Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  McLaren lowered his head and silently cursed his timing. Did she lapse into her yesterdays each night at this time? Had her memory finally broken? When the music stopped he said, “Mrs. Ennis, this is Mike McLaren. You spoke to me yesterday about taking on your daughter’s case. Do you remember?”

  “Remember…”

  “We met at a restaurant and you told me about Janet. You asked me to—” What word should he use? He took a deep breath and went on. “You wanted me to find out what happened to her.”

  “You’re not Janet? This isn’t Stuart, then. You want to come back?”

  It was McLaren’s turn to ask the question. “Stuart? I’m sorry—”

  “You were so bitter after Janet’s death. Have you decided to come back to me, to be a family again?”

  Stuart. Nora’s ex-husband. He swallowed slowly, wondering if he should call back some other time. “No, Mrs. Ennis. This isn’t Stuart. It’s Mike McLaren.”

  “Mike.” Her voice betrayed her disappointment and McLaren wished his sister or fiancée were handling this. Women were so much better at this than men. Well, at least than he. He tried again. “Yes, Mike McLaren. I’m the ex-police officer you spoke with about Janet, about helping you get to the truth about Janet.”

  “Not Janet. Oh. You’re not playing a prank on me. Janet likes to play games. Hide and Seek, Ghost in the Graveyard, Manhunt… But those are running games. We’re not running right now.” She looked around the room, frowning. “I don’t know exactly. I’m inside.”

  “Your house, perhaps? You’re in your house, listening to Janet’s CD.”

  “Yes. My house. And you are?”

  “Michael McLaren, Mrs. Ennis. We talked yesterday about Janet. About me looking into what happened.”

  A slow intake of breath, followed by a mumbled phrase, and then Nora said, “Oh, yes. Mr. McLaren. We did talk. I-I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep. I fixed a pot of tea and put on Janet’s CD.” He didn’t care about that, Nora told herself. He’s phoned to tell me something. She nodded, crossed the room and switched off the CD. “There, that’s better. Now I can hear you properly.” She sat down and changed the wireless phone receiver to her other ear. “I’m sorry if I was a bit confused. Talking to you and listening to Janet’s CD.”

  “Too many memories,” he finished for her.

  “I-I suppose so.”

  “Bound to be.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that. It doesn’t help my—well, I struggle to know what’s real and what is just m-my wishes. I apologize.”

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Ennis. I called to ask you a question, if you have a moment.”

  “Certainly. I’ll help however I can. You know that.”

  “Right. I’d like to know if you have a fire report. I know it’s a bit unusual, because insurance companies normally request the document. But I thought, well, under the circumstances of Janet’s case.”

  “I have one, Mr. McLaren. I had to pay for it, of course, but I knew almost from the first of the police investigation that things were going wrong. So I got the fire report. Do you need to see it?”

  “Not right now. But I would like to know if the attending firefighters’ names are listed.”

  “If you can wait a moment…” She put down the receiver and returned minutes later, somewhat out of breath, but giving him the names. “Does this help you, then?”

  “I won’t know until I talk to them, but I’ll let you know as soon as I have something to report.”

  “And there’s something else, if you have a minute.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “I don’t know if it means anything, but I could never find one of Janet’s coats after…afterwards. I looked all through her house. I know she didn’t give it away because it was her favorite. I asked at the cleaners.”

  “What kind of coat?”

  “A blue ski jacket. One of those down-filled things. It has dark red chevrons on the sleeves. I thought she might be mending it because it has a small rip on the right side hip area, but it wasn’t with her sewing. Do you think that means anything?”

  Was this part of her confusion, he wondered? It hadn’t been listed in the police report. Still, it could just be a matter of forgetfulness. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said quickly. “Thanks for the information, Mrs. Ennis.” He bid her good night, her thanks still ringing in his ears.

