She nodded at his greeting and pushed back a strand of limp hair. Perspiration dotted her hairline, looking vaguely like tiny diamonds.
Already feeling the heat rising from the dry grass, he loosened his tie. Is my face as red as this, he wondered, and squinted against the sunlight. A voice bounced off the castle wall to the right and was answered by another.
He measured her approach by her labored breathing, and was tempted to extend his hand as she angled up the last meter or so of the approach, but shoved his fist deeper into his pocket. The help might be misconstrued as a warm greeting. So he merely looked at her and drew himself up a bit taller. “Whatever is the matter, dear? Are you all right?”
“No.” She took several deep breaths and looked back at the car park, as though she hadn’t noticed the number of cars when she arrived, or was looking for something specific. “Is there someplace we can talk? Without being overheard?” she added as a groundskeeper passed them on a riding mower.
Clark gave her a half smile. “Whatever it is, it must be monumental to root you out of Rawlton Hall and into the enemy camp, as it were.”
“Now’s not the time to be cute, Clark. Or for us to remain divided. I don’t care about our past competition. We need to join forces.”
“The proposition is tempting, of course, but without knowing what you’re wanting, I can’t commit.”
“Then, let’s talk, as I suggested.” She half-turned toward the car park. “In my car?”
“Dear, as much as I like your Mini, I think I’d be more comfortable in my quiet sanctuary.” He patted his ample girth and inclined his head toward the entrance. “After you.”
Their footsteps thudded on the drawbridge—now permanently horizontal over the grassy moat—and across the courtyard. The scents of warm soil and sun-scorched grass, more pronounced in the chunks of sunlight coating the land, rose in tiny waves of heat. Clark tried to swallow, desperate for something to alleviate the dryness in his mouth, and fixed his attention on his office window. He hadn’t remembered it being such a far walk. Was this how it felt to die of thirst?
He felt marginally better on entering the South Range, the main building housing the great hall and smaller rooms. That feeling bordered on energetic as he climbed the stairs and settled in his office—him at his desk, and Ellen in the chair reserved for guests. The coolness of the room refreshed him, and he chatted about noncommittal things until the teakettle went off the boil. But his attempt at conversation failed, for Ellen remained mute. He set a mug of tea in front of her, claimed his chair, and swallowed a mouthful of tea before settling back. “Now, what’s so mysterious, darling? I’ve got a staff meeting in forty-five minutes.”
“If you’re more concerned with ruling your little kingdom than in staying out of prison, fine.”
“What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“Just that someone’s poking around in the Kent Harrison case. Dena Ellison, I think she said her name is. She’s asking questions that could be dangerous.”
Clark took a sip of tea and visibly relaxed. “Is that all? Why does that threaten you? Haven’t you been a good girl?” He winked, and Ellen stiffened at the innuendo.
“You never were good at humor, Clark, and this isn’t the time to start. This woman talked about Kent’s murder and implied I knew something of it.”
“What of it? If your hands are lily-white, you’ve nothing to fear, as far as I can see.”
“But she’s in law enforcement, or something like that. Don’t you realize what that means?” She waited for the implication to hit Clark.
He nodded and spoke slowly as he thought through the perceived outcome. “He sends rain on the just and on the unjust, dear. I, too, have been questioned about Kent, if that gives you comfort. Though I doubt we can request adjoining prison cells, but we can wait to see.”
Ellen stiffened, her tea ignored. “You mean she also came here?” She glanced around, perhaps believing Dena lurked in one of the corners.
“Not her, no. Michael McLaren. Do you know him?”
Ellen shook her head, her eyes shining with fright and panic.
“He’s a former police detective.”
“If he’s former, he can’t do anything, can he?”
“I haven’t a clue. Don’t cops, whether ex or current, stick together and talk?”
“You think he’s going to relay his information to someone?” Her fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk and she leaned forward. “If he’s not a cop anymore, will anyone believe him? Isn’t whatever he learns, or thinks he learns, labeled as hearsay?”
