Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

Her hand dropped from the phone. How could she be so confused? Was her hope that the police would call any day that strong that the borders between reality and fantasy blurred? Or was the dementia progressing more rapidly than she had thought?

  She sat at the kitchen table, her hand gripping the mug handle. It had been a long time since a police detective phoned her. Maybe they were busy on another case. Maybe they had run out of leads. Nora took a sip of tea. Tom, the castoff boyfriend, might have been angry enough to kill Janet. And there was Sean, Janet’s former employee. Nora stared ahead, seeing nothing but Janet’s face. It happened all the time, angry employees seeking to avenge themselves on former employers. Maybe Sean had been that angry employee. Or perhaps Janet’s catering client from that fiasco of a wedding reception. But that had happened in May, hadn’t it? And Janet died in September. Why would an irate client wait that long to retaliate? And there was Brian, the former drummer with the trio. He’d been fired. That might have turned into a spite revenge. And Janet’s bass player, Alan. While he hadn’t been fired, there’d been bad blood between the two of them. Did bad blood ever become violent?

  Nora walked to the phone and punched in Charlie Harvester’s number. Funny how she could remember that and get so muddled on other things. Perhaps because he was the last person she’d spoken to, had such faith in the police, wished so desperately to have the case solved before she was committed.

  Harvester’s voice crackled in Nora’s ear, rousing her from her thoughts. “Detective-Inspector Harvester,” she said, her voice quivering slightly from expectation. “This is Nora Ennis. I hope you remember me from my visiting with you last year at your office. I’m calling to ask if there are any developments in my daughter’s case.”

  “Mrs. Ennis.” Was she mistaken, or did a heavy sigh escape from Harvester’s lips? Harvester paused, as though thinking of a suitable response. “There’s nothing new. The case is closed. I thought you understood that.”

  “You’ve found Janet’s killer?”

  The sigh seeped out, louder this time. “There is no killer, Mrs. Ennis. Unless you classify the fire as the killer. We’ve been over this matter many dozen times, either with me or with other detectives whom you’ve spoken to. Her death was an accident. I spoke with you a few days ago about all this.”

  Nora opened her mouth. There were so many things she didn’t understand—about Janet’s death, about police work, about the people she termed ‘suspects.’ Why didn’t Charlie Harvester understand this?

  In the pause, Harvester added, “I’m sorry about this, Mrs. Ennis, but there is nothing more I can help you with. Any other detective here, as well as our Superintendent, is in the same position as I am. No one can do anything more with your case. I’m sorry because I know what it means to you. I appreciate your concern, but it only frustrates you to keep calling here. If there is ever a change in the case, I’ll let you know. But right now, it’s officially closed. Now, I must get on with my other work.” He rang off in a hurry, the click of the closed connection loud in Nora’s ear.

  * * * *

  Charlie Harvester exhaled loudly and stared at the phone on his desk. Last year, she had said. It had been a few days. Couldn’t she keep track of time? Really, the woman should be committed right now. She kept harassing him, getting in his way, wasting his time. He had other cases that needed his attention. What did she think he could do with a five-year-old cold case? He hadn’t been the SIO, hadn’t even been part of the investigation. He was no magician or soothsayer. He couldn’t pull the guilty party from a silk top hat.

  He picked up his pen, ready to get back to the report he was reading, but set it down. The conversation had left him unsettled. It was more than annoyance at her constant calling; it angered him that she didn’t have a keeper who could prevent her from disrupting his day.

  On the other side of his closed office door he could hear two of his colleagues talking as they walked down the corridor. They were working on a case of theft—some paintings, a wallet and a mobile phone left in an unlocked car. Honestly! Some people deserved to be ripped off. Where had common sense gone? Didn’t they know they were asking for a car break-in and theft of their articles if left like that? Didn’t they listen to the televised publicity on crime prevention? Bunch of berks.

  His gaze traveled to the photo on his desk. His fiancée, Linnet Isherwood. He’d go see her this weekend, take her something to read, some flowers. Were flowers allowed in prison? He didn’t know. All his years as a cop and he had no idea about prison regulations. He’d find out.

