Swan Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Hart echoed Blossom’s account of Dena’s capture and confinement, and added an explanation for it all. The narrative emerged slowly, in broken sentences and red-faced grimaces, yet ended as a rush of relief and spiritual cleansing. He stared at Jamie, willing an acceptance to the truth and an end to the ordeal. “I realize now that I committed a crime when I kidnapped her,” Hart said, his voice threatening to break again. “But at the time all I thought of was my wife. I had to stop Dena from talking to other people.”

  “What has your wife to do with this?” Jamie asked, tapping his pen on the pad of paper in front of him. “Did she kill Kent Harrison?”

  “No!”

  “You knew what your wife had done and you were afraid she’d be found out by Dena Ellison’s questions.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “So you concocted Dena’s kidnapping scheme, thinking you could at least keep her quiet for a few days.”

  Hart’s face had blanched and he sat rigidly in his chair, his fingers blanched from their grip on the edges of the seat. He stared at Jamie, trying to think. A conversation in the hall outside the interview room filtered through the closed door, and Hart shifted his gaze to the door, expecting more officers to come in. But the voices faded, a door closed, and Hart looked again at Jamie. Shaking his head, Hart said rather calmly, “No. That’s not the reason.”

  “Then please tell me. I’d like to understand this.”

  “We—my wife, Beatrice—Blossom, if you know her better by her professional name—and I got frightened when this Dena Ellison began asking questions. She had talked to Beatrice at the Minstrels Court and had mentioned that she was conducting preliminary interviews for a friend. Beatrice and I assumed the friend was a police detective. Who else would be dredging up an old murder case? I’m aware of the talk about me at the Grange Hall College, how jealous I was of Kent always winning the school scholarship. Beatrice and I figured it wouldn’t be long before the police would think I had killed Kent. To assure my winning of the scholarship the following year.” He paused and brought his hands to his lap, where he folded his fingers and sagged back into the chair. “I have no alibi for the night Kent was killed other than I was at a meeting with Ellen Fairfield. I-I stretched the truth a bit when McLaren talked to me. Well, lied, actually. I told him the meeting wrapped up at midnight.”

  “And it didn’t, I take it.”

  “No. Around ten, actually. I was afraid McLaren would realize I would have had time to still kill Kent.”

  “What would have happened if he asked Ellen Fairfield about the meeting’s length?”

  “She was prepared to lie for me. We had set it up last year, during the original investigation. I told her I needed to get a birthday gift for Beatrice, that I needed to do some Internet shopping in my car while Beatrice wouldn’t be around to see what I was buying. I guess Ellen really didn’t care what I said or where I went. It wouldn’t concern her if I were actually cheating on my wife.” He looked at Jamie, feeling the heat flush his checks. “But I actually drove straight home from the meeting. It was just a lie to set up an alibi for myself. I was at home with Beatrice from about half past ten onward. And she was with me. I-I do 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. After several seconds, he said, “Just so we were together. She hasn’t that long to live.” A tear coursed slowly down his cheek as he looked at Jamie. “I realize I committed a grave crime when I kidnapped Dena, but I was going to release her.”

  “That doesn’t negate the seriousness of the situation.”

  Hart nodded. “The whole thing was my idea, officer. My wife hadn’t anything to do with it. I’d be grateful if you’d let her go and just punish me.”

  “Unfortunately, your wife is an accomplice, Mr. Pennell. It may be after the fact, but she participated in the incident. I’m afraid—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand.” He took a deep breath. “So, what happens now? After sitting in jail, I mean.”

  * * * *

  McLaren imagined Dave Morley sitting in jail, perhaps warbling a bluesy type of song about being on a chain gang. The mental image made McLaren smile. He was getting close to the end of the case. Dena had been rescued. The sun shone in a blue sky. He pushed a cassette tape into his car tape recorder and soon was singing “The Parting Glass” at the top of his voice.

  Dave Morley probably would have been happier to see anyone but McLaren, but answered his questions without prodding. Anything to get the man out of the music store.

