Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  What’s that phrase about the one-armed wallpaper hanger? McLaren thanked them and left.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Darling, don’t tell me you’ve come up with the money already.” Helene’s warm tones cooed into Sean’s ear. “I am impressed. What’s it been…a day? You are fast.”

  Sean wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He’d just finished a beer, yet his throat still felt as dry as parchment. He needed another one, not only to relieve his thirst but also to steady his quaking hands. How could he cook if he couldn’t grasp a knife? He tried clearing his throat and was aware of the raspy noise. He forced a swallow. “No. I don’t have the money. I—you need to know something.”

  “If you’ve another idea about payment, I’m listening, dear.”

  Even with his heart thudding against his Adam’s apple and eardrums, he curled his lips at her insinuation. He’d go to the cops before he’d wind up in her arms. “No. I—a man came here this morning.”

  “Is this something unique in your life?”

  He heard the derision in her voice, the attempt to belittle him. The old anger simmered within him and he felt a tingling in his blood. Would it be better to tell the cops of her extortion attempt, or lull her along and deal with her afterward? He struggled again to swallow, this time hampered more by the anger constricting his muscles than from his thirst. His words came out clipped and short. “He’s a cop. Actually, an ex-cop. He’s asking questions about Janet’s death.”

  The momentary pause on the other end of the phone told him that the information startled Helene. He walked into the kitchen and grabbed another beer from the fridge. The chink in her armor called for a celebration. “Did you hear me, Helene?” He couldn’t resist twisting the knife in the wound.

  “Uh, yes, dear. I, uh, just had to let the cat in.”

  “Didn’t know you had a cat. When did you get him?”

  “You don’t know a lot of things, darling, but that doesn’t prevent them from being.” Her tone had returned to its smooth, unflappable quality. A clink of ice cubes against glass, an audible swallow in his ear, and she said, “Was his name McLaren?”

  “Yeah. No. I don’t remember. Yeah, it was. Shock it was for me. Why? You know him?”

  “He came here, too, dear.”

  “Why? To ask you about Janet, too?”

  “Yes. Janet’s mother hired him to look into her death. At least, that’s what he said. I suppose he could’ve lied, could’ve been from the insurance company or someplace. I didn’t think Mrs. Ennis would stir things up again and get someone to nose around. It didn’t sound authentic, so I had my misgivings about her and this McLaren.”

  “Surprise, Helene. I know she bloody well did hire him.” Sean’s usual caution had returned and he was ready to release his anxiety on anyone handy. “That’s what he said when he was here. You think he knows anything?”

  “About…”

  “Knows anything about me. Us. Why’s Janet’s mum so worked up all of a sudden? Did this bloke go to her with some barmy story just to get some money out of her?”

  “I think it was the other way ’round, dear. She came to him and employed him.”

  “Well, what’s he know about us?”

  “Nothing, if you keep your mouth shut.”

  ****

  “So, my wife mentioned me, did she?” Stuart Ennis leaned against the handle of his garden rake and glared at McLaren. “Ex-wife, I should’ve said. First thing she’s probably got right in years. And how is the old idiot? Living in Bedlam yet?”

  McLaren felt his jaw muscle tightening as he looked at the man. Bald, mustached and wearing wire-rim glasses, Stuart Ennis stood by the pile of leaves he had raked together. Other small mounds of leaves dotted his front lawn and a large bin liner sat by the garage door. McLaren could smell the scent of burning leaves coming from the back of the house, a residence in one of Buxton’s older neighborhoods. Golden leaves littered the garden and the pavement beyond the stone wall marking the front of his property. The seventy-three year old looked to have his entire day mapped out for him if the side yards were as carpeted in leaves, McLaren thought. He watched a squirrel gather a mouthful of leaves and run up a tree trunk. “I got your name and address from Nora, yes. I want to ask you about your daughter’s death.”

  If McLaren thought the subject would soften Stuart’s demeanor, he’d have been wrong. Stuart picked up a fallen tree branch and threw it onto the leaf pile at his feet. “Why?”

