Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  A nice person, McLaren thought as Janet wove “At Last” around him. A caring person. A person who didn’t deserve to die by arson.

  He finished his coffee, lay down on the sofa, and let the caress lull him to sleep.

  McLaren woke Thursday morning with a stiff back and a head crowded with Janet’s voice and Eddy Duchin’s piano music. He eased to a standing position, padded to the CD player and turned it off. Becoming a habit, he thought as he picked up the coffee mug and wandered into the kitchen. But was it a habit he wanted to break? While wrapped in Janet’s world he felt no desire to move on or rid himself of her company. Was it a harmless habit or a step into insanity?

  As he showered and dressed in tan trousers and a short-sleeved green shirt he wondered if Nora suffered more from that than from the dementia that claimed her. The potential was there, he admitted. He already knew that from his short personal experience. How much worse would it be for a grieving mother who submersed herself in convincing Authority to open Janet’s case, who kept Janet alive through this crusade? McLaren shook his head. Cold cases notoriously fell into a kind of black hole. Unless a detective sifted through the case notes occasionally or the victim’s relative or friend impressed that detective enough so he’d look into the event. McLaren knew the odds of the success rate. Nora Ennis might be delusional but she was persistent.

  But she wasn’t delusional, McLaren realized, and hurried into his office. The notes he’d taken at the library whispered to him. He had looked up Connie Long’s obituary in the newspaper file. She had died on 29 September, six years ago, aged nineteen. Which made Stuart Ennis fifty-three or fifty-four when he’d fathered Connie. Never mind that it was an adulterous act. Had Nora suspected the affair? Did she know about Connie, then or now? She’d not said anything to McLaren. He scanned the article, learning nothing of great interest except the time of the wake and burial in Temple Normanton’s churchyard.

  If Connie died one year before Janet, it was possible the two women knew each other. Had Janet been marking Connie’s death that September day, been distracted with the rubbish burning, and get caught in the fire? Was it really a mistake after all?

  He sighed, giving it up as a dead end. What motive did Stuart have, anyway, to kill Janet or torch her studio? Just a bitter old man whose love had run out for Nora and Janet. Give it up, Mike, he told himself as he dialed the phone number of the film studio. Not every angry person is going to be a suspect.

  He picked up his pen and doodled on his notepad as his call was passed from person to person. Today was starting out gloriously.

  After introducing himself to the screenwriter, McLaren asked where she got the idea for the film. “I realize it’s been a while since you wrote it,” he tapped the tip of his pen on the notepad, “but I thought that perhaps you’d remember your source or inspiration. Would you mind telling me?”

  The writer seemed to mull over his request, for she did not answer immediately. In the silence, he heard the background conversations, phones ringing, and a computer printer or fax machine spitting out its pages. He wanted to emphasize how important the information was, that a woman’s emotional and perhaps mental state hung precariously on her answer. But he knew better than to prod like that. It would produce only animosity and a brick wall.

  “Who are you again?” The writer’s voice broke into McLaren’s thoughts of Janet.

  “Michael McLaren. I need the information for an investigation I’m working.”

  “What type of investigation? Criminal?”

  “I don’t know for certain. It’s early days yet.”

  “But you suspect something criminal happened, right?”

  “I could speculate all day about anything, but I don’t know right now.”

  “And the information about my article will help.”

  “Yes.”

  “Help you or the other side? I assume there is another side.”

  “There always is.”

  “Good guys against bad guys.”

  “Of course.”

  “Which are you, Mr. McLaren?”

  “I guess it depends on the outcome of the case as to how my client refers to me.”

  Wrong answer, he thought as the silence grew between them. Smart-mouth response. I’ve just dug my grave on this one.

  The clock’s sweep second hand counted off fifteen seconds before the writer said, “You sound like a police officer. But you wouldn’t be talking about a client if you were. What are you?”

  “Former police officer. I’m looking into a case for this woman.”

