Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  “But Mrs. Ennis—”

  “Now, not another word. Janet and I want you to use and own the place. For as long as you like. Until the end of time, if you can. Please, Mr. McLaren. For her sake.” Nora’s eyes pleaded with him to accept the gift.

  He nodded, suddenly feeling Nora was right. He believed Janet would have liked him to stay in her cottage. McLaren nodded again and kissed Nora on the forehead. “Thank you, Mrs. Ennis. It’s just what I need.”

  “Lovely. It’s just outside Kirkfield. Closer to Thorpe than to Kirkfield, actually. Here.” She wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Do you know the area?”

  “My girlfriend lives in Kirkfield.”

  “Good. That’s settled. It was meant to be.” She opened the front door and stood there while he crossed the room. “You needn’t worry about anyone else being there. Janet owned it. No one else has a key. You use it whenever you wish, Mr. McLaren, which I hope is quite often. I-I’m thrilled someone she would have liked will be looking after it. It’s like keeping it in the family.”

  He paused on the front porch, his mind still trying to make sense of it. He thanked Nora again and said he’d keep the cottage in mint condition.

  “I believe you will, Mr. McLaren. Oh, and you will let me know what you find out about those monthly payments, won’t you?”

  He heard the door close and the deadbolt click into place as he stepped off the front porch and walked to his car.

  ****

  For the next few hours he talked to other owners of catering companies. Many were reluctant to speak so personally to him, but Janet Ennis’ name proved to be an Open Sesame, and they revealed their secrets. In every instance they uttered the same person’s name. Ruth Wilshaw.

  But blackmail didn’t necessarily link to murder. If anything, it was usually the blackmailer who was murdered. And if he were correct in his conclusion, Janet wasn’t the blackmailer.

  He rang up Dan, made an appointment for early afternoon, then stopped for lunch. The Coach House chippy on Buxton’s High Street had seen its weekday lunch peak and McLaren found a table. Nicely warm, the restaurant held the aromas of fish and chips and vinegar. McLaren ordered plaice, chips and a slice of homemade pie. He took out his case notes but instead of reviewing them he sent a text message to Dena, asking if they could meet for dinner.

  A woman and man sitting across from him were talking, their voices barely audible, their heads nearly touching as they bent over some sheets of paper. A working lunch, McLaren thought, about to dismiss the couple. But the woman’s coppery hair drew his attention. She sat in a shaft of sunlight that seemed to ignite the redder strands. That plus her blue eyes shone with a joy of life. The man seated next to her seemed to share that same passion, for although it was evident they were supposed to be talking over the information on the pages before them, his eyes never left the woman’s face. Despite his gray hair, he looked to be the same age as her—mid-thirties, perhaps. And despite the woman’s ten or fifteen pounds of extra weight, the man evidently was deeply attracted to her.

  McLaren caught the name Simcock and assumed they were police officers. Not many other people in Buxton would know who the Constabulary’s detective-superintendent was. He abandoned his speculation as the waitress set his lunch before him.

  Twenty minutes later he was back in Dan’s living room.

  ****

  “You said on the phone that you needed my help.” Dan peered at McLaren, his eyes dark in the shadow of afternoon. “How?”

  McLaren settled back in his chair and briefly related odd monthly withdrawals from Janet’s bank account. “I know I have no authority to delve into this, and you have no obligation to tell me, but I believe that these monthly withdrawals may very well be connected to Janet’s death. It might help with my investigation.”

  Dan’s eyebrows rose, betraying his curiosity. “This is highly irregular, I assume you know.”

  “Certainly. But Janet’s mother doesn’t know anything concerning her daughter’s finances. The only reason I’m asking is because I believe it’ll point to Janet’s killer.” He handed one of Jamie’s business cards to Dan. “Jamie Lynch is a police detective with the Derbyshire Constabulary. You can complain to him if you hear that I’ve overstepped any boundaries you set up, or if I’ve done anything unethical. I realize you don’t know me, aside from our few talks, but I swear that this information will go no further than between you and me.”

  Dan took the card. He picked up the phone receiver and punched in the number of the police department’s sectional headquarters in Buxton. When he asked to speak to Jamie Lynch he was told Jamie would be in the following morning and was there a message Dan would like to leave?

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll catch him up later.” He hung up and nodded. “Okay. I’ll let you know about the finances.”

  “Did you know about these monthly withdrawals?”

  “Yes, though Janet hadn’t asked me specifically if she had the money to back the withdrawals. It wasn’t my place to question her every purchase, but I did advise her on some matters.”

  “Was this one of them?”

  “Yes. I knew what she was doing. I admit at first, when she told me about it, I was not for it. She wasn’t a pauper, but she wasn’t wealthy. She had a good, steady income from the catering business and from the trio, but that didn’t mean she could spend freely.”

  “And these withdrawals…why did she need the same amount each month?” He looked at Dan, stealing himself for a revelation about blackmail.

