“I must apologize for that.” Dave came up to McLaren. He stared at the door, perhaps expecting Lorene and Booth to reenter, then focused on McLaren. “What a rude berk. There’s no other name for him. We’ve tried to keep him out of the shop, but there’s really nothing we can legally do. He’s usually here only a minute or so, when he comes to get Lorene. Some times are worse than others. Unfortunately this was one of the worst.”
“What sets him off?”
Dave straightened one of the guitars so it lined up with the rest of the display. “He’s insanely jealous of Lorene. Constantly threatens to kill anyone who talks to her.” He brushed his fingertips together, knocking off any dust that might have collected on them.
“It appears I got off easy,” McLaren said, his gaze on the door.
“Your lucky day.”
“Is he dangerous? Have you had altercations with him before?”
“You mean me personally? No.”
“So he’s never attacked anyone that you know of.”
“No. But he could have done, I suppose. I don’t really know anything about him, other than he’s Lorene’s boyfriend. But I do think he’s whacko. And dangerous. As long as you give Booth no reason to be jealous, you’re okay.”
“Does that extend to you and Kent Harrison? I heard about the solo CD Kent planned on releasing. That wouldn’t have done much for your group, would it? You weren’t jealous of his approaching fame, knowing the CD would promote him as a solo artist and leave you in the dust?” Or behind the counter, McLaren thought, taking in the rows of instruments and sheet music. Although not a bad place to work for a music lover, the shop would not shoot Dave into stardom the way a hit single would.
Dave’s face turned white and his left hand gripped the edge of the sheet music rack. His dark eyes faded to a duller hue and he stared at McLaren with the look of a haunted man. “How dare you say that! Kent and I were friends, singing partners. I’d be insane to hurt him. We had gigs lined up well into next year. We were going to make a recording. We were on our way as a duo. Why would I kill him?”
“Why indeed. Do you know anyone who may have wanted to harm him? Not wish him dead, necessarily, but maybe angry and got into a fight? Only the fight got out of hand.” He left the outcome unsaid, watching the color return slowly to Dave’s face.
“Look no further than the piece of dirt who just left.” Dave gestured toward the door.
“Booth Wragg?”
Dave sniffed and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Doesn’t take a mastermind or detective, I wouldn’t think, to see that the boy’s round the twist.”
“Does that extend to adults, too?”
“Sure. Especially older men.”
“Like Kent.”
“Yeah. Kent had a reputation at school, as well as elsewhere, of helping people. He’d spend a lot of time talking to kids at the college, helping them with their schoolwork and with their personal problems. They loved him.”
“And you think Booth saw Kent and Lorene talking together.”
“Why not? It was no secret. Kent talked to most of the students.” He walked over to the counter and straightened the jars of wrapped mint candies and thumb picks. Seeing Sheri at the far end of the counter, he waved to her.
“Dave!” Sheri walked up to him. “I was just dawdling over the capos and bottles of polish. I wonder if you could spare me a precious thirty or forty seconds to run over the memorial program.” She stopped, seeing McLaren approach Dave. “Sorry. I knew Mr. McLaren was going to speak to you, but I thought you’d finished. I’ll just look around. Don’t hurry on my account.” She sauntered back to the end of the counter and drew a handful of cork-backed flat picks from the glass jar.
McLaren waited until Sheri busied herself with the sheet music before speaking. “You said a moment ago that Booth was jealous of the time Kent and Lorene spent together. Did you actually see Booth get mad at Kent?”