  Damn McLaren, anyway. If it weren’t for him, Linnet wouldn’t be in the nick. It hadn’t turned out how they had planned it. They were so confident McLaren would muck up the case.

  Harvester averted his eyes from the photo. It was easier to pretend it hadn’t happened. The whole damn thing, beginning with the dust-up last year when they were both still in the Staffordshire Constabulary. Harvester leaned back in his chair, conscious of the squeak of the frame and the lumpy padding. There’d been bad blood between them since their first day at police training school. McLaren so popular and him ignored. He’d had to struggle for everything he got, although his daddy’s name had helped ease him through a few doors and courses. But McLaren’d been the blue-eyed boy, the star to which everyone set their sights.

  Even the instructors liked McLaren, a fact they had tried to hide but it had been obvious. Harvester’s lip curled up as he recalled the honor bestowed upon McLaren for his top grades. The man had accepted the award so humbly; Harvester could have puked. What a bunch of codswallop.

  The animosity and silent competition hadn’t ended at school. If anything, it magnified on the job, both of them members of the Staffordshire Constabulary. And it came to a violent head that night in June when McLaren had intervened in Harvester’s criminal investigation. Damn McLaren for interfering, for ridiculing Harvester in front of his men, for starting the office gossip. Harvester picked up a pencil and snapped it in half. Damn the man for tossing him into the rose bushes.

  Harvester subconsciously rubbed his arm. He swore that on some days he could still feel the thorns embedded in his skin. Damn McLaren.

  But despite the bitter recollections, Harvester smiled and looked again at Linnet’s photo. Even if Nora went to McLaren with her daft story and even if McLaren took on the investigation, Harvester was one step ahead of his old nemesis. He knew about the marijuana found in Janet’s house, and McLaren didn’t.

  TWENTY

  Morning and early afternoon slid by in a rush of chatting up people associated with Janet’s case, however remotely. McLaren had exhausted his initial list and had returned to talk to Dan Wilshaw, the pianist in Janet’s group.

  They’d been talking for several minutes, seated in Dan’s front room. The afternoon sunlight had moved westward, leaving the room in the gray light that proceeds dusk. McLaren found himself looking at Janet’s photo instead of at Dan, and he made an effort to ignore the mesmerizing brown eyes.

  “The only thing I know,” Dan settled back in his chair, “is that Alan thought he was better than any bassist around and that he deserved a higher salary than Janet paid him.”

  “Did he tell her that?” McLaren asked.

  “Constantly. At least once a week.”

  “Even in front of you?”

  “Yeah. What can I say? The bloke was totally uncouth.”

  “Janet didn’t relent and give him a raise, I assume.”

  “Hardly. We’d not been together that long. One or two months, I think, when Alan began whining. I believe she was going to increase his and my salaries that Christmas—she was going to wrap up the notice and the extra pay as a present and give it to us at the annual Christmas party.”

  “She told you?”

  “No. But I got the impression from Miles. He didn’t say anything in so many words, but you know how one gets a feeling about things.”

  McLaren nodded. He glanced again at the photo, then asked if the ill fe
eling manifested in any other way.

  “Like what? Air let out of her car tires? Crank phone calls?” Dan fished around in his jeans pocket for his lighter, pulled it out and lit a cigarette.

  “That surely wouldn’t have garnered him a raise or a job, would it?”

  “No. It was just a bad joke.” Dan grimaced, looking uncomfortable.

  “So there was nothing else Alan did but grumble to Janet.”

  “I suppose there could have been, but I never heard anything. Janet wasn’t one to gossip, especially when the harmony of the group was at stake. And Alan and I weren’t particularly drinking buddies. Nor were Bruce and I.”

  “Didn’t get on too well with them?”

  “Oh, it’s not that. Bruce kept to himself. Alan, though more outgoing, wasn’t my cup of tea. No blowups or fights. We were fine. Just didn’t socialize outside the group.”

  “Just at the Christmas party.”

