Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “I won’t dignify that remark with a response, Michael. I’ll assume you’re joking. But honest, I did think you’d be interested in the Harrison case. Besides being a bit of a mystery, the chap was a musician.”

  “So I’m supposed to feel this overwhelming brotherly love for a fellow guitarist?”

  “Well, that’s part of it, sure. But he touched so many people in his life. Positively, I mean.”

  “The Great Influence? He was such a smashing teacher?”

  “Yes, I think he was. And more than that. He was a human being who didn’t deserve to be killed. He was too young and his killer got away. It’s indecent that it happened to him. To anyone.”

  “So you call me in to fix everything.”

  “I thought you could. That you might be interested. That you might want to help his family and friends see some justice done.”

  “That’s what the police are for, Dena. I’m through with the Constabulary, remember?”

  A silence fell between them, thick as the skin he’d had to grow to ward off prisoners’ insults and threats, the mockery of the public, the chastisement of his bosses and judges. He had thought a year ago when he left the job and taken up the work of repairing and building dry stonewalls that he could forget all that. But the voices sounded remarkably loud at times, the words as sharp now as the day they had been hurled at him. They had not faded with time, nor lain forgotten. They woke him some nights, wouldn’t let him fall asleep other nights—whirling in his mind with the clarity of the judge’s gavel emphasizing a verdict. He was surprised that they still had the power to hurt.

  A motorcycle roared past his house in an eddy of dust and nodding roadside grasses, ascending the hill on its way to Castleton, perhaps. The noise startled him back to the present and he became aware of Dena again. He stared at her, as though he were annoyed, then grinned. “You look miserable. Relax, sweets. I’ve already talked to a few people who are connected with the case.”

  “A few people… Today?”

  “I got your message only today. On top of being Superman you want me to be clairvoyant and do it yesterday?” He dodged the thrown pillow.

  “You beast! Making me think you…” She took a deep breath, her emotions too swift to express. “You ought to be—”

  “I’m sure I should. I thought you’d be glad your phone message was so persuasive.”

  “Maybe I should have been a lawyer. What do you think?” She stood up, picked up the pillow, and set it back on the sofa.

  “I think I like you just how you are.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her against his chest. “It might ruin my reputation if it became known I was kissing the other side.”

  “How do you know I’d be a defense lawyer?”

  “Because that’s who you are. Defender of the down trodden, voice of the helpless.”

  “Latecomer is the more accurate term,” she said, allowing McLaren a kiss before she picked up her shoulder bag and car key. “I’ll be late if I don’t leave now.”

  “Where you off to, then? Should I be jealous?”

  “Just tea with a friend. A girl friend,” she emphasized as McLaren’s eyebrow rose. She stood in the open doorway, as though undecided about something, then turned to McLaren. Laying her right hand on his chest, she said, “Thank you for doing this, Michael. It means a lot.”

  “A lot to whom? To you, I know it does. But to the family?” He shrugged, his right hand on top of hers, dwarfing it with its size and warmth.

  “They’ve been conspicuous by their absence, haven’t they?”

  “Maybe they’ve been hounding the police. Just because it’s not in the newspaper…” He shrugged again, not particularly caring why the family wasn’t staging one of the yearly vigils that have become popular in the last few years. Anniversaries of missing people and murder victims usually were lead stories in television news spots.

  “Kent Harrison’s friends might be glad of your solving the case, even if the family has moved away. Just because they’re not pounding on doors doesn’t mean they won’t welcome your investigation, Michael.”

  He kissed her once more before she left, answered her exuberant declaration of love, and watched her car snake back down the road until he could no longer see it. He remained in the doorway for several minutes, aware of her scent on his clothing and in the air, feeling the heat and pressure of her fingers imprinted on his palm, hearing her whispered words in his mind. A lamb bleated on the hill behind his house and he walked inside, leaving the shadows to darken and lengthen in the approaching twilight.