“Sure. At last year’s Minstrels Court. We’d just finished performing, and I was packing up my instruments. Kent had already put his guitar away and stood outside the stage area, but close enough to backstage that I could see and hear. He was talking to Lorene. It was early evening, Saturday. I got my guitar and mandolin packed up and had changed my clothes by the time they’d finished, so they were only ahead of me a few paces—didn’t even know I was behind them, most likely. Our cars were parked close together so I could easily see Kent and Lorene get into his car and drive away. I didn’t say anything to Kent that next day—Sunday—when we went on again for our set, but I sure wanted to. I mean, the man’s personal life is his own. But he was forty-five and she was in her teens. Sixteen, I think.” He drew in the corners of his mouth and attacked the leaning stack of flyers for a local concert. “Propriety, for God’s sake! He could’ve been her father and here they go off…” He shook his head, then turned back to McLaren. “Normally I’m all for letting love flow where it will. If a couple finds each other in this mad world, good luck to them.”
“But Kent and Lorene’s age discrepancy was a bit much.”
“It wasn’t that so much,” Dave said, glaring at McLaren. His voice took on a sharpness. “Kent was a rat. He had a fiancée. And he was betraying her.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
McLaren thought about the betrayal aspect as he stepped onto the street. He hadn’t expected to learn that about Kent. Not that any person is a saint, but it was another derogatory remark about the man.
Booth Wragg lounged against a building front several buildings down from the music shop. Waiting for Lorene, McLaren thought, glancing first at the scowl on Booth’s face and then at the shop sign. Babes In Arms, one of the newest shops in Buxton, featured clothing for newborns and toddlers, baby furniture and accessories, and a few upscale maternity dresses.
McLaren rang Jamie’s mobile, thinking he’d either be at his home, or dealing with Ron at the police station. A few minutes’ conversation gave McLaren more information about Booth, and he rang off, wondering again about the judicial system.
Hearing McLaren’s approach, Booth looked up, staring at McLaren with unconcealed hostility. He flipped his shoulder-length hair over his shoulder and rearranged the hem of his T-shirt. When McLaren was several feet away, Booth snapped, “You following Lorene?”
The accusation—for that’s what the tone of the question implied—stopped McLaren as effectively as if he’d walked into one of his stone walls. He looked at the boy. “Not at all. I’m headed to my car.”
Booth stood up, looking like he expected a fight. “Yeah, well, keep on walking, then. Lorene don’t want no part of you. Or him,” he added, his voice hardening as he nodded in the direction of the music shop.
“What makes you think either I or David Morley is pestering Lorene? Has she said anything to you?”
“No, but she wouldn’t, would she?”
“Why not?”
“She just wouldn’t.” He folded his arms across his chest and stood with his feet slightly apart. “Just telling you nice and friendly, so you don’t try nothing, right? Now, push off, old man.”
McLaren grabbed Booth’s hair and shoulder and pushed him into a nearby alleyway. Slamming him against the brick wall, McLaren released his hold on the hair. He grabbed and squeezed the man’s testicles until Booth screamed for mercy. Relinquishing his hold, McLaren angled Booth’s face toward him, pressing the back of his head against the wall.
“You want to reconsider your attitude, Mr. Wragg?”
Booth closed his eyes. A tear slipped down his cheek.
McLaren repeated the question, his hand now on Booth’s jaw.
Booth opened his eyes and McLaren said, “This is the last time I ask you nicely, Mr. Wragg.”
Still silent, Booth tried to turn his head.
McLaren kneed Booth in the groin, eliciting another cry of pain from the man. “Life’s full of warnings, isn’t it? And what happens when you ignore those warnings?” He tightened his grip on Booth�
��s jaw.
“I-I’m sorry.” The words squeaked out from between his clenched teeth.
“That’s better. Life’s more pleasant when everyone uses their best manners.” He tightened his grip around a handful of Booth’s hair.
“I apologize for my rudeness. Sorry. Really!” he added, sensing McLaren’s anger.
“Apology accepted. Now.” McLaren’s voice lightened slightly. “Since we’re on our way to becoming such smashing mates, we ought to know each other better. I’m an ex-copper. I’ve beaten up suspects, but no one could ever prove it. I also killed a colleague of mine, but again, I got away with it. Being a detective has those fringe benefits. You know how to muddy a crime scene and eliminate clues.” He winked and patted Booth’s cheek. “On a more personal note, my hobbies are gardening, singing, cooking…and boxing.” He flashed a smile as Booth’s face went white. “I mention these things because, as I said, I think there should be no secrets between friends. We ought to know what to expect from each other. Right?”
