Last Seen Page 5

  She nodded slightly, perhaps acknowledging the truth of his statements, and showed a faint smile. “Were you walking around for a while outside, taking in the festivities?”

  “Why? Do I look that hot?”

  “Not too awfully. It’s just that your face is red enough for it. Walking up from the car park and across the courtyard has most people panting in this heat, including me. I get here ten minutes early of a morning so my coloring returns to normal.” She suggested lemonade or other cold beverage. “Guaranteed to cool you down.”

  “Thanks just the same. I’m fine.” McLaren looked around the room.

  Pale green walls set off the honey-colored window blinds, casting an aura of comfort through the area. A combination tearoom and souvenir shop, it held a quality selection from both quarters. People contemplated picture postcards, books, mugs, maps, CDs, DVDs, small toys and games, and tea towels. They sat at tables or queued for tea, peering at the menu board or the food selections in the glass display counter. Conversations and the clink of metal cutlery against china, the ring of the cash registers and the restaurant door latching shut blended into the hum of background noise as McLaren gave a quick look at Mary, Queen of Scots. The painting’s artist caught her—magnificent in her dress—arriving in 1585 for her fourth period of incarceration in the castle. Poor Mary. Each time she had left Tutbury she probably had thought she had escaped its horror. What must she have felt on learning she was to return? He gave the painting one last glance before he turned in his chair to face Sheri—the picture of cool and crisp in her wrinkle-free linen skirt and cotton blouse. Unlike me, he thought, wiping his fingers across the right side of his neck to mop up the sweat. Maybe I should have a lemonade. “So you’re fine with talking about Kent, then.”

  “Certainly. It’s not a topic I relish. Kent and I had a nasty parting, but I don’t mind answering some questions. Provided they’re not too personal.” She looked at him, expressionless but for the hint of challenge in her eyes.

  “I appreciate your honesty and I accept your condition. When was your divorce, if you don’t mind telling me?”

  “Why? Is there some magic number, like after eight months, four days, and seventeen hours you no longer hate each others’ guts and wouldn’t dream of making life rough for the other?”

  “Was that true in your or Kent’s case, then?”

  “Now you’re talking motive, Mr. McLaren.”

  He snorted. “Of course! Don’t tell me that surprises you. I’m sure the police thought the same during their initial investigation. I don’t know that motive necessarily always dies with time.”

  She nodded her head slightly. “I don’t know if my ill feeling…well, you can call it hatred, for that’s not too strong a word…toward Kent would have eased much even years from then.”

  “Has it eased any, now that he’s dead?”

  “Somewhat. Not much. I don’t know. I haven’t actually considered my current feelings. I’ve tried to bury them now that Kent…” She tapped the spoon against the lip of the cup and set it on the saucer. Leaning back in her chair, she looked as though she had all the time in the world; her workday had ended, and she was too comfortable—and tired—to move just yet. She said rather slowly, “It’s best that way, you know. You can’t live long with so much hatred inside you. It’s not healthy. It eats away at your being; it saps your energy and your will to do anything else. I know I wasted a lot of hours planning vengeful, spiteful things. Like I had suddenly inhabited a different body, had become a different person, and that’s all I could think about or had the desire to do, avenge myself on Kent because he had hurt me. And I don’t mean with his girlfriend, Fay. She came along after we decided we weren’t working out. No. There was another reason for our split.” She lifted her eyes from the cup to find McLaren looking at her. “Sorry. Bad habit of mine, feeling sorry for myself. Well, it’s water under the dam and I’ve got the rest of my life to forget Kent Harrison.”

  “These vengeful, spiteful things you were planning. What did you do?”

  “Oh, I never carried any of that out, Mr. McLaren! It was more a cheap, therapeutic exercise than anything physical.”

  “Fifty ways to kill your lover, eh? With apologies to Paul Simon.”

  “I probably came up with fifty-one, but in my case I changed the word to ‘punish’ because I didn’t kill him.”

  McLaren let the silence fall between them as he considered her statement. He didn’t know her, but he believed, given enough motive and anger, anyone could kill. The question was if Sheri Harrison was that sort of person, and if she was lying.

  “How did you two meet?” He eyed her, curious beyond the mere words of the inquiry. He could see why any man might be attracted to her, but he was interested about Kent meeting her. “And when?” he added quickly as Sheri shifted in her chair.

  “It’s fairly boring.” She picked up the teaspoon.

  “Perhaps, but ‘boring’ doesn’t bother me.”

  “Here at the castle. During one of the events.”

  “Minstrels Court?”