  EIGHT

  McLaren flipped his mobile closed and sat in his idling car. It swayed slightly as a lorry carrying tractor tires passed him on the A632. Nora’s confusion worried him. Even if her dementia had worsened, would listening to one of Janet’s recordings tip her into such bewilderment? He hated to give Harvester even the slightest acknowledgment, but perhaps he had read Nora’s true nature. Perhaps Harvester was right about her mental state. Despite the police report of finding Janet’s body in the debris, perhaps Nora had embroidered the incident from that television film, turning a plain accident into a fictitious murder.

  He opened his mobile and punched in a phone number. A rich, smooth voice answered his call and for an instant he thought he had joined Nora Ennis in her fantasy world. He stuttered his name and asked to speak to Helene Brogan.

  “This is she.” The voice waited for him to continue.

  He explained that Nora had given him Helene’s name and phone number, and asked if it would be convenient if he came over now to talk to her.

  “About what?” Helene asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about it more than necessary over the phone. Would ten minutes or so be all right to see you?”

  “You sound like you’re on my door step. Yes, fine. Come over. I assume you know where the house is.”

  He thanked her, rang off and in twelve minutes was sitting in Helene Brogan’s house.

  “Janet and I owned a catering business together,” Helene said. It seemed to be comprised of windows, framed photos, awards, and vases of flowers. She offered tea, but he declined, feeling he needed to make the visit less of a social call.

  “Interesting business, running a catering concern. A lot of hard work at odd hours, I expect.”

  “Yes, but we loved it.” Her blue eyes sparkled, intense deep color heightened by the shaft of sunlight that fell at her feet. “But more than that,” she continued as she took a chair opposite him, “we’d been friends since we met in school at age six. We’d had twenty-six years of friendship before Janet died. That was a terrible day for me, her death.” Helene averted her gaze from McLaren’s eyes.

  “I expect it was hard to lose a friend. Nora Ennis said you were in the same Girl Guides troop, too.”

  Helene sniffed and nodded. She ran the palm of her right hand lightly over her brown silk trousers. “Camping trips were the best. I think that’s where Janet’s environmental outlook was born. She was a staunch lover of wildlife and the land and carried that into her life beyond the Guide years.”

  “That’s what I’d like to talk to you about, Ms. Brogan. You were friends for a long time and you probably knew her better than most people. I need to know about Janet.”

  “About her?” Helene’s voice sharpened. “Like what? You’re a private investigator, you said.”

  “Not exactly. I’m trying to help Janet’s family.”

  “Like a detective.”

  “A private citizen looking into the events surrounding Janet’s death.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it? A private investigator.”

  “Actually, no. I’m not licensed. I’m inquiring strictly on my own.”

  “Sounds commendable. So, you’ve no real authority, then.”

  “I didn’t know I needed authority to bring justice to someone who was wronged.”

  Helene laughed, a quick ripple of light. “Then we’re of the same mind. What do you want to know about Janet?”

  McLaren asked if she thought it probable that Janet would do outdoor burning on the day of her death.

  “I remember that day,” Helene said, her voice slipping
back into its no-nonsense tone. “Of course, due to Janet’s death, but also due to that awful weather spell we all endured. Horrible drought, fire alerts going up all the time. Made people afraid to do anything like that outside. I even thought twice about accepting event orders that entailed grilling outdoors, worried about a bit of hot ash settling in the dry grass and starting a fire. Terrible.”

  “Was Janet of the same opinion, do you know?”

  “Would she burn an incinerator full of rubbish, is what you’re asking.”

  “Yes. It seems to be a crucial point.”

  “Now that you’ve asked me, and thinking back to that day, I must say I do recall thinking it odd at the time.”

  “Because the rubbish burning was out of character for her?”

  “I don’t believe she would have done that. She was very conscious of the environment. This was five years ago, Mr. McLaren, before all this ‘green’ awareness really became The Thing to do.”

  “Janet was a recycler, I take it.”