Booth nodded, trying to swallow.
“And you, Booth? I can call you by your first name, can’t I? If we’re going to be friends…”
“S-sure. Fine.”
“What about you, Booth? Special hobbies?” He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for a reply.
“Uh, Yeah.”
“What, in particular? I don’t take you for a stamp collector.”
Booth tried to shake his head but the pull on his hair was too tight. “Well, I like football and watchin’ the telly, and there’s a few groups I’m keen on—music groups, I mean.”
“Life goals? You and Lorene have any goals?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes.”
“Super to hear. You two going to get married, then?”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
“Not so very soon. Well, we don’t have a date yet.” The tip of his tongue slowly ran across his bottom lip, moistening it.
Like a snake, McLaren thought. But without the reptile’s rodent-catching benefit. “You going to live around this area?”
Booth tried to shake his head again. He grimaced. “Uh, no. We’re moving.”
“I congratulate you both for your rosy future. I hope you’ll be happy. I suppose her family’s excited about the wedding…her mother especially.”
Booth seemed about to say something derogatory, but one look at McLaren’s expression changed his expression. “They don’t want no part of us. We don’t see ’em.”
“Sorry to hear that. They out of the country?”
“Blackpool.”
“Not too far away that you can’t see each other if they wished to.”
“Doesn’t bother Lorene too much. She’s independent.”
“Still, she’d want her mother there for her wedding, wouldn’t she? No matter their past.”
“I-I’m not sure.”
“They have a row or something?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“Not a row over you, I hope.”
Booth shifted his eyes to the alleyway arch.
McLaren repeated his concern.
“I don’t know. I try to stay out of their fights. People are forever telling us what to do, what not to do. Especially that Fay Larkin b—uh, Fay Larkin.”
McLaren hadn’t expected to hear the drama teacher’s name, least of all uttered by Booth Wragg. “Oh yes? I’ve talked with Ms. Larkin several times and found her very pleasant and quiet. I wouldn’t have thought she’d be telling you what to do.”
His gaze still on the alleyway opening, Booth mumbled his reply.
“Sorry?” McLaren’s fingers dug into Booth’s shoulder.
Booth winched. “Fay and Lorene went off together. To God knows where. All giggly and matey. They leave me sitting at home watching the telly. For months, yet!”
“Frustrating for you.”
“At least that’s done.”
“You don’t like her seeing too much of other people, then.”
“No.”
“Ah, well, love’s like that. Each minute away from your woman feels like an eternity.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re together now.”
“It’s better now, yeah.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“That Kent Harrison…that teacher at her old school.”
“The man who was killed last year?”
“That’s him. Not to speak ill of the dead, and all that…” He took a breath, glancing at McLaren’s eyes. “But he and Lorene spent a bunch of time together for a while.”
“Hard cheese.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t resent her time with her teacher, surely. She probably got help on a school assignment.”
“I guess. I don’t know. I just know I couldn’t stand that berk. Thinkin’ himself so grand ’cause he’d a song on the radio. I gave him a miss whenever I could. A little of that smile of his went a long way.”
McLaren flicked something from Booth’s shirt before smoothing the wrinkles from the fabric. “Did Lorene like his music?”
“Could have done.”
“He was quite good, from what I hear. A lot of people liked him.”
“She’s got a CD, I think. I don’t really know.”
“She doesn’t play it a lot, then.”
“Sometimes. I don’t think she was crackers for him, like some of those birds. That fan club of his…not for her.”
“Not a joiner of groups.”
“She might’ve tried ’em out for a time, but she didn’t stay. What a berk that president is.”
