“By a piece of him, you mean…”
“You know.” She smiled as she got up and added more names to the list on the whiteboard. “Souvenirs. Something to have and to hold.”
“I thought Kent handled that potential problem rather well, throwing guitar picks to the crowd.”
“Yes, a nice touch. But everyone got those. To the ardent fan the piece of him had to be something your average person wouldn’t receive.”
“Which set you apart, made you the envy of your friends who also liked him.”
“Yes. Nothing like one-upmanship.”
“And that is…”
“Guitar strings.”
“What? Like picking up the broken ones after the performance?” McLaren knew that was a treasured object. Go up on stage and pick up the wire strings that had broken and been tossed away, and had been replaced during the set. Some fans even scooped up used Styrofoam cups or water bottles or song lists. Any personal item that brought you closer to your idol.
“I’ve seen them do that, certainly, but someone went the extra mile.”
“You don’t mean someone robbed Kent.”
“No!” Fay’s hand went to her mouth, as though she had said the wrong thing. “Somebody wanted the ultimate souvenir, I guess.”
“Kent’s clothes?”
“Not quite. The person cut some of his guitar strings—new strings from his guitar, I mean—and ran off with them.”
McLaren’s head jerked backwards. He hadn’t been expecting that. “When was that?”
“I’ll never forget it. It was the night before he died. That Saturday, a half hour or so before he went on. He was at the Minstrels Court. He had changed into his period clothes and left his guitar backstage to get a drink at one of the booths. He usually doesn’t leave his guitar like that, but he thought it would be safe. He’d be gone just a few minutes. Besides, there were other performers in the area, and a large crowd constantly wandering about. You know, Saturday night.”
“Seems like a strange thing to take, strings from the guitar.”
“Kent thought so too. Luckily he had time to replace them. Luckily, too, he didn’t have to replace all of them.”
“Only a few were taken, then.”
“Twelve, ten, eight, and seven. He plays both a 12-string and standard six string.” She frowned slightly, tilting her head, and capped the dry erase marker. “Do you know about that style?”
“I play one.”
“Then you understand the strings. Kent thinks the fan might have been surprised by someone’s arrival.”
“Which explains why all the strings weren’t cut and taken.”
“Either that, or someone was angry or jealous. But we always thought that if that had been the case, the person would’ve broken Kent’s guitar, not simply taken the cut strings. No,” she said as she set the marker on the desk. “The strings were cut and missing, like a fan wanted some souvenir.”
“But you didn’t rule out the jealousy or hatred angle.”
“We couldn’t since we didn’t know who did it. It was an annoyance at the time, and then I forgot about it when Kent was killed the following day. I didn’t remember the incident until months later.”
“So you don’t recall now, thinking through all the people Kent knew, if anyone might have been jealous or angry.”
“The only angry person could be Trevor Pennell, I suppose. He and Kent were colleagues.”
“Why would you think Trevor could be angry?”
“Kent got the scholarship funds three years straight, leaving Trevor and his project unrewarded. Trevor wanted the prestige that Kent’s music events received, wanted the media interviews and the newspaper articles and the letters from colleagues around the Kingdom. Trevor was desperate for that recognition, and wanted it before he retired. Kent always seemed to pick up the jackpot while Trevor stood around uttering empty-hearted kudos.”
“Trevor Pennell’s close to retirement, then.”
“He’s another year or so before he retires, he told me. He wanted just one scholarship award before he left the school.”
“You mentioned Trevor’s project. What was it, do you know?”
“No, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out. He dotes on the Middle Ages, which is why he’s immersed in the Minstrels Round scholarship and attends that Minstrels Court event at Tutbury Castle. I think he’s wanting to stage some big historical event from that time, but I’m not certain. You’d get much better information from him.”
“Is there a stipulation about how the prize money should be spent?”
Fay squared up the corners of the stack of books on her desk. “The money should probably be applied toward the project, though I’m not sure, since I’m not part of that. But I do know Trevor needed money for his wife, though. Perhaps he thought that by winning the prize money and making his project a reality it would bring him fame and the fortune he wanted.”
“Why was he so desperate?”
Fay’s eyes widened slightly. “He needed money, and Kent had just won the school scholarship again. Trevor wasn’t in the best of moods.”
“Why’d Trevor need money?”
“His wife was—still is—gravely ill.”
McLaren bit his bottom lip, mulling over the information.
“He’s the jealous one, if anyone was, Mr. McLaren.”
And would’ve had a lovely motive for getting rid of Kent.
“Of course, you might learn more if you speak with Trevor’s wife.”
McLaren said he’d do that. “I’m wondering if you know another woman. She may have spoken to you recently. Probably Monday or Tuesday.”
“Her name?”
“Dena Ellison.” He watched Fay’s expression for recognition. She remained staring at him.
“No, I’m sorry. The name doesn’t sound familiar. Are you certain this woman talked to me?”
McLaren took a deep breath, trying to cap his urge to yell. “Yes. A brunette of medium height, brown eyes. Nicely dressed.” She always was. He reached back into his memory, picturing her in his home Monday. A description of her clothing would do no good now since he didn’t know on which day she’d been abducted. He tried another approach, loath to give up on Fay Larkin. “A soft spoken individual, always smiling, very pleasant personality.”
