Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “Being there more or less early on do you recall the color of the smoke?”

  Corey nodded. Smoke color indicated what substance was burning. “Surprised I do, actually.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, it wasn’t anything that seemed odd. It was a wooden structure. We had gray smoke and yellow and red flames. Ordinary. There was a small amount of black smoke, but we concluded that the paints and turpentine caused that. There wasn’t a huge cloud of black smoke, if that’s what you’re wanting to know. Nothing to suggest any petroleum product was sprinkled about as an accelerant.”

  “How about smoke patterns?”

  “We’d usually look for those, sure. Around windows and doors to see if they were open to advance oxygen through the structure. But the building was a near loss. No windows or door were left standing.”

  McLaren nodded, his mind racing. “Any unusual odor?”

  Corey shook his head, exhaling loudly. “Sorry. No help there. If there was, I didn’t notice it. Just what you’d expect—paint and turpentine and charred wood.”

  “Did you make a search for faulty electric wiring or electrical equipment? Maybe Janet had an electric kettle for brewing tea, or maybe she was burning candles. Lots of women do, I know.”

  “You’re looking for a cause.”

  “Yes. Something had to have started this thing.”

  “We sifted through the rubble afterwards, as we do at every incident site. Nothing seemed suspicious. She had two lamps, I remember, and one of those portable CD players. We found no evidence of candles or cigarettes, although there was a small portable electric heater, microphone, computer, two-burner hot plate, small refrigerator and a two-drawer filing cabinet. They were all badly melted, of course, but none of the electrical objects proved to be faulty.”

  “I assume from what you said about the remnants of the structure that you couldn’t determine if there had been multiple flash points.”

  “Basically we had half of one wall—the east wall, the average height on that remnant was four and a half feet. The adjoining wall, the north wall was in slightly better condition but still only about five feet of that remained. The other two walls had burnt down to the foundation, or near to it. As I said, McLaren, it was a wooden structure filled with paint, turpentine, canvas, cotton rags and paper. We didn’t expect much to be left after we extinguished the fire.”

  “But on those two walls you found no multiple flash points or evidence of several points of origin.”

  “You want this to be a case of arson?” Corey’s left eyebrow shot up, mirroring his astonishment.

  “No. That would indicate Janet had an enemy, or was mentally unstable if she set it herself.” He paused, his mind replaying his recent conversation with Nora. Mental illness didn’t run in families, did it? Taking a deep breath, McLaren clenched his left fist and tapped it lightly against his right palm. What am I wanting this to be? Would I feel better—would Nora feel better—if I uncover evidence of arson? Would it make everything worse if this leads to murder? He flashed a grin at Corey and said rather slowly, “No. I’m not keen to prove arson, but I’ve been retained by Janet’s mother to find out everything I can about this fire and about her death. I need to learn all I can so I can eliminate or focus on one specific thread.”

  “Sure. Of course. Didn’t mean to get all…well, it’s a tough subject to talk about, isn’t it? Especially when someone dies in a fire.”

  “Where did you find Janet’s body?”

  “Where?”

  “In the studio, I know, but was it near the door, like she’d been trying to get out but the door was blocked, maybe? Or by a window? Did she have her mobile in her hand?”

  “I can tell you, she gave me a start.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not the position or condition of her body, but finding her there. The studio wasn’t that big. Size of a large room. Twenty one by thirty feet.”

  “That is large.”

  “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it, if it’s an artist studio. Needed space for her supplies and to work in.”

  “So you found her…?”

  “Near the center of the room. More away from the door than toward it. She faced away from the door, too. Like she wasn’t even conscious of the fire or had tried to get out. I thought that a bit odd, but if she had been unconscious she wouldn’t have known about the fire. Her body was in the classic pugilist pose. You know what that means?”

  “Fists clenched, arms raised and knees toward the chest.” McLaren looked away from Corey, suddenly queasy. Recalling Janet’s face from the photo and remembering her singing…well, she had been real. He had talked about her to Nora and Helene, he had seen her house, stood in the forest and seen where she had worked as an artist. To even hint at her any other way repulsed him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Corey said as McLaren sighed heavily.

  “Zero in on one of them, then.”

  “This happened five years ago, so how can I remember it so exactly and you be sure what I’m telling you is accurate.”

  “That had crossed my mind.”

  “I remember because we found Janet’s body in the rubble. I remember because the weather had been so hellish and when we got to the blaze we were scared shitless that the forest would catch on fire. I remember because I heard a recording of one of Janet’s songs a month later and thought what a hell of a waste that such talent was lost.” He clenched his hands together until the skin of his knuckles shone white in the sunlight. “When you’ve got all that dumped on you from one incident, you don’t easily forget. Like you probably remember some murder cases you worked on.”

  “You’re right. Some things do engrave themselves on the mind.” And emotions, McLaren wanted to add. He still could not shake the image of that hanged man. The corpse, stiff with rigor mortis, slowly swung from the rope, easing into and out of the half-light of the basement. He had been so careful, climbing on the ladder in order to cut the rope. The body swayed and, in so doing, one of its rigid arms touched McLaren on his shoulder. He had yelped and jumped, nearly falling off the ladder in his fright. The purpled and swollen flesh, so upsetting later in the light from the police work lamps, had been terrifying in the gloom. McLaren doubted he would ever forget the sight or the touch of the dead man.

  But that was decades ago. Corey and McLaren stood in the quiet, each occupied with his thoughts. The shadows of early afternoon had lengthened in the time they’d been talking, and the eastern section of the garden sat in a patch of ochre-hued light.

  Corey said slowly, “We didn’t discover anything odd in the debris. I know that for a fact. I would have remembered after discovering…well, after we found her body. It would’ve made an impression on me. But nothing screamed that it had been arson.”

  “Did Nora supply you with a list of things that would’ve been in the studio?”

  “No. We had no reason to suspect arson, as I said.”

  “So you don’t know if anything was moved into or out of the studio before the fire.”

  Corey frowned and tapped the back of his hand against his lips. “You’re hinting that someone moved something important into the studio and set fire to the place to collect insurance money.”

  “Or moved something out to save it from the blaze so it wouldn’t be missed…and then got the insurance for the so-called missing item.”

  “Mrs. Ennis didn’t mention a specific item. And she would have done if it were important. We were there; she could have asked us to search for a particular thing.” He looked at McLaren, his eyebrows lowered. “If what you’ve just said is right, if that did happen, well, who would that insurance fraud benefit?”

  “Right now I’d say the mother, the fiancé or the ex-boyfriend.”

  “Sounds like something the police would’ve found out.”

  “Maybe their incompetence stopped them.”

  * * * *

  Miles Weston, Janet’s fiancé, apologized for being late
. “To tell you the truth,” he said, sitting across from McLaren in the pub, “I got lost. When you said The King’s Head for some reason I envisioned The King’s Arms and went there. I finally realized my mistake after sitting there for fifteen minutes. I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting.” He took a deep breath and ordered a cup of coffee from the waitress.

  McLaren took a few seconds to evaluate the man. Miles Tyson looked to be in his early forties. There seemed to be nothing remarkable about him—medium height, brown hair and eyes, not particularly muscular or handsome. But how muscular did he need to be to carry around photographic equipment? His hair had started to recede at his temples and was flecked with gray. Otherwise, he had no obvious signs of aging; age spots didn’t mar his large, tanned hands or face. McLaren settled down to the task at hand, leaving the mystery of attraction between the sexes to another time.

  “That’s quite all right, Mr. Weston.” McLaren picked up his mug of coffee. “I suggested this because it was close to your house and I thought I could grab a late lunch at the same time.”

  “Sure. Right.” Miles looked around the room, nodding. The main crush of the lunchtime crowd had cleared out, leaving only a handful of diners within the pub’s white plastered interior. A pinball machine blinked in vibrant neon in the corner, humming as it waited for a player. “So,” Miles said, his gaze still on the expectant machine. “How can I help?”

  McLaren briefly explained the situation and ended with “Do you know anyone who might have wanted Janet dead?”

  Miles’ eyes widened and his cheeks flooded with color. He stared at McLaren, shaking his head. “No, uh, no. Of course not.” He clasped his hands tightly, as though he needed some sort of support.

  “Of course not what? Of course you don’t know anyone like that, or of course no one would want to kill Janet?”

  “Why, uh, yes. Both.” He broke off, thanking the waitress for the coffee, and took a sip. He looked like he wished he had ordered a stiff whisky. “Everyone loved Janet. What harm had she ever done to anyone?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “She wasn’t a pushy person. She didn’t try to walk over people to attain her goals. She was a caterer and a singer. Both occupations can be cut throat but Janet wasn’t of that ilk. She took her careers almost casually, not expecting too much, just having a grand time with life.”

  “Were there jealousies? A singer, perhaps, who was covetous of Janet’s success, or a prestigious catering event Janet got instead of some other company? Feelings run high in things like that.”

  Miles shook his head again, this time more emphatically. “No. She wasn’t like that. Sure, she wanted to be successful—who wouldn’t after all the work and hours she put into it? But she didn’t walk over people. She kept her eyes and mind focused on the future and kept moving ahead.”

  “What about her former catering employee? Mightn’t he have been angry with her? Losing a job doesn’t exactly call for roses on the boss’ birthday.”

  “I don’t know about that. I mean, I know she fired him—Nora said as much, and Janet even mentioned it. But I don’t know how he felt. He left work that day without uttering threats, if that means anything.”

  “You’ve been engaged…how long?”

  “We were engaged in August.”

  “So, approximately one month, then. Had you known each other long before that? I know you were her photographer, but I mean were you friends before you became her photographer?”

  “We knew each other, sure. I did a few odd photo shoots before she employed me as her full time photographer.”

  “Like, when, another photographer couldn’t accommodate her?”

  “Yes. I never did any food shots, though. That’s a completely different type of photographic skill. I just did shoots for her CD cover, website, posters for the clubs she’d appear at—things like that. You get to know someone pretty well and pretty quickly when you’re photographing them. We were friends for about a year, I guess, before the engagement.”

  “In that year did Janet ever talk to you about Tom Murray?”

  “Her former boy friend? Sure. But she wouldn’t pour out her heart to me, if that’s what you’re after. I wasn’t a diary or a priest. She never said a thing about personal problems. Janet had strict lines drawn up and wouldn’t tell tales out of school.”

  “So you don’t know how angry Tom was, then, when their friendship ended.”

  “Sorry, no. But why wouldn’t he be upset? Janet was a beautiful, caring person.”

  “I don’t know why he wouldn’t be upset. That’s what I’m trying to determine.”

  Miles picked up his coffee cup and held it between his hands. “Unless it was Tom’s idea to break off with Janet. Then he might not be upset.”

  “Did you know Tom Murray? Would you believe he had made that decision to end the relationship?”

  “I knew him, sure. I saw him around sometimes at photo sessions. A Christmas party, once, I think. But we weren’t more than nodding acquaintances. I don’t know about Janet, but I wasn’t sorry to see him leave.”

  “Dislike the man?”

  “No. Not that. Just that I had begun liking Janet quite a lot. With Tom gone…well, I don’t know if it was purely psychological or not, but with him out of Janet’s life I didn’t have to rein in my feelings for her.”

  “You’d started caring about her.”

  “More than I think I realized at the time.” He took a sip of coffee and slowly put the cup on the table. “I guess I’d buried my feelings while Tom was in her life. You know, pretend you don’t like something so you’re not disappointed when you can’t have it. Of course, I didn’t know how deeply I did care about her. I hadn’t stopped to think about it.” He ran the tip of his index finger along the handle of the cup. “Well, you don’t, do you? What good would it do? Only bring up frustration and hurt.” He took another swallow of coffee and held the cup in his hands.

  “So you don’t know if Tom Murray held any grudge or anger when he left Janet.”

  “No. Like I said, we weren’t mates and we didn’t socialize. You’ll have to ask Tom about that. Oh. You ready?” The question was directed to a fifty-something year old man who had come up to the table while Miles had been talking.

  “Yeah. If you’re through here.” The speaker’s gaze darted from Miles to McLaren, silently assessing the situation. He scratched the top of his head, bald and shiny under the overhead light fixture’s gleam, and tossed the car key in his hand.

  “Probably.” He eyed McLaren but got no answer to the contrary. “Mr. McLaren, this is Janet’s neighbor, Ian O’Connor. He and I drove here so Ian could run into the pet store. Ian, Michael McLaren. He’s investigating Janet’s death.”

  The two men shook hands and McLaren asked if Ian had a minute for a question or two.

  Ian placed the car key on the table and sat down next to Miles. “Sure. I’d be glad to help. I liked Janet. Dreadful thing, that. The fire and her losing her life like that.”

  “Did you hear anything that night? A call for help, a car back firing…anything?”

  “Wish I had. She lives kind of far back, at the end of the cul-de-sac. More like half buried in the woods, her house is. She’s kind of remote, with a great deal of space and trees between her and the rest of us on the lane. No, I didn’t hear a thing that night. Or see a thing, either, until I took a walk. Then I saw the smoke and the flames.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, around half past six. I’d rung her up an hour earlier to ask if she’d like some extra eggs the next day. I keep a few chickens, not enough to cause problems, just for some fresh eggs. She said she’d be happy to get them, so I set aside a half dozen for her. That was it. A brief conversation. Then I went for a walk around half past six, as I said. I saw the flames shooting skyward from her studio.”

  “You knew it was her studio and not her house.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. The back of her property
slopes upward. Her house is on flat ground, but the hill starts in her back garden and goes up fairly steeply. That’s where her studio was, on the higher elevation. You can see the roof from the lane. There was no question that it was her studio that was on fire ’cause I could see the flames. They threw a kind of light on to her house’s roof. There was no mistaking what was burning. I dashed around the house, thinking she might be in the studio and might not be able to get out. The fire had a good start by then, a good section on fire, including the door, but I ran up to the windows on the side that still was in pretty good shape. I thought I could break a window and get her out if she was inside. I couldn’t see into the room, though. The flames were like a curtain at the windows, obstructing my view, so I grabbed a stout branch from her woodpile and broke out one of the windows. I yelled as loudly as I could, thinking she might hear me over the fire’s roar.” He paused, running the tip of his tongue over his lips. “There was no response. I called her name again but I got no answer. So I thought maybe she wasn’t in the studio. I ran back to her house, to the kitchen door, since it was the nearest to the studio. I rang her doorbell and pounded on the door but again got no response. I prayed she’d left on an errand or something and wasn’t home. By then I guess I’d been there five minutes or so. I didn’t want to waste any more time so I ran home and rang up the fire service in Matlock. They got there about fifteen minutes later.”

  “You went outside again, I presume, and watched the proceedings.”

  “Yes. I had mixed feelings about that. I didn’t want to look like one of those thrill-seekers, watching a fire so I could talk about it the next day. But I thought maybe the firefighters or police might have questions as to time I first saw the fire…that sort of thing.” Ian shook his head slowly and exhaled loudly. “I was also hoping to see Janet coming out of a neighbor’s house, perhaps, when she saw the commotion. No such luck, as you know. I was so sorry.”

  “You said you didn’t see anyone around the time you saw the fire.”

  “No one. No stranger or anyone I knew.”