Last Seen

by Jo A. Hiestand

  ****

  Despite Booth’s comment that Lorene hadn’t liked the Kent Harrison fan club enough to remain a member, McLaren wanted to get it from a more reliable source. A source whose point of view wasn’t tinted with antagonism, anger, and jealousy. So, he prayed to the gods who had already blessed his day, consulted Aaron Unsworth’s scrawled note, and drove across town to Brown Edge Road to get one fan’s slant on things.

  The girl remembered Lorene and had been surprised when Lorene stopped coming. “After a few months, too. Not even a year. I was that sorry when it was plain she wasn’t coming back. Odd, because she looked like she was having a good time. She’d join the discussions about Kent and his music, but she had so much more to contribute to the group. She was a walking encyclopedia of the medieval period. But maybe that was ’cause she was one of Kent’s pupils. I guess she was just naturally interested in all of it.”

  Yes, Aaron had picked up her and the other member, and dropped off at their respective doorsteps.

  The times matched what Aaron had told McLaren.

  The second fan lived in Leek, Staffordshire, a market town a little over ten miles southwest of Buxton. His drive through traffic and along winding, mountainous roads turned into a blur of green, brown, and blue as he thought through the last few hours. An innuendo about Kent Harrison’s devotion to Fay, Dena found, his own suspected involvement in her abduction… Just because the police let up on their interrogation and released his car didn’t mean he was home free. They could just be giving him a long lead to implicate himself. He could be the mastermind behind the whole thing—for a reason as yet undetermined

  He caught up with the other fan who confirmed the time, and added that Aaron had got into a slang-match with Lorene’s boyfriend.

  “You know the boyfriend’s name?” McLaren asked as he strode down the front path with her.

  “Booth. Don’t know his last name. Don’t know if I ever heard it. He’d come to the club meetings with her-occasionally, thank God. I don’t know what his problem is, but he sure is possessive. I felt sorry for Lorene, having to deal with that, but…” She shrugged, as if to say it was Lorene’s life.

  “Was the argument ugly? Did it last long? Did it become physical?”

  Opening her car door, she shrugged. “I suspect it did, thought I didn’t see it.”

  “Why do you think it came to blows?”

  “The side of Aaron’s face was red somewhat later. I saw it as we walked to his car. You know…under the outdoor lights. I thought at first it was just a shadow, but I could tell he was getting a black eye. His cheek looked bruised, too. I asked him what happened but he laughed it off, made a joke about his clumsiness. I guess they continued the fight elsewhere later on. It was just shouting when I was there. Booth got the rocket and stomped away. He probably found Lorene some place. I didn’t see. I wasn’t that interested. Anyway, I’m sorry I saw it all. It was ugly and frightening and uncalled for. Whatever their problem, they should have been able to talk about it in a civilized manner.”

  Interesting that Booth happened to forget that, McLaren thought as he returned to his car. But, then, if he were suspected of murder, would he admit—especially to an ex-copper—that he had a temper that would lend itself well to violence?

  A phone call to Aaron confirmed that he ended up with a black eye and bruised cheek some time after that night. He denied Booth had done it; wouldn’t specify how he got the marks, laughing and deriding his usual clumsiness.

  McLaren rang off, tossing his mobile onto the car seat. Was it far fetched to link Booth to Aaron’s battle scars? Farther fetched, still, to extend the link to Kent if Booth thought Aaron and Kent were monopolizing Lorene? McLaren rubbed his forehead, the questions and players dancing about inside his skull. Sighing, he made for the school.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  During the drive to Grange Hall College McLaren reviewed the new information. People at the school might know of Lorene’s penchant for Kent and might be able to confirm or deny Dave Morley’s suspicions. Fay was the logical person to ask, and he’d also ask Trevor Pennell another question or two—without fear that he would erupt in anger over Dena.

  McLaren asked Fay if she’d ever seen Lorene and Kent together that Sunday night. He stood again in her drama room aware of the time he took from her work. But her answer could affect his case.

