Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  He judged her to be about seventeen years old, the right age for enrollment in the Grange Hall College. If she had been his pupil last year when Kent had died… He waited, his heart beat in his ears.

  “Yes.” Her eyes were downcast, as though she were praying. Looking again at McLaren, she added, “It was horrible when we found out he was, well, none of us could believe it. The whole school went into shock. Mr. Harrison was so well loved, and such a super teacher. Nothing’s the same without him. And his…killer,” she said, the word barely audible. “That person’s never been caught. Is that why you want to talk to Dave? Because he knew Mr. Harrison?”

  “I’m reinvestigating Kent Harrison’s death, Lorene. I’m talking to those who knew him. Since you knew Mr. Harrison and you know Dave…” He didn’t have to ask; she replied before he could ask.

  “Dave had nothing to do with Mr. Harrison’s death. I know that.”

  “How?”

  “He’s not the type.”

  “Doesn’t get angry? Doesn’t get jealous…what?”

  “Doesn’t get emotional. Just sort of glides through life without being bothered by anything—excitement or failure.”

  McLaren nodded, thinking of several people he knew who took life as it came to them, seeming to accept good news and bad news with equal reaction.

  “Dave’s younger than Mr. Harrison was. He’s also less talented, so he needed Mr. Harrison if he was going to get anywhere with his music. Anywhere meaning national attention.”

  “Which is why you believe Dave didn’t have anything to do with Kent Harrison’s death.”

  “Isn’t your shift over yet?” A teenaged boy of the same age as Lorene stood behind McLaren. The question, barked in a surge of impatience, startled McLaren. He jerked around, his cop’s instincts in high gear, and stared into dark eyes.

  “Another few minutes, Booth.” Lorene gestured toward the boy. “This is Booth, Mr. McLaren. Booth Wragg. Mr. McLaren’s asking me—” she started before Booth cut her off.

  “Nothing about guitars,” Booth said, eyeing them. He glanced at his watch, then at the store clock. “So, when, then? You through on the hour?”

  “You know I am.” Her face blanched as she said, “I’m sorry, Mr. McLaren. Usually Booth is—”

  “What?” He crossed his arms on his chest, waiting for an answer.

  Dave Morley entered the sales area from the back room, his eyes taking in the people there and if anyone needed assistance.

  Booth snapped, “Okay. Your replacement is here. You’re off work. You’re free to go.” He grabbed Lorene’s arm, telling her to hurry up.

  “Let me get my bag. Sorry, Mr. McLaren,” she apologized as Booth pulled her toward the checkout counter. “Good luck to you.” She disappeared into the back room, emerged seconds later with her purse, then followed Booth out of the store.

  “I must apologize for that,” Dave said, coming up to McLaren. He stared at the door, expecting Lorene and Booth to reenter, then focused on McLaren. “Such a rude boy. We’ve tried to keep him out of the store, but there’s really nothing we can legally do. He’s usually here only a minute or so, when he comes to get Lorene. Sometimes are worse than others. Unfortunately this was one of the worse.”

  “What sets him off, do you know?”

  “Oh, yes,” Dave said, straightening 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. But maybe it’s because Booth knows that I just work with Lorene. We’ve no interest in dating. Or anything,” he added, coloring slightly.

  “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. Nope,” he said, smiling at McLaren, “as long as you give Booth no reason to be jealous, you’re okay. Personally, I haven’t a jealous bone in my body.”

  “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 sure you weren’t jealous of his approaching fame, knowing the CD would promote Kent as a solo artist and leave you in the dust?” Or behind the counter of this store, McLaren thought, taking in the rows of instruments and sheet music. Although not a bad place to work for a music lover, the store 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? I don’t mean wish him dead, necessarily. Maybe someone who was angry with Kent and got into a fight with him? 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 this store,” Dave gestured toward the door.

  “Booth Wragg?”

  “Mr. Jealousy himself.”

  “Jealous only of Lorene?”

  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. He’s flammable! Just let him catch anybody talking to Lorene, and I mean anyone, and he’s like a lit keg of gunpowder.”

  “This talking…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 for it.”

  “And you think Booth saw Kent and Lorene talking together.”

  “Why not? It was no secret. Kent talked to most all of the students.”

  “So Booth was jealous of the time Kent and Lorene spent together,” he repeated. “Talking.”

  “Not so odd, considering Booth’s temperament. You just saw it.” He walked over to the counter and straightened the jars of wrapped mint candies and thumb picks. Seeing Adrian at the far end of the counter, he called to the man.

  “Dave!” Adrian called, walking up to Dave. “How wonderful to find you. I was just dawdling over the capos and bottles of polish and such. I wonder if you could spare me a precious thirty or forty seconds to run over the memorial—” He stopped, seeing McLaren stroll up to Dave. “So sorry to interrupt! I knew Mr. McLaren was going to speak to you, Dave, but I had thought you had quite concluded your conversation. I’ll just gaze at the coils of guitar strings for another moment or so while you wrap up your chat, shall I? Don’t hurry on my account. I find all these accessories so fascinating.” He sauntered back to the end of the counter and drew a handful of cork-backed flat picks from the glass jar.

  McLaren waited until Adrian busied himself with the sheet music before saying, “You said a moment ago that Booth was jealous of the time Kent and Lorene spent together.”

  “Yes. He was. Insanely.”

  “Did you actually see Booth get mad at Kent? Either in or out of school?”

  “Sure. At last year’s Minstrels Court. We had 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 h
ear. 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 had finished talking, so I wasn’t that far behind them as we walked to the car park. They were a few paces ahead of me. Most likely didn’t even know I was behind them. 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, I say.”

  “But Kent’s and Lorene’s age discrepancy…”

  “It wasn’t that so much.” Dave glared at McLaren. His voice took on an edge when he added, “Kent was a rat. He had a fiancée. And he was betraying her.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  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 the first derogatory remark he had heard about the man.

  Booth Wragg lounged against a building front several shops 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, seeing to Dena, or dealing with Blossom 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. 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 stonewalls. He looked at the boy and said, “Not at all. I’m going 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 taking on an edge 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 Booth’s hair. He grabbed and squeezed the man’s testicles until Booth screamed for mercy. Relinquishing his hold, McLaren angled Booth’s face towards 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.

  McLaren released his grip and returned his hand to Booth’s hair. “That’s better. Life’s more pleasant when everyone uses their best manners.” He wrapped his fingers around a handful of Booth’s hair and tightened his grip.

  “I apologize for my rudeness. Sorry. Really!”

  “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 nearly killed a colleague of mine, but again, I got away with it. My hobbies are gardening, singing, cooking…and boxing.” He smiled 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 smiled, 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 was too tight on his hair. “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, then said, “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 was about to say something derogatory, but one look at McLaren’s expression changed his statement. “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 they 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 medical receptionist’s name; least of all uttered by Booth Wragg. “Oh yes? I’ve talked with Fay 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 winced. “Fay and Lorene went off together. To God knows where. All giggly and matey. They leave me sitting at home watching the telly. For a month, 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. They showed interest. “But he and Lorene spent a bunch of time together for a while.”

  “Tough 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.”

  “Did Lorene like his music?”

  “Could have done.”

  “He was quite good, from what I hear. A lot of people liked his music.”

  “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. Galloway, you mean?”

  “Yeah. That’s him. Was in the shop just now. What a looney. 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.”

  Booth glanced at McLaren, who’s voice dropped in volume as he said, “Where were you on the tenth of July last year? Oh, say, around half past eleven that night?” His lips were close enough to Booth’s ear that he could feel McLaren’s breath.