Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  Scents of dusty fabric and moss assaulted him. But the stale air of shut up, lifeless space wasn’t there. Had Nora been here recently, opening windows and infusing the cottage with love and care? He drew in a lungful again and closed the door as though he were concerned someone would see him.

  The main room spread out before him. Mainly a sitting room, it held secondhand furniture, an electronic keyboard and speaker, and a small, used filing cabinet. Two doors flanked the fireplace and took up most of the back wall. McLaren opened the right-hand one first. It led to a small bedroom holding a twin-sized bed, chest of drawers and an upholstered chair. An empty blue vase, a lighter blue ribbon tied around its neck, waited for a small bouquet. A tiny bathroom fed off this room. A bar of lavender-scented soap sat in the soap dish, too old to freshen the still air. Behind the other door lay the kitchen. One of its windows was broken.

  McLaren’s police training automatically took over and he remained in the doorway, surveying the room. Shards of glass littered the linoleum flooring and a large rock sat in the midst of the debris. The back door stood open, letting in the sunlight and the aromas of dry leaves, moss and the river. He went back through the front room and outside, then walked around to the kitchen door. No obvious footprints showed on the ground and nothing like a snagged piece of fabric or drops of blood adorned the broken window. Remaining outside at the doorway, he peered into the room.

  Neither the door nor the floor was damp. Either the intruder had broken in after last night’s storm or any water had dried by now. But muddy footprints should have showed up on the floor if this had happened after the storm. After any storm, he corrected himself, for he had no idea when this had happened. Even so, if the door had been open for any length of time, there would be blown leaves across the floor, or signs of animals throughout the house. Bird nests, perhaps, and scat from foxes or squirrels or rabbits. Mice trailings, certainly, but that would occur if the door had stood open or not.

  He re-entered the house by the front door and looked around each room. There were no indications of nesting animals, no beer cans or cigarette ends or drug paraphernalia to indicate the house was used as a party place. The forced entry was recent.

  He went over the rooms again, this time looking more closely. He opened drawers, looked under the sofa and bed mattress, peered behind frame pictures on the wall. He even searched under the chair and sofa cushions and flipped back the scatter rugs. Nothing seemed to have been tampered with.

  The filing cabinet in the front room looked to be in its original order. No manila folders stood at crazy angles, everything appeared to be filed alphabetically. So what had the intruder wanted? Merely to search for money?

  Remembering stories from his grandmother, McLaren went into the kitchen. A set of ceramic containers sat at the back of the worktop, against the wall. He angled the canisters toward him and ran a mixing spoon through each one’s contents. No wad of money presented itself, no key gave up its hiding place.

  He opened the fridge door. The electricity had been turned off and the appliance’s interior smelled musty and unused, but it was empty. He shut the door, his frustration mounting.

  Back in the front room, he took the books from the bookcase and leafed through their pages. Nothing fell out, nothing was crammed between pages. What’s more, nothing sat behind the books. So either the intruder had found what he wanted or there had been nothing there to find.

  He dusted his hands off on his trousers and stood in the center of the room, letting the silence wash over him. Janet had found a gem of a refuge. A perfect place to think and unwind. A place to write songs with only the river and the wildlife to criticize her efforts.

  He picked up a cushion, put it back on the sofa, and sat down. When Nora had given him the key he’d had no intention of using the cottage. But now that he was here he was slowly reversing his decision. The quiet suited him, suited his moods. If he got away every so often, mended his temper, would Dena be grateful? Would the fact that he had a retreat to repair his bad mood be music to her ears?

  Music. He looked at the electric keyboard in the corner. Nora had mentioned Janet wrote music. He hadn’t known that. Nothing original appeared on her CD. Had she been writing for a while, compiling songs for a second CD, but time ran out on her?

  Curious, he went to it.

  A large rectangular basket near the instrument’s feet held a sizeable assortment of sheet music. He emptied the contents onto the floor and read each title. They were all standard tunes sung by other artists, spanning seventy or so years. He flipped casually through the music, noticed Janet’s penciled phrasing marks or notes, and then returned the music to the basket.

  Behind the basket, a spiral-bound notebook of manuscript paper leaned against the wall. Maybe this held the music Janet had written. He grabbed the notebook, his hands suddenly shaking, and sat on the floor. The notebook was rubber banded lengthwise and widthwise, a substantial lump in its center. A lump that spoke of something wedged between the book’s pages. As he opened the book, a cassette tape, several newspaper clippings, small sheets of paper and a small envelope fell out.

  He looked at the sheets first. They consisted of one or two short paragraphs, hand written and signed, apparently, by the writer. Each entry was in a different handwriting. He sat in the half-light, his eyes skimming the pages, trying to understand what he read.

  They were testimonials by the same caterers and restaurant owners whom he had talked to today. Each entry was notarized and dated. The earliest one came from six years ago in January; the most recent had been written in May five years ago, the year Janet died. They all stated that the named, noted food critic had sought ‘donations’ to her pet charity. In return, she’d be certain the owner’s business got a glowing recommendation in her newspaper column.