  “I didn’t see them that night.” Fay stared alternately at McLaren and the students in the hall. “I know Kent gave Lorene some personal time outside class, but that didn’t mean anything. Not in the way you want it to mean.”

  “Miss Larkin, I don’t want it to mean anything other than what it truly is. I’m trying to solve your fiancé’s murder.”

  “I know what the loose tongues at Grange Hall College said. Kent was a handsome man and he often spent time with students—female and male. But nothing of a sexual nature went on between any of them. Least of all not Lorene Guard.”

  “You know this to be true? Or do you just want to believe it?”

  “I know it’s true. Kent wouldn’t have anything to do with a child.”

  “But as to that Sunday night…”

  “I wasn’t at the Minstrels Court that day. I waited at his house. We were to have a late supper and then talk. I—” She broke off, averting her eyes from McLaren, and fussed with the items on her desk. Straightening the photo of her baby, she said, “He never came home. I heard a car stop, though.”

  “What time? Do you remember?”

  “The police have asked me so often that I do remember. I probably won’t ever forget. Around eleven o’clock.”

  “And Kent’s last set ended at ten?”

  “Half past nine, actually. I believe it came out during the trial that he left the castle close on to ten.”

  It wouldn’t have taken Kent an hour to drive from Tutbury Castle to his home in Somerley. Had he and Lorene stopped somewhere for a tryst? Had he dropped her some place before returning home? If so, Booth did have reason to be jealous.

  “I’d gone to the window to see if it was Kent,” Fay explained. “It was Lorene. I saw her plainly in the light from the streetlamp. But I couldn’t see the other person’s face. I assumed it was Booth, her boyfriend, because they’re inseparable, but I can’t swear to it. It was a man, though, the other person. I could tell from the height and I heard him talk.”

  “Did you recognize the voice?”

  Fay shook her head.

  “Could it have been Dave Morley?”

  “The police asked the same question. I never really considered it could’ve been Dave, but the more I think of it now…” She screwed up her mouth and frowned. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to accuse an innocent person. And time has a way of coloring things. You believe you saw or heard something when you actually didn’t. Because you’ve been thinking about a certain possibility.”

  Yes, McLaren silently agreed. He’d nearly been down that road himself.

  “I’ve no more classes today. I have to go now.” Fay stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to get home to the babysitter.”

  She picked up her tote bag, walked past him, and out the door.

  McLaren lingered in the hallway for a moment, wondering whom he should see next when a young woman came down the hall. She passed him and entered the room. He decided to take a chance and followed. She glanced up, clearly surprised, as he approached the desk. “Hi. My name’s Michael McLaren. I was told Fay Larkin teaches in this room. Are you she?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said. “You’ve just missed her. She’s left school. I have this room at this hour.”

  “Just my luck.” He put a tinge of exasperation into his voice and hoped it sounded authentic. “Guess this just isn’t my day. I knew I should have rung, but the traffic out of London…” He grimaced, mentally praying the woman would make the correction assumption.

  She did. “How frustrating for you. Is there anything I can do?”

  He thanked her and said
, “I don’t know…” Best not to appear too eager. Besides getting him more sympathy, it made him appear legitimate. He cleared his throat, as though reluctant to disclose his business. When the woman tilted her head and looked anxious, he said rather slowly, “It’s about an investigation I’m conducting.” He paused again, building more trust between then.

  “I’d like to help, if I can,” the redhead explained, her eyebrows lowered in concern.

  “Well, perhaps you can.” His smile flashed all the charm he could muster up. “As long as I’m here, it’d save me a bit of time and petrol. First off, did Miss Larkin take an extended holiday last year? Perhaps a leave of absence? Late spring or early summer, perhaps? I know it’s an odd question,” he said as the teacher stared at him, “but it might help with my investigation.”

  “As a matter of fact, she was gone. That’s when I began my employment here. I was hired to fill in for her, then I was offered a permanent position after Fay returned.”

