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  “I’m not married.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You glanced at my left ring finger. I’m not married.”

  “If I did, Mr. McLaren, I…it wasn’t intentional.” She had stuttered, suddenly embarrassed, yet amazed he’d picked up on her eye movements. Had he also noticed the heat flooding her cheeks?

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I was having a bit of fun at your expense. I apologize. Unfortunately, it’s a nasty habit of mine. My sister can tell you more details, if you’re interested, or other stories bordering on mortification. But you’ll have to schedule some time for it. There are too many to hear in one sitting.” He’d laughed again, a warm ripple that melted her heart.

  “Let’s call it even, then. I won’t say I make a habit of scrutinizing fingers, but I obviously did just now. Normally I’m quite conventional. I’m a volunteer at the tiger sanctuary.”

  “I wouldn’t call that a conventional calling. Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes! I’ve worked there a little over a year, but this is the first time I’ve worked the fundraiser.”

  “It’s my first time here, so we’re even.” He had grinned, and the humor gleamed in his eyes. “How much longer do I have to keep my eye on the clock?”

  “The bidding closes at nine.”

  “Good. Only another ninety-three minutes to stay vigilant.”

  “You’re wanting to leave?” She remembered her disappointment, wanting him to remain until the event’s closing at ten. His loyalty, sense of duty and humor appealed to her, and she’d wanted to develop a relationship with him.

  “Not especially. I’d like to look at the tigers. Would I have time in ninety-three minutes to see them and still dash back here to place the high bid? I don’t know exactly where the place is.”

  “If you had a guide to show you a short cut to the sanctuary and then through the office and lab to the compound, you could do.”

  “A round of applause, then, for insider information. Shall I drive, Ms. Ellison…”

  The voices faded, the balloons and streamers disappeared, and Dena was back in the beige basement room, feeling terribly alone and desperate for McLaren’s strength and humor.

  This wasn’t doing her any good. She relinquished the last vestige of the images. Michael wouldn’t wallow in this sentimentality. He’d be figuring out how to escape… Giving one last look at herself, she flashed a courage-inducing smile. Then she turned off the light and closed the door before climbing back on the chair.

  For all of her captor’s great plan, Dena could still see outside and she held on emotionally with renewed fervor to the link with the world. The flowerpots were angular and trapezoidal in shape, leaving gaps between their neighbors through which she caught snippets of her previous view.

  The sun had moved during the time she’d been asleep, for the light had strengthened and altered its whitish hue to egg yolk yellow. Shadows beneath the trees, flowerpots and cars had deepened to black, hugging the foundations and roots of their hosts. Noon or early afternoon, Dena thought before realizing she’d been unconscious throughout the previous evening. Hadn’t she been talking to Michael around teatime yesterday? Hadn’t she set a time for dinner at his house tonight? The sense of elapsed time frightened her, angered her, spurred her into greater resolve to escape or summon aid.

  She had discarded the idea of smashing the window with the chair legs—she wouldn’t be able to lift the chair above her head and reach the window without something to stand on. She was considering tearing a piece of fabric from her clothes and shoving it under the main door hoping some passer-by would see it and investigate when the door opened.

  She clutched the sides of the chair, simultaneously frightened and anxious. A sliver of bright florescent light slanted into the room. A gloved hand angled around the edge of the door and laid a bulging paper sack on the floor before retreating into the light and shutting the door with a finality that spoke of continuing imprisonment and despair.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There’s a finality about this place, McLaren thought as he left the South Range and walked into the open courtyard. Not the ruins that speak of despair and uncaring people, but the belief that it will survive. As long as Clark MacKay has anything to do with it, McLaren thought, glancing at the vendors opening their booths for another day’s sales.

  McLaren crossed the grassy expanse, searching for Ron Pennell’s tent. The sun hovered higher in the sky and had burned off the early morning dew. The short grass was dry and stiff beneath his shoes, mutely testifying to the July heat that seemed to draw the moisture and energy from every living thing.