  “She gave it to Sean Fallon.”

  McLaren’s eyebrow shot up and he leaned forward. “Sorry?”

  “Sean Fallon. The former catering employee. She gave him money.”

  Having recovered some of his composure, McLaren said, “Those statements extend past the date when Sean was fired.”

  “Correct. His position was terminated in May, if I remember correctly.”

  “Janet died in September. Four months later. Had this to do with his inclusion in her will?”

  “You know about the will, then.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Ennis showed it to me. He’s mentioned in it. Isn’t that rather odd that she’d keep an employee she’d terminated not only in her will but, evidently, continue handing him money? If what you say about the monthly withdrawals is true…”

  “It’s true.” He drew a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. “It’s all quite simple, really. As I mentioned, Janet had a huge, loving heart. She knew how hard it was to get established in a career. Not just in the arts, but in anything striking out on your own. Janet knew Sean had aspirations of becoming a chef and opening his own restaurant one day. Due to Sean’s criminal past she knew it would be hard for him to get a loan to set up his business. She wanted to help him with his dream. She included him in her will. Yes, I know she fired him,” Dan added as McLaren opened his mouth. “But I think that was anger speaking at the moment. She wanted to make amends.”

  “So she wrote him into her will. If she felt so bad about firing him, why didn’t she reinstate him later?”

  “She was thinking about it and had decided in September to ask him back.”

  “But she died before she could do it,” McLaren finished.

  “Fortunately she left him in her will, hoping that would help him. But she had a more immediate solution. She also wanted to give him money now, before she died—hopefully at a ripe, old age—so he could actually get his restaurant off the ground. She withdrew the monthly sums from her bank account and we set it up in an account for Sean. I held off paying it to him until I learned he was making noises in that effort. I knew he had a job as a chef, but my informant hadn’t heard of him talking about his ownership dream. Perhaps that’s still in the works.”

  “Then, the money from the will is to come later, to provide him with security to back his restaurant when it’s finally going.”

  “That’s what I understand. The money now, the mon
ey Janet was withdrawing monthly, went into the fund that Sean is to get the minute I hear he’s actually working on his restaurant. Money to finance his dream, you might say.” Dan took a puff on the cigarette and flicked the ashes into the ashtray. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  “That just about does it, yes. Thanks.” McLaren started to stand up.

  “Janet gave money to someone else, Mr. McLaren. Do you know about that, or have you the information already?”

  McLaren sat down again and looked at the man in astonishment. “Helene Brogan, perhaps?”

  “Not at all. Her father.”

  “Her father!” Stuart Ennis’ hatred for Janet rushed back at McLaren with all the volume he’d previously heard. McLaren leaned forward. “You’re certain about this? Stuart Ennis?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite certain. It had been going on for nearly a year. A monthly cash payment of one hundred pounds.”

  “Do you recall the starting and ending dates of this?”

  Dan got up, padded into another room, and returned with a ledger. He took his seat and flipped through the pages. When he paused at one, he read the entry. “It ended six years ago and, as I said, ran for just a year. So it started seven—”

  “Have you any idea why Janet gave her father money? Was he disabled?” McLaren didn’t think so, for the man had seemed fit enough raking his leaves.

  “The man appeared to be healthy, at least the few times I saw him. No, Janet wanted to ease her father’s financial burden and thought the extra hundred pounds a month would help.”

  “What financial burden did he have?”

  “It was no secret, at least from Janet and me. Her half sister, Constance, had medical bills. Janet was helping her father pay them.”

  “And why did Constance have medical bills? What was wrong with her?”

  “Oh! I thought you knew. She’d been in a car crash and ended up in a coma. She died in the hospital.”

  “Car crash?”

  “Yes. Her boyfriend had been driving. He was unharmed. Sadly, that sometimes happens, doesn’t it?”

  “Do you remember the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Sure. He was also a member of our group. Ian O’Connor.”

  McLaren got up, none too steadily, and thanked Dan.

  “Any time, Mr. McLaren. Anything to help Janet.”

  “I think you can help her now by locating Sean and giving him that money.”

  “He’s ready to plan his restaurant, then?”

  “More than you can imagine.” He left with Dan’s voice following him out the door.

  ****

  McLaren walked around Buxton, trying to think through the puzzle of names and motives. If Janet’s half-sister, Connie, had died six years ago at the age of nineteen, and Ian was now in his mid twenties… They’d have been the same age while they were seeing each other. And they were dating at the time of the car crash. If Ian had been driving, that might explain his anger, but six years was a long time to hold it. Still, McLaren knew of fiancées who mourned the death of their intended for years, the anger at the world too great to let go.