Clark shrugged and downed another swallow of tea. “This is out of my league, Ellen. I don’t know what they do when they get together at their watering hole. But I don’t think it bodes well for anyone with whom McLaren or that woman talk.”
Ellen stood up, her right arm stiff as she braced herself against his desk. “This is all your fault, Clark. You’ve brought this misery on both of us, and you better have a way to get us shed of it.”
“Me? What did I do? I merely answered his questions when he was here. I didn’t send him or that woman to you. I don’t know what you expect me to do about any of this, either. Seems to me this investigation, if you care to call it that, is already underway and unrelenting. You might as well try something easy, like stopping the sun from rising tomorrow or swimming the Pacific Ocean, because McLaren has the decided characteristics of a bloodhound.”
“Don’t get flippant, Clark. We’re both being questioned by cops, and whatever status they have, they’ll be believable. They could be hired by Kent’s family or they could be sent out by the constabulary.”
“Hardly makes much difference, either way.” Clark set down his mug and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I know cops. Once they’ve got an idea, they run with it. And whoever’s under their magnifying glass hasn’t a chance.” She sat down abruptly and looked startled as she hit the hardness of the chair seat. “There has to be something we can do to shift the spotlight from us. But short of leaving the country or assuming another identity, compliments of a bit of plastic surgery, I can’t think.”
Clark scratched his chin, his gaze on the castle courtyard. The groundskeeper had begun on the area near a curtain wall. “That’s not a bad idea, Ellen.”
She frowned, her mouth partially open. “What? Which one? I didn’t really mean we could do it. I’m just…trying to think of a way out of this.”
“You could become this Dena Ellison dame.”
The words were uttered so quietly that Ellen blinked, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. “Me become Ellison?”
He shifted in his chair, leaning his forearms on the edge of his desk, and nodded. “Sure. Oh, the plastic surgery doesn’t have to be spot on. Just good enough to pass for Ellison momentarily so you can get close to McLaren.”
Ellen sniffed and screwed up her lips. “You’ve got to be joking. Anyway, as I said, your sense of humor needs some work.”
“It’s one way out, if you’re willing to take a chance. And I think we need to take a chance if we’re to rid ourselves of this…leech.”
“So I get made up as Ellison. Right. And then what? I’m no killer, Clark. I may want to make a killing with my own festival at the Hall, but I don’t go in for murder.” She reached for the tea, then evidently thought better of it and laid her hand in her lap.
“Your fete triumphs aren’t quite the same thing, dear, but I’ll let that pass.” He broke off, his gaze again on the courtyard. “You know, I just realized why you’re worried about this.”
“I told you why. You should be, too.”
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’re worried because you killed Kent.”
Ellen bolted to her feet, glaring at him. “You’re daft!”
“You killed Kent and you’re afraid Ellison or McLaren are getting too close with their investigation and will soon arrest you. Am I right?” He flashed a grin and stirred his tea.
Her face drained of color and she slowly sank to her chair. The sound of the mower filtered through the closed window. “I wasn’t near the castle the night Kent died. You know that.”
“That may be, dear, but you could’ve killed Kent elsewhere. There’s nothing in the rule book that says you had to have dispatched him back stage or by the crumpet sellers or in the car park. In fact, I don’t believe he was knocked off here, if I recall the case correctly. You could’ve just as easily met him somewhere and killed him there. Hmm?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! What’s the saying, Clark? What’s sauce for the goose…” She seemed to take comfort in the idea, for she sank against the chair back, her fingertips stroking the smoothness of the arms. “I think you’re trying your damnedest to pin this on me. And I wouldn’t doubt for one second that you killed Kent.” She looked steadily at him, as though judging his guilt.
“Now you are clutching at straws, dear. But drowning people do that, I’m told.”