  As he read further, he noted that the payments were made on one of two dates, which he thought odd. Was the blackmailer collecting for a specific item, needing the money at a specific time? He set the papers aside and turned to the clippings.

  As if to strengthen Janet’s investigation—for what else could it be?—the newspaper articles sang out the special qualities of each business. All reviews were dated after the notarized accounts.

  McLaren picked up the cassette tape. One September was written in black marker on the front of the cassette. A few weeks before Janet had died. He got up, his heart racing, and took everything out to his car. He shoved the tape into the car’s cassette tape player and turned up the volume.

  It was a conversation between two women. Most likely face-to-face, for both voices sounded equal in volume. One voice, presumably, was Janet’s—it held the same quality as the singing on her CD. The other voice must have been the blackmailer’s. He stopped and ejected the tape and looked again at the case. Beneath the date in smaller printing were the two women’s names. McLaren put the tape back into the player and listened.

  The first voice was urgent, demanding, yet not angry. A quiet threat lay beneath her words and tone. She reminded Janet that several of her competitors had already signed up to donate and they were being blessed with a great review and increased business. Didn’t Janet want the same prosperity? All it took was a yearly contribution.

  Janet’s first reaction to this was laughter. When the other woman reminded her rather sharply that damage could be done by a very poor review, Janet replied that she had no intention of giving to any charity. The woman could write what she wanted; one review meant nothing.

  The recording stopped with the blackmailer stating that accidents sometimes happened and wouldn’t it be a shame if something happened to Janet’s business?

  McLaren sat in his car as the tape clicked off. His mind raced in tempo to his galloping heart rate. If the woman had tried and failed at blackmail, had she made good on her threat? He locked up the house and drove home, wondering how he could prove it.

  * * * *

  Dinner was not the multi-course meal he had fixed in July. For one thing,
he had used too much of the afternoon at Janet’s cottage. And he was not in the mood to cook something elaborate. He should have done, for he loved Dena and wanted to please her. But the afternoon had been wearing and he hadn’t the energy. Dena would have to like the cidered chicken, broccoli with sour cream, and pan haggerty.

  He had showered and dressed swiftly in gray trousers and light blue shirt, aware of the time slipping away. The table was set, the chicken was simmering, and the potato and onion slices were frying when the doorbell rang. McLaren glanced at the clock, pulled the tea towel from his shoulder and jammed it over the oven handle, and sprinted to the door. He smiled and pulled Dena inside.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered, his lips against her brunette hair. She wore it down; it brushed her shoulders and smelled of lavender.

  “You’re not bad yourself.”

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” He gave her a leisurely kiss.

  “When have I ever turned down a free meal?” she said as he released her. “Smells terrific. Chicken?” She followed him into the kitchen.

  “Yeah. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I’d eat bangers and mash with you, Michael, and love it.”

  He finished up the meal and got it onto the table while Dena lit the candles and poured the wine.

  Afterward, as they sat in the front room with their coffee, she asked how the case was going.

  “I’m making headway,” he said, holding his coffee cup on his thigh.

  “But not enough and not quickly enough. I know that tone.”

  “I thought I had a super lead today, but I’m damned if I can figure out how to pursue it. Maybe I’m too old for this. Maybe I’ve been out of the job too long. I can’t seem to wrap my brain around any of it.”

  Dena took his coffee cup and set it on the table. Taking his hand, she said, “Free advice and shoulder, for what it’s worth.”

  “You’d be bored to death in one minute if I let loose.”

  “That’s what you need, to let loose. I’m all ears. Go ahead.”

  “Is your linen blouse wash and wear?”

  Dena smoothed a wrinkle from the pink fabric. “Even if it weren’t, you’re worth the price of a new one.”

  After he related his afternoon, he said, “I don’t know. I never will understand people. Ruth Wilshaw has a good job; what’s she need to blackmail people for?”

  “Michael, I thought you knew about her.”

  “What’s to know? She’s married to Dan Wilshaw, who was Janet’s pianist. She’s a food critic. What else is there?”

  Dena kissed his hand. “That’s what comes of going round in your circles compared to mine. And I don’t mean that disparagingly.”

  “What’s your high society, jet set know about Ruth Wilshaw, then?”

  “Not that much, but we know Eva Lister.”

  “Eva?” His mind conjured up a photo of the woman—elegant, expensively dressed, large house. “Did she get Ruth’s advice about the catering for her daughter’s wedding reception?”

  Dena sighed audibly and patted McLaren’s hand. “No, dear. You’re not getting this at all.”

  “Do you know Eva?”

  “Never met her, but I know of her. She married Lister—some say for his money—but her own bank account was never too shabby. She was Eva Mills before she married. Her daddy owned Mills Computer Solutions. He made his fortune years ago. His children grew up rich and spoiled.”

  “Children? Who else besides Eva?”

  “Her sister. Ruth Wilshaw.”

  McLaren started, his leg hitting the coffee table and nearly upsetting his coffee cup. “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t look at me like that. Why would I make it up? It was in the society and appointments pages a while back when Eva married Lloyd.”

  “Sorry, I missed it. I don’t read the society and appointments pages.”