  He found Ron’s booth at the beginning of a row of crafts and art vendors. Of medium height, graying hair and blue eyes, Ron smiled on seeing McLaren, perhaps expecting an early sale, then looked surprised as McLaren introduced himself.

  “Yes, I knew Kent.” Ron talked over his shoulder as he arranged pomanders and sacks of herbs and dried flowers on the table. The sunlight shone through the bottles of enfleurages and tinctures, casting delicately colored rectangles on the tablecloth. Ron straightened the line of conserves—small, squat glass jars of honey-jellied flowers and herbs—and added, “Nicest man you’d ever hope to meet. I was so sorry to hear he had been killed. He introduced me to Aaron Unsworth. He wanted to write a cookbook featuring recipes that used a majority of natural ingredients. Flowers, spices, herbs, leaves.”

  “More healthful,” McLaren supplied, eyeing the variety of herb-flavored vinegars.

  “Definitely.”

  “Was Kent a customer of yours?”

  “A customer?”

  “Yes. Did he ever buy some of your ointments or teas? Maybe try something unusual, like galingale or angelica or calendula? I thought since you knew each other, he might have tried flowers or spices in his cooking.”

  “Kent bought chamomile once. He had a long bout of stage jitters. The chamomile is good for settling the nerves.”

  “Did it do the trick, do you know?”

  “Sorry, I don’t. He had bought rather a large amount, so whether he was just imagining stage fright, or if the chamomile helped, or even if he just got over it himself, he didn’t buy any more. At least not from me.” As though underlining the possible personal insult, he pushed up the sleeves of his shirt.

  McLaren made soothing sounds and added, “Sorry you lost future sales.”

  “I’m glad I could help him, do him a favor for once. Kent was always helping others. As he did for Aaron, helping him in a roundabout way with his cookbook.”

  “And did you? Confer with Aaron Unsworth, I mean.”

  “Yes. We’ve had several meetings. I let him have some of my recipes, with the stipulation that he note in the book where the ingredients could be obtained, and gave him other resources for recipes. He’s finished with the writing, but I don’t believe the book is published yet. Next month, I believe. Unless it’s been held up at the printer.”

  “And when did you help Aaron?”

  “Late last summer. Into the autumn. Aaron’d been considering the cookbook idea for some time, but he never did anything with it. Maybe he hadn’t the time until last July.”

  When his wife left him…

  “Anyway…” Ron straightened up from the table and looked at McLaren, “that’s all I know.”

  “You didn’t see him leave the night he was killed, then. Or hear an earlier argument he may have had with someone here.”

  “No.”

  “Do you know what time he actually left the castle? Maybe you saw him in the car park?”

  “I’ve no idea when he left either place. It’s easier for the musicians to pack up and walk out when they’ve finished. Most of them just have an instrument. When it’s closing time we vendors have to put away our wares, take down our signs, and stow any outdoor tables and chairs and tablecloths inside our tents.”

  “When did you finally leave?”

  “Sometime a little past eleven-thirty
. Clark MacKay saw me. He always walks around the area, making certain everything is all right, checking to see if anyone needs help and has left the castle before he locks up. He waved and we exchanged a few words as I was making for the main entrance. The car park attendant saw me, too. He and a few of the security officers Clark hires for these large events were standing near the ticket booth. There weren’t that many of us here at that time and the car park was nearly deserted. That came out during the police investigation.”

  “Do you know when Kent’s musical set finished? Not precisely, but some idea? Perhaps seven o’clock, half past eight, ten?” He waited, mentally crossing his fingers that he’d get a lead.

  “Sorry. I didn’t pay any attention to who was performing. I usually don’t. I suppose I shouldn’t say this, but after so many years selling here the music’s become little more than background noise. There’s always a crowd of people in the vendors’ area. If I’m not answering questions or making sales, I’m watching the people at my tables. Theft,” he added rather reluctantly, rubbing his arm. “It’s a shame sellers have to be like that, but that happens.”