  “I didn’t cut the strings on Kent’s guitar,” Dave said, clearly annoyed. He stood, feet slightly apart and arms folded across his chest, facing McLaren. His jaw tightened as he fought to keep calm. “That is an absurd accusation. Kent and I were singing partners—how often do I have to tell you? Why would I sabotage my future by hobbling Kent, in any form?”

  “But your partnership had been going on for a while. Maybe you figured you were ready to strike out on your own. Maybe you thought Kent was holding you back, or you disagreed over your repertoire, or the direction the group should go.” That was true enough. Didn’t the members of his own folk group squabble occasionally about which songs to sing and where to perform? “Maybe you hadn’t intended to kill Kent, but your argument escalated and you struck him in anger. Is that what happened? It was an accident?”

  “Just because you think Kent was strangled with a guitar string, and I happened to be a guitarist and a clerk in a music shop, you’re trying to pin this on me.” He took a step closer to McLaren and pointed his index finger at him. “Circumstantial, at best. You’re grasping at straws. Ellen Fairfield plays guitar, if you’re so keen on that angle. So do dozens of other people who knew Kent. Probably a good percentage who are members of his fan club. Focus on one of them ’cause I’m telling you I didn’t touch Kent.”

  “Maybe you’re grasping at straws, Morley. You’re scared because you killed Kent, and you’re naming anyone you can think of to steer me away from you.”

  “Ellen Fairfield is a logical suspect, if you’d take a minute to think.”

  “Because she plays guitar,” McLaren snorted.

  “Because she was angry Kent wouldn’t leave Tutbury Castle and sing at Rawlton—her Hall.” Dave shook his head and eyed McLaren with obvious scorn. “If you appeared at these functions you’d know the rivalry between the curators. It’s a competitive business. And a satisfying one if you get popular acts and events that bring in the paying public. Many a job hinges on ticket sales. So I think it would benefit you to ask Ellen about any quarrel with Kent. The female of the species is deadlier than the male.”

  McLaren tried to picture Ellen throwing a wire around Kent’s neck and strangling him. Ellen was a small, petite woman; Kent had perhaps six inches on her in height, plus several more stone in weight. McLaren doubted Ellen could have strangled Kent, even in a surprise attack. She hadn’t the strength. “Do you mind telling me where you were that night?”

  Dave sighed, resigned to going over it all again. “I rang Kent at his home phone and at his mobile numbers. I couldn’t raise him. Surely you can check all this through phone records.”

  “Even if cellular towers show that you roamed around, phoning from your mobile, that doesn’t establish your alibi. You could have killed Kent before all this phoning business started.”

  “And knowing Kent was safely out of the way, I kept ringing his phones in a supposed state of anxiety, trying to find him and establishing that he was alive. What crap!”

  “So, if you don’t like that, offer me a better one.”

  Dave opened his mouth, started to say something, then stopped.

  “Yes, Mr. Morley? I’m sorry, but I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

  Dave watched one of the shop clerks hand a guitar to a customer, then looked again at Mc
Laren. He said, “I was with Clark MacKay and Sheri Harrison. At the castle. We were planning a new event.”

  McLaren frowned and his voice was tinged with frustration. “Why didn’t you say this before?”

  “I didn’t want to involve her.”

  “Involve her?” McLaren’s right eyebrow mirrored his surprise. He knew about the meeting between Clark and Sheri. Other castle staff had corroborated it. What was there to involve Sheri?

  “Yes,” Dave said, his voice lowered so no one else could hear. “I went back with her after the meeting, to her house. I spent the night with her.”

  * * * *

  He substantiated Dave’s alibi by two of Sheri’s neighbors. One had arrived home at the same time and had seen them go into Sheri’s house. The other neighbor had seen Dave leave early Monday morning. Which left the possibility of Dave killing Kent before arriving at Sheri’s or sneaking out during the night to kill Kent. But that seemed far-fetched. Why risk Sheri noticing Dave’s absence or someone seeing you leave the house? McLaren couldn’t see an amateur having the nerve to do that. Dave would have killed Kent before bedding down with Sheri, and there hadn’t been time for that. They had left the meeting and driven straight to Sheri’s. McLaren had to look elsewhere for the killer—guitarist or not.

