Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and returned to the dining room. He sat down, still staring at the photo, and set the mug on the table. Janet must have known about Connie fairly early on in Connie’s life, for there were several photos of Janet and baby Connie. Which parent had told Janet about Connie? Did it matter to McLaren’s investigation?

  Maybe it mattered only to Nora. Maybe losing Connie, the child who might have been hers, spurred her into needing to have Janet’s death resolved. Nora knew how Connie had died, most likely. She now needed to know how Janet had died.

  But if Janet and Nora were in the picture, who was the photographer?

  McLaren tucked the photo inside his wallet, poured the untasted coffee into the kitchen sink, and left his house.

  * * * *

  “Yes, I took the photo. Six or so years ago. I’m amazed I can remember.” The vicar of St. James the Apostle Church in Temple Normanton held the photo up to the sunlight and looked carefully at the faces. He had abandoned poking the small fire in the wire incinerator when McLaren walked up, and set the stick on top of the stone wall. Within the incinerator, the dry leaves, stalks of the summer garden and the castoff twigs and boughs crackled noisily. The flames burned bright yellow and red in the sunlight. The air smelled of autumn and reminded McLaren of long ago campfires and leaf raking. A tongue of fire curled upward, as though reaching for the yellow-leafed branch overhead. The smoke billowed white and translucent on the downwind breeze, and he thought momentarily of the fires set at his house.

  “I’m glad you can remember,” McLaren returned, trying to keep his voice unemotional.

  The vicar nodded, his gaze still on the photo. He was dressed in baggy-kneed tan trousers and an ill-defined long knitted waistcoat. A brown corduroy cap sat low over his forehead, as though anchoring his flyaway hair. He smiled, nodded, and returned the photo to McLaren. “We’re a small village, as I told you on your previous visit, but even without a multitude of residents I’m certain of these people and the occasion. That’s Connie Long, in the center. Her boyfriend, Alan. And her friend Janet Ennis and then Janet’s mother.”

  “Were the four of them close friends, do you know? Did you see them here regularly?”

  “Janet came quite frequently. For Connie’s birthday, though not yearly. Sometimes for Boxing Day. She came more often for that than for Christmas. Perhaps she and her mother lived too far away to come more often.”

  “How about Alan?”

  “He played bass with some sort of trio. I never heard him, but I believe he as well as the group were quite good. Due to his work schedule, he didn’t come to the village very often. Connie went off to see him, I know. I’d see her at the bus stop or walking back to her house and she’d laugh and say she had visited Alan.”

  “They’re together for this occasion, though.” McLaren tapped the front of the photo. “Did you take this shot here, next to the churchyard wall?”

  The vicar adjusted his glasses farther up his nose and looked carefully at the picture. “Yes. How clever of you to recognize it. Alan got a new car and took the women for a celebration ride. Not all at once, of course.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t recall an exact date. Months before Connie’s accident, if that’s what you want to know. In the summer.” He angled his head to look at the photo and pointed to a plant at the base of the stone wall. “See? A daylily. That variety blooms in July.”

  McLaren nodded and returned the photo to his wallet. Shaking hands with the vicar, he said, “Well, you’re been most helpful. I appreciate it.”

  As he turned to leave, the vicar said, “This is important, then. I recall you asked about Connie when you first came.”

  McLaren hesitated, assessing what he should tell the man. The vicar was used to confidences shared. In a small village he would have to be tight lipped so no gossip would start. But the man did not need to know about Connie or Janet, or any of the other people in Connie’s life. He had known the woman for a brief year or so and had liked her. He didn’t need to know she was illegitimate. McLaren cleared his throat and smiled quickly. “It is important, yes. To Connie and to the folks in the photo. Each of us thanks you.” He walked to his car, feeling the vicar’s gaze on him and the unanswered questions hanging in the air.

  * * * *

  Alan Ross was marginally more polite Saturday morning to McLaren. Resentment, either at Janet or at McLaren, showed itself in Alan’s tone, but he answered the questions, perhaps thinking he’d get rid of the man soonest that way.

  “None of us had money falling out of our pockets,” Alan said. “Even Janet. She was better off than me or Dan, but I didn’t see her moving to an upscale neighborhood or buying a new car. She worked for her money, just like us.”

  “She didn’t have to spend every penny she earned,” McLaren countered.

  “No. At least, I don’t think she did. Dan might’ve come close to doing that, though.”

  “Oh? His place is nice but it’s not what I would classify as upscale.”

  “The house isn’t, but they got a posh car a few months before Janet died and the group broke up. I guess he’d been saving up for it.”

  Could’ve been saving up for it, McLaren acknowledged, his gaze on his car’s tape deck. So could anyone. But added to the conversation on the tape he’d found at Janet’s cottage, a marriage that fell short of an affluent level experienced from childhood, and the affidavits of caterers and restaurants owners. McLaren rang up Jamie and told him where to turn up for an arrest, nosed his car back onto the road, and turned up the volume on the tape. Maybe he’d sleep well tonight.

