Shadow in the Smoke

by Jo A. Hiestand

  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 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. They, too, had produced smoke. Smoke that clouded his vision and obscured items usually in plain view…

  “I’m glad you can remember,” McLaren returned, trying to keep his voice unemotional. He shifted his stance, and his shadow shifted into the smoke. One murky element mingling with another. Was that indicative of his progress in the case?

  “The recollection of them is clear, if you’re concerned that I may be confusing them with others.” 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, Ian. 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 Ian?”

  “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 would go 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 Ian.”

  “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. Ian 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 had 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. “It’s 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.

  ****

  Saturday morning, Ian O’Connor was marginally more polite to McLaren. Resentment, either at Janet or at McLaren, showed itself in Ian’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,” Ian 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 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 CD player. 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 asked what had prompted the return visit.

  “Nora gifted Janet’s cottage to me.” McLaren watched Dan for a reaction. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I? It was Janet’s, then Nora’s, and now obviously it’s yours. 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 get-away. 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 escape 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 Myles 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? 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’re 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 mike. 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. And 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 five-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 that we need. You want to bet the lab will find yours and Janet’s DNA on this coat?”

  Ruth’s gaze shifted from the coat to McLaren and then to Jamie. She gestured toward the closet, distracting their attention, then sprinted toward the window. McLaren shoved the coat into Jamie’s hand, then dashed after her as she pushed the curtain aside and threw her right leg over the sill. He yanked off his jacket and flung it over her head as he lunged for her. Ruth stopped and kicked at him. She tried to shove off the jacket with her free hand, but McLaren sidestepped to avoid her feet. His grip tightened and he yanked the garment around her head, cocooning it, and pulled her from the sill. She screamed and tried to hook the toe of her shoe on the window frame but she slipped free. McLaren slid his hands to her upper arms and, as her legs folded, deposited her on the floor. She lay there, her ragged breathing the only sound in the room.

  McLaren removed the jacket and asked if she was all right.

  She didn’t speak or move for a moment, and McLaren feared she’d hurt herself in the struggle. As he bent, she turned over and stared at him. “I’m fine, though I don’t deserve your concern. Nothing hurt but my pride, and that isn’t worth much.” She hesitated, then accepted his help up and struggled to her feet. “You’d think I’d learn.” She glanced at the coat, now back in McLaren’s grasp, and quickly dropped his hand.

  Dan wrapped his arms around her, murmuring that he loved her, and seemed not to hear her apology or explanation.

  “Yes, you’re correct in your assumption, Mr. McLaren. That’s the way it happened.” Her hand went out tentatively to the coat. The sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower starting up drifted into the house, and for a moment, Ruth gazed through the window. A motorcycle roared down the street, pulling her attention back to the men in the room. She nodded, her eyes dark with remorse. “I-I put on the coat before leaving her house, though 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 hit her. 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 do any of it.”

  McLaren glanced at Dan, who continued his whispers. Jamie had stepped forward, possibly ready for another diversion. McLaren let her comment pass, and instead said, “You planted the pot under her sofa, didn’t you?”

  Ruth ran her fingers under her eyes, blotting her tears, and nodded. “While she was in the kitchen, yes. I thought 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.”

  She went all pink and grimaced. “That was me, or my sister. We both set the fires, at different times. I…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 to discuss how to throw you off the track.”

  “At Carsington Water?” He remembered following Eva around the lake.

  “Yes.” Her voice colored with regret. “We—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’d 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 increase of his heart rate. She’d been such a beauty, so talented. Damn the waste of such genius.

  Looking at Nora, he paused by the front door. Nora 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 passions 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. He tried to make sense of the tangle of emotions. Like a shadow in the smokevague, haunting, lurking, but there, nonetheless. He whispered a prayer for Janet, Connie and Nora, then relaxed his mind. 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 flowerbox and two chairs burnet, a wooden gnome scorched. It’d only been 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 hadn’t really done much damage. She’d just been trying to help him, to 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 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 the tightening in his stomach would grow to a full-blown knot, 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 teakettle. The article’s first sentence swam 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 dustbin, and glanced at his wall calendar. “Wait until December, mate. My Christmas gift to you.”

  A word about the author…

  Jo Hiestand discovered the joys of Things British on a month-long trip to England during her college years. Since then, she has been back nearly a dozen times and lived there during her professional folk singing stint. This intimate knowledge of England forms the framework of the McLaren Mysteries. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English. She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Jo is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.