The boy looked up as McLaren and Jamie came up the walk. He appeared to be sixteen or seventeen, with brown eyes and short, brown hair combed back behind his ears. His arms were free of tattoos prevalent in the current society, but the fingernails of his right hand were long. For finger picking, McLaren thought as he halted a few feet from the teen. Fraser stopped playing and set the guitar to his right side before he asked what they wanted.
“Some help on a case I’m investigating,” McLaren said as Jamie stood at ease a few feet to Fraser’s left. “This is Police Detective Kydd and I’m Michael McLaren.” He let their names and their significance sink in before he continued. “I understand you knew Kent Harrison, your former neighbor. Is that correct?”
Fraser slowly got to his feet. “Yes. I knew him. Nice man.” He glanced toward the street. “What’s this about?”
“You’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Yeah.” His voice quivered. “Something happen to Constance?” He eyed Jamie, then glanced at the police car. “You’re police. Is that why you’re here, because she’s hurt?”
“Your father mentioned her when I was last here.”
“Oh, yes? I don’t remember.”
“You were in the back room, tuning your guitar. Your father said you were practicing for something and implied it was something for her.” He gave Fraser a moment to absorb what he was saying. “You got a capo and some guitar picks from Kent.”
“Yeah. Like I said, he was a nice guy. He’d give you anything.”
“But he wouldn’t give you lessons. Or advice.” McLaren stepped toward Fraser. “May I see that capo?”
“Are you kidding? You want to see my guitar capo? You’re nuts!”
“Is this it?” McLaren reached down and picked up the capo. He held it out so Jamie could see it. It was a small, palm-sized tool that clamped around the neck of a guitar to raise the pitch of the strings. A steel bar, about three inches long, was padded in a cylinder of hard rubber. To secure the bar to the guitar neck the guitarist stretched two heavy lengths of elastic around the back of the neck and fastened them to the tip of the metal bar, slipping the tip into one of the holes. “It’s seen some hard use, Fraser. The elastic is frayed.” He tapped on the ends of the two lengths of elastic. The tape that deterred the fraying was missing from one piece; the other piece of tape was at an angle, nearly ready to fall off. Several small holes were spaced near two pieces’ ends and grommeted, like holes in a belt. A grommet was missing from the end of the badly frayed length of elastic. “When did you lose the first grommet?”
Fraser stepped off the porch, disbelief in his eyes. “What the bloody hell does it matter? It’s an old capo; it’s worn out. How the hell do I know when the grommet popped out? You’re insane, mate.”
“I think you lost it at the boulder the night Kent Harrison died. I think you killed him, drove his body as near as you could get to the wood, carried him to the boulder and dumped him.”
“You’re daft. Anyway, even if I did that, why would I have a capo with me? Doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you had it and your flat picks with you because you were trying to get Kent to give you a lesson. It does if you had them in your pocket, ready to serenade your girlfriend whenever the occasion arose, or in case you get a chance to try a friend’s guitar. I carry mine with me.” He plunged his hand into his trousers pocket and withdrew an elastic capo and a few flat picks. “Not that unusual, Fraser. Especially if you live for music and a chance to prove yourself.”
Fraser darted to his right, between McLaren and a boxwood shrub, and disappeared around the side of the house. McLaren yelled to Jamie, who dashed in the opposite direction. McLaren skirted the house, plunged through the perennial beds and between bushes, then burst into the back garden. Fraser wasn’t there.
McLaren yelled to Jamie, asking if he had seen Fraser. Jamie rushed into the garden. “No. He couldn’t have got past me. He must be back here.”
They approached the tool shed from opposite sides, motioning to each other that Jamie would go ahead to check the back of the shed and McLaren would try the door.
McLaren positioned himself at a right angle to the front corner of the building so he could see both Jamie and the shed’s door. Jamie moved as silently as a falcon plunging after its prey, a mere shadow floating over the land. He eased his head around the corner, his body angled out of sight. McLaren waited, watching Jamie’s taut body, ready to rush forward to tackle Fraser. Jamie stood upright suddenly and eyed McLaren, shaking his head before he crept to the opposite front corner of the shed.
