Death of an Ordinary Guy

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “You mentioned Pedersen and Talbot. Would your credibility extend to Talbot killing Pedersen by mistake—if strangling is his preferred or first attack?”

  “I don’t quite follow you, sir.”

  “Think back to that entertaining bit Fordyce put us onto, Taylor. If Talbot lunged at Byron, ready to strike and kick the life out of him years ago, would Talbot also just as easily have struck Pedersen? Damn, I wish we had the pathology report.”

  “It’s obvious he didn’t die from the knife wound. Hardly have to wash his clothes for all the blood that was on them. It might have been part of their tradition, using a knife to affix a note to the effigy, but it’s a silly one.”

  “So, what’s the motive, TC?”

  “Told you we needed that crystal ball.” The minutes ticked away as we considered our suspects and motives. Finally, almost apologizing for interrupting our contemplation, I said, “Could Byron have staged it, wanting to kill Derek?”

  “For what gain? The only tango those two ever did, as far as we know, was for Derek to take over as Kris’ fiancé. And that was certainly nothing personal. Derek stepped into the matrimonial picture after Kris’ dad was killed in that car accident.”

  “People harbor grudges for ages.”

  “What grudge? Byron was driving. He lost out on marriage, not Derek.”

  “I agree it’s logical, but if you’re overcome by remorse or bitterness or jealousy, you aren’t as likely to think straight. Maybe while he was in his self exile he got to thinking about what happened, what he was missing in marriage. He had a lot of months to let those emotions boil. Maybe that car accident years ago wasn’t so much of an accident. Maybe it was a suicide that failed.”

  “And it’s a damned stupid, risky thing to do,” Graham said, his fingers nearly crushing the film canister. “Could you be sure you’d die? No. Besides, why should he take Kris’ dad with him? You’re clutching at straws, Taylor. Give it up. Besides, the man came back and in twenty-two years hasn’t killed himself.”

  “Maybe the depression’s over. Maybe he got a good shrink.”

  “You make it sound like the man suffered through Viet Nam.”

  “There are a lot of traumas in life, a lot of reasons people wish other people dead.”

  “If anybody deserved to be dead, it should’ve been Derek. With him out of the way, Arthur could keep his money.”

  “Arthur and Ramona would probably vote for that,” I stated, then added that I meant that only as an economic measure, that the betrothed couple probably liked Derek a great deal and wouldn’t mean him any personal harm.

  “But someone might have,” Graham reminded me, staring at his mess of mind-mapped notes, the arrows, cartoons and boxed-off words remarkably accurate in portraying the condition of our minds at the moment. He hummed a snatch of a Gilbert and Sullivan song, and grinned when I joined him on ‘Spite of ye all, he is free—he is free! Whom do ye ward? Pretty warders are ye…’

  I sighed heavily, evoking fond memories of the operetta. “One of my favorites, Yeomen of the Guard. I played Dame Carruthers.” I smoothed the fabric on my trousers, hoping he wouldn’t say something about matronly type casting. “I still remember it all. ‘The screw may twist and the rack may turn, and men may bleed and—’”

  Graham looked at me with a new admiration, I thought. “I didn’t know you sang, Taylor. What a deep, secret pool of talents you hide.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, embarrassed now that I had mentioned it.

  “And where was this? I would have come if I’d have known. Next time, let me know.”

  I could feel the heat flooding my cheeks. Hating myself for being so self conscious, I said, “The church hall. Um, a few years ago, I think.”

  Graham grinned, squeezed my hand, and said, “I bet the tower was never kept in better tune than by you.”

  My voice shook as I thanked him. For some reason, I was hoping he would say something further, something more personal, mentioning my singing voice, but he had dropped the subject and was once again focused on murder. Fanning through my papers, I said, “You have the time table handy, sir? Can’t seem to place my copy. Thanks. Was our Good Arthur alone long enough to slip down to the green and waylay Pedersen?”

  “As you said that, Taylor, I had the queerest mental image of Arthur gaily bedecked in some mumming outfit, running stealthily from tree to tree, dodging moonlight and villagers.”

