with friends, but you have to go home eventually and then you’re together again and start the whole thing over again. Gol, I just reread these previous lines—it sounds like I’m not keen on Clay, or I don’t want to marry him. That’s the problem! I do love Clay and I do want to marry him, but maybe not right now. Not until I’ve had a chance to taste life, really taste it and hold it and see if I want to be something that necessitates further schooling. Clay is the love of my life and I can’t see myself with anyone else, but I don’t know if I’m ready for such a serious, unchangeable step. What if I tell him yes and then decide later I made a mistake? I’ll hurt him and I’ll hurt myself. It’ll be with both of us for the rest of our lives, scar any future relationships we may have. I love Clay too much to hurt him like that. But enough gloomy thoughts! I’ve not even decided anything yet and I’m sounding like an old maid! Too many emotions running around. I can’t decide one way or the other like this. Another few months and I may know better what I want to do about Clay and about the rest of my life.

  NINETEEN

  Driving back in the car, I told Mark that it could be quite handy for Chad Styles that his village had a day’s advantage on Reed Harper and Cauldham.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are the year’s well dressing designs a closely guarded secret?”

  Mark shrugged. “Don’t know. Why?”

  “If they are kept secret, and if Chad knew what the villagers of Cauldham were going to do…” I looked at him, hoping he was following my reasoning.

  “You think Chad broke into the place where Cauldham’s well dressing designs are kept, or bribed someone to show them to him. Then, having got a gander at the theme and drawings, Chad slinks back to his village, whispers into the appropriate ear, and they come up with something they think will best Cauldham.”

  I nodded.

  “Won’t do, Brenna.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no history of them doing the same theme. Besides, that coincidence would be a real finger-pointer to someone in either village being a spy and a sneak. No one’s ever done that. Secondly, what’s Chad got to gain? Even if he saw the well dressing designs, it doesn’t mean Upper Hogsley’s rendition of them would be better than Cauldham’s. That’s where individual talent shines. Cauldham may be a smaller village than Upper Hogsley, but they just might have better artisans for panel making. Must have had them for years, or Chad and his village would have won the cup. Nope. Try again.”

  We tried again with Ilsa, Reed’s daughter. Being Saturday, we found her with a small group of villagers in the churchyard. They were weeding the perennial border along the south side of the church. Getting ready for the well dressing and festival, I assumed.

  Auburn-haired Ilsa Harper sat with Mark and me on a wooden bench beneath a large sycamore. We were some distance from the church, out of the earshot of the workers. Although a few of them had cast curious glances our way, they soon returned to their gardening and chatter. I noticed a clump of daisies that needed deadheading, but the workers would get to that.

  Ilsa confirmed Trevor’s statement: she wanted to be a singer. “I’m starting to panic,” she said, her brown eyes darker in the shade of the tree. “I’m seventeen. I haven’t really done anything toward my career except get a portfolio together of photos that Perry Bowcock took of me. If I don’t get a break soon, I’ll be too old.”

  Mark said Trevor seemed to be very supportive of her career choice.

  “He is, and that’s partly why I love him. I know he’ll follow me to the ends of the earth, help me do whatever I need to do in order to get my career.”

  “It’s wonderful to be so focused and to have someone who believes in you lik
e that.”

  “I know I’m lucky having Trevor. He’s even suggested to his dad that I sing at Upper Hogsley’s fete next week.”

  “Nice for you.”

  “Isn’t it? If I can’t perform here.” She pouted slightly as she glanced at Harding, who was raking up a bunch of dead leaves wedged between a tombstone and a tree trunk. “Well, it’s just nice to have someone who thinks you’re good enough so as not to embarrass the village.”

  “Too bad your father couldn’t get you a spot here. I’m surprised, actually, since he’s the festival director.”

  She glanced in Harding’s direction, but he had worked around behind the church. Looking at Mark, Ilsa said, “It’s not that easy. Dad may have been the overseer of the whole thing, but Angela is the MC. Has been for years.”

  “Kind of a tradition.”

  “Yes.”

  “Still, I’d think that the MC job could be traded off a bit. Like every other year Angela could do it, letting other people, such as you, a chance. Your dad couldn’t help you with other venues, perhaps? Or talk to Harding about it?”

  “My dad helped a lot of people. He had a lot of connections, developed through his ad agency and during his tenure as fete director. People were always asking him for help.”

  “Financial?” I asked.

  “No. More like…” Ilsa took a deep breath and bowed her head slightly. When she looked at me, her eyes were moist. “Getting them interviews or auditions. He knew a lot of people in the entertainment world.”

  “Anyone angry at him, perhaps over a failed audition or not getting to speak to some music mogul?”

  “Not that I know of. Maybe mum would know. But I think I would’ve heard if there had been. Dad usually kept business and home life separate, but occasionally he’d rant to someone over the phone. Usually it was Harding or his assistant, Jenny Millington.”

  “But no one specifically you know of who might have been extremely angry or upset by an unsuccessful media deal or canceled contract or the like.”