  “No. Earlier in the year than that. Just a weekend of period music. I liked his music, went over to watch, became intrigued by him, and…” She shrugged and gave a half smile. “We dated, fell in love, got married a year later. Here at the castle. It seemed romantic at the time.”

  “And you made your home…where?”

  “In Kirkfield. In the same house he lived in before we met. My place was too small. A flat in Swadlincote. So even though Kirkfield was slightly farther from my work at the castle, his house suited us better. So I moved in right before our wedding. Moved out right before our divorce. I now live in Ashbourne.”

  “You were working at the castle before and during your marriage. Where did Kent work during that period?”

  “At the same place when he died.”

  “Murdered, Mrs. Harrison. Kent was murdered.”

  He emphasized the word so strongly that Sheri jerked her head. “Yes. Of course. When he was…” She frowned slightly, as though fishing for a word McLaren would like, reluctant to use his offering. “When he was…killed. He still worked at the school in Ashbourne.”

  “Did you always live in Swadlincote?”

  “Seems like it, though my parents and I lived in London until my first birthday. Then Dad got his job in Swadlincote and we moved here. My folks still live there, by the way. Dad’s itching to retire. He has two more years until he can.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Computer work. Repair and website hosting. Mum works from their home as a website designer.”

  “What did you and Kent do for fun? Holidays, clubs, hobbies,” he suggested when she looked blank.

  “At first it was music. That’s what had brought us together.”

  “Early stuff, like the type he sang?”

  “Certainly. We’d go to folk clubs, too. Some of the songs he sang actually fit that category, and when he popularized some of them, they easily fit the folk vein. We’d make the rounds every so often. You know, The Malt Shovel on Tuesdays, The Harried Fox on Fridays. But it wasn’t cast in stone.”

  “Not every Tuesday for the Malt Shovel, then.” Actually, the idea’s not abhorrent. And if you change it to performance instead of attendance, that would be nice for my group. A steady engagement where there’s a loyal fan base, good pub grub to keep the audience there. And close to home so you don’t spend half your free evening driving to and fro. A local following helps push you over the top with popularity, too. They get attached to a song, tell someone else about it… Nothing wrong with a reliable performance schedule.

  “No,” Sheri replied, pulling him from his mental plans. “Nothing like a weekly or monthly social outing. We had other interests, although the music was important. Kent and his occasional male singing partner—”

  “He sang regularly with someone other than the woman with whom he recorded ‘The Swans’ Song,’ I assume.”

  “What? Oh, yes. T
hat recording was with Fay Larkin. They weren’t an act, not like Kent and the other bloke. I think Fay just came into the picture to make that recording, since he needed a female voice. Dave Morley was his usual partner when they chose to sing together. They got together every month, or month and a half, for a boys’ night out at a pub to talk over an upcoming venue or recording session. I’d either stay home, or pop over to a girl friend’s or my parents’ for the evening.”

  “No clubs on your own?”

  “No. I like to read during my time off. Or garden or go out with friends. I don’t like organizations, church groups or fitness centers. Nothing structured like that. But we did have friends over about once a month for dinner. Or we were asked to their homes.”

  “Any particular friends? Did you see them on a fairly regular basis?”

  “You want names?” Without waiting for his answer, she opened her handbag, took out a small notepad and pen, and wrote down names and phone numbers. She handed it to McLaren. “We’re a dull bunch.”

  “Keeps you out of trouble that way. Thanks.” He glanced at the paper, folded it, and put it into his shirt pocket. “Sounds like your lives were full. What drove you apart?”

  Sheri sighed and pulled in her bottom lip. Dropping the pad and pen into her bag, she said, “What drives people apart? You eventually have different goals for your lives, your interests change until you’re just two people sharing a house and who merely nod to each other while heading for different appointments.”

  “No person got in the way, then. No long hours at work.” This echoes Dena and me, he thought. Wasn’t that her main complaint before he broke off from her last year? He was never home, and when he was, he still carried his job with him, mentally and emotionally. It’d been hard to separate the loves of police work and Dena. Both consumed him, but the first was his livelihood. Even if Dena had realized that, she couldn’t accept the backseat in which he’d placed her. And it sounded as if Kent had done the identical thing with Sheri, except he’d chosen music instead of the Force. Either way, the result was the same—instead of two couples, there were four separate people.

  “No,” Sheri said, her voice slightly bitter. “No other woman or even a hint of an affair came between us. Kent became more and more involved in his music so I compensated for the hours alone by working longer at the castle. And going on weekend trips with a friend.”

  “Who’s the friend? Where did you go?”

  “Nothing lurid, Mr. McLaren. A girlfriend. Her name’s on the list. First one. Her husband is often in Munich for his job, so Judy has quite a few weekends free. We go bird watching..”