  “Mummers’ plays aren’t for another month or so. Besides, Arthur would stand out like a sore thumb in any such outfit.”

  “Well, if Arthur did traipse down to the village green for some nefarious purpose, mum’s the word from him.”

  “Very appropriate for a mumming play.”

  “But we’re not dealing in Christmas charades. We’re dealing in deliberate death.” Graham groaned as he closed his eyes briefly and stretched, the stress of the case and the long days catching up with him. “I don’t know, TC. I think I’ve had it. Can’t seem to think any more.”

  “You’ve been chasing the clock hands fairly steadily, sir. Pity the overtime pay’s a thing of the past.”

  “Nothing more than a fond memory,” he agreed, giving way to a yawn after he had given his opinion of the constabulary policy. “We ignore the clock and plug along. Well, I, for one, am having a damned hard go this evening. What say we give it another quarter hour before surrendering to our beds? Now…” He folded back the top page of his notebook. “Let’s look long and hard at these flittings by our key personnel. Motive aside for the moment, it seems to all hang on opportunity.”

  I nodded, but thought of the Guy that had been hanging in my bedroom. Who had had the opportunity to fix up that?

  “Very little time to accomplish anything,” Graham continued after he had closed his eyes. “We’ve got the vicar, Talbot, and the American couple at the bonfire area at quarter past six or so, with the place literally crawling with people from then on.”

  “Had to have been done earlier. Of course, there were snatches of quarter and half hours throughout the day when someone could have switched the effigy for Pedersen’s body. Wouldn’t take long if he had Pedersen all dressed for the occasion. But the American wasn’t missing till after tea Sunday. Cuts down on the available time.”

  “I know you were wandering about, TC. Heaven knows you couldn’t stare constantly at a pile of wood and remain alert. And I’m not criticizing your effort, believe me, but if you remember anything unusual as you walked your beat…”

  I shook my head, feeling like a failure, feeling I should’ve seen something, wishing I could provide the “Ah ha!” he wanted.

  “So,” he continued, without any judgment or exasperation in his voice. “In those quarters of an hour or so when you were not all-eyes on the stack of wood, we’ve a bunch of tourists and villagers alone and at loose ends, waiting for the bonfire to begin, probably quite available to commit the crime.”

  “Alone,” I echoed, turning the word and the meaning around in my mind. “I know our time constraint is bloody awful, but do you suppose our murderer could have had an accomplice?”

  “Nothing would surprise me, TC. God, what I wouldn’t give right now for a stone-chiseled tablet of everyone’s whereabouts. Where’s Moses when we need him?”

  SEVENTEEN

  “So, anything happen last night?” Margo asked on coming into my room Tuesday morning. She looked at my ceiling fixture, expecting to see the Guy still hanging there. I didn’t tell her, but it had taken all my nerve to touch it to take it down.

  “What do you consider ‘happen’?” I busied myself with brushing my hair, and avoided her eyes.

  Margo laid both hands on my shoulders and turned me to face her. My resolve, so steady earlier, dissolved on the confrontation, and I felt tears forming in my eyes. “More importantly,” she said, her eyes drilling into mine as though she was Mesmer, “what do you consider it? Anything gross and indecent?” She started toward the bathroom, seeing nothing obvious in the room i
tself. I pulled her back.

  “It’s not in there.”

  “So something did happen,” she said with the suggestion of a smile. “Note? Phone call?”

  “That I could deal with.” I grabbed a tissue. Even now, eight hours after I had discovered it, I was still angry.

  “For God’s sake, Bren, what happened?”

  I walked to the waste can, reached in and removed the pristine pages I had torn from my notebook, then held the can so Margo could see the dead bird inside. A string secured a wilted mum to the bird’s chest. For once Margo had nothing to say. I placed the can on the floor and slowly tossed in the papers.

  I looked around, aware of the flowered curtains and coverlet, the fireplace and over-sized cushions and rocker, yet searching for some clue to the intruder.

  In the silence I could hear the sounds of the pub waking. The creaks of the wooden floor, the phone in the bar area ringing, the scratchings of a wind-tossed tree branch at my window. It wasn’t until I heard a bird singing outside the window that I cried.