  The silence wasn’t as lengthy this time. Maybe his words had nudged her to a decision. He heard the sound of a metal desk drawer closing before she replied, “All right. You want to know what sparked me to write that screenplay. Nothing earth shaking there. In fact, it was like most other articles or stories or screenplays written. I got it from a newspaper article. And I used a lot of the actual event in my screenplay. I’ve got it here. Wait a minute…yes. It happened five years ago in Derbyshire, in a village north of Matlock. There was a fire and a woman’s body was discovered in the debris. I recall there was a question at the time of whether her death was accidental or murder, that the postmortem examination revealed the rounded depression to her head. Add to that the evening meal cooking in her house and the assumption of the rubbish burning leading to the artist studio fire. Well…” She inhaled deeply, as though she’d just finished writing the script. “All those elements brought up the suspicion of murder at that time, though of course it was officially clad in “Accidental Death” nomenclature. I always thought there was more to it, that it should have been investigated further. Which is why the storyline intrigued me. So, plain and simple, I used that as the basis for the film plot. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “This was the fire and death reported on 28 September 2006.”

  “God, I hope there wasn’t another one!” Her tone conveyed astonishment.

  “Not that I know of. Just being thorough, that’s all.”

  “This is what you need? Will this help you?”

  “I believe so, thanks.”

  “Let me know the outcome. Maybe there’s another screenplay in this.”

  McLaren doubted it but thanked her and rang off.

  That nails it, he thought. The movie hit the screen after Janet’s death. Nora is right; she couldn’t be making it up. It underscores her sanity case. He grinned as he walked outside and grabbed the garden rake.

  Minutes spent combing through the ashes and partially burnt pieces from last night’s fire produced nothing interesting or conclusive. Nothing, that is, until the rake’s teeth hit something along the hard-packed gravel of his driveway. He pulled the object toward him, squatted and cleared it of the ashes.

  The item was a button. A metal button, like the kind that adorned jeans or denim jackets. The company name was a bit grungy but he could read the word plainly enough. His fingers closed slowly over the button, his mind racing. The castoff button put his enquiry into the Threat category. It came from a brand of jeans he didn’t wear. An apropos brand, unfortunately. Firetrap.

  * * * *

  Of course there was no way to trace his arsonist, he realized later while driving to talk to Eva Lister, Janet’s disgruntled catering customer. He hadn’t seen the person leave, nor did he have any telltale evidence to point to anyone. Unless he noticed someone without a button on his or her pair of jeans. He was no farther in learning who had set the fire than he’d been last night. I’m up the creek like any other stymied copper, McLaren thought, glancing down contemptuously at the jeans he wore.

  He made good time getting to Hathersage, a village linked with author Charlotte Bronte and folk hero Little John. He reduced his speed to a crawl, and glanced at the Hanoverian Hotel and the chemist shop as he passed. The buildings’ facades held no hint of the odd occurrences he’d been part of in June. But what was he expecting—a banner?

  As the A625 meandered out of Hathersage,
McLaren gazed at the car’s speedometer. He wasn’t going to get caught again by a motorcycle cop. He eased up on the accelerator pedal, making certain he was traveling within the legal speed limit, and changed the cassette tape for Ian and Sylvia’s biggest hits. The big, powerful notes of the guitar filled the car and he sang along to “Short Grass.” He always thought Sylvia should’ve played autoharp on the song. Maybe they had tried it during rehearsals and didn’t like the sound. But he’d heard a folk group use the autoharp with it and he thought it a super addition. Well, each group had their own song interpretations.

  The autumnal foliage blazed in brilliant reds, oranges and yellows across the hills. Spent leaves, mostly dull browns and robbed of their vibrant hues, cascaded from tree branches, swirling or spiraling down to the cast-offs on the ground. Stalks of tufted hair-grass blazed white in the sunlight, the feathery inflorescences waving plume-like in the cars’ passing breezes. Dried ferns, their fronds not yet withered by frost, held on to the last days of warmth with a show of gold and dandelion yellow. Patches of heather accented the hills in brilliant lavenders and from somewhere up wind came the scent of damp moss. He lowered his window and breathed deeply of the rich scent of the changing world.