  * * * *

  Actually, I didn’t really lie, Dena told herself, glancing at her rearview mirror. McLaren was fast becoming a dot in the thickening light. Her car rounded the bend in the road, obliterating the last of him from her view. I do have to meet Esther, but not as soon as I told him. I need to do this first. Now, not tomorrow. I need to talk to one or two more people so I can hand him some more information. But why? He told me he’s already begun. Why am I still playing at detective? Am I harming his chance of success if I inadvertently anger someone? Like Dave Morley, the music shop clerk… She frowned, suddenly wondering if she should just forget this wild idea and head into Buxton to meet Esther. But the chance to share one of McLaren’s passions whispered at her, lured her on. It will bring us closer, she argued with herself. It’ll show him I support whatever he does and that I want to be part of his life.

  Or does it? Does it show, perhaps, that I have no faith in his ability, that I think he needs help, no matter how amateurish and inept it might be? After all, if I’m so bent on supporting him in whatever line of work he does, why aren’t I hauling rocks for his stonewall work? Why aren’t I bringing him lunch on some mountaintop? Why am I poking my nose into a murder case, of all places! Because I like it. The reason rushed at her with all the fascination and sparkle of a fireworks explosion, with the inescapable lure of wrapped Christmas gifts discovered in her parents’ bedroom closet. Because it’s fun and I like solving the puzzle. Because, she mentally added to her conversation, it gives us something to discuss. She drowned the nagging voice with a dose of American bluegrass music, punching the ‘play’ button on the car’s tape deck console. Immediately the Lynn Morris Band underscored her mental discussion by singing ‘no one has to tell me what love is.’ Dena nodded and applied her attention again to the road.

  The MG hesitated momentarily as it started up a hill and Dena changed down into third gear. The motor rushed ahead with a growl as the tires bit into the asphalt and as she crested the hill she glanced at the cottages and farms spread below her, the green earth sectioned off in gray, stony lines, the clumps of trees darker green and thickest along the brook. Her hair caught the wind, streaming behind her as the car descended in a clatter of groaning engine and excited birds flushed from road-hugging bushes. She headed south, toward Ashbourne, wanting to talk to Kent Harrison’s colleague. Maybe the teacher would remember something occurring at school that would have a bearing on the case.

  She made good time on the A515 and soon after turning off the main road she arrived at Hart Pennell’s house, a semi-detached bungalow of brick with U-shaped orange terra cotta roof tiles. She parked in front of the house but let the motor idle. Is this really a good idea? I have no authority—I’m not a police detective. Not even a former one, which would lend a bit more weight to back up my inquiry.

  She had just talked herself into leaving when her mobile rang. Without looking at the caller ID, she flipped it open. Gwen’s voice gushed over the line.

  “Dena, hello. It’s Gwen. Have you talked to Mike yet? About the case, I mean.”

  “No.”

  “No? I thought you were going to. I thought you were going to his house after we dropped you. Change your mind?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have to tell him.”

  “What?” There was a pause, and Dena could envision Gwen shaking her head, perhaps mouthing something to Jerry, like ‘She’s round the twist.’ “
I think I came in the middle of this, Dena. Back up and tell me what’s going on.”

  “He’s already begun the investigation. I didn’t have to ask him.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me. He’s talked to some people already. I didn’t need to plead or cajole or bribe.”

  “You forgot lure, but it’s probably just as well.”

  “I may need to lure, though.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’m about to talk to one of the people associated with the case.”

  “What!” Gwen’s concern exploded over the phone. “You’re going to talk… Dena, leave this to Mike. He’s had experience. He’s a pro. You might get—”

  “More information than he does?” she interrupted, purposely misreading Gwen’s statement. “Get him jealous?”

  “Into trouble,” Gwen finished, her voice taking on an edge of worry. “Who are you talking to? You want me or Jerry to go with you? Safety in numbers, dear girl.” She mentally prayed that Dena’s motto wasn’t ‘He travels fastest who travels alone.’ “Where is this person? I can meet you.”