  “Bren, dear, it’s all right.” Margo came over, smothered me in a hug that spoke of her anger and concern and sorrow. We stood like that for several minutes, my head on her shoulder, dampening her blouse with my tears, and her voice floating in my ear.

  When I finally lifted my head, I said, “It’s not me, Margo. I swear I’m not crying for me. It’s the wren. Why anyone would harm such a defenseless creature who never did anything—”

  Margo held me at arm’s length, searching my eyes for some hint to my emotional stability. “It’s not the bird, Bren.” I must have looked astonished, because she hurried on. “Listen to me. Think like a cop, Bren. You’re letting your emotions get in the way. And that’s just what this berk wants. You’re not using your brain, Bren. You’re forgetting everything you ever learned of police work.”

  “But how does he know about me and birds?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. It’s not the bird—I’m trying to get through to you. It’s the message.”

  I gazed at the cloudy sky, at the patchwork of sun and shadow sweeping the land, before I could find my words. “He wants me dead? Like the bird?”

  “Either that, or he’s trying to scare you off this case.”

  We sat on the bed while Margo rattled off suppositions. They were probably good bits of wisdom, though I can’t recall any; I was too emotional over the wren.

  “So how is he getting in here?”

  Margo’s foot tapped the waste can. “I’m not half so concerned about that as I am about his messages. This was left in your bathroom sometime yesterday, then, and you found it—”

  “Around 11:00, when I was getting ready for bed.”

  We heard Graham’s door open and close. She waited for his footsteps to fade before asking, “Does he know? Have you told him?”

  “If I haven’t said anything about the Guy in my room, you think I’m going to mention a dead bird? I told you…”

  “I know what you told me,” Margo said, gazing at the door. “But this thing’s not just about a dummy anymore, Bren. It’s escalating. And in a frightening way. I think you should at least tell one of the lads.”

  I must have grabbed Margo’s hand rather tightly, for she yelled and asked what was the matter. I apologized and reminded her about Mark Salt.

  “You can’t suspect him, Bren. Really?”

  I nodded. “Just the sort of thing he’d do. Birds, flowers, nature. Use my passions, as he calls it, to make me nervous.”

  “And hopefully propel you into his arms.”

  “Or his bed,” I added.

  “Just like him, the berk. ‘I’m scared, Mark. Help me!’ Men!” She exhaled loudly and stood up, her eyes hardened. “Well, whoever is getting in here at least isn’t harming you—remember that. He’s had opportunity.”

  “You don’t think it’s more of a practical joke, do you, Margo, instead of the warning off the case?”

  “Now that could definitely be Mister Detective God’s-Gift-to-Women Mark Salt.”

  I suddenly felt better thinking along that line. It would be just like Mark to first use a piece from the case, then something personally associated with me, as a big joke. Perhaps he was even wanting me to confide in him. What had he said yesterday?

  “Well,” Margo said, her hand on the doorknob, “it’s a damned shame we can’t use some of our equipment to catch Mister Funny Man. What a waste. Come on,” she said, opening the door and stepping into the hall. “You’ll feel better after breakfast.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said, then indicated Talbot at the end of the hall. The handyman had a large canister, into which he was dumping trash from people’s rooms. I thought about ducking back into my room before he saw me, but then reasoned I’d have a face-to-face confrontation when he tapped on the room to get my waste can. I stepped into the hall and quietly shut the door.

  Fortune was not smiling on me that morning. Perhaps it couldn’t break through the clouds. Talbot turned to knock at the next door in his procession, saw me, and called out, “Leave yer door open, will ya? I know you’ve got somethin’ ya wanna get rid of.” He shuffled down the hall, his eyes fixed on me rather like a snake staring down a rabbit. I stepped aside as he approached and opened the door. As he passed I could smell the cigarette odor of his clothes and breathe. I turned my head to avoid the aroma.

  When he had tipped the waste can contents into his canister, he shoved the waste can into my hand. “You’re lookin’ at me like I was gonna steal it. Here. Now you’ve got it again you can sleep safe.” He bent over, butt angled toward me, conveniently picking up something off the carpet so he could show his opinion of me.