Ellen shrugged but kept her gaze on him. “Can you prove you didn’t kill him? Or perhaps you hired someone to do it. That works just as well.”
Clark rubbed his forehead. The conversation was out of the realm of reality, and he felt ill from the topic. But he also felt nervous, though he wouldn’t let her know. She’d made some good points, as sick as they were. The investigation was progressing too quickly for him to stop, and he had the impression that McLaren would keep on until he found the killer. Or dropped dead… Clark took a deep breath, swallowed, and hoped he could keep his voice steady. “You’ve overlooked one important thing, darling, in your rush to name me as Kent’s murderer.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Besides having an alibi for the time in question, I had no motive.” He grinned as Ellen frowned. “It usually comes down to that, doesn’t it? There’s normally something to be gained from getting rid of someone. But I’d eliminate my own bread and butter, as it were, if I killed Kent. He was a huge draw at the castle. He brought in a great deal of money. I’d have to be insane to overlook that. But what about you, dear? You’re so eager to name me as murderer, we’ve overlooked your motive.”
“And what has your overworked brain come up with? Something stupendous, I hope. I’d like a good laugh.”
“The old cliché, darling. If you couldn’t have him…” His right eyebrow shot up as he waited for her reaction.
The phone rang on his desk, loud in its intrusion and alarming in the suggestion. Clark blinked rapidly, feeling the tension increase, and grabbed the receiver. Still looking at Ellen, he said, “Clark MacKay speaking.”
“Mr. MacKay, this is Don. From the bakery.”
“Oh! You’re up and about early.”
“I want to let you know that we’ve had a spot of trouble with our van, so the delivery will be an hour or so late. It’s unfortunate, but I hope it won’t cause a problem in the tearoom.”
“Why, certainly, I understand. No trouble at all.”
“We’re reloading the items onto another van, so it shouldn’t be too long.”
“Whenever you get here is fine.”
“Thank you for consideration. I’d like to give you two dozen lemon scones in appreciation of your kindness.”
“I look forward to your arrival. Thank you.” He hung up and made a note on his day planner. “To quote you, dear…what’s the saying? Speak of the devil.” He grinned as Ellen blanched.
“McLaren?”
“I’m sorry I have no prize for you. Yes. He wants to drop by. We’ll make a chummy threesome, though he doesn’t know you’re here. Still, I’ve no doubt it’ll be a pleasant enough surprise for him.”
Ellen grabbed her handbag. “He’s coming now?”
“Soon. We’ve time to finish our chat before you make your escape. I don’t think he’s on your trail…yet.”
“I-I think I was hasty in my accusation, Clark.”
“Oh yes?”
“I thought about what you said while you were talking just now.”
“And you’ve realized the error of your assumption, I take it.”
She nodded and gave him a tentative smile. “Motive is important, and I don’t think you have one any more than I do.”
“Unless there’s a secret I’ve kept from you. I could’ve topped Kent for some other reason.”
Ellen started to speak, but drew in a breath and seemed to change her mind about something. “I don’t believe you’re that deep, Clark. You lead a rather transparent life. No, we have to figure out who could’ve killed Kent. It’s to our advantage to solve this so the questionings stop.”
“You’re saying we can’t stand too much scrutiny.”
“Well, we’re in the same predicament, aren’t we?”
“I’ll refrain from answering that, since I don’t know what dark enigmas you may be hiding, dear. But I wouldn’t mind if McLaren or that woman focused on someone other than us two.” He removed his tie and undid his collar button. “Do you have any particular person you’d like to see arrested?”
“I know so few people who are involved in this.”
Clark frowned, thinking she sounded regretful by her lack of potential victims. “How about Dave Morley?”
“That sometimes singing partner of Kent’s? Do you really suspect him?”
“He’s as good a killer as anyone. He’s got motive enough. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it…motive?”