  “Do you know where Miss Larkin went?”

  “Like a specific town or resort?”

  “That would be fine, but even the general area.”

  “No. Sorry. I didn’t even know her until she returned. I was new and it wasn’t my place to ask my employer where a teacher was going.”

  “No, of course not,” McLaren agreed before thanking her and tracking down Trevor.

  He found the teacher walking toward the car park. Trevor admitted he’d been jealous of Kent’s scholarship success, had needed money nearly to the point of desperation, that his wife had cancer and the outlook for recovery was bleak, but he swore he hadn’t killed Kent. Trevor begrudgingly gave McLaren five minutes. “I suppose I had a motive for Kent’s death, what with needing the money. I’m near retirement age, you know. We wanted to retire to a warmer climate—Cyprus, southern France, the Canaries… Didn’t much matter.” He drew in his bottom lip to stop its tremor. “Just so we were together. She hasn’t that long to live.” A tear coursed slowly down his cheek as he looked at McLaren.

  McLaren let several seconds pass. “Where were you that Sunday night right after the Minstrels Court finished up?”

  “You’re accusing me of murder.”

  “I just want to know where you were. It gives me an idea.”

  “I’ll tell you the idea you have. You have the idea of pinning me with Kent’s murder. Well, it won’t stick, McLaren, because I’ve got an alibi.”

  “Home with your wife?”

  “I was meeting with Ellen Fairfield.”

  “The curator of Rawlton Hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “At eleven o’clock at night?”

  “It was a long meeting. We’d begun at eight and finished up at midnight.”

  “Must have been important.”

  “It was. I was helping Ellen plan an event like the Minstrels Court, except hers would emphasize Arthurian legends. It had to be different or she wouldn’t draw the crowds to the Hall.”

  Nothing like starting your own festival if you couldn’t wheedle your way into an existing one. The man must be desperate, but for fame or money? “So, who killed Kent?” McLaren asked, aware of Trevor’s fidgeting. “Cyanogenetic glycoside was in his system. A poison found in hydrangea. A plant. Your brother is a passionate herbalist, Mr. Pennell. You, your brother, and Kent all frequent the same medieval re-enactments. Did you take a handful of Ron’s dried hydrangea, slip into Kent’s drink, for instance, slowly poisoning him so there would be one less competitor for the school scholarship funding?” He waited, aware of the traffic sound down the road, a rook calling from a tree.

  “You know that’s not true,” Trevor said, anger coloring his tone.

  “How do I? I don’t know your motives.”

  “I have none. I didn’t kill Kent, or slip anything into his food. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Then straighten me out. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Ron had been helping Aaron with his natural foods cookbook. Ron taught him about herbs and spices. If you think someone slipped some poisonous plant into Kent’s food or drink, don’t overlook Aaron. He knows which plants are safe and which aren’t. He’s a chef, or didn’t you know? Talk to him before you make up your mind that Ron or I had something to do with Kent’s death.”

  Several students walked toward the car park, their voices light with laughter and talk of current films and music. McLaren asked if he could talk to them for a moment, and quickly caught up on Lorene’s past and general school gossip. Every student agreed that Kent had been an outstanding teacher, giving of himself outside the scope of his job. Though that berk Fraser Unsworth was even beyond Mr. Harrison’s powers, as one student phrased it. “But I mean, honestly, Fraser had no hope of ever being cool even if Mr. Harrison could give him private lessons for a decade. A born loser.”

  Others in the group may have agreed with the girl’s assessment, but no one spoke to underscore the opinion. And as for Lorene, well, she’d missed the last few months before summer break—common knowledge among students and faculty. Prior to the time Kent was killed. A few girls had given Lorene a hard time, teasing her about sailing through Kent’s class now that he and she were seeing each other, but Lorene had repeatedly denied it, saying Booth was her boyfriend, so why would she want an old man? But the rumor persisted even now, even to the winks and looks exchanged during McLaren’s session with them. Lorene was last seen at the castle, talking to Kent. One eager girl echoed Booth Wragg’s testimony of seeing Lorene get into Kent’s car. Two statements, two different witnesses, given independently. Had they spent more time together than a teacher-student relationship should warrant?