Seeing that Jamie was placed strategically, McLaren inched to the building’s front. Standing with his back to the façade and to the side of the door, he extended his right arm. The pounding echoed off the back of the Unsworths’ house, startling the sparrows from the trees. No one opened the shed door. McLaren pounded again, calling to Fraser to come out. Still the door remained shut.
Jamie sneaked around the back and circled to the spot McLaren had vacated. From this angle several yards away he had an unobstructed view of the door. McLaren grabbed the latch and eased the door open.
The shed’s interior held only gardening tools, a few terra cotta flowerpots, and bags of fertilizer. Jamie could see the back and side walls. The door took up most of the front wall dimension, and the length that was left couldn’t conceal anyone. Fraser wasn’t there.
Walking up to Jamie, McLaren nodded toward the house. “Unless he crashed through the hedges or scaled the wall, he’s inside.”
Jamie eyed the dense row of boxwood. No one could get through that mass of branches. And the brick wall, besides being slick with moss and mold, rose over their heads, serving its purpose of keeping out people. Nodding, Jamie said, “Fraser’s too short to get over the wall. Besides, there are no scuffmarks on the bricks. Shall we see if he’s at home?”
The house showed no sign of life; no music or conversation flowed from the open windows, no figure showed itself. Only the back door, swinging slowly open in the breeze, hinted at recent activity.
McLaren reached the door first, but waited for Jamie. They entered slowly, peering cautiously into every gaping doorway before easing into the room. The back door opened onto a sun porch that, in turn, flowed into the kitchen. Jamie opened the pantry door, expecting Fraser to leap out, but met nothing more surprising than a half dozen aprons hanging on the back of the door.
They inched down the hallway, walking on the balls of their feet, trying to make no sound to alert Fraser of their location. The dining room and front lounge also harbored no one.
The faint sound of a window opening came from a back bedroom, and the men eased ahead. Stopping at the room’s door, they peeked inside. Fraser stood by the open window, pointing a knife to his girlfriend’s throat.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You come any closer, I’ll kill her. I swear I will!” Fraser’s panic filled the room. He moved the knife so that the tip of the blade touched Constance’s throat. She let out a cry and closed her eyes.
“Fraser, please don’t hurt her.” McLaren inched through the doorway. “Nothing is worth hurting an innocent person.”
Fraser backed up, pulling Constance with him, until his calves touched the wall below the window. His left arm wrapped around her shoulders, hugging her to his chest; his left hand held the knife firmly against her throat. He fumbled for the edge of the window with his right hand and half sat on the sill.
Silent as a wraith, Jamie eased from the hallway, out the back door. McLaren saw him moments later inching up to the left side of the window, embracing the wall and the obscurity it gave.
Fraser’s right hand gripped the side of the window frame, balancing his body as he slid his hip onto the sill. The lower edge of the double hung window hit the teenager across his shoulders and he bent his torso slightly in readiness for his exit. In this position, Fraser’s back presented itself fully to Jamie and he moved to within an arm’s distance of the boy.
Seeing Jamie’s shoulder behind Fraser’s back, McLaren stepped farther into the room. He stood several feet from Constance, close enough to see the wet tear tracks on her cheek and the red patch of skin where the knife point pressed against her skin. The girl’s eyes shone with tears and fright, and she stared at McLaren, silently pleading for help. “Stay right where you are.”
McLaren held out his arms, slowly rotating his wrists so Fraser could see his hands. “I’m not armed, if that’s what you’re worried about. I don’t have anything concealed, either.” He took a small step forward. “You can check me if you want.” His right hand grabbed the bottom of his shirt, ready to pull it up.
Fraser’s grip of Constance’s shoulders tightened. “I warned you,” he barked, his voice quavering. “Don’t come any closer. I don’t want to hurt her, but I will if I have to.”
