Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “What time was that?”

  “This morning. Five minutes to six.”

  Just before Mike rang me up, Jamie thought.

  “Something else, sir.” The constable held up another evidence bag. It held a set of car keys.

  “Hers?” Jamie glanced at the car’s ignition switch. It held no key. A new sense of urgency gripped him.

  “Yes. I tried it in the ignition. Anything else, sir?”

  “No. That’s fine for now. Thank you.”

  The constable nodded and slipped the mobile into an evidence bag.

  Jamie walked back to his car, trying to make sense of everything. The problem was, nothing did make sense. No woman would leave her key, purse and mobile if she voluntarily left her car. He said as much to McLaren when he answered Jamie’s call.

  “I’m still at the scene,” Jamie said, staring at the entries in his notebook.

  “Do you think she was interrupted before she could complete a call?” McLaren’s voice sounded far away and strained, as though he were afraid to voice his thoughts.

  “Could be. Or she could have just left it on. You know—most of us have it on. It’s normal, Mike. We don’t want to miss a call. Especially if we’re expecting the plumber to ring or something like that.”

  “But those names she wrote down…”

  “Ellen Fairfield.”

  “The curator at Rawlton Hall. Right.”

  “Blossom Armitage.”

  “The herbalist at the Minstrels Court.”

  “Fay Larkin.”

  “Kent Harrison’s fiancée.”

  “Dave Morley.”

  “Kent’s sporadic singing partner.”

  “And Hart Pennell. Where are you?”

  “Still at Dena’s house. Why did she talk to Pennell?”

  “Why did she talk to Ellen, Blossom, Fay and Dave?” He paused, expecting McLaren’s response. When none came, he added, “She wanted to help you, Mike.”

  The silence, absolute and frightening, filled Jamie’s ear and soul. A tractor growled its way out of the dirt lane and onto the road before Jamie said, “Mike?”

  “Yeah.” His reply was barely audible, yet his voice held steady.

  “What are you thinking? You’re not going to do anything rash, I hope.”

  “Define the word rash.”

  “I’m thinking you need to keep on with what you’re doing, Mike, and leave this to me. You’re in no emotional state to do you, me or Dena any good.”

  McLaren’s retort boomed over the phone. “You wouldn’t say that if it were your wife who went missing.”

  “I know I wouldn’t! But you would if our roles were reversed. You would tell me the exact thing I just told you. Because you know that’s the proper thing to do.”

  “Bloody hell. I’m not a copper anymore, Jamie. I don’t care what’s proper procedure and what isn’t. I need to find Dena.”

  “We will, Mike. The police will bring in specialist squads now that it’s looking as though Dena was abducted. Your phone, and her dad’s phone, will be tapped and monitored for evidence if the abductor calls. They’ll set up an incident room, search the obvious locations based on the leads from her notebook, they’ll have dogs on standby.”

  “I know. I’ve done all that myself when I worked such cases.”

  “Great. Then you know to give us some time, for God’s sake! They just started on this. They’ve not done too shabbily, have they?”

  A begrudgingly given ‘no’ slipped from McLaren.

  “Your being or not being a copper hasn’t a damned thing to do with this, and you know it. I know what you told me about bypassing the police. You needn’t repeat it. But the real reason is because you want to find her yourself. You want to repair your fractured relationship in one quick, easy act of heroics and a flash of awe-inducing genius. Commendable, but not realistic. Or smart. Dena’s life may be on the line and you want to fly around as a lone Superman and rescue her. Nice, but you can’t.”

  “I’m only saying that I need to do something, for Christ’s sake! I can’t sit—”

  “So you’re going to rush around, break down those people’s doors, grab them by their throats and shake an answer from them. Just who would that be? The people listed in her notebook? You won’t be satisfied to stop there if that doesn’t produce Dena. You’ll branch out and start threatening everyone else you suspect even slightly. You’ll look up all the criminals you’ve ever dealt with; you’ll enlarge your interrogation to include their family members—because, God help them, someone may be harboring resentment for when you sent his old man down twenty years ago. Only, it took him two decades to figure out how to get to you and kidnap Dena.” Jamie took a breath, aware he may have angered his friend, but knowing that he had to voice his opinion.

  “So I’m supposed to go home, have a cuppa, do some gardening, and wait.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s wrong with looking on my own? The cops will never know I’m nosing about. I just might find her faster—”

  “The most likely thing you’ll find is that you’ll bring on lies or a lawsuit if you muscle anyone. And that could hinder Dena’s welfare, if she’s held by one of them.” He took a deep breath, letting his words sink into McLaren’s mind. “Am I right?”

  “Yeah. As usual.”

  “I’m not keeping score, Mike.”