  “Right. No hard feelings or anything. He was a nice enough bloke to work with. But he never said anything to me about him and Janet. That wouldn’t be professional.”

  “Was there a reason Alan wanted more money?”

  “Besides his swelled head, you mean?” Dan chewed on his lower lip as he thought. A dog in the neighbor’s yard yapped at a squirrel, and Dan sighed. “He hadn’t any huge bills that I know of. He roomed with his girlfriend in a flat in Matlock Bath and his car was paid for. I know that because we were talking about cars one day when I was looking to buy something newer. He’d not gone to university so there was no student loan to pay back. No, I don’t know why he was so insistent on the pay increase.”

  “No medical bills, then, either for himself or his girlfriend.”

  “If there were, he kept the illness a secret from me.”

  “How about his parents? Sometimes a child feels the need to help out in a medical crisis. Anything like that going on with him?”

  “I never heard, though he could have done, I expect.”

  McLaren leaned forward, the exasperation evident on his face. “So Alan Ross was in excellent health, owed nothing on his car, had no house payment or university tuition to pay back, and had no outstanding debts. What about drugs?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Pot. Dope. Cocaine. Was he a user then?”

  Dan shrugged and pressed his lips together. Glancing at Janet’s photo, he said, “No. I don’t think so. I would have known. Janet would have known. The group was too small for him to conceal his habit.”

  “Do you think Janet did know and that’s why the ill feeling was there?”

  “I think I would have known,” Dan said, his voice hardening. “That was five years ago. I was thirty-five. Not exactly a child, and Janet’s trio wasn’t the first musical group I’d played with. I started in the music business when I was nineteen and I saw a lot of back stage shenanigans. Enough questionable activities to last me the rest of my life. I don’t do drugs, McLaren. I don’t tolerate it and I don’t like hanging around those who do use. Janet was clean and she expected her band members to be clean. We knew that from the beginning. She made it clear before she signed us up. If Alan got involved with drugs Janet might have warned him to get sober, might have given him a deadline to clean up his act. She was like that, one to give you a chance. She’d stick by her morals, too, even if it meant tossing out a family member.”

  “Which family member? Don’t tell me her mother—”

  “No, no. But it looked as though Alan might have ended up in Janet’s family. He was dating her sister, Connie.”

  “Do you think it was a love match and not marrying for money?”

  “I can’t say, of course, but I think they were in love.”

  “I assume Janet had some money. With the recordings and catering and performances, she had to have something in her bank account.”

  “She probably did. I wouldn’t know.”

  “But she dressed nicely. I’ve seen a few photos.”

  “She liked to look good. Not just for her publicity shots, but all the time.”

  “Even to her casual wear, like at home? Including her jeans and T-shirts?” McLaren sent up a prayer.

  “Sure.”

  “Expensive jeans, were they? Top brand?”

  Dan shrugged, looking exasperated. “I don’t know. I’m not a bleeding couturier. What the hell difference does it make, anyway?”

  “Just helps me get a picture of Janet and her life. Firetrap jeans, for example, gives me a different image of her than if she wore, oh, say, Marks and Spencer.”

  “Yeah, well, I have no idea. Ask Helene. She might know. Women are keener about that stuff than men are. Is that it?”

  “Yes. Sorry if it sounded like an inquisition. Just my curiosity taking hold.”

  “No harm.”

  McLaren thanked Dan for his time and as he walked back to his car wondered if Alan’s deadline had come and gone, and he had killed Janet rather than kill his habit.

  * * * *

  Haddon Hall lacked an hour before it closed for the day, so McLaren drove to the stately home. When he had parked and wandered into the Hall, he inquired for Bruce. Bruce was in the restaurant, the guide told McLaren. Could he be of any help?

  “Thanks anyway. I need to talk to Mr. Parrott.” He turned abruptly, feeling rather than seeing the man’s stare following him as he retraced his steps through the stone archway.