  “Too late for that, Gwen. I talked to a few before I met Michael—just to get some information in case I’d have to use it as lure.”

  “But if you didn’t need the lure.” She tried to think. What was Dena about to do? Nervously Gwen said, “You said you were about to talk to someone else. Why, if Mike’s already interested?”

  Hart Pennell opened the front door of his house and stepped outside. Dena lowered her voice and said, “Look, Gwen, I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you all about this tomorrow. Promise.” She rang off and called to Hart before she could hear Gwen’s squeak of protest.

  The man turned toward her, surprised to see her coming up the walk. He looked to be in his mid fifties, with dark hair and eyes. He remained at the door, his house key in his left hand, and asked what she wanted.

  “Mr. Pennell?” Dena said, her voice slightly breathy from her sprint.

  “Yes. And you are…”

  “Dena Ellison.”

  “The name means nothing to me. What do you want?”

  “If you have a minute or two, I’d like to ask you about Kent Harrison. You and he were colleagues, I believe. You teach at Grange Hall Performing Arts College.”

  Hart’s eyes darkened and he tilted his head slightly, as though a different view would clear up the confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know why you wish to talk about Kent. He’s not at the school anymore.”

  A euphemism if I ever heard one, Dena thought. She nodded, as though commiserating with Hart’s unspoken comment. “You were a friend of his, correct? As opposed to someone you just nodded to in the halls, I mean.”

  “Look, what do you want? Where’s this leading?” He eyed Dena as though she were trying to make him confess to the great train robbery of 1963.

  “I’d just like to know how well you knew Kent Harrison. His murder has never been solved, and I thought that you, as a friend—”

  Hart’s neck muscles stiffened. “You trying to pin his death on me? Is that why you’re here? Who are you, then? Some reporter? Somebody wanting to put something on the Internet? Or you want to create a blog about this?” He stiffened as though she had admitted to the latter activity. “If I find out that you’ve instigated some website or contributed some bit of filth about Kent…” He broke off, sensing her growing indignation, seeing her flushed cheeks. “Ta, then. Maybe not a blog. Are you associated with Tutbury Castle? Or Rawlton? Wouldn’t surprise me if you are. Ellen Fairfield constantly tried to persuade Kent to perform at Rawlton. You one of the Rawlton Hall staff, then, maybe wanting to do some big story on the anniversary of his death?”

  “I assure you, Mr. Pennell, I’m not affiliated with either Tutbury Castle or Rawlton Hall.”

  “Oh? Well, you’re not with the police.” His questions had come fast, one upon another as if their rapidity would form a barrier behind which he could hide. Now he squinted at Dena, examining her face and demeanor and perhaps her personality. “Sure, Kent and I were mates. Not just colleagues at school, but real friends. You’re round the twist if you think I had anything to do with his death. Besides, I have an alibi, if you’re so damned set on pinning this on me.”

  “I’m not wanting to pin it on any innocent person. I just thought that I could help a friend of mine.”

  “A friend? Why? Who’s he? What’s he got to do with this?”

  “He’s been asked to investigate the case,” Dena said, trying to keep her voice calm. Well, it was true, she thought. I have asked him.

  “So, why isn’t he here, then? Why’s he need you to come along first? He some kind of invalid or something?”

  “Mr. Pennell, I assure you—”

  “And I assure you.” His index finger jabbed her upper arm. “You tell your friend to mind his own business and stay out of it. If the police haven’t seen fit to reopen the case, what’s it to him? He represent the family, then?”

  “He doesn’t represent anyone. He’s merely trying to discover Kent Harrison’s murderer. I would think you would want to know that.”

  “Why? What difference will it make if we find out? Will it make me sleep any easier? Will knowing stop this sort of thing from ever happening again?” He stepped closer to her, practically chest to chest. “Will knowing bring Kent back?”