  Margo called impatiently from the top of the landing, wondering what was taking me so long.

  I put the can back and shut the door. I tucked the key into the zippered section of my purse. In turning to go, I rattled the doorknob once more. It was locked.

  “Go and fill yer belly, then,” Talbot said on straightening up. “We can’t have you fainting from hunger. Might hit yer head and get concussed. And then you’d be in hospital. What would we do then?” He ambled down the hall, rapping on the next door. Getting no response, he moved to the next. I noticed, on the door opening, that he could talk civilly when he wanted to.

  * * * *

  Tea had just been poured the second time that morning when Fordyce dashed into the incident room. Thinking he wanted a hot drink after his drive up from Buxton, I held out a mug. He shook his head, and looked around for Graham. Seeing him at the far end of the room, he walked over, waving a folder that looked very much like Ahrens’ pathology report.

  The morning was well advanced. Shops were open, the Royal Mail van was on its rounds, and motorists were pumping petrol at the service station. The baker’s shop discharged a handful of customers, all of whom hurried away with bags or boxes. I imagined the glass cases with their array of bread and biscuits and wished for a pastry or a plate of digestives. Something nice for our mid-morning break. Instead, we had a tin of stale pretzels. Graham put down his cup, his attention peeled from the pathology report to Fordyce’s impish face.

  Opening his clenched fingers to reveal a roll of film, the constable watched Graham’s confusion as he glanced from the metal roll to the processed photographs. The computerized report fell haphazardly to the table, momentarily forgotten. “No, sir,” Fordyce said, handing the photos to Graham. “I didn’t overlook it. I just received it from Mrs. Oldendorf.”

  “Mrs. Oldendorf? How’d—”

  “Nice bit of timing, actually, I was coming, she was going.” Then as though thinking he had better put it in officialese for his superior, Fordyce reiterated, “Upon proceeding toward the village from my duties in Buxton, I observed the aforementioned subject motoring at a speed I considered in excess of the posted limit. Needing to reprimand her for the speed violation, I detained her. To make certain, as it were.”

  “Yes. Right.” Graham
’s thumb and forefinger dented the edge of the photographs. “What, exactly, was Carla Oldendorf doing on the road with this film? Can you tell me in twenty-five words or less?”

  “Yes, sir. Taking the film to Buxton to be developed. That was her story, anyway.”

  “You didn’t believe her?” I said, enjoying the verbal tennis game.

  “She didn’t give me any particular reason not to,” replied Fordyce, eyeing the pretzels. “Tom overlooked it yesterday when you asked for his film, Mr. Graham. He thought he’d given you all the rolls, but when she was hanging up her husband’s jacket…”

  “Behold the treasure trove.” Graham tossed the photographs onto the table.

  “Yes, sir. Also gave me another story. This one’s about Colonel Wroe. As pertains to the murder. She wanted you to know that Wroe has an expertise with knives. That kukri thing that the British troops used during the war. Probably doesn’t make too much difference what type of knife. Just that he’s good at handling such things.” His message delivered, Fordyce remained at attention.

  “Too bad it wasn’t a kukri sticking out of Pedersen,” I said. “We would have had our smoking gun.”

  “She would have told you herself,” Fordyce said, “but to tell the truth, I think she’s a bit frightened of you.”

  And the friendly village bobby offered more comfort during the investigative storm than Graham does, I deduced. There’s a fine line between appearing Official and Stern. I had been frightened of him on our first meeting, seeing only the Stern. As we continued working together, I was seeing the three parts of him—there was also the man who liked to joke. I said to Fordyce, “Think she’d get more leniency from you? What’s that say about us, sir?”

  Graham slowly passed his long fingers over his mouth in order to hide his grin. He tapped his index finger against his lips, then slapped his hands onto the table top. The cushioning of the p.m. report muffled the crack. “Nothing particularly one way or the other, Taylor. Carla Oldendorf just grabbed opportunity when it knocked. So she thinks we should concentrate on Wroe, does she? Any other reason than her assumption Wroe could hit a gnat at one hundred metres with a knitting needle?”