“I still don’t remember such a person. I’m sorry. Perhaps she talked to someone else in the school.” It sounded like a suggestion, as though she hoped he’d give up and leave.
He glanced again at the whiteboard. The names seemed to be from a play: Everyman, God, Cousin, Good Deeds, Angel, Doctor, Death. “Were you teaching Monday and Tuesday?”
Fay stiffened. She said, rather reluctantly, “Yes.”
“Do other teachers use this room?”
“Certainly. But not on Mondays and Tuesdays.” She tilted her head slightly, assessing McLaren’s reaction. “On Thursdays and Fridays I’m in a classroom in the academic wing.” She reached for the open promptbook on the desk. “I can offer no further explanation. I didn’t speak to her.” She turned to the board, silently dismissing McLaren.
Maybe you’re not the only adversary he needed to talk to, he thought as he walked back to his car. Dena could have spoken to someone else but not had time to add that name to her list. The other opponent tied to this case, the complaining neighbor who reported Kent’s musical sessions to the coppers. Aaron Unsworth.
Chapter Nineteen
Ellen Fairfield eyed Jamie’s warrant card and seemed overwhelmed by apprehension. She leaned against the newel post of the great hall’s Jacobean staircase and nodded in acknowledgment to her name.
“I’m conducting an inquiry into the disappearance of Dena Ellison,” Jamie said, his voice sounding very business-like. “I understand she spoke to you recently.”
Ellen stared at him, as though uncertain if she should admit or deny meeting up with the woman.
“You did speak to Dena Ellison.”
She nodd
ed at the inference, her hands still grasping the newel post.
“And?”
“She was fine when she left. I didn’t watch to see her get into her car, but I assume she was fine. I mean,” she said, her throat suddenly sounding dry, “none of the staff found her car abandoned in the car park or anything. So she must have left here without any problem.”
“When was this? Do you remember?”
“Afternoon, I think. Mid-afternoon or later. She hadn’t made an appointment. She just showed up.” Her fingers traced the head of one of the grotesques in the wooden post. “I talked to her for a minute or two, but honestly, it wasn’t the most convenient time. If she had phoned ahead for an appointment—”
“What did you speak about?”
“Pardon?”
“Your conversation with Dena Ellison. Surely she came here to talk about a specific topic. What was it?”
“Oh. She wanted to find out if I had any inkling as to why Kent Harrison was killed. He was a musician who was murdered last year. She wanted to know if I’d heard anything that night at Tutbury Castle, assuming I’d been there, which she never bothered to ask. She didn’t even have a warrant card, so she had no police authority for any of this. But before I could point that out, she said she was investigating with a friend of hers.”
“What did you tell her?”
Ellen inhaled sharply. “I told her I didn’t know a thing about Kent’s murder, that I hadn’t been to the castle, that I didn’t know who would want him dead. It was a ridiculous waste of time and frankly I was put out by it all.”
“Because she hadn’t rung up for an appointment.”
“That, yes, but also because she took her role as Sherlock Holmes so seriously. I mean, she isn’t a police detective or a private investigator. What right did she have going about asking people questions? I thought her impudent and asking for trouble, and I quickly had enough of Dena Ellison.”
Her breathing returned to its normal rate when Jamie left the Hall.
****
McLaren phoned Jamie on his drive to Ron Pennell’s house, but got his voice mail. Probably still talking to Ellen Fairfield, McLaren thought, and rang off after leaving a short, frustrated message. He wouldn’t allow himself to become hopeful.
Ron, dressed in trousers, long-sleeved shirt, and tie, and clearly about to leave the house, opened the door on McLaren’s first knock. He smiled tentatively as he stepped onto the porch and locked the door. “It’s Mr. McLaren, right?”
“Nice to see you again.” McLaren hesitated ever so slightly, wanting to rush ahead with the question of Dena’s whereabouts, but knew he had to tread gently if he didn’t want Ron to join the lengthening line of those with selective memories. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about your former colleague, Kent Harrison. If you have the time.”
“Kent?” His voice took on a wary tone. “What about him?”
McLaren explained the reason for his visit, then asked if anyone at the castle or Minstrels Court could have been jealous of Kent.
“You’re thinking someone was jealous of his popularity with the event-goers? That’s ridiculous! No one would kill someone over that. You’re wasting your time pursuing that line, McLaren. And wasting mine. I’m busy at the moment, anyway, so if you would leave, I’d appreciate it.”
“But if Kent’s death eliminated him as the recipient of an honor or reward—”
“Look.” Ron crossed his arms on his chest and took a deep breath. “I don’t know who sent you or set you up for this, but you’re round the twist. Everyone liked Kent Harrison—students at his school and his music followers alike. Go back and tell his mother to spend her money elsewhere, like donating to the Minstrels Round scholarship. She’ll get better results. Now, I have an appointment with a client.”
“You couldn’t have been jealous yourself, then.”