  “Maybe you should. See what you’re missing? Anyway, I thought it odd at the time of Ruth’s marriage. You know, Ruth marrying for love, not money. Marrying a struggling musician and living on his income.”

  “Ruth didn’t have a trust or something from her parents?”

  Dena shrugged. “Maybe her dad got angry over her choice of husband. Going against the family standards,” she added when McLaren looked puzzled. “Instead of hunting for someone rich or with an impeccable lineage or in line for a CEO position in a company, she followed her heart and chose the person instead of the bank account. Maybe he kicked her out of the family. Or will. It happens, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Anyway, she must really love Dan to give up the rich life. Because evidently that’s all history. I don’t see her at the club or track anymore.”

  “Pity.” He said it with more cynicism than he’d meant and quickly said, “I guess you’re right, though, about her marriage.”

  “I’d always assumed she would marry into exalted, rich circles, like Eva did. Just shows you that you can’t discount what love will do.”

  “I never have,” he said, drawing her close and kissing her. “Thanks.”

  “For the information or the kiss?”

  “Both.” He leaned toward her again but she got up.

  “I hate cutting the night short, Michael, but I have to be at the rescue center early tomorrow.”

  “Saturday morning tour?”

  “We’ve got three groups coming, the first one at eight.”

  “Those are usually good for donations, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. That’s important, of course, for any non-profit organization, but it’s crucial for building public awareness. Most people don’t know much about tigers, or know how critical their status is. It’s estimated that they will be extinct in twelve years if nothing is done to stop poaching and destruction of their habitat. Can you imagine that, Michael? Twelve years! That’s indecent! It’d be a crime if that happened, they’re such magnificent animals.”

  He nodded and tried to recall a recent newspaper article on a case of poaching tiger parts. It had happened in Buxton, of all places.

  “If I weren’t the trusting type, I’d wonder what was going on.” Dena picked up the jeans lying across the back of the chair near the front door. Her index finger and thumb gingerly held the jeans by the waistband. “Or do I need to ask?”

  “I think they’re Eva Lister’s.”

  “You think? Was Eva here?”

  “No. I got them from her house this morning.”

  “You just walked up to her door and asked for a clothing donation.”

  “Would’ve been easier.” He related the search for the jeans, giving her all the details and the near miss of being discovered beneath the bed. He noticed her valiant attempt to keep a straight face, the way she kept scratching her nose or rubbing her upper lip. Anything to cover the laugh that threatened to erupt from her. He finished his narrative in a rather gruff voice. “I assume they’re hers. If I need to, I can have Jamie run them through the lab.”

  “And they will prove…what?” she said, recovering her composure.

  “Hopefully that she’s my arsonist.”

  “You mean, for Janet’s case?”

  “No. The person who set the fires in my drive and tool shed. I’d like to find that bas—” He stopped, realizing what he was about to say. “I’d like to find that…person.”

  “Hopefully not to beat into a pulp.”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how I’m feeling.” He smiled, easing her fears, and draped Dena’s jacket around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, dear heart. I’ve never hit a woman.”

  “Glad to hear it. But the jeans and the missing button seem awfully suspicious, don’t they?”

  “They do to me.”

  Dena grabbed her shoulder bag and McLaren opened the door for her. They stepped outside and Dena slid her hand into his.

  “I need to install a lamp by the drive,” McLaren said as they left the small patch of light at the front door. “Wait ti
ll I get a torch. You can’t see.”

  “No need, Michael. I can see. Besides,” she added as his arm slid around her waist, “if I trip, I’m taking you down with me. Who’s that, over there by my car?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Her question directed McLaren’s attention to a shadowy figure standing near the boot of Dena’s car. McLaren shouted and the figure bolted down the drive and onto the road. Calling to Dena to stay where she was, McLaren gave chase.

  Later, McLaren would say it had seemed liked a replay of the previous night, but without the fire. He dashed up the road, his heartbeat as loud as the thud of his shoes on the asphalt. The ribbon of black curved ahead of him and occasionally threw back fragments of moonlight where the trees thinned a bit. He paused, catching his breath, avoiding the silvery patch. Nothing moved in the darkness. He jogged a few hundred yards farther and paused once more. No sound came to him but his own ragged breathing.

  He considered going even farther up the road when, to his right, the snap of a tree branch cracked the quiet. He spun around and entered the wood.

  The night closed around him, inky black and smothering. He pushed through the clumps of thistles and crashed past tree branches that reached for him. He ignored the scrapes and cuts on his arms and neck and charged on.

  At a moss-draped tree stump he stopped. His fingertips dug into the spongy covering, supporting him as he leaned forward and listened. He’d been incautious during his pursuit through the wood, his need to catch the person greater than his desire to employ guile. But now he waited for a sound to direct his hunt. McLaren stood by the tree, aware of the evening chill, and fought the near panic rising within him. He had to get out of the smothering darkness.

  He knew the road lay to his right, hopefully not many yards away. He turned and inched past the tree stump as he felt his way through the gloom. Branches and twigs cracked, a log rolled downhill, leaves crunched underfoot. McLaren didn’t care about the noise; he needed to escape.