  “More than that. She didn’t use pesticides in her garden and she ate only organically grown foods. I think that’s one reason we went into the catering business together. We had the same outlook on food and cooking, and we offered a rather unique menu to clients.”

  “A step above the usual sandwiches and sausage rolls at receptions.”

  “Nothing wrong with sandwiches and sausage rolls, but we wanted to give our patrons something a bit more wholesome. And we proved we could do that without it being a slab of tofu and a box of biscuits on a white plate.”

  “So, you do believe Janet would not have had that fire going, then.”

  Helene rearranged the neckline of her beige silk shirt before answering. “It’s my opinion. Nothing that would have much weight in court, if it comes to that. But I would stake everything I own that she wouldn’t be burning anything. She’d not risk a fire. She wouldn’t want to damage the habitat or the wildlife…or destroy the woods, either. She was very aware of things like that. Any help?”

  “As you said, won’t really stand up in court, but it’s giving me an idea.”

  “A good one, I hope.”

  “I guess we’ll know in not too many more days.” He thanked her and jogged back to his car, his mind racing.

  McLaren spent several hours talking to people about the firefighters who had attended the scene. He concentrated on the residences near the fire station, Matlock having a crewed station whose firefighters live in houses neighboring the facility. After ending their day shift, they could still respond to any incident that came up. Summoned by a pager, they were never more than minutes away from the station. It was a good system, giving Matlock’s residents twenty-four hour fire protection.

  Some people were reluctant to talk about their neighbors, but one man’s name cropped up constantly. And although having done nothing criminal—at least nothing the neighbors or McLaren could discover—Corey Chappell seemed to have one event in his past that would provide McLaren with the carrot to make Corey talk, should he prove reticent.

  McLaren found Corey at his home near the Matlock fire station. The firefighter stood in the doorway, filling it effectively with his massive shoulders. McLaren’s name and purpose for his visit had no effect on Corey’s demeanor. He crossed his arms over his chest in a silent dare.

  “I don’t know how you found out about me being on duty at that fire,” Corey said, eyeing McLaren as though he was secretly videotaping the interview for YouTube. “None of that is public knowledge. Now, bugger off. I’m busy.”

  “Too busy to help with a death inquiry?”

  “Yeah. Too busy. That was a long time ago, mate. The case is closed, or didn’t you hear that?”

  “A lot of folks may think it’s closed but I’m opening it.”

  “And you’re part of the police?” He snorted, aware of McLaren’s position. “Hardly. Nosey-parker is more like it. A has been. Washed up but still yearning to play cops and robbers like in the old days. Well, I’m having none of it, mate, so hop it.”

  “I can’t appeal to your better nature, then?”

  “You don’t appeal to me at all.” Corey laughed, a great blast of noise that roared past McLaren in one swift exhale.

  “That’s too bad,” McLaren said, sighing in apparent disappointment. “I was hoping you’d help me.”

  “If it helps you get off my premises I’ll tell you that I’m one second away from calling the police on you.”

  McLaren grinned, nodding his head.

  “What’s so funny, mate? Think I won’t call the cops?”

  “You won’t. Not right now, at least.”

  “Oh? You want to listen?”

  “You won’t because I’m about to phone the Derbyshire County Council.”

  At the mention of the man’s employer, Corey paused in his half turn. Facing McLaren once more, he said, “What’s the Council to do with anything?”

  “You’ve got a nice job, haven’t you?” McLaren said casually, eyeing the house and the fire station. “A bit of excitement to break up the monotony that claims so many people. Nice place to live, too. Too bad if you’d have to leave your career.”

  “You’re daft, man. Now, like I said before, on your bike.”

  “You’re more accommodating with Olivia.”

  He took a step toward McLaren, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know about Olivia?”

  “As I said, Mr. Chappell, I’m doing an investigation.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought my private life would be connected to a five year old fire.”

  “Many things in life are connected.”