  “I’m looking into Janet’s case and I thought you might be able to tell me something about that day.”

  “‘That day’ being your euphemism for the day she died, I take it.” He spoke in unhurried beats, yet with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. His reddish eyebrows were tinged with gray, and lowered as he glared at McLaren.

  “I’m trying not to distress you, Mr. Ennis. The death of a loved one is usually hard to discuss, never mind it being the person’s child.”

  “I’ve had five years to get over it, McLaren. If I’m not over it now, I never will be. Anyway, I don’t know anything about it. You’re wasting my time. Now, leave.” He turned his back toward McLaren and drew another rakeful of leaves toward the pile.

  “I would’ve thought you’d want to clear up the questions concerning your daughter’s death, that you’d like to help me settle the circumstances once and for all.”

  “You’d think that, eh? Well, you’d be dead wrong. Now, out of here before I get my dog.”

  McLaren walked around to face Stuart. “You were Janet’s father. You have no feelings for her? You don’t care about how she died, whether it was an accident or murder?”

  Stuart’s voice was muffled from his bent over position. “The bloody hell I do not. I’d finished with her long before ‘that day,’ as you put it. I don’t give a damn what happened. She died and it makes no difference to me how it came about. I’m just glad she’s out of my life.”

  McLaren kicked the mound, sending the leaves flying in all directions. He stepped toward Stuart and grabbed the man’s nylon jacket, holding the fabric taut in his right hand while his left hand squeezed Stuart’s upper arm. “Overflowing with parental love, aren’t you?”

  Stuart released his rake, letting it fall to the ground, and placed his hands on top of McLaren’s. He twisted his lips into a sneer. “Yeah. Show me the rulebook that says I have to feel different.”

  “You know, Ennis, you’re giving me an idea.”

  “Glad to hear you’re not as dotty as Nora.”

  McLaren felt Stuart’s fingers tighten and dig into his hands. The muscles contracted in slow yet steady increments, as though Stuart were trying to prove his strength. McLaren twisted his hand and brought Stuart’s arm behind his back. He pinned Stuart against his own body, the sides of their heads touching, and whispered into the man’s ear. “My idea is that you had something to do with the fire.”

  “What did I say about associating with Nora? You’re daft, man.”

  “You just admitted you had no feelings for Janet, that you had brushed her out of your life before she died.”

  “So?”

  “So, perhaps Janet wasn’t far enough out of your life. Perhaps you made it a permanent departure. Huh? What about it?”

  “You’re insane. No one will believe you. I wasn’t anywhere near her house.”

  “Convince me.”

  “I don’t have to. The police have investigated the case. They’ve closed it. They’re satisfied.”

  “I’m not.” He tightened his hold on Stuart’s jacket. “Tell me.”

  “You’re not a cop, McLaren. I don’t have to talk to you.”

  “No, you don’t, but I thought a little chat would be nice. Clear any misconceptions I might have of your…sterling qualities.”

  “Won’t the newspapers be over the moon to get my story, of how I was harassed and threatened by a much younger man? It’ll make you a laughing stock and end your dabbling.”

  McLaren spun S
tuart around so they were standing face to face. “I don’t give a damn about the newspapers or your threat. I’m trying to get to the truth about your daughter’s death. If it takes me walking over a few bruised bodies to get to it, or if I have to sit in the nick for assault, it means nothing to me. And there’s always my side of the story, Stu. Can you imagine the headlines? ‘Heartless husband hampers murder investigation’. Maybe ‘Unfeeling father turns his back on daughter’s death’. Or if you like this one better… ‘Father unmoved by daughter’s murder; Refuses to help find killer.’ I rather like that, but I wonder which one will bring the most public outcry?” He let Stuart think about the implication for a moment before adding, “I believe it’s worth your cooperation, don’t you? As a concerned father, you will most likely agree with me.” He released his grip on the jacket, dusted off the shoulder, and smiled.

  “I wasn’t at Janet’s house that day, McLaren. I don’t know what happened.”