  He sat in his car outside Sheri’s house, tired to the bone from his day. The sun seemed to have raced westward and now hovered near the horizon, leaving reminders of its summery glory in the fiery reds, crimsons and violets clothing the clouds. The canvas behind them stretched into the indigo-hued heaven, intensifying the white and gold edges. Despite the set back to his investigation, McLaren sighed. All in all, a satisfactory day.

  His mobile rang and he begrudgingly emerged from the sunset’s trance. “McLaren,” he answered, his gaze still on the mottled clouds.

  “Michael?”

  The voice brought him fully awake and he sat upright. “Dena! Anything wrong?” Perhaps not the most romantic way to reply, but considering her recent experience, it seemed the most logical. Trying to ignore his racing heart, he said, “You need something?”

  “Yes,” she said, the laughter in her voice. “You. When are you getting to Jamie’s? You said teatime. It’s been and gone.”

  “Oh?” He checked the time on his watch. Nearly seven. He started the car’s engine and eased away from the curb. “I’m just coming now. Sorry, but I got more involved than I thought. I’ll be right there.”

  “Fine. Where are you? Not that it matters, but so Paula will know when to put on the kettle.”

  “Uh…” Where was he? He panicked for a moment. He’d lost his bearings while watching the clouds change colors. Glancing at the houses on the street he said, “Oh. Ashbourne. Just wrapping things up. I’ll be—”

  “Yeah. Right there.”

  “Uh, Dena?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Nothing’s wrong, is there?” He felt a fool for asking, but the kidnapping was fresh in his mind. “You’d tell me if you were scared or anything.”

  A lifetime crawled by before she answered. “I’m jittery. I won’t lie about that. But Paula’s been here constantly. Sitting beside my bed or just in the next room. And I’m tired. But on the whole, I’m fine. I’ll be better when I see you.” She hesitated, as though wondering what else to say. “You’ll be here soon, then.” Her voice slid golden as the clouds over the phone and she rang off.

  He turned up the volume on the cassette tape, feeling he would implode in happiness. Dena was waiting for him at Jamie’s, and soon he’d move her to his house, where it would feel natural and right for her to be. He could imagine her standing by his front window or sitting on the swing in the garden, looking for his arrival. Or in his kitchen, getting the meal ready. Or stretched out in bed, drowsy from a nap, her hair in disarray, yet not caring because she looked at him with love in her eyes. He turned onto the A515 and sped northward, anxious to be with her. To protect and love her, even if their time was short, like Hart’s and Blossom’s. As he turned onto the A6 outside of Buxton, a new song began. His singing stopped abruptly and the vision of Dena changed. He didn’t need the lyrics of “Marie’s Wedding” to put the idea into his head. He’d already thought of that long ago.

  * * * *

  McLaren didn’t sleep much that night. Sunrise Thursday morning found him awake and dressed and out of the house. Not that the morning was much different from most others, but the knowledge that Dena was at Jamie’s, that she could have been with McLaren, made the house walls press in on him until he was near to panic. Now that Dena was so close, he felt more alone than ever, more aware that he wanted her to share his life. He wanted to drive over to Jamie’s to look in on her, but she would still be asleep. Might be asleep for most of the day. So he swallowed his impatience and heartache with his coffee and hurried from the house.

  He breakfasted at an umbrella table in the outdoor eating section of the hotel in Castleton, a village lying minutes from McLaren’s village of Somerley and centuries from the present. Castleton held on to its ancient heritage and landscape with a fierceness any old Highland chief would have admired. Nestled in a valley in the High Peak district, it sometimes enjoyed and endured seclusion when wintry storms howled through the deep gorge of The Winnats mountain pass, cutting them off from the rest of the dale. Yet even in winter’s worst offering the village had company. The ruined keep of Peveril Castle towered over them, high on its nearly inaccessible hill, whispering of its glory days in the late 1100s. All in all, McLaren thought, scanning the horizon from the hotel courtyard, a serene, attractive place to live.