  Had Connie introduced Ian to Janet, or was it the other way round? McLaren passed The Sun Inn, crouching along the High Street. The group had been together little more than a year but fell apart tragically on Janet’s death five years ago. So the group had been born slightly after Ian and Connie began dating. Not that it made much difference in the case, but McLaren liked to have his facts straight. He sauntered back to his car and drove to Stuart Ennis’ house.

  ****

  “You back again?” Stuart growled on opening the door and seeing McLaren standing on the doorstep. “What’s the matter—you forget where you put your brain?”

  “I’d like to talk to you for a minute, Mr. Ennis.” McLaren forced politeness into his voice, determined not to antagonize the man or let his own feelings explode.

  “Fine. But I don’t want to talk to you. Clear off.” He started to shut the door but McLaren put his hand on its edge and pushed it open. “Please. Just one minute. It’s about Connie and Ian.”

  Stuart’s mouth opened and his jaw quivered. He grabbed on to the edge of the door and stared into McLaren’s eyes. “Y-you know about them?”

  “Yes. In a rather roundabout manner, but I know about them.”

  “What do you want? Money to keep quiet? Nora doesn’t know about Connie. I don’t want her to know. It was an indiscretion, it happened just that once. I-I don’t have much money. Connie’s medical bills wiped me out.” He stopped, his gaze on McLaren, perhaps judging what the man meant to do.

  “Mr. Ennis, I’m not here to blackmail you. Whatever you did is between your conscience and God. And Nora, if you eventually tell her. I’d just like to ask if you know why Ian disliked Janet so much. I find it hard to believe it was over his pay. People may grumble that they’re not getting what they think is fair for their work, but it’s now five years later and Ian is still angry.”

  “I think that should come from Ian. If he’s still irate—”

  “He won’t talk to me, Mr. Ennis. I don’t want to know life histories or anything remotely private. I just want to get to the bottom of Janet’s case, and I believe Ian’s feelings may have some bearing on this. Won’t you tell me?” He stood there, quiet and patient, watching Stuart’s face.

  The man sighed, nodded, and said, “Ian was driving the night of the car crash. He walked away with minor cuts and scrapes, and Connie ended up in hospital. She was in a coma for months—nearly a year—and died without gaining consciousness. She and Ian had talked about marriage, ‘sometime’ when Ian made more money and they could afford a flat.”

  “So Ian’s happiness crumbled when Connie died, and he blames Janet, for some reason, for this.”

  “Yes. I’d never seen two people so much in love. He lit up when he saw Connie. You could feel the electricity flow between them, they loved each other so deeply. He met Connie and just about right away she introduced him to Janet. He was looking for a job in the music field and Janet was looking for a bassist. So…” He shrugged and smiled weakly at McLaren.

  “And you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Me…what?” The older man’s watery eyes turned slightly defiant.

  “Divorcing parents aren’t that uncommon when something tragic happens to a child. I can understand why you and Nora parted ways when Janet died. But why do you so obviously dislike Janet? When I asked you earlier about her, you spoke of her as though she was the vilest thing on earth.”

  “Not what you’d expect from a father, eh?”

  “No. You needn’t answer, of course, but I’m curious.”

  “Am I still a suspect in her death?”

  McLaren flashed a smile and shrugged. “I can’t answer that until I know why you feel so strongly about Janet.”

  “Depends on my motive, then, as to where you place me. Well, you can lump Ian and me in the same group, then. Connie was my love child. I would’ve done anything for her. I adored her mother. Nora and I ran out of love in our first year of marriage. Consequently, I never had much feeling for Janet. She reminded me of Nora and the mistake I’d made with the marriage. Oh, I know, I could have divorced Nora that first year, but I needed a wife and family to make my career look good. Luckily, I wasn’t home that much, so I didn’t have to endure the home life. I guess I just never really got over Connie’s death, and then the following year Janet died. It-it’s just too much for me. But no, I didn’t kill Janet. I didn’t care that much about her one way or the other. And don’t you have to either love deeply or hate greatly to commit murder?”

  McLaren walked back to his car as Stuart slowly closed the door.

  ****

  Janet’s cottage was little more than five miles north of Ashbourne, between the main artery of the A515 and the River Dove. McLaren took the smaller B road north of Thorpe and soon located the stone get-away. Nestled in the undulating land of Dove Dale, the cottage merged into its surrounding
s. Gray stone, slate and dark timber came together in a one-storey building. Pines and oaks stretched their boughs over the cottage roof, and spent mums huddled around the foundation. It must have looked wonderful in the morning sun, McLaren thought as he walked to the front door. The plants were nothing more than withered deadheads and brittle stems, and dull, brown leaves carpeted the pathway. They crunched in the quiet and McLaren wondered if he were startling anyone.

  Despite the cottage’s general air of vacancy, the key slid easily into the door lock. He turned the tumblers and a satisfying ‘click’ released the catch. The door hinges squealed as he pushed open the wooden door, and he stood in the threshold while his eyes adjusted to the gloom.

  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 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 and did its best 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.