  “How do I know you weren’t at her house? I’m an awfully suspicious man, Ennis. As I said, convince me.”

  “All right, all right.”

  McLaren released his hold on Stuart’s hand, and he rotated his arm, as though he were trying to waken his nerves.

  “Talk to my daughter. She’ll tell you.”

  “Your daughter.” McLaren eyed Stuart, wondering if the man were suggesting attending a séance or mind reader.

  “Don’t know everything, do you, smart guy? Connie. Constance Long. My daughter by a…” He shrugged, his eyebrow raised. “Let’s say Nora wasn’t Connie’s mother. She doesn’t know about Connie, either. I prefer to keep it that way.”

  “You can remember so exactly that you were talking with Connie? Five years seems a long time to remember a conversation with someone on 28 September.”

  “I was talking to her. Believe me or don’t.”

  “And where do I find your daughter?”

  “In Temple Normanton. Off Church Lane, near the junction with Birkin Lane.”

  “How about a specific address.”

  “You can’t miss it, McLaren. Biggest place in the village. Now, I’ve told you what you want to know, so bugger off.” He turned his back, picked up his rake, and walked into the back garden.

  ****

  The village of Temple Normanton sat on a hill to the south and slightly east of Chesterfield. There wasn’t much to the place—a cemetery, a primary school, and an odd, fiberglass-constructed church. Perhaps the village was better known for what it lacked: shops. McLaren turned off the B6038 and onto Birkin Lane. He passed the southern edge of the Grassmoor Country Park and minutes later turned left onto Church Lane.

  The church of St. James the Apostle—a pale yellow thing that looked more like a can of beer split lengthwise than it did a church—and its cemetery took up the largest area on the lane, McLaren soon found out. He stopped his car at a nearby house, knocked on the door, and asked the resident if he knew Connie Long.

  “Sorry,” the man said, moving his pipe to the side of his mouth, “never heard of her.”

  “I don’t suppose she’s a new resident,” McLaren suggested.

  “Could be, but I don’t know of anyone recently moved in. Best try the church. The vicar might know.” He shut the door on McLaren’s “Thanks.”

  McLaren found the vicar outside, near the low stonewall that enclosed the graveyard. Rather like a paper blowout, the man unbent from his weeding, wheezed slightly, and straightened up with the speed of a moving snail. Even standing upright, the vicar still had a hint of the curled-up party favor, as though not enough air had been blown into the paper tube to straighten it out and show the feather at the end. So he stooped slightly, a short, thin man with browned, wrinkled skin, looking like the sun and wind had dried him into a human raisin. He removed his work gloves, knocked them against his faded, brown trousers, and brushed a lank lock of hair back over the top of his head. As he tilted his head to look at McLaren, the sun glanced off the lenses of his glasses and, for an instant, obliterated his eyes. In that brief moment, McLaren thought the man looked more like a caricature than a person.

  “May I help you?” The vicar swept his hand again over his hair. It was snow white and thick, like swan’s down tossed by the breeze.

  “Yes, thanks. At least, I hope so.” After he explained that he was looking for Constance Long, the vicar pointed to the area behind the wall.

  “Sorry?” McLaren shifted his gaze to the weathered tombstones. Was she squatting, weeding a plot?

  “Connie Long. You want to see her grave, you said. She’s in that section by that nearby pine. Do you need help to locate her?”

  McLaren shook his head. “Sorry. I’m a bit confused. Connie Long…Constance. The daughter of Stuart Ennis who lives in Buxton.” He paused, aware that he was rambling, aware that he sounded insane or mad. Glancing again at the row of lichen-dusted arches, he said, “I…perhaps I made a mistake. I thought Mr. Ennis visited his daughter here in the village.”

  “We have many visitors to the graveyard, Mr. McLaren. Some people bring flowers, others bring a small birthday cake. Some just come to talk. I don’t discourage anyone from visiting their loved one.”