  Chesterfield never seemed to be devoid of traffic, McLaren thought as he waited through two cycles of the traffic light. Business, evidently, showed no appreciable slowdown, for shoppers jammed the pavement, some stopping when a window display attracted them, some entering shops. Cars, buses, motor cycles and light cross-country lorries crowded the road like ants on a piece of bread. It’s a wonder anyone ever gets anyplace, he thought, then turned his car down the street where Eva lived.

  The house sprawled over its acreage at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, an upscale section that spoke Wealth by the landscaping and house size. McLaren parked in front of the stone edifice and walked up to the front door. An emphatic barking within the depths of the house announced more than his presence. It told any would-be burglars they might want to rethink their target.

  Two locks clicked on the other side of the door and a voice told the dog to hush as the door slowly cracked open. A face appeared in the opening between the door’s edge and the doorjamb and enquired who he was and what he wanted.

  “I’m Michael McLaren. I’m here to talk to Eva Lister.”

  “When did you phone her?”

  McLaren glanced at his watch. “About an hour ago. I want to ask her about the wedding reception Janet Ennis’ company catered.”

  Evidently he’d said the magic word or given enough information. A chain slid noisily from its catch, the dog barked and was reprimanded, and the door inched open.

  The face that appeared before him looked to be in its fifties. Dark hair framed an oval of flawless skin that had only a touch of rouge and lipstick applied to it. Dark eyes took in his frame, as if to confirm his identity, and his clothing, as if to confirm that tan trousers and a green shirt were good enough to enter her house. When the door opened to admit him into the entryway, he could see the woman was tall, attractive in a 1940s film star way, and obviously worked out. The white halter-top she wore showed off her tanned, muscular biceps quite well. She extended her hand, and confirmed she was Eva Lister.

  McLaren restated his name, feeling the face-to-face meeting warranted a more formal introduction.

  “I hope you’ll forgive the seemingly exuberant precautions,” Eva said, walking into the front room. She moved with a fluidity that suggested floating. “We had a burglary a month ago and I’m still not over the shock.”

  Her voice was lower in pitch than McLaren would have guessed if he’d just seen her, standing in a room, perhaps. He said the precautions were understandable and didn’t have to be excused.

  “Better late than never?” she said, seating herself in an upholstered chair of cream and gold fabric. He noted that the gold tone complimented the streaks in her hair. It also contrasted nicely with her turquoise slacks. The dog—a brown boxer—lay at her feet.

  “Were the police successful in locating your stolen items?”

  She grabbed a cigarette from an enamel box on the side table, lit it and took a puff before saying, “Not yet. They keep telling us the things could turn up sometime, but I don’t hold much hope. Don’t those people usually move the stuff on pretty promptly?”

  “I believe so, though it depends on the burglar. I don’t have much experience in that.”

  “But you were a police officer,” she countered, gazing at him through the bluish smoke that hung in the air between them.

  “Yes. But I didn’t know that many burglars.”

  Eva’s eyebrow lifted. “Not my idea of good company, either.” She flicked the ash from her cigarette. “Now, what did you want to talk about? I can give you fifteen minutes.”

  “Janet Ennis’s company catered for your daughter’s wedding reception, I understand.”

  “Yes. One of the worst affairs I’ve ever struggled through.”

  “Why was that?”

  “One of her servers—I believe his name was Sean—dumped the white sauce for the chicken cordon bleu into a pan filled with water. Besides having no sauce for the chicken, the sauce and hot water splattered onto the white tablecloth and on to several guests’ clothing. It was a disaster! The tablecloth was terribly soiled and, when he attempted to remove the cloth from the table, it caught on a wrought iron statue next to the table. The statue fell onto the table. That collapsed and the china and food slid off and crashed with it. Half the food was ruined. Thank God we had the cake, fruit, salads and hors d’oeuvres on another table. But the main course and the vegetables were on the floor. Stacks of plates broke and the mess was horrendous.” She glanced at the portrait of a young couple in wedding attire. “I was livid. It ruined the day.” She spoke loudly, sharply, and the dog raised its head, looked at Eva, and growled. Eva patted the dog and it calmed down.