  “Go on with your job of work, then. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come over so…” He let the sentence die, not knowing exactly what he meant, but feeling only his frustration and anxiety.

  “I’ll ring you up the minute I hear anything, though you’ll probably get a phone call or visit from someone in the job. You’ll no doubt be formally interviewed, too.”

  McLaren let that pass without comment. “Do her notes suggest who may have kidnapped her, or point you in any direction?” He seemed to be pleading for information, to have something on which to focus mentally and emotionally, to use as an anchor in this whirlwind.

  “Nothing jumps out at me, no. But this could be circumstantial, you know.”

  “Like someone she talked to then talked to someone else.” He stopped, refusing to concede Dena’s murder.

  “I’ve got the names. The constable showed them to me.” He lowered his voice and turned from the police team searching the area. “They don’t have to know I’m on the case unofficially. I’ll keep going and start with these five. I’m close to Rawlton Hall, so I’ll see Ellen Fairfield first. And don’t worry. We may be amazed at what I find out.”

  “Just so you find her. I’ll owe you favors for the rest of my life.”

  Jamie smiled, rang off, and went to see Ellen Fairfield.

  * * * *

  Desperate to find Dena, McLaren went to see Hart Pennell. Ashbourne, the town were Hart taught school, was minutes down the road from Kirkfield. McLaren could question the man and be off to talk to Fay Larkin before Jamie knew what he’d done. I’m helping Jamie and the police, he convinced himself. Besides, in the nightmare he was living, he needed that activity and anchor.

  Luck accompanied McLaren, for he caught the teacher between classes. As he entered the room, he told himself to play it low key, keep his emotions in check if he were to glean any information, either about Dena or Kent Harrison. He decided to lead off his inquiry by asking about Kent. It would be less threatening and less suspicious.

  Hart looked up, plainly startled to see McLaren, but agreed to give him five minutes.

  “I won’t deny I was jealous of the scholarship funds Kent received,” Hart said, opening a textbook to a marked page, “but I didn’t kill him. If anyone was jealous, it was Fay.”

  “Fay Larkin?” McLaren asked, surprised to hear her name linked in this manner to Kent’s case. “For heaven’s sake, why? She was engaged to Kent. She had her future all sewn up.”

  “Ah,” Hart said, walking around the room and putting a handout on each student’s desk. “That’s just the reason. She was in love with Kent. And, bein
g in love and being so close to him—such as attending his singing gigs—she saw first hand how he attracted women to him.”

  “Women in the audience?”

  “And female students. He was good looking. And popular. A deadly combination for a fiancée.”

  “Like bees to honey.”

  “More like moths to the flame.”

  “Scorched.”

  “Or burnt to death.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  “No. Just that Fay or Kent made it clear to the attracted female that he was already claimed.”

  “Was there any trouble?”

  “If you mean, did the women riot and burn his CDs…no. But there are always fans who hang on, aren’t there? Lurk in the shadows, follow you from performance to performance, hoping for a little more than an autograph, if you get my drift.”

  “And Kent?”

  “Faithful to Fay, from what I understand. But whether Fay believed that or not…well, you’ll have to ask her. How many fiancées in that position would fully trust her man? Or trust that a fan wouldn’t become a stalker? Even if the stalking doesn’t end in murder, like John Lennon’s in 1980, can you trust that it won’t end in kidnapping? Jealousy does strange things.”

  And gets you into more trouble than you thought possible. “One more thing, Mr. Pennell. I believe Dena Ellison talked to you recently.”

  Hart paused at his desk, slowly putting the remaining handouts down. His eyebrow lifted and his eyes narrowed slightly. “Sorry, I don’t recall.”

  “You don’t recall? You spoke to her on Monday. Not so very long ago.”

  “That may be, but I don’t recall the lady.”

  A buzz of conversation filtered through the door from the hallway. McLaren stepped toward Hart, his left hand grabbing the edge of the desk. “I doubt your memory is that poor. Not only do you have to remember the facts of the subject you teach, but you also have to retain students’ names and learning progress, school dates, information about the Minstrels Round, your private social life—”

  “Exactly. Case in point, McLaren. Why should I remember one woman, whom I obviously don’t know, amongst everything I have to remember? Anyway, what difference does it make? Why does it concern you?”

  McLaren briefly considered telling Hart that Dena had been abducted, then decided not to. Better to let the man tip his hand through a slip of the tongue, if he were involved. Reluctantly, he let the matter slide and thanked Hart for his time as he made for the door.

  * * * *

  A few minutes’ drive from Hart Pennell’s school brought McLaren to a red-bricked building. As McLaren got out of his car he wondered how long he could do this. Not questioning people—retaining a serene façade. If he didn’t make progress soon, he’d go home and let the police have it.