“You’d hurt her just to get away from me?”
“That’s what I said.”
Constance turned her head from Fraser, her sobs nearly choking her.
Fraser pressed the knife blade flat against her throat, blanching the skin and magnifying his threat in the single action. He glared at McLaren as he yelled for Constance to shut up.
“I thought you love her.”
“I do. More than my life, more than you can possibly understand.”
“If you love her, why would you want to hurt her?”
“Because…” Fraser screwed up his eyes, blinking away the tears that were already trailing down his cheeks. His voice quavered, but his grip on Constance and the knife remained firm.
“Because?”
“We made a pact.”
The answer startled McLaren, and for a second he couldn’t think.
“We were going to be married.” He shifted his eyes to meet Constance’s gaze, and his voice softened. “I love her. We swore we’d go through life together as husband and wife.” His bottom lip quivered and he wiped the tears from his cheeks with his free hand.
“Then if you love her, let her go.”
“I don’t want to live without her. It’s that simple.”
“Is it?” He nodded at Constance. “Is life and death and love so simple? If you love her as passionately as you claim, wouldn’t you want her to live? To go on remembering and loving you?”
Fraser brought his arm up to his face and drew it beneath his nose.
“You know, Fraser, to live in someone’s heart like that, like Constance would do, is an incredible thing. How many people are loved so deeply, for decades, like that? You have an uncommon love if your feelings for each other are that strong. Don’t throw it away, Fraser. On either of you. Love and life are too precious to destroy either so wantonly.”
Fraser blotted his teary eyes on the back of his hand and sniffed. Constance murmured that she loved him and wanted to become a family with him. The boy pressed his lips together, his throat quivering.
“We can talk about this, you know.” McLaren’s voice was low and smooth, barely audible above the crying. “This isn’t the only way out of your difficulty, Fraser. Please let Constance go and we’ll talk.” He had inched forward, barely perceptible, while he talked, keeping the teenager’s focus on his speech. As he finished, he stopped. He could grab Constance if he wished.
Fraser bent forward, easing his shoulders out the window. His left hand slid down Constance’s left arm to grip her wrist. The knife pointed at her midriff. “Yeah, we’ll talk. You’ll talk and I’ll be inside a jail cell. No dice, mate. I’m not stupid. Now, back up.” He pulled Constance after him as he ducked his head to clear the window frame.
McLaren lunged for Constance’s arm. His fingers had barely closed around her wrist, pulling her aside, before he realized he’d been stabbed.
Fraser’s startled yell drowned out Constance’s scream. She leaned against McLaren, sobbing onto his shoulder. She seemed oblivious to the soothing caresses against her hair—and to McLaren’s right hand pressed against his side, trying to stem the flow of his blood.
****
Late that afternoon, after he had been treated and released from hospital, he lay on the sofa in his front room, propped up by pillows and comforted by tea, soup, and Dena’s kisses. But, by the anxiety shining in her eyes, she needed comforting, too, so Jamie again repeated the doctor’s assurance that the knife had missed vital organs, that McLaren would be very sore for a week or two, and that he would fully recover with no ill effects.
During the telling Dena scrutinized Jamie’s face with the intensity of a defense attorney questioning a suspect. But third time was the charm, evidently, and she gave Jamie a small smile, thanking him as she made room for herself on the sofa.
“Constance is all right,” Jamie added, not sure if Dena heard him now that she held McLaren’s hand. “And Fraser’s enjoying a restful stay in one of the Force’s best cells, so all’s well, as they say.”
McLaren grimaced and grabbed his side as he struggled to sit straighter. “Did I thank you for your help?”
“Yeah, you did, but you can say it again.” Jamie swallowed the last of his coffee and grinned. “I’m glad you’re still around to ask.”
“Me, too.” Dena brought McLaren’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “I’m sorry, Michael, for messing up your investigation. I thought I would be a help, but I just succeeded in causing problems.”