  He considered the result as he drove to Holker Road to check out Booth’s alibi.

  McLaren drove back to Buxton, hoping he could find someone now who could pinpoint Booth’s arrival home. As he parked outside the block of flats in which Booth lived, a middle-aged man turned into the front garden and headed for the front door. McLaren got out of his car and jogged up to the man, calling him to please wait a moment. The man nodded when McLaren introduced himself and explained the reason for his question. Yes, he recalled that specific night due to Kent Harrison’s murder.

  “Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” he countered even-toned. “Even though it happened in Kirkfield instead of Buxton, it stays in your mind.”

  As to whether he remembered Booth Wragg being home or not, he was certain Booth had been, because the residence was a two up/two down. He and his wife had converted the building a few years ago and Booth was their first and only tenant. He was always aware of when Booth was home or away.

  And on the night of the murder?

  Definitely home. Later in the evening, from nine o’clock until he shut the music off around midnight. Yes, he knew personally Booth was there instead of leaving the music on and slipping out. He had knocked on Booth’s door to ask him first if he wanted some leftover pizza—it never kept well for the following day, did it? That was around half past nine. Then, around half past ten, a mate of Booth’s came over and stayed for about quarter of an hour—he remembered the door opening and closing. Besides, Booth had knocked on their door to ask if they had some paper towels he could borrow. A blare of music startled the man and his wife just as the evening television news had finished. It quickly subsided—“Probably just tuned the radio to a different station—”and they heard him walking around until the music and his pacing stopped near midnight. Yes, he’d swear to it in court, if he had to.

  So why lie about being at the castle with Lorene if he was home by nine? Nothing more than an attempt to provide himself with an alibi, McLaren thought as he returned to his car. Or make himself appear the ladies’ man. The blow to his ego had suffered enough if Lorene had gone by herself to meet up with Kent. Booth didn’t need to add to his mortification by admitting it to McLaren, who had physically humiliated him in the alley.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The interview room at Ashbourne police station c
ould’ve been in most any of the Division’s stations: a small room of brown-painted walls, three chairs, and a wooden table. A tape recorder deck of three cassette tapes took up part of the table; the microphone was fixed to the wall. Jamie began the interview, stating his name and rank, the attending constable’s name and rank, the date and time, and the reason for the session. Ron Pennell sat in a chair facing Jamie and looked scared to death.

  “I can’t believe you were in this alone,” Jamie said.

  “Why not?” Ron tried to sound defiant but his voice broke. He studied the far wall and seemed not to hear Jamie’s reply.

  “Because I don’t believe you have the strength to move an unconscious person from her car into yours. Nor shift her from your car into a basement room in a building. Someone helped you, or did it himself, and you’re just the meal provider.” He paused, giving Ron time to consider his answer. “You’re adding to your own problem if you keep silent. Now, who partnered with you?”

  “No one.”

  “We can check the mask, gloves and clothing we found for DNA. If there is another trace on it…” Jamie sat back in his chair. One of the tapes in the recorder squeaked momentarily as it passed over the recording head, sounding like a shriek or a rat. He exchanged glances with the constable at the other end of the table, knowing that they shared the same thought: Ron Pennell wouldn’t keep silent much longer. For all his good intensions, his fear was too great. He had never experienced this and, for the average person, the mysteries of Police Power were frightening enough. Never mind being involved in a kidnapping case.

  Jamie doodled in his notebook, as though he had nothing but time before him. He cleared his throat and stated for the benefit of the recording that Mr. Pennell was still thinking.

  Ron grabbed the edge of the table and looked at Jamie. He leaned forward, as though sharing a secret. His words were barely above a whisper and he cleared his throat and started again, this time speaking slower and with greater volume. “We weren’t going to kill her. You can tell that because we were feeding her.”