  Low-volumed, soothing music greeted McLaren as he entered the medical office where Fay Larkin worked. Several people sat in the waiting room, reading, talking or working on their laptops, and McLaren glanced at each one as he walked up to the receptionist. She sat behind a waist-high counter, at a desk piled with a large appointment book, various files, a phone and a computer. Her nameplate faced the waiting room. A framed photograph of a newborn wrapped in a Christmassy-print blanket angled out from a corner of the clutter. “Cute child,” McLaren said after introducing himself and stating the reason for his visit. He was already tired of using Kent Harrison as an excuse; he wanted to scream that he was looking for his love.

  “Thank you.”

  He looked at the nameplate on the desk. “Fay Larkin.”

  “Yes.” Fay looked at him, trying to ascertain what he wanted to know about Kent.

  “I understand you and Kent Harrison were engaged. I’m sorry for your loss. It must have been a terrible thing for you.”

  “Thank you. I thought I’d never get over it. Well, everyone believes that, don’t they? You’re so deeply in love that you think you will actually die of a broken heart. But somehow you go on. You figure out how to deal with your hurt. As millions of people have done since the dawn of time. Believing yours is different, is special, doesn’t mean a thing.” She called the name of a patient and waited until the man had been shown into an examination room before adding, “And being hurt before doesn’t necessarily help you deal with the current grief. Each ache is different. A divorce doesn’t make your current fiancé’s death easier to handle.”

  “You’ve been married before, then.”

  “Yes. I think that’s what made it so difficult for me, why the pain of Kent’s death was so acute. After one failed marriage you dream the second one will be perfect, that you’ve found your soul mate and you’ll have the storybook life. I had thought Kent and I would make the happy-ever-after family. It didn’t work out that way, though. So now I cling to my other happiness, the remnant of another happy time, brief though it was.” Her fingers traced the top of the photo frame.

  “It’s nice you have a part of Kent to love.”

  She straightened the photo, turning it slightly away from McLaren. “We adopted.”

  “I applaud your decision. So many unwanted children in the world.”

  “Yes. It’s a shame.”

  Bringing the subject back to Kent, he said, “Were you jealous of Kent’s female fans?”

  Fay laughed, a quick, light chuckle that spoke of the absurdity of the question. “Heavens, no. I had been with Kent long enough to see the gaggle of geese around him. That’s how I viewed them—geese. Clucking over him, crowding around him, clamoring for a look from him or an autograph. I’d seen the fans grow as his popularity and fame grew, so a few dozen more simpering females didn’t threaten me. Besides, I had nothing to be jealous about; I knew Kent loved me. You need to find an angry person, Mr. McLaren, if you’re looking for his killer. Someone who hated him. All these fans loved him—or thought they did. They wanted a piece of him if they couldn’t be with him.”

  “By a piece of him, you mean…”

  “You know,” she said, smiling at a woman who signed in on the patient list. “Souvenirs. Something to have and to hold.”

  “I thought Kent handled that 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 special, something that your average person wouldn’t have.”

  “That set you apart, made you the envy of your friends who also liked him.”

  “Yes.”

  “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 grab 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 left with them.”

  McLaren’s head jerked backward. He hadn’t been expecting that. “When was that? Do you remember?”

  “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 Minstrel’s Court. He had changed into his costume and had left his guitar back stage 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. There were other performers in the area, and a large crowd constantly wandering about. Well, you know. Saturday night.”

  “Seems like a strange thing to take, strings from the guitar.”

  “Yes. Kent thought so too. Luckily he had time to replace the
m. Luckily, too, he didn’t have to replace all of them.”

  “Only a few were taken, then.”

  “Yes. Twelve, ten, eight, and seven. He plays a 12-string.” She frowned slightly, tilting her head as she asked, “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 angry or jealous person would have broken Kent’s guitar, not simply taken the cut strings with them. No,” she said before calling for another patient. “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. 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.”

  “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 Hart Pennell, I suppose. He and Kent were colleagues.”

  “Why would you think Pennell could be angry?”

  Fay’s eyes widened slightly. “He needed money and Kent had just won the school scholarship again. Hart wasn’t in the best of moods.”

  “Hart needed money…for what?”

  “Oh. I thought you knew. His wife was, still is, gravely ill. She’s a patient at this office.”

  “I’m wondering if you know another woman…”

  “A patient here?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. But I believe she may have spoken to you recently. Monday or Tuesday.”

  “Her name?”

  “Dena Ellison.” He watched Fay’s expression for recognition of the name. She remained staring at him.

  “No, I’m sorry. The name doesn’t sound familiar.” She called another patient and waited until the nurse escorted the man down the hall before adding, “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.”