“Mr. Unsworth, you mean?”
“Yeah. That’s him. What a looney. Cookin’ with flowers. He’s another nerk who won’t be missed much if someone tops him.”
“You don’t think Kent Harrison is missed?”
Booth shrugged. “Don’t know, do I? He ain’t missed by me, that’s all I know. One less nerk in the world. They oughta hand a trophy to the bloke what topped him.”
McLaren rotated his fist so that his pull on Booth’s hair tightened. “You really mean that, Booth? A man’s been murdered and you feel nothing for those who loved him?”
“Sorry.”
“That’s better. A little more compassion in the world is what’s needed all around.” McLaren’s voice dropped in volume. “Where were you on the tenth of July last year? Oh, say, around half past eleven that night?” His lips were close to Booth’s ear, giving the impression of intimacy.
“Me? You think I killed that bloke?”
“Just asking, Booth. Someone did. You obviously hated the man. You just said so.”
“That don’t mean I topped him.”
“So, where were you that night?”
The shift in his eyes was so quick that McLaren might have missed it and the significance if he hadn’t been staring at the teen.
Booth said, somewhat nervously, “Well, I was waitin’ for Lorene, if you must know.”
“Why? Where was this?”
“At the castle.”
“Tutbury?”
“Yeah. At that olden days fair. Lorene wanted to go to it but I didn’t fancy her bein’ all that way from home at that hour of night, so I drove her.”
“I assume you left together. When was that?”
“Don’t know exactly.”
“Give me an idea.”
“When her teacher finished singin’ his last set. We walked around a bit after that. We got somethin’ to eat from one of them vendors and I bought Lorene a necklace. Then we left.”
“You drive her straight home?”
“Yeah.”
“And you…did you go straight home after dropping her off?”
“Yeah.” Despite McLaren’s fingertips still digging into Booth’s shoulder, his answer came out more of a bark. “Yes. Straight up the A515 to my digs here in Buxton. I don’t know when I got in. Didn’t know I’d need a witness, did I?”
“So you saw no one who can substa
ntiate your claim.”
“My claim! Listen, this is the truth! That was the last time I seen that teacher. I didn’t kill him and I came right home.”
“And where is ‘home’, Booth?”
He gave an address on Holker Road. Appropriate, McLaren thought. Practically adjacent to the police station on Silverlands.
“You have a roommate?”
“Not who I’d like. Ow!” He winced as McLaren pulled Booth’s head sharply to the right.
“Is that code for ‘no, I don’t’?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m just nervous. You know, you talkin’ about me and her bein’ there right before Harrison gets clobbered and all. I don’t want her a part of that life if that’s what happens to them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Performers. Competition. Back bitin’, fights for the spotlight.”
“Not literally, surely.”
“Don’t know. I ain’t one of them. And I don’t want Lorene to be one of them, either. I’m glad she’s dropped that mob. Through spendin’ her time with Pennell and his projects, too. Once was enough with that bloke. Another git.”
McLaren released Booth abruptly, smiled, and patted his check. His whistle echoed against the brickwork as he passed through the alley archway.
****
McLaren sat in his car, the windows down, and debated about whom to see. Booth’s information—and McLaren took it as information and not as time-passing gossip or bragging—brought up startling questions. The more McLaren considered the conversation, the more the questions nagged at him. Why did Booth resent people in his and Lorene’s lives? Being in love had nothing to do with it; the reason went deeper. The boy portrayed the qualities of a loner. And a loner who had been profoundly hurt sometime early in life. Still, that did nothing to explain his animosity and suspicion of everyone around him. Why begrudge Lorene some time with Fay Larkin, if they were friends? And why keep Lorene’s family at arm’s length? Unless it was the other way round—Lorene’s family had distanced themselves from Booth and Lorene, had dropped them for some reason. McLaren turned the key in the Peugeot’s ignition. Time to kill two birds with a stone.
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