  The Hall’s restaurant showed the signs of end-of-the-business-day. Only two tables were occupied, no one waited to be seated, and no line angled away from the counter. A low murmur of conversations mixed in the air but they did not compete with vocalizing babies or the hurried clatter of dirty dishes. McLaren stood near the doorway and glanced around. Wooden beams ran the width of the room and contrasted nicely with the light gray walls. Small square tables, seating four, dotted the main section of the room, with the self-serve counter at the farther end. The cook was singing enthusiastically to herself and Bruce was clearing off a table near the drinks cabinet.

  “Afternoon, Bruce.” McLaren extended his hand as Bruce turned around.

  “McLaren. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He wiped his hand on his towel before shaking hands.

  “Just wanted to ask you something else, if you don’t mind. Is this a bad time?”

  The couple at the table nearest the cash register got up and left. The cook exited through a Staff Only door. The room took on the tone of late afternoon when energies were spent and the air seemed thicker and warmer with approaching sunset.

  Bruce glanced at the room; the remaining customers seemed content to linger over their tea and biscuits. “Sure. Five minutes or so should be all right. What do you need?” He sat down and looked at McLaren as he took the chair opposite him.

  McLaren flashed a half smile and wondered if he were about to make a mistake. But as Bruce sat expectantly and the shadows outside the tearoom window deepened to indigo, he took a deep breath. “You told me were part of Janet’s trio for over a year.”

  Bruce’s right eyebrow rose as he wrapped both his hands around the bowl of sugar cubes. His words were barely audible, even in the stillness of the room. “Yes. A lot of people know that, including Dan Wilshaw and Janet’s mother. Why?”

  “During those seventeen or so months you were at her house rehearsing.”

  “You already know that. Dan probably told you, too. I repeat, why are you asking me?”

  “So you saw Janet dressed casually as well as formally, as for your performances.”

  “What the hell are you on about? Of course I saw her in a lot of different clothing. I never said I didn’t, even if you asked me before.” He frowned, as if trying to recollect their previous conversation. “The way she dressed, what she had on that day of the fire, has nothing to do with anything. You want me to tell you what she was wearing when she turned me away from her front door? Well, I can’t. Lock me up, but I don’t remember. That was five ruddy years ago. I didn’t even remember what she wore day to
day when we rehearsed.”

  “I’m not trying to pin anything on you, Bruce. Or trick you. I merely want to know about any particular style or brand she preferred.”

  “Well, I can’t help you. I’m sorry, but that’s life. Ask her mum. Or Helene. Someone she spent more time with.”

  McLaren nodded and chewed his bottom lip, as if considering Bruce’s suggestion. Of course Bruce hadn’t killed Janet—his hospital stay eliminated him as a suspect. But he could’ve heard about McLaren’s investigation from Dan or another involved person, and have his own reason for setting the fire on his drive in the hope of scaring McLaren off the case. Bruce might have another item of Janet’s, like the Firetrap button from her jeans. Maybe he kept the jeans button with him in his own jeans pocket, as a good luck token. Maybe he was never parted from it and had it with him all the time, as a link to Janet. There were a lot of people who carried around things like that. McLaren glanced at Bruce, who was curling and uncurling the edge of his apron. It wasn’t so far fetched. The man had admitted that he had loved Janet. And an unrequited love, especially where the person had died tragically, could be a very strong reason for carrying around an item that had belonged to Janet.

  Bruce’s fingertips pulled at the ends of his apron ties, the heavy cotton twill fabric stiff from repeated starch applications. His gaze flitted around the room, from McLaren’s face to the cash register to the display of postal cards and booklets to the door. He cleared his throat.

  “Yes?” McLaren leaned back in his chair.

  “Just wondered. You know…if we’re finished.”

  “Oh, sorry. Just another question, if that’s all right.”

  Bruce nodded. His smile had vanished during the lull in their conversation and now he stared at McLaren almost sullenly.

  “Did Janet spend a lot of money on her clothes?”

  The apron ties fell to Bruce’s lap as he gripped the edge of the table. “What is this about clothes? Yeah, she did. Her stage clothes, sure. She had to project a certain image, and that included looking sleek and smart. She liked certain things to wear and didn’t let the price get in the way of how she looked. It was part of the business, part of what she had to do.”