  “Did Janet Ennis make amends?”

  Eva’s laugh was bitter and snarled into the air. “That woman…what a joke. I hired her due to someone’s personal recommendation. Obviously she didn’t suffer the same mishaps I did.”

  “But Janet Ennis didn’t offer you some sort of compensation?”

  “She offered a refund on part of the buffet bill and offered to dry clean the guests’ clothing. All generous, of course, but it didn’t erase the fact that the reception was ruined.” She sighed deeply and scrunched up her mouth as she shoved the album of wedding photos toward McLaren. “You can see for yourself the before and after views. I had the photographer snap the mess in case there would be any problem settling it all.”

  McLaren flipped through the pages, noted the fiasco, and closed the book. “Not a nice reminder of your daughter’s big day.”

  “No, it’s not. I should remove them. It’s been long enough. Actually, I think about doing it at odd times, but it’s always on the way to doing something else.” She accepted the album from him and put it back on the coffee table. “I don’t think of it daily. I’m not bitter. Nor do I seek revenge. It’s over and done with. I’m just deeply sorry for my daughter. Though I think I took it harder than she did. They can at least laugh about it now.”

  “It’s nice that they can take that attitude.”

  “Yes. It was unfortunate but it wasn’t something that ruined their lives.”

  “Do you know if the server is still with the company?”

  “I have no idea. I wasn’t out for revenge. I just wanted an apology and some sort of compensation.”

  “Which you got, I assume.”

  “Janet Ennis wouldn’t have been a very savvy businesswoman if she hadn’t. I was glad she had the soiled clothes cleaned, and I did appreciate her offer of refunding part of the fee, but aside from that…” She shrugged and took another puff on her cigarette. “I don’t know if the boy was inept, nervous, or wanted to wreck Janet’s company, like he had something personal against her. But he couldn’t have created a bigger mess if he had tried.”


  The phone on the side table jangled into the conversational lull. The boxer barked, stood up, and wagged its stumpy tail. Eva glanced at the Caller ID display, excused herself, and lifted the receiver. “Oh, hello, dear. No, I have a minute. What’s up? You’re joking! You’re not serious.” She leaned forward, as though preparing for an intimate talk. The smoke from her cigarette twisted upward, losing itself in the overhead chandelier. The caller seemed to be imparting interesting information, for Eva remained bent over for nearly a minute, during which time her only responses were faint murmurs and rapid blinking of her eyes. When she eventually uncurled, she glanced at her watch and said, “Thanks. I’d no idea, obviously. Yes, I’m on my way. No, at the— Yes, there. I’m just leaving.” She signed off, recradled the receiver, and stood up.

  McLaren got to his feet, wondering what had happened.

  Eva’s voice had a hardness underlining her words and the open look had faded from her eyes, leaving coldness and a distinct suggestion the interview had ended. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go now. I have to leave.”

  McLaren nodded and followed her out of the room.

  She did not speak, but hurried to the door, the soles of her leather moccasins tapping out her eagerness to be rid of him and accentuating the sudden strain that lay between them. At the door, she turned the knob, stepped aside and flung the door open. She stood there, waiting for him to leave, her lips bloodless and pressed together. The boxer guarded her side, staring at McLaren and giving threatening, low-pitched growls.

  McLaren hovered on the threshold, clearly astonished by Eva’s change. “If you think of anything else that might help me with this investigation” He got no further. Eva pushed him outside as she closed the door. The dog barked loudly, then broke off, evidently directed to be quiet.

  McLaren got into his car and drove onto the main road. He found a spot a few dozen yards from the junction and parked on the verge. Eva would have to go this way, for she lived on a cul-de-sac. While he waited, he wondered who her caller could have been. Obviously she had learned something about him or the case, for her demeanor had changed as abruptly as a criminal seeing evidence against him. But whom did she know connected to Janet’s case? And who had he scared enough into contacting Eva, whatever her association was to this?