  He had deduced part of the case before falling asleep last night, and had put together the rest of the pieces while breakfasting. The jigsaw puzzle of people and motives seemed clearer with each passing moment. Sitting back in the chair, he allowed himself a minute to think through it again, wanting to make certain the pieces fit together. Both Fay Larkin’s and Kent Harrison’s month-long absences from their jobs coincided with Lorene’s abandonment of her school studies. Because, McLaren reasoned, the two adults were with Lorene as she gave birth to a baby girl. Without the support of her family, Lorene had turned to her favorite teacher for advice, and he and Fay had become surrogate parents, being by her side for the birth. Booth hadn’t stated it in so many words, but why lie about it? If Lorene had become pregnant outside the blessing of marriage, her parents may well have turned their backs and locked their door to her. So, helpful Kent Harrison stepped in, picking Lorene up at Tutbury Castle at night so she wouldn’t be seen leaving before she showed, ready to solve another crisis and lend another helping hand. Kent and Fay, who were going to be married, saw Fay’s predicament as a blessing. Adopted the baby, thereby making them a family and relieving Lorene of the burden of a child.

  He stirred his coffee, smiling at the way life worked out at times. Yet, even if Kent had solved Lorene’s pregnancy problem as well as his and Fay’s desire to create their own family, one answer remained unsolved. Who had killed Kent?

  He exhaled slowly, oblivious to the warmth of the sunlight already heating the stone walls of the hotel. A rook called noisily from a tree bough and turned its head, as if eyeing McLaren’s half finished piece of toast.

  Dawdling over coffee was not an option this morning, but he did order a second cup, needing to go over motives and alibis of the key players. Of the eleven people associated with Kent, however tenuously, Clark, Sheri and Dave appeared to have alibis. The remaining eight could have been anywhere, doing anything. And as for motive… McLaren nearly threw the coffee cup in his frustration. Everyone seemed to be angry or jealous of everyone else. Especially at Kent. But why that had been, McLaren still couldn’t fathom. Kent Harrison had been the salt of the earth, an uncommonly caring person who helped anyone who asked. Why kill someone like that? The answer hit McLaren as he reached for the cup. He had started down this trail yesterday, but had been side tracked. Standing up, he threw a couple of pounds onto the table an
d strode toward his car. He hit the B6061 on his way to Kirkfield, cursing his blindness. Just because someone had asked Kent for help didn’t mean Kent had complied.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  If Kent had refused to help someone, McLaren reasoned as he drove toward Somerley, and that someone had become angry, especially when seeing Kent helping others… McLaren leaned forward, nearly hugging the steering wheel. That one person ignored by Kent, perhaps had been so desperate that his rage had led to murder. Yes, it made sense when viewed from this angle.

  The village stirred in the early morning light—people leaving for work, shopkeepers sweeping the pavements in front of their stores, aromas of freshly baked bread and fried breakfasts perfuming the air. McLaren turned his car onto Dena’s road and moments later parked opposite Kent’s neighbor’s house. Aaron Unsworth and his son, Fraser, lingered by their car, talking about the Minstrels Court.

  A man across the street came out of his house, his suit coat over his arm and a travel mug in his hand. McLaren jogged up to him and introduced himself. “Sorry to bother you so early, but if you could give me thirty seconds, I’d be grateful.”

  The neighbor nodded and settled his coat and mug into his car before turning back to McLaren.

  “Do you know Fraser Unsworth?”

  “Certainly. That’s him, talking with his dad.” The man nodded toward the teenager. “Do you want to be introduced?”

  “No, that’s not necessary. I was wondering, though, if you’ve heard Fraser’s guitar playing, how good he is.”

  “Just hear him now and then. If you’re thinking of asking him to perform somewhere, I have to tell you in all honesty he’s not ready. Never will be, if I’m any judge. He’s very bad, despite his practicing. I guess some people have musical abilities and some don’t, no matter how hard they try.”

  “And Fraser has been trying.”

  “For years. Fraser asked a semi-pro musician who used to live here for lessons. Music lessons, stage performance lessons, repertoire help.” The man shook his head and opened his car door.