  McLaren agreed that theft seemed to be on the rise.

  “So, you can understand why I didn’t know when Kent or any of the performers left the area.” He watched McLaren examine a small bag of dried mint leaves. “Very useful plant, mint.”

  “What else can you use it for besides mint sauce?”

  “Many things. Medicinally to treat stomach ailments such as cramps, nausea, vomiting and colic. For fevers and reduction of arthritis and chronic joint pain. As a facial wash and an additive in toothpastes to ward off bacteria and viruses. You may also get the same protection against bacterial growth by chewing on the leaves after eating starchy or sugary foods. Mint is helpful as an herbal bath and foot soak. In cooking you can make mint vinegar, a delightful mouthwash. Also it’s used to flavor teas and baked goods. Many perfumes and oils for massages include mint in their ingredients.” He tapped the front of the bag, drawing McLaren’s attention to the writing on the label. “Some of those uses I just mentioned are listed here. Many people are surprised to learn that there are more than three thousand types of mint, the best known being lemon balm, horehound, catnip, lavender, rosemary, and sage.”

  “Sounds like a wonder plant, all right.”

  “It is, for the most part. But like anything else natural, we always recommend using caution. You may be allergic and not know it. That’s why I advise you consult your doctor before you eat or use any type of herb. Pregnant and nursing women, especially, should talk to their doctors before they use any mint. This applies to cosmetic preparations, medicinal use, as well as in foods.”

  McLaren turned the bag over and read the back sticker. “Is this for making tea? I don’t want to buy the wrong kind. You have a recipe here on the label.”

  “It’s very good for tea. That’s why the recipe is included.”

  “I suppose Aaron devoted a large section of his cookbook to mint, if it has all those uses.”

  “I don’t know. I gave him what recipes I had and, as I said, referred him other sources. I don’t know what he did or didn’t include in the book. There are hundreds of recipes.”

  McLaren pulled his wallet from his trousers pocket. “I’d like to buy this.”

  “You’re under no obligation to pay for my information.” Even if the phrase came off businesslike, his voice held a suggestion of gratitude.

  “I realize that. I still want it. I like mint tea.”

  Ron accepted the money, slipped the purchase into a logo-covered paper bag, and thanked him. “I appreciate the sale. My address is on the back label, if you should wish some more and can’t locate me at a certain venue.”

  “Thanks.” McLaren put away his wallet. “I’m just wondering. Did you and Kent initially meet here, or had you known each other before you came to the Minstrels Court?”

  “We met here. He came to my booth and we struck up a conversation.” He smiled and tugged on his shirt. “I thought Kent intelligent, good humored, and kind. He mentioned he was one of the musicians appearing here and I wandered over to the stage area to listen to him sing. He had a magnificent voice, pure and strong that sent shivers coursing through your body when he hit high notes. A great performer, too. He knew how to work a crowd, had some funny dialogue. He threw out handfuls of his guitar flat picks to the crowd as souvenirs. Sometimes he made a little contest of it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The person who caught a certain pick would get a free autographed CD. Things like that.”

  “Do you know how he designated the specific pick? Cut part of it off or pasted a decal on it?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think he cut off anything because his picks already had a hole in them. I was in the audience once when he threw them. I asked him about it later. I thought it so odd.” He paused, smiling as if he remembered. “He said his hands sweated so much from the lights and his nervousness that he punched a hole in the center of each pick with a paper punch. His thumb and index finger could then touch when he held it, you see, and the pick wouldn’t slide around in his fingers.”

  McLaren nodded. “I do the same thing.”

  “Just an instance of his popularity, though he didn’t have to give away things to be so well liked and sought after. I know for a fact.” Ron lowered his voice and moved slightly closer to McLaren. “Ellen Fairfield was after him.” He raised his eyebrow and nodded, underlining the implication.

  “Who’s Ellen Fairfield? An ardent fan?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you’re imagining it. She’s the curator at Rawlton Hall. She’s trying to set up historical events and fetes like Clark has done here at Tutbury. She’s been after Kent for years, it seems.”