  “But Mr. Ennis led me to believe—”

  “He comes here regularly to visit Connie. He’s been coming since her death six years ago. Pity, that. Connie died so young. She was nineteen, I believe. Such a nice person, she was.”

  “She lived here in Temple Normanton?”

  “Until her death. For one year. Not very long. Since she was eighteen or so. I don’t know where she lived before that. Perhaps in Buxton, with Stuart and his wife. She moved here, and a year or so later Stuart arrived. He lived here for a while, even stayed on after Connie died. I always thought he remained because he had associations with Connie here, but he liked the village and the area, so I expect that’s the reason he chose this as her resting place.”

  “How often does he come? Any particular dates?”

  “Nearly each holiday. Christmas, in particular. Many times a year.”

  “Has he been here in September? I know it’s a lot to ask of you, to remember something like that when you have so many folks coming.”

  “It’s a small village and a small cemetery, Mr. McLaren. I’ve been here for longer than some of the cemetery residents.” He smiled, and the sunlight again masked his eyes. He seemed to be masking the knowledge of God behind the lenses. “I know Mr. Ennis and I know he normally comes at Easter and Christmas and for Connie’s birthday.”

  “When is that, if I may ask?”

  “End of September. I don’t know the exact date. Around the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth, I believe. Around Michaelmas. Shall I look it up for you in the church registry?” He made a move toward the church but McLaren shook his head.

  “No. That’s fine. I doubt if anyone as caring and warm as Mr. Ennis would be mistaken about this. I must have misunderstood.” He thanked the vicar and strolled back to his car. Stuart Ennis might be laughing at the moment, McLaren thought, but he would have that famous last, best one.

  Late afternoon flowed into the open window of McLaren’s car as he drove home. His house was in Somerley, hardly more than a speck on the map, nestled in the Hope Valley region north of the village of Castleton. He liked the area, picturesque and renowned for its caverns and mountains and wild streams. Lead mining, while giving employment to thousands of miners for centuries, had at last dwindled out and the mines were closed. He empathized with the miners, who had lost their livelihood, but he disliked the aftermath of mining and the unhealthy outcome of men and land.

  He hunched his shoulders, trying to bring some relief to his sore muscles. Hunched over periodicals in the Chesterfield public library was not his idea of a fun hour, but he needed the background information of Janet’s case. Now, with the details in his notebook, he was headed home to a cold beer and a hot dinner.

  His watch showed just on to six o’clock and though it wasn’t particularly late, he’d p
ut in a full day. The beer and pork chop called to him and he realized how hungry he was when he drove past The Split Oak, the pub in Somerley. The aroma of fried fish and cider-baked potatoes settled on his tongue and he nearly parked in front of the pub’s door. But he wanted to kick off his shoes, lie on the sofa and digest the day’s information; he’d talked to five of Janet’s acquaintances since yesterday—seven people if he counted the firefighter and her father. That got top priority besides figuring out whom he’d speak to tomorrow.

  He turned off the main village road and soon was headed toward his house. The narrow lane, barely more than a black ribbon through the tans, yellows and crimsons of the autumnal landscape, threw back the day’s heat and sunlight. Like a glossy black snake, he thought, staring at the road. Sleek and lazy in the warmth of the day.

  His driveway came upon him before he realized it and he trod down on the brake pedal. The car’s tires gripped the road, threw up a shower of dust, then slanted through the opening in the dry stone wall running along the length of his property. The sunlight, low on the western horizon, angled into his eyes and he held up his hand to shield his vision. When the shadow of a tree bough obliterated the light, he withdrew his hand.

  In that instant he jerked the steering wheel hard to the left and braked his car on the grass alongside his driveway. For a second he thought the sun lay on the ground or at least reflected off something on his house. He stared out of his window, trying to understand what he saw. His driveway was on fire.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The improbability of the situation didn’t hit him at once. But as the blackening mound cracked from a sudden eruption of flame, McLaren leapt from his car. He ran around to the front of his house, grabbed the nozzle of the garden hose, turned on the water spigot and raced back to the driveway.