Ron’s face turned crimson. He pointed at McLaren. “You’ve got a bloody nerve saying that. Anyway, why would I be jealous? The only time I was anywhere near Kent was at the medieval fairs we both happened to attend. And I doubt you could compare Kent’s CDs sales and my herbal sales. You’d do better focusing on someone else.”
“Like your brother?”
“Trevor had nothing to do with Kent’s death. You’ve been listening to too many students and teachers.”
“They might know things you don’t, since they work with him.”
Ron inhaled deeply, drawing himself up to his full height. “Trevor keeps nothing back from me. We know every detail of each other’s lives. He’s got no secrets and he sure as hell didn’t kill Kent. Now, naff off, McLaren. You’re becoming a bore.”
“Do you know if your brother ever socialized with Kent outside of work?”
“I’ve no idea. And I’ve no idea why that means a damned thing. Ask him or his wife.”
“I’d rather ask you about—”
“And I’d rather you shut it. I already told you.”
“Sure…about something else,” McLaren interrupted, quickly losing what little patience he had left.
“If it’ll get you out of here faster, go on. What?”
“Does the name Dena Ellison mean anything to you? Have you heard it lately, or have you spoken to her?”
“And who’s she when she’s home?”
“I’m enquiring on her whereabouts.”
“What happen? She get so drunk she fall in a ditch?” He glanced at his watch and sighed heavily. “How should I know where she is? I never heard of her. I don’t want to, either. Now, as I told you before, I must go.”
“I’m asking a simple question,” McLaren said, his throat tightening. “I’d just like to know if you’ve heard of her or know her.”
“If you weren’t as thick as two planks, you’d figure it out by yourself. I haven’t seen this woman. Now, leave me alone or I call the coppers.”
“Listen, you sod. I asked you a civil question about this lady.”
“I told you that I don’t know her. And if she knows you, then I’m glad I don’t know her, considering the company she keeps.”
McLaren grabbed a handful of Ron’s shirt and pulled Ron toward him. The man yelled and threw a punch at McLaren. McLaren released the shirt, muttered, “Have a nice day,” and jabbed Ron’s stomach. Ron fell backwards, landing against the door, as McLaren headed toward his car.
Chapter Twenty
Tired and nearly blinded by a headache, McLaren drove home. He squelched the urge to phone Jamie to find out what he had learned from talking to Ellen Fairfield, and if the police were making any progress with their investigation.
He had just turned into his drive and parked when he spotted a car close behind him. A police car. Make that two, he corrected himself as a second one followed the first. The police cars parked, and what seemed like an invasion of animated police uniforms exited the vehicles. Car doors banged, shoes crunched on gravel, and a half-dozen men walked up to the boot of his Peugeot. As they stood there, McLaren swore, glanced at the tools being laid on the ground, and slowly extracted his key from the ignition. He remained seated, considering how best to handle the situation, when a uniformed officer and a plain-clothes detective came up to him.
“Michael McLaren?” The uniformed officer bent slightly to see McLaren’s face through the open side window.
I’m dead in the water, he thought, but nodded and wondered if they had come to tell him Dena had been found or if he was going to be arrested for assaulting Ron Pennell.
“We’d like to talk to you about Dena Ellison,” the officer continued. “We understand you know her.”
Good. Pennell hadn’t the neck to file a complaint. All mouth and no trousers. McLaren glanced from the CID detective to the uniformed officer, and nodded again. “Yes, I know Ms. Ellison. Do you have news of her? Have you located her?”
“Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir? There are one or two things we’d like to talk about. Perhaps inside your house would be more pleasant.” He step
ped back slightly, allowing McLaren to get out. As he led them up the path and into his house the occupants of the second car began getting into their white crime scene work suits.
Trying to recall it later, McLaren wasn’t sure if he had been invited to help the police or subtly manipulated. The hour sped by in a blur of questions, anger, and impatience. McLaren begrudgingly related the abduction facts as he knew them: the uniform officer took notes, and the CID officer asked relentless questions. McLaren handed over Dena’s photo, an accurate physical description, and “last seen” information, resenting every disclosure of his and Dena’s personal lives and every second of the police presence, yet knowing he contributed to finding her. The detective told him a tap would be placed on his home phone in order to monitor calls. “In case you get a ransom request or other information from Miss Ellison’s abductor.”
Local radio appeals would be broadcast and an incident room set up to handle the police inquiry. Other than that, what else did McLaren know that would aid them? Perhaps they should make this more formal and continue the interview at the station.
McLaren locked the house door and followed the uniformed officer back down the front path. The detective spoke to one of the white-suited men jamming a metal rod through the soil around the rose bush, then joined McLaren in the police car’s back seat. Why did the closing of the door sound like the clank of a cell door?
Jamie could barely contain his anger driving back from talking to Fay Larkin. What the bloody hell did Mike think he was doing? Speaking to Fay in the emotional state he’s in? Lucky he didn’t get the rocket from her and wind up explaining it all to the police. Though, he’d have some explaining to do when Jamie got hold of him.
He stopped in a lay-by and punched McLaren’s number into his mobile. The phone rang several times before McLaren’s recorded message asked him to leave his name, number, time he called… Jamie swore and hung up.
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