McLaren opened his mouth, ready to vent his frustration and fear, to voice his earlier thoughts. He had been ready to scold her, to yell that he never wanted to go through that again, that he couldn’t function if he had to worry about her every time he worked a case. But seeing her eyes, the concern painted across her features, and hearing the regret in her voice stopped his words. Of course she was sorry. Besides, hadn’t she suffered more than he had?
He kissed her cheek, murmuring it was the most interesting case he’d worked on in years.
“And here I thought it all had to do with the Minstrels Court,” she said.
“At least the event isn’t tainted by the memory of Kent’s murder. They’ll have a dedication to him each year—something like naming one of the musical evenings after him.”
“That’s super. The fete’s too nice to live under a cloud like that. A lot to learn and many nice things to look at.”
“Too bad Fraser couldn’t be part of the performances,” Jamie said. “I realize he wasn’t quite ready to perform, but attacking a potential employer with a rock is no way to gain a job. Did the guitar pick in the car park point you to him, Mike?”
“That clinched it, but I had suspicions from talking to him, Dave, and Ellen. Then seeing Fraser’s demeanor when he asked Dave for help prodded me to consider him more seriously.”
“So Fraser killed Kent Harrison, then,” Dena said.
McLaren nodded, still amazed at the story. “He was consumed with jealousy. Kent helped everyone under the sun but wouldn’t help Fraser.”
“Why not? Did Fraser say?”
“It all stemmed from Fraser’s get-rich-scheme, if you want to label it that way. He wanted to impress his girlfriend. She loved music so he thought the quickest and surest way to her heart was to become a musician. He had wanted lessons from Kent, but when that didn’t materialize, he thought he could short circuit his lack of talent and the years of hard work and study by getting into the business via Kent’s professional associates. Kent wasn’t impressed with Fraser’s idea and told him so. Fraser, seeing only the people Kent had helped and Constance just out of reach, exploded in anger and jealousy. Why was he any different from the dozens Kent had helped? But Kent refused to compromise his integrity and wouldn’t get Fraser an audition with a music producer he knew in Manchester.”
“No easy road to stardom for Fraser, then.”
“No. Just years of hard work. Which he didn’t want to put in. That’s when Fraser plotted Kent’s murder.”
“How did Fraser get Kent’s body to the boulder? His car was parked in the dirt track near the wood.”
“Kent drove the car to the area, planning to meet Fraser there for a talk.”
“Odd place for a talk. Why not at his home?”
“Fraser told Kent he wanted to ask his opinion about an outdoor pageant he and a few friends wanted to put on. They were going to hold it at night and Fraser needed Kent to see the area as it would be, with the lighting. I don’t believe Kent thought it suspicious or odd, for he obviously met Fraser there.”
“How did the car get back to Kent’s driveway?”
“A friend of Fraser’s drove it back after Fraser killed Kent and dumped his body in the wood. The police found several strands of hair from an unknown person in Kent’s car, but couldn’t match it to anyone. Fraser walked slightly behind Kent as they entered the wood so he easily coshed Kent with a rock, knocking him out and easily strangling him. He used a rock on Ellen Fairfield, too. I don’t know if he was going to kill her or if he was merely venting his anger. But that rock attack seemed like a prelude to murder and reminded me of Kent’s assault. It was just too coincidental.”
“That’s why Fraser had no marks on his arms, then,” Dena said. “Kent didn’t have time to hit back in defense. Poor Fraser. He should’ve left well enough alone.”
“He compounded the problem by lying about his dad’s return home that Sunday night. He said he stayed up and talked to Aaron about his mother leaving them. Aaron had told me he’d gone straight to bed. If Aaron told me the truth, he wouldn’t know Fraser wasn’t home.”
“He was probably killing Kent at that moment.” Dena shuddered and lowered her head. “But what about the hydrangea in Kent’s stomach? Were two people trying to kill him?”
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