  He had shouted the last question and Dena felt the force of his anger and frustration not only in the volume of his words but also in the blast of his breath upon her face. She backed up, folding her arms across her chest, and said, “Knowing who is responsible brings the case to an end. It erases any doubts. You don’t have to ask yourself if a certain colleague or mutual friend have done it, you don’t have to look daily at everyone with suspicion that eats away at your peace.”

  “You let me worry about my doubts and peace. I was doing fine before you showed up. Now, get off my property before I ring up the police.”

  Dena turned without saying a thing and walked to her car.

  Hart yelled after her. “Tell your friend, if there is one, that I’ll have the cops on him if he shows up here. Understand?”

  I understand you don’t want to talk about Kent’s death for some reason, Dena thought as she got into her car and started the engine. She did not put the MG in gear right away, but sat looking at the countryside. Due east of Ashbourne lay the A517, and not many miles along the road, Rawlton Hall perched on top of its craggy hill. Rawlton Hall, whose curator Ellen Fairfield had been so eager to lure Kent to her events. Maybe Ellen knows something that will make my trip worthwhile, Dena thought. She swung her MG onto the A517 and thirty minutes later stood in Rawlton’s massive hall, talking to Ellen.

  The Hall probably would still be recognizable to monarchs and visitors who had visited in its heyday, for nothing much had changed except perhaps the gardens. The main structure spoke of late Medieval, built in the early 1300s when Edward II reigned. Two hundred years later, a magnificent great hall of Tudor design had been added, its movable carved screen and large stone fireplace among the Hall’s architectural gems. Dena stood beside one of the tapestries decorating the northern wall.

  “This is magnificent,” Dena said, gazing at the woven tableau depicting a courting couple in Tudor dress. They sat in a garden of red roses. Two swans drifted lazily on a lake. “Is this Tudor or an earlier period? I’m not up on my historical eras, I’m afraid.”

  “Tudor,” Ellen said, watching Dena.

  “I’m a Yorkist myself,” she returned, smiling.

  The curator said nothing and the hall fell into silence except for the chatter of a magpie in the back garden.

  Obviously not a people person, Dena thought. Better suited to office work. “I appreciate your time,” she said, hoping to break the ice. “I realize you’re terribly busy, so I shan’t keep you too long.” She then explained that she and her friend were delving into Kent Harrison’s death.

  “I left him alive and well,” E
llen said, her dark eyes flashing in resentment at the intrusion into her workday and the topic in general. Plus, the implication that she might be involved in a murder didn’t make for a joyful atmosphere. Ellen’s gaze swept over Dena’s clothing and demeanor, quickly stuffing her into a Category of Bored Rich Girl. How to get rid of this woman without appearing involved with Kent, she wondered before adding, “Anyway, why would I kill him if I wanted him to sing at the Hall? Shouldn’t you…or your friend…be looking for someone whom he frustrated?”

  “And that’s not you?”

  The woman drew in a deep breath, seeming to inflate her petite stature. “Yes, to some degree. He refused to leave Clark MacKay and Tutbury Castle, but I knew I’d win Kent over in the end. I’ve nearly finished planning a new venue for the Hall, and Kent wouldn’t have been able to resist participating in it. He would have come.”

  “You said you left him alive and well,” Dena replied. “When was that? Sunday night as Kent was finishing his last set? Sunday afternoon?”

  “I don’t have to answer that. You’re not a cop and you’re not here on Kent’s behalf.”

  “I realize you don’t have to speak to me, Ms. Fairfield, but I thought you might be able to shed some light on his death. Perhaps you overheard something that night or maybe you know of an argument he had that—”

  “Look.” Ellen pointed her right index finger at Dena. It looked as menacing as Hart Pennell’s had been. “I had an alibi for the time he went missing, all right? That satisfy you so you’ll stop looking at me as his killer?”

  “I’m not looking at you as the killer or as anything particular, Ms. Fairfield. I just want to know if you were aware of any quarrel that may have got out of hand. Then the police would have a line on his killer. Don’t you owe it to Kent to help bring this person to justice?”