  “Yeah, well, I doubt if the Council will be interested in Olivia. Now, like I said before, hop it.”

  “If the Council won’t listen, maybe your wife will. Shall we find out? She inside?”

  Corey blanched and stared at McLaren, his throat suddenly dry. He glanced over his shoulder, at the front room, then stepped outside and eased the door shut. In the quiet the roar of a motorcycle zooming along the main road floated to them. Corey stood with his back against the door, his hands thrust into his jeans pockets. “What’s this about Olivia, then? If you’re going to drag her into anything…” He eyed McLaren as though he could discern intentions on McLaren’s face.

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  “The hell I do. You’re the one who comes around here, throwing out her name like it should mean something to me.”

  “It’ll mean much more if I have to talk to your wife.”

  Corey raised his arm and pointed at McLaren. “That’s the second time you mentioned her. Now, what’s this in aid of?”

  “You don’t really want me to talk to her, do you? I mean,” he glanced at the exterior of the house, “why spoil your life when this can be avoided?”

  “Yeah? Like what?”

  “Well, it’d be a shame if I had to tell your wife that a…how would you like to label it…a casual relationship has developed between a firefighter and the named female. The same female who happens to have a daughter who plays on the same netball team as your daughter. It would be a pity if your wife received an anonymous call about that. She’d probably be none too pleased. Nor would Olivia’s husband, I’m guessing. Now,” he leaned forward, the grin gone from his face, “do we understand each other? Are you going to talk to me about the fire at Janet Ennis’ house?”

  NINE

  “That’s blackmail.” Corey uttered the words barely above a whisper, yet he didn’t look at McLaren. The man’s gaze lingered on the perennial border lining the front walk.

  “That’s how you term it. I think of it as helping Janet’s mother find answers to questions that have plagued her for five years.”

  Corey’s gaze shifted back to McLaren’s face, trying to understand what was happening. “You’re getting dangerously close to ruining my life, McLaren.”

  “Nora’s life has already been ruined by Janet’s death, and Janet’s life has certainly been…ruined, if you want to
call it that.” He grabbed his car key in readiness to leave. “It’s your decision, Chappell. I need your answer.”

  “But if my wife or my mates at the station find out I’ve talked to you—”

  “You’re wasting my time, Chappell. I don’t give a damn about the Council, your wife or your mates. You got yourself into this situation in the first place. You knew you were playing with fire by having an affair with this woman.” He took a step toward Corey, and looked down at the man. “You’re pathetic. You obviously are more concerned about your damned reputation then with your wife’s or daughter’s feelings. I’d almost feel sorry for you if I weren’t so disgusted. A man who won’t help a mother discover what happened to her daughter…” He started to leave but Corey’s hand grabbed McLaren’s arm. McLaren tried to shake off the grip but Corey squeezed tighter.

  “Please. McLaren! Don’t go. I-I didn’t mean to be such a…” He snorted as McLaren looked at him. “I’m not such a damned sissy. Or a berk. I’m sorry. Please. Can’t I help?” He seemed to hold his breath, measuring his future against McLaren’s actions.

  When McLaren nodded, Corey relaxed his grip and let his arm drop to his side. “What do you want to know?”

  “First, I’d like to know if you suspected arson. Any niggle of doubt, no matter how small or infrequent, that the fire wasn’t an accident.”

  “The studio held a lot of accelerants. Well, it would, since it was used for her art work.”

  “Things like artist paint?”

  “Sure. Also turpentine. But she’d have that for cleaning her brushes, wouldn’t she? We discovered a fair amount of burnt wood in one corner of the building, but that turned out to be easels and wedged stretchers for her painting canvases.”

  “When you arrived, the fire was still burning.”

  “Yes. A wooden structure like that burns quickly. We got there quite quickly after receiving the phone call. I don’t know precisely the length of time, but I don’t recall any call ever being a problem in terms of responding rapidly. But even with our quick response, the place was well on its way to being destroyed.”