Ellen smiled and stood up. “I hate to leave this unfinished, but if McLaren’s coming, I don’t want him to see me. We can wrap this up later today. But in the meantime, be thinking how we can trip up Dave Morley.” She went to the door but kept her hand on the knob as she turned back to Clark. “And if that doesn’t work, maybe we can make it look like a certain ex-cop is the killer.”
Fine, Clark thought as Ellen quit the room. But what’s to stop me from nudging McLaren in your direction? You’d look beautiful in his crosshairs, darling. Or I may keep this personal and take care of you myself. So satisfying. After all, a little less competition would be nice.
Chapter Seventeen
Which choice was better? Jamie repeated an hour later, getting into his car. He had showered, shaved and dressed faster than he thought possible at this early hour. But McLaren’s fright had crept over the phone. And for Michael McLaren to be shaken to the depths of his being meant that he loved that person very much. More than his own life.
They had discussed at length about involving Official Channels, a polite phrase McLaren mumbled between his clenched teeth. Jamie knew his friend’s real opinion, knew how he actually referred to them. But he also knew this was the proper way to proceed. Jamie leaned in that direction, reminding McLaren that with more manpower, police dogs, early press coverage, and local radio appeals Dena would be found faster than with their own makeshift two-man search. And since the circumstances of her disappearance implied a high level of concern, a team under the command of a DI or DCI would be put on the case immediately. That gentle reminder alone might have squeaked past McLaren. But hearing the words ‘uniform branch,’ ‘CID involvement,’ and ‘search teams’ opened the floodgates, and all McLaren’s pent-up frustration and fear broke from him in a torrent of four-letter words. His maverick streak flared up, and he quickly killed any and all contemplation of constabulary involvement. Did he realize he could be gambling with Dena’s safety, Jamie asked. Yes, McLaren had whispered, but he couldn’t bring himself to crawl back to the people, however innocent these specific ones were, whom he still associated with the injustice heaped on him last year. Asking for police help, whether it came from Derbyshire, Greater Manchester, Staffordshire or any other constabulary, was akin to asking Charlie Harvester personally for help. Besides, if the Derbyshire lads became involved, word would leak out to Harvester, which was one thing McLaren never wanted. He would look for Dena for the rest of his life, if need be, but he would never let Harvester become a part of the search. It would be like letting the devi
l into Paradise.
Jamie had reluctantly agreed to McLaren’s plea to keep this between themselves. A decision that an hour later already ate at Jamie’s heart and gut. He briefly considered ignoring McLaren’s entreaty and call in the Force, but that would destroy their friendship. And Jamie would rather die than do that.
So how to begin, Jamie wondered as he turned his car key in the ignition. Search the places or zero in on people she might have talked to? He backed out of the garage, then paused as he stared up the road. Was he about to bring joy or devastation to McLaren? His throat closed up for one brief moment as he imagined McLaren’s grief over Dena’s disappearance. No matter what his search would reveal, he had to learn where she was. McLaren would do the same for him if Paula were missing.
Traffic was light at seven o’clock when he left his home in Castleton and turned off the B6061 onto the A6. He had decided to start at Dena’s house, maybe ask any neighbors up and about if they had seen her Tuesday afternoon. It was only Wednesday morning, so memories should still be fresh. He settled back, his mind already forming the questions he’d ask, the people he’d talk to. Having a plan lulled him into the belief he was in control.
He made good time to Buxton, for most of the office and store crowd hadn’t yet hit the roads for work. He sailed around Buxton’s eastern side, passed Morrisons Supermarket, then zoomed between the low, dark stone wall fringing the copse and the River Wye. He was barely immersed in the tunnel of leafy trees and giant ferns when he was once more in the open, headed down the A515 for Kirkfield.
Dena’s house looked deserted. Still, he parked, got out of his car, and rang the front doorbell. He listened, barely breathing as he prayed she’d appear. But no sound came from inside the house—no radio, television, conversation, or ringing phone. It was as if all the interior contents had been scooped up, leaving a four-sided stone shell.
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