Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  ****

  Nora woke suddenly, and found herself in a strange room. She blinked several times. When did she get that new television in the corner? It was a telly, wasn’t it? But it looked odd, nothing more than a thin, flat screen. The turntable was the same, as was Janet’s photo on the table. But a book on the couch didn’t look familiar. She picked it up and read the title and author’s name. Had Janet dropped it by while Nora slept? You’d think there’d be a note if she had.

  Nora got up, stiff from the position in which she’d fallen asleep. Late morning sunlight fell across the sofa and the nearest section of the area rug. The oak tree outside the window blazed in autumnal red and orange hues. Her hand went to her forehead, pressing against it, as though the presence of her fingertips affirmed the reality of the scene. Hadn’t it been April just moments ago? Hadn’t Janet been urging her to come outside to see the spring crocus and tulips? Hadn’t she been singing, teasing in that funny way of hers? Nora glanced around the room. Had Janet been playing a trick? Did she and some friend—Dan, perhaps, or Tom—carry me into the front room? Shouldn’t Janet be here?

  Nora walked into the kitchen and surveyed the room. Everything looked familiar. Nothing had altered or morphed into an odd, futuristic object. The curtains were the same yellow print, the walls were still painted light blue, and the table and chairs were the same white wooden set she remembered. Even down to the gouge on the table edge when Janet had tipped over her father’s heavy, metal camera tripod. Nora placed her fingertip into the indentation, wanting a connection with the past. But nothing changed in the room: Janet didn’t appear; Nora’s husband wasn’t standing at the door; the chipped teapot wasn’t pristine. Sighing, Nora filled the electric kettle with water, flipped on the switch, and dropped a teabag into the mug, a souvenir she’d bought from Marks & Spencer, to commemorate Charles and Diana’s wedding.

  When was Janet’s and Tom’s anniversary? Was it coming up, or had she missed it, overlooked it in the rush of their first CD release party? Nora walked to the phone. She’d ring up Janet to ask, never mind the embarrassment of forgetting the date.

  But as she reached for the receiver a voice whispered in her head. Janet hadn’t married Tom; she hadn’t married anyone. She had a new boyfriend—her photographer, Myles. That’s how they had met. Janet had died five years ago. And the police were still working on the case, searching for her killer.

  Nora’s 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 had phoned. 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 her daughter’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 had died in September. Why would an irate client wait that long to retaliate? And there was Bruce, the former drummer with the trio. He’d been fired. That might’ve turned into a spite revenge. And Janet’s bass player, Ian. While he hadn’t been fired, there’d been bad blood between the two of them. Did bad blood ever become violent?

  Nora walked over 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. 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. 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 helped ease him through a few doors and courses. But McLaren’d been the blue-eyed boy, the star on 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 as he recalled the honor bestowed upon McLaren for his top grades. The man had accepted the award so humbly; Har
vester 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 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 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.

  Chapter 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 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.

  Dan settled back in his chair. “The only thing I know is that Ian 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.”

  “And 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 Ian began whining. I believe she was going to increase Ian’s 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 Myles. 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 feeling 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 Ian 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 Ian 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. Ian, though more outgoing, wasn’t my cup of tea. No blowups or fights. Just didn’t socialize outside the group.”

  “Only 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 why Ian 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 shifted his position in his chair. “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 it 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 Ian O’Connor 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’ve heard,” 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 Ian 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 Ian 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, however nice they are.”

  “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 Ian’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. He parked and wandered into the Hall, then 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, 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 li
ne 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 to herself and Bruce was clearing 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 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, unsure of what to expect, the shadows outside the tearoom window deepened to indigo. “You told me were part of Janet’s trio for more than 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?”

  “And 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.”