  * * * *

  Dan Wilshaw settled into his chair opposite McLaren. He had offered McLaren a cup of coffee, which he refused, so Dan drank alone and wondered what had prompted the return visit.

  “Nora loaned me the use of Janet’s cottage.” McLaren watched Dan for a reaction. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I? It was Janet’s and now it’s Nora’s. She can do with it as she likes. I’m glad it will be used instead of sitting there to rot away.”

  “Did Janet ever have you over at her cottage?”

  “No. It was strictly her getaway. A place she used for writing her music.”

  “Nice that she had such a spot. Too many of us don’t have any place where we can get away from our daily grind.” McLaren nodded toward a photograph of a tropical cottage on a beach. “Is that one of your favorite spots?”

  “Yes. It’s not ours outright, however. It’s a time-share thing. We fell into a good deal. Ruth found out about it and we jumped at the chance.”

  “Nice. How long have you had that?”

  Dan scratched his chin. “Now that I think of it, it’s kind of funny. A bit before Janet died. In the summer. I think June, but I’m not sure. June or July, at any rate. I had it in my mind to invite Janet and Miles for a week the following year, but…” His mouth skewed up and he avoided McLaren’s eyes.

  “New car, nice time share place. You must’ve done all right as Janet’s pianist.”

  “I did, but don’t forget that Ruth works, too. Her wages contributed to all this.”

  “And probably other folks’ wages, too.”

  “What?” Dan’s eyebrows lowered in confusion. “Other folks? What are you talking about? Ruth, do you know what he means?”

  Ruth had entered the house during McLaren’s last statement. She laid her shoulder bag and keys on the chair and looked from McLaren to her husband.

  McLaren stood up and related finding Janet’s tape recording, newspaper clippings and the affidavits of several caterers and restaurant owners. “The police will subpoena each person’s bank statements, including yours.”

  “You’re round the twist,” Ruth said, walking over to her husband. “You’re trying too hard.”

  “You also killed Janet.”

  Ruth laughed. “Now there you are trying too hard. What brought you to this fictional assumption?”


  “You are the only person in her immediate group who might know where the sound equipment was in her house. You’d been over there for Christmas parties. But you didn’t know that they never rehearsed in her studio because it was too little. A microphone was found in the debris of the fire. Its round head matches the curved indentation on Janet’s skull.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “I’m not saying you killed her on purpose, but you went to her house that day, maybe argued with her. In talking, you picked up the microphone, followed her outside and into her studio. The argument escalated and you hit her with the mic. Maybe you panicked, maybe you thought to cover the incident. Janet had a small rubbish fire burning. It had been a windy day. Maybe the studio caught fire accidentally. Or you could have spread the fire to the studio. That’s something for the police to prove.”

  Ruth shook her head in amazement. “Incredibly good. You should write fiction. What’s my motive for doing all this? Killers usually have a reason.”

  “You had a very good reason. You took bribes from restaurants and caterers to give them 5-star reviews in your food column in the newspaper. One good review from you and businesses usually flourish. You tried to strong arm Janet into paying you for a great review, except Janet didn’t succumb to your blackmail. In your heated discussion you killed her.”

  “Like I said, great fiction. Besides that tape and clippings, you’ve nothing else, have you?”

  McLaren went to the front door, opened it and motioned for Jamie, who had just driven up in a police car. He waited until Jamie joined them and cautioned Ruth before he continued.

  “I believe I do have something else. One of Janet’s coats was missing from her house. A blue ski jacket with dark red chevrons on the sleeves. A rather distinctive coat with a small rip on the right side hip area. I believe you put on the coat when you left the house, just in case someone saw you. You’d then be mistaken for Janet. Shall we look in your closet?” He walked to the hallway before Ruth could reply. On opening the door he saw the coat Nora had described. He pulled it from the closet. “I think we’ve got all the proof here that we need. You want to bet the lab will find yours and Janet’s DNA on this coat?”

  Ruth grabbed Dan’s hand and nodded. “Yes, that’s the way it happened. I didn’t mean to hurt her. But she was so smug, so sure I wasn’t going to follow through with her. I got so angry with her. I hadn’t meant to use the mic to hit her with. We’d been talking in the front room and I just idly picked up the mic. I still had it in my hands when I followed her outside. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “You planted the pot under her sofa, didn’t you?”

  “While she was in the kitchen, yes. I thought that I could call the police with an anonymous tip and that would show her I meant business, that she should think again before crossing me. I forgot it was there when the fire started.”

  “And the arsons at my place? Just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  “That was either me or my sister. We both set the fires, at different times. We were trying to scare you off the case, but…” She looked at Dan and he squeezed her hand.

  “So Eva knew about you killing Janet, then.”

  “Yes. I’d phoned her to warn her about you so she’d watch what she said. We were going to meet in order to discuss how to throw you off the track.”

  “At Carsington Water?” he asked, remembering following Eva around the lake.