  “So these people on your list are the ones you and Kent socialized with as a couple, for the most part.”

  “Yes.”

  “And since your divorce…you said you’re still employed here at the castle.”

  “Yes. Full time tour guide and some time event planner.”

  McLaren glanced out the window. One of the castle towers caught the sunlight, tinted to gold, and he thought it would be an interesting place to work. “Which do you like best, the guiding or the planning?”

  Sheri shook her head, her eyes clouding for a moment. “Hard to answer. I like the tour guide position because I like teaching and seeing the interest in people’s faces. I love history, which plays into being a guide, of course, but it also is an essential part of event planning. I get a great satisfaction from a well-staged and attended event.”

  “How long after you moved out of your house was your divorce granted?”

  “A year. I felt as though I was aging a month for each day I stayed married to Kent. It’s still a shock to realize I’m only thirty-six. I feel twice that.” She glanced at McLaren, looking as though she challenged him to say something consoling, like she didn’t even look thirty-six, then she pressed her lips together and shifted her gaze.

  As the silence fell between them, Sheri again stirred her tea. Playing for time, McLaren wondered, or hoping he’d leave?

  “I had an alibi for the time of his death, you know.” Her words, soft as they were spoken, broke the silence.

  “Tenth of July. Where were you?”

  “Nowhere suspicious. It’s fairly common knowledge. I was working late. Here, at the castle.”

  “Others saw you and vouched for you, I take it.”

  “My boss, Clark MacKay. We were together. Until about eleven o’clock.”

  “Rather late to be working.” The suspicion crept into his voice again.

  “Yes. But we were putting the final touches on an upcoming event.”

  “On a mental roll.”

  “Yes. There were a myriad of small, last minute details to finish and we needed to get it completed.”

  “What was the event?”

  “Tudor Days. We held it later that month. I’m talking about last year, you understand.”

  “I’m aware we’re talking about last year, Mrs. Harrison. He was murdered last year.” His eyes narrowed slightly, wondering if she was nervous or perhaps thought him an idiot.

  Sheri nodded, her cheeks slightly reddened. “Yes. Sorry. It’s just that…talking about days and years… Well, I didn’t want you—”

  “I’m right with you. Your alibi is tenth of July, a year ago. You were working late.”

  She rushed on, as though trying to gloss over her verbal faux pas. “Yes. Our first Tudor Days was the previous year, in fact.”

  “Two years ago.” He smiled, showing he could do the mental math.

  “We had spent several years saying ‘what if’ and ‘why can’t we’ and other procrastinating phrases until I suppose we tired of the excuses and rolled up our sleeves three years ago and planned the thing. I’m awfully glad we did. It was a huge success so we held it again last year. Even though last year’s was only the second time for Tudor Days, we felt we really had a winner.”

  “Attendance was that good, then.”

  “Oh yes! We had nothing but rave reviews. From everyone, the media, the booth vendors, the performers, and the public.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. We focused on the castle’s history during the reigns of the Tudors, had cooking demonstrations, food, art, music and contests pertinent to that era.”

  Kids would probably love it, he thought. Who didn’t like dressing up, playing at Knights of the Round Table, sword fighting? And if the vendors were smart, they’d have kid-sized and kid-themed items for parents to buy… He glanced at the items in the gift shop. A plastic sword and shield would fulfill many a child’s dream. “You mentioned music. Did Kent perform at that event?”

  “Yes. I believe he did.” She tilted her head slightly. Light from the overhead fixture reflected off her spectacles, masking her eyes from his view. Then, as quickly as they had slipped into obscurity, they stared back at him as she again shifted her head. She blinked several times, perplexed. “Why do you want to know about what happened during Tudor Days? You think someone there trailed him home and killed him? Isn’t that rather far-fetched, targeting your victim like that? I thought that was just movie drama.”

  “You also mentioned food. I assume you had demonstrations and booths.”

  The sudden switch in topics seemed to catch her by surprise. Her eyes widened and she blinked before she replied. “Pardon? Oh, certainly. That’s standard in most of these fairs and reenactments.”

  “I know this is an absurd question, but did you know if Kent ate anything at one of the booths?”

  “Oh. You’re trying to figure out how that poisonous plant got into him. Well, it wasn’t me, Mr. McLaren. I didn’t brew up hemlock tea and make him drink it. He wouldn’t have eaten anything I’d have given him, anyway, which I wouldn’t have done. That would have necessitated me getting within communicating and seeing range. Neither of which I had a desire to do. So you’ll have to look for your poisoner somