“Did Janet accept your offer?”
Bruce snorted. “Does the sun rise in the north?”
“I take it from what you’re saying that Janet was still angry.”
“I don’t think she had cooled down one degree in those forty-eight hours, no.”
“Did you say anything else?”
“I asked for my job back, told her how much being drummer for her mattered to me. I said I admired her musicianship and thought the trio would make it big some day and that I thought she was incredibly talented. I wasn’t flattering her. I spoke the truth, straight from my heart. I-I hoped she would see how sincere I was and forgive me.”
“Obviously she didn’t.”
“She stood there, listening to me pour our my feelings. I could hear Dan in the back room, practicing scales. She must’ve heard it, too, because after I finished making a fool of myself she said ‘See you around sometime, Bruce’ and closed the door.”
“And all that took…what?”
“Two minutes maybe? I wasn’t there five minutes. That’s too long for all that.”
“When did she replace you with her bassist? Do you know why she got a bassist and not another drummer?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t part of the trio anymore. But I do know that around that time she stopped playing and Dan became the only pianist.”
“Why, if she liked the sound of the two keyboards?”
“Maybe she wanted to put her energy into singing. There are a lot of pianists around. Makes sense she’d let Dan take over if she wanted to just sing. Dan was more than competent to be the only pianist. Anyway, I rather suspect singing was her first love; she could take or leave the piano.”
“Less rehearsal for her, too, I suspect.”
Bruce said he guessed so and put the envelope back into the cabinet. Glancing at his watch he asked if there was anything else.
“I’m looking at this from the police point of view, Bruce. You had been fired, you had been insulted in front of Dan Wilshaw, your musical career as well as your hopes of a romantic relationships were over. That’s a lot for one person to handle. Why should the police believe you didn’t come back later and kill her?”
“Because, that day I was in the Buxton Hospital from around one o’clock onwards and wasn’t discharged for two days.”
McLaren blinked, clearly surprised. “I hope it was nothing serious.”
Bruce shrugged and rolled up his long sleeves. He held his arms out to McLaren, the underneath of his wrists visible. Pale, puckered ridges were still visible in the pale skin. “Depends on your definition of serious, I guess. I attempted suicide when I got back from her house. Like everything else, I failed at that, too.”
THIRTEEN
McLaren sat in his back room, his calves resting on the edge of the coffee table, his cordless phone in his hand. The tea things had been washed and were draining in the dish rack, and a cup of tea sat next to him on the side table. He glanced up from the sheets of paper that held his case notes and punched in Dena’s phone number. He needed to empty his heart.
He had tried doing that several minutes ago, grabbing his guitar and aimlessly strumming chords. But he couldn’t find the song that would bring him comfort. Each choice had been about murderers or unfaithful lovers or parting spouses, and so he had given up that particular song after a few measures. Folk music was like that, so what had he expected? Perhaps he felt too close to Janet, fellow musician and a case that had been tossed aside with no feelings for Nora. Injustice, if his investigation did disclose Janet’s death as murder.
And so he was restless, dissatisfied with the music that he loved and to which he usually gravitated for support. He ran his fingers over the steel strings, the silk-wrapped ones brilliantly bright beneath the tableside lamp’s glow, the naked steel ones shiny and reflecting the light. Except where his fingers had left sweat and oil from chording or picking. He moved his right hand off the strings and grabbed the metal button on the bottom of the guitar body. His left hand closed around the neck. For a moment he considered trying again—surely he could find solace in some song he knew. “There Is A Time” usually brought him great peace, but it seemed too melancholy for his mood. He played the first verse and chorus of “Goodnight and Joy,” but stopped abruptly in the midst of the second verse. He sat for a moment, his mind wandering through the snatches of songs in his mind, discarding title choices until his fingers began chording the introduction to Pete Seeger’s “Sailing Down My Golden River.” This, too, he abandoned partway through. His left hand draped listlessly over the guitar neck, his mind still meandering. Finally he realized he was singing “Why Shouldn’t We” by Mary Chapin Carpenter. The words poured from him, the melody rising into the quiet. He sang smoothly and powerfully until the tightening of his throat abruptly stopped him after the last verse. Tears threatened to spill from his eyes. The lyric was something Dena would have said to him, about believing in things people say can’t change; about having heroes once upon a time, yet knowing they will come back.
He closed his eyes, his eyelids forcing the last of the tears from his eyes. Could he change Janet Ennis’ case? Nora looked at him as some hero, able to find Janet’s killer. Dena believed in him, too. Was he able to personify their dreams, bring justice to a dead case?
The guitar’s polished body threw the lamplight onto the far wall, spotlighting Dena’s photo among the other certificates and artwork. He laid the guitar on the coffee table and turned off the light.
In the short time he’d sat there, dusk had made rapid advances across the land, the deep purple shadows melting into the blackness blanketing the land beyond the sunlight’s reach. The golden glow splashed across the western horizon silently slipped into rose, vermillion and indigo hues before it, too, succumbed to the gray and black that veiled the land. A sprinkling of stars poked through the somber eastern portion of the sky, but beyond his window no other light shone. His house, an ancient ancestral dwelling, backed up to fields and a stretch of wood beyond that. He had no neighbors within eye- or earshot. He revered the sweep of wind-tossed land that surrounded him as much as he cherished his solitude. Which was one reason he had put off marriage.
And the other?
A few months ago he would have put it down to the bitterness he’d held over losing his job in the police. A job he had loved and had quit in a blaze of intense anger and feeling of injustice. But he had struggled out of that depression, reconnected with Dena and some friends, and admitted privately that he had missed them all. So why couldn’t he make the commitment to Dena? Because he was afraid that he couldn’t support her, at least to the degree in which she’d been reared? Because he knew the slide back into depression was lurking in the background, that he still felt the anger and hatred for his situation and for Charlie Harvester in particular?
What would happen to Dena if he lost his temper with Harvester, if the need to avenge his wronged friend Nigel Forester overwhelmed his common sense and he assaulted—or accidentally killed—Harvester? Dena would not bless him if he spent the rest of his life in prison. No, it was best if he stayed single in case the near-soul consuming blackness exploded from him and harmed everyone he loved.
Yet, he had decided in July to ask Dena to marry him. It was now September. He had neatly forgot that decision. And if Dena hadn’t, she hadn’t asked him about it. So what’s the real reason I’m scared to marry her?
Without thinking about it, he punched her phone number into his phone. He hadn’t time to consider an answer to the marriage questions for Dena’s voice sailed into his ear. Instantly the tension of the day melted and he pictured her curled up on her couch, smiling as she heard his voice. He held the mobile phone closer.
“Michael. I’m so glad you called.”
Just the way she said his name weakened his resolve.
“How are you? Working on a stone wall?”
Mention of his ‘make do’ job since leaving the police brought the blood to his cheeks. Not that
he was ashamed of his occupation—far from it. Derbyshire had a couple thousand miles of dry stone walls that needed repair. A job that required skill and muscle. Both of which he liked to believe he had. But mentioning the wall work now, with Janet’s death so heavy on his mind… McLaren leaned back against the sofa and said, “Working on a case. Don’t laugh.”
“Why should I laugh? That’s your true calling. You’re a skilled detective.”
“Was a detective,” he corrected her.
“Are. You’ve had two cold cases recently and solved both of them even though the police couldn’t originally. I think ‘are’ is the right word.”
“Well, I won’t argue with a lady.”
“Especially if it’s to your favor.” She laughed and the ripple of silver flooded McLaren with warmth. He could picture her brunette hair and flawless skin, the silk or cashmere or linen clothes she usually wore. But more than those familiar things he loved the sound of her voice.
“Did you work today?”
“Yes. Oh, Michael, we’re getting another tiger next week. A white one. We’re getting his compound ready.”
“Mixed feelings about it already, then.”
“See? You are a detective! Yes, mixed feelings. I will love spending time with him—a white tiger, I can’t believe how beautiful those are!—but I’m sorry he has to come to the shelter.”
“You’ll keep him company, knowing you.” McLaren paused, picturing Dena in her jeans and pullover, cleaning the tigers’ cages, helping at the gift shop, taking people on tours. She put in a lot of time at the tiger sanctuary, all on a volunteer basis. She could’ve got a job elsewhere, making a nice salary, but she chose to help the big cats. Coming from Old Money, Dena didn’t have to work—her parents had set up a trust fund for her, and she had made canny investments in her twenties. The money poured into her bank account, seemingly without ever stopping. Due to her wealth, she knew the Right People, had spent time at social engagements, and could solicit funds for her charity. She knew poverty, having worked with homeless people for a few years, but had gravitated to the tigers. Perhaps as an offshoot of her time with society’s poorer people, Dena had grown level headed about her wealth and how she spent it. She liked to dress well, but her house was not lavish; she fit in with her working class neighbors. McLaren often wondered where she got her common sense.
Dena’s voice cut in on his thoughts. “Anything in particular you wanted to talk about, or just chat?”
“It’s this case, Dena.”
“Bad one?”
“A bloody awful mess. I can’t make top or tail of it.”
“How long have you been on it?”
“Since this morning, actually.”
“Well, Michael, give yourself a break. You think you should have it solved in a few hours when it’s been cold for—how long?”
“Five years.”
“I rest my case, your honor.”
“Maybe I just need to talk to you. The victim was a thirty-two year old woman. Quite talented singer.”
“She died in not so pleasant circumstances, I suspect.”
“Yeah.” He broke off again, anger at the waste of a talented life boiling within him.
“Can you talk about the case?”
“You sure you want to hear? It’s not pleasant.”
“If you don’t mind going through it, yes, I’d like to know what you’re going through.”
McLaren took a deep breath, then related the case as Nora had presented it to him and what he had found out.
“You’re thinking that the police botched the investigation.”
“Not on purpose. I know they have a good record. But in my opinion the P.M. findings and conclusions point to a suspicious death and foul play—the drought, the trash burning, the wooden artist studio…”
“If so, I’d have thought the postmortem exam finding would have alerted someone on the investigation team to delve more closely into the fire and death.”
“Yeah, you’d think so.” He stretched and yawned vocally. “Maybe I’m pushing this. Maybe the mother is a nutter, like Harvester says she is.”
“Implying your dislike for Harvester has pushed you into the investigation, whether you think it’s justifiable or not, just to prove the man is wrong once again.”
“I don’t know, Dena. I’m too tired. You think so?”
“It’s not what I think that is important, Michael. You need to go with your instinct and what you find out.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Tell me about her.”
His voice sounded more alive now, animated with his image of Janet and his inquiry. “She had a magnificent singing voice—I’ve got a CD of her and her group. She sang torch songs. She and another woman were partners in a catering business.”
“So she can obviously cook or bake quite well.”
“I suppose she must do.”
“That’s quite a talent.”
“She also painted, though I don’t know how good she was or what subject matter she concentrated on. But she evidently was serious enough about her art that she had a separate place for her work. And she liked to garden. But I think she would have really made a mark in the music world.”
“Her singing was that good, then.”
“I’m no expert—”
“Maybe not with that type of music, but you know folk and classical, Michael. You have a good ear. If you think her voice quality and phrasing and interpretation were of that caliber, I expect they were. I’m sorry she’s gone.”
“Yeah. Hell of a raw deal.” McLaren laid the papers beside him and snuggled back into the sofa cushions. “So, make me feel better.”
“I love you, if that helps.”
“It does. Have I told you that I love you?”
“Not since lunch time.”
“How like a woman. Keeping score.”
“Not on many things, Michael. Just on you.”
“I know.”
* * * *
Charlie Harvester typed in the word ‘dementia’ in his home computer’s search bar, pressed the return key, and waited while the hundreds of choices popped up on the screen. He hadn’t the patience to scroll through the pages, so he clicked on the first entry on the first page and read the information. Finished, he typed in the word ‘Parkinson’s Disease’ and again chose the first selection that presented itself. He leaned forward in his chair, his attention on the last sentence. “The disease does not cause death, but memory and thought processes may deteriorate in the later stages.”
He sat back, a smile slowly engulfing his face. He was right! He had pegged Nora Ennis correctly. She had the symptoms of Parkinson’s—he had spotted that the first time they had met. And she had admitted that she suffered from dementia. Two strikes against her, as far as he was concerned. How could anyone seriously believe her about her daughter and the fire and the death threat? The woman was ready for a room on the psych ward. He’d be joining her if he even momentarily considered opening the case. And wouldn’t that get him accolades from the Chief Constable! Wasting time and money and manpower on the ravings of a lunatic.
Harvester ran the mouse cursor over the word in the search bar and typed in Candidate for a Cold Case. Immediately the film title showed up on the monitor screen and he opened the article.
He read it quickly, then re-read it more leisurely to be certain he hadn’t missed anything important. The synopsis was short—basically a story about a woman knocked unconscious and dragged into her house. She was left in the kitchen, a pot of soup cooking on the stove, and the kitchen set on fire. The investigators from the police and fire service wrote it off as a tragic accident but the father wouldn’t accept it. He doggedly crusaded for two years, talking to organizations, individuals and the police, pleading to have his daughter’s case re-examined. He finally convinced one maverick cop and…
Harvester uttered a disgusted ‘Hell’ and logged off the computer. Of course it would end that way for the televisio
n film. Everyone wanted a happy ending, the father justified in pursuing the case, the ineptness of the investigating teams exposed, the outrage and support of those interested parties validated.
He got up and walked to the kitchen. He filled the electric kettle with water, flicked on the switch, then got a china teacup out of the cupboard and dropped a teabag into it. As he waited for the water to boil, he looked out into his back garden. The darkness of night obscured his tool shed but he could see its black shape silhouetted against the back fence. Not too much unlike Janet Ennis’ fancy art studio, he thought. Not too different in basic storyline. But miles from the film, in fact.
The kettle clicked off and Harvester poured the hot water into his teacup. He glanced at the wall clock’s sweep second hand. Two minutes—that’s how long he let his tea steep. Two minutes for a perfect cuppa. That was fact. Unlike Nora Ennis and her fanciful world.
When his tea was ready, he walked into his lounge, turned on the telly, and sat down in the leather chair. Poor, deluded woman. If the Parkinson’s didn’t rob her of her reasoning, the dementia most certainly would. It was already taking hold. She had already confused the television film with her daughter’s death. Too bad.
As the film Snake Pit started, he took a sip of tea and sat back. It really was too bad that she didn’t know what was going on.
* * * *
McLaren put on Janet’s CD when he finished talking with Dena. The sky had deepened to black during his phone call and he sprawled on the sofa, looking out the window and imagining walking through that blackness. Every night it happened and every day he could not envision what that darkness would feel like. Not smothering, like a mask. Quite the contrary, for the night sky alternately gave him the sensation of wanting to soar among the stars or feeling incredibly small and earthbound. How could there be such a difference in the land, the enchantment of night versus the humdrum of day? Because time is what we make of it.
Torch Song Page 10