  “Yes. She didn’t realize you had trailed her there, so she tried to lose you. She didn’t want you finding me there and possibly connecting us. She was only trying to help me.”

  Jamie escorted Ruth to the police car and drove off. McLaren patted Dan’s shoulder, then slowly walked to his car and drove to see Nora.

  * * * *

  When he told her he had solved the case, she seemed not to know him or know what he was talking about. She sat in her favorite place by the window and looked out at the gathering dusk, letting his words flow over her without any acknowledgement. McLaren paused halfway through his narrative, wondering if she comprehended anything he said, wondering if he should leave. But he told her everything, neither expecting a response now or any questions. Her eyes had the veiled look of her mind being somewhere else.

  McLaren finished his account and took the photo from his wallet. He looked at it once more before laying it on the table. The four people were so happy, so confident about the future. Who could have guessed that within a year two of them would be dead? He glanced at Janet and felt the now-familiar rush of blood to his cheeks and the quick increase of his heart rate. She’d been such a beauty, so talented. Damn the waste of talent.

  Looking at Nora, he paused by the front door. She remained in the same pose, her attention on some faraway object. As he opened the door, she turned toward him and smiled. “Thank you, Mr. McLaren. For me, Janet and Connie.”

  He nodded, kissed her cheek, and closed the door behind him. His satisfaction stayed with him through the ride home.

  Later that afternoon, McLaren walked to the stereo and reached for Janet’s CD. A lot of emotions were packed into each song; he wasn’t ready to immerse himself again in them. Not right now, at least. He put on a recording of Chopin nocturnes and sat on the sofa. He thought of Janet as the music washed over him. Janet had been found in the center of the room, implying she had been unconscious and not known about the fire. He nodded, finding peace in that knowledge.

  He rang up Dena, needing to get the emotions untangled. Ruth’s act had devastated the members of Janet’s group and her catering company, affected Ruth’s sister and possibly her brother-in-law, and of course Nora. So many lives that would never be the same due to Ruth’s anger and greed. Right now all he cared about was Dena and the love they shared. He smiled at her photo as Dena’s voice came to him over the phone. He would grab her love and keep it as an island while the world tilted around them.

  EPILOGUE

  Sean picked up the phone receiver, his heart racing. Should he call the police or just let it go? After all, nothing much had happened. A wooden flower box burnt, a small fire on Helene’s drive… He glanced at his wife’s photo, the glass front brilliant in the sunlight. What would happen? A fine, jail time? His mouth went dry as he thought of the consequence. After all, Kathryn had just been trying to help him, scare off Helene from her blackmail attempt. The angry buzz over the phone line annoyed him, reminded him he had to do something. He mentally tossed a coin and slowly eased the receiver back onto its cradle. The silence wrapped him in comfort.

  * * * *

  Charlie Harvester let the newspaper sink slowly onto the breakfast table. He hadn’t read past the front-page article’s headline and first sentence yet he knew what the entire story would say. Knew that the tightening in his stomach would grow to a full flown knot, and that the pressure behind his eyes would develop into a migraine. He stared at the far wall, unaware of his surroundings and the urgency of the whistling tea kettle. The article’s first sentence swan before his eyes. A mother who wouldn’t let her daughter’s death investigation die found justice yesterday when ex-cop Michael McLaren solved the five-year old murder case.

  Harvester struggled to his feet, tipped the paper into the dust bin, and glanced at his wall calendar. “Wait until December, mate. My Christmas gift to you.”

  ABOUT AUTHOR JO A. HIESTAND

  Books, the natural world and music have filled Jo Hiestand’s life since childhood. These passions and an intense love of Things English create the foundation of her writing. It is nowhere more evident than in her novels featuring ex-police detective Michael McLaren. a folk music enthusiast and reluctant solver of cold cases.

  Jo’s insistence for accuracy—from police methods and location layout to the general ‘feel’ of the area—has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire, England, the setting for her books. These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail used for McLaren’s cases.

  In 1999 Jo returned to Webste
r University to major in English with an Emphasis in Writing as a Profession. She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors.

  She has combined her love of writing, board games and music by co-inventing P.I.R.A.T.E.S., the mystery-solving game that uses maps, graphics, song lyrics, and other clues to lead the players to the lost treasure.

  Jo founded the Greater St. Louis Chapter of Sisters in Crime, serving as its first president. She is also a member of Mystery Writers of America. When not writing, she likes to listen to early and bluegrass music, play guitar, take nature photographs, read, change ring and watch her backyard wildlife. Her three cats—Chaucer, Dickens and Tennyson—share her St. Louis home.

  For more information about Jo, please visit her on the web at www.McLarenCases.com

  * * * *

  Join Jo’s literary community! Attend her talks and book signings; keep up to date with new book information on www.McLarenCases.com; become a fan of her books on Facebook (Jo Hiestand – Mystery Author page) and join her fan club www.johiestandfans.org. Snail mail or email her at 330 W. Lockwood, St Louis, MO 63119 and me@johiestand.com. She will reply.