  “Trying to lure him to her place so the crowds will move over there.”

  “You got it. How she did rabbit on, too. Telling him of the extra money he’d make, the great promotion she would do. I thought what she was telling us was mostly rubbish.”

  “So she was trying to lure other performers and vendors to her Hall, then.”

  “Too right. Kept coming around bothering us. I thought she and Clark were coming to blows one day. She wouldn’t leave off. But she calmed down and we didn’t see her for a while.”

  “I suppose she did this all the time, appeared at the other events held here at the castle.”

  “And other places like Rawlton. She went farther afield than Staffordshire. But I have heard she liked to frequent Tutbury. She had a good eye for talent and for what sold well. I know she was just looking out for her own job, but it got up Kent’s nose, her pestering him all the time. And him a nice chap. Always helping people. That’s one of the things I liked most about him.”

  “Do you know anyone in particular he helped?”

  “Well,” Ron said, “the only person I know specifically is Dave Morley.”

  “His sometime singing partner?”

  “That’s the one. I didn’t know the particulars about the act, but I know what Dave always said.”

  “And what was that?”

  Ron straightened a row of bagged herbs. “That Dave needed Kent to boost his career.”

  ****

  Luckily for McLaren, he found Dave Morley in the stage area. It had just gone half past nine and the festival wouldn’t open for another half hour, but Dave was getting ready for his performance. He was still in his street clothes, but his costume—short doublet with dagged sleeves, opaque hose, and pointed-toe shoes—sat on top of his guitar case. A battered brown trilby, frayed around the front edge, perched on the back of his head. Not doing much for sun protection, McLaren thought. Probably vain about a balding spot. Dave sat on the edge of the stage, guitar resting on his right thigh. His head was turned and lowered over the guitar body as he tuned, listening intently to each string as he plucked them separately and slowly. He sat up, startled, as McLaren walked up, calling his name.

  Dave rested his right
forearm on the bent side of his instrument and gazed inquisitively at McLaren. “Yes?”

  McLaren introduced himself, then nodded at the guitar. “That’s a nice instrument. I probably should have stayed with nylon strings, but I changed to silk and steel a few years ago.”

  “Folk, right?”

  “Yes,” McLaren said, astonished.

  “Popular choice among folkies. I use nylon since I play mainly early music.”

  In the brief silence a teenaged boy lumbered up to them. He seemed to be still growing, for his height hadn’t caught up to his large hands and feet. Thick, curly hair offset his scant beard. He hung back, chewing on his thumbnail, and looked at the two men.

  When Dave noticed him, he nodded. “Hi, Fraser. What’s going on?”

  The boy took a few steps closer before stopping a yard from Dave. He cleared his throat nervously, then asked if Dave had time to help him with a problem.

  “Not right now.” Dave glanced at the clock backstage. “I go on soon.”

  The boy pressed his lips together and sighed heavily.

  “See me after my session, if you can stick around. Ta.” Dave nodded as Fraser thanked him and walked to the nearest row of chairs in the audience section.

  “He a pupil of yours?” McLaren watched Fraser select the perfect spot to view the concert.

  “No. Not really. He’s a wannabe and he grabs anyone he thinks can give him a boost in the field, teachers and event planners included. You’ve got to be firm, tell him you can’t help him, or he’ll cling to you forever.” He grimaced, as though he’d experienced it.

  “Did he cling to Kent?”

  Dave snorted as he wiped down the strings. “When he could, but I don’t think it was too often. He accepted Kent’s food and guitar picks but didn’t give anything in return, if I’m to believe Kent. And I have no reason to think otherwise.”

  “He could change when he’s a bit more secure with his ability.”

  “Whatever ability he has, he could do. Unfortunately, he’s got Big Time aspirations and no talent. But I help him when I can. He wants to play guitar and sing. But between you and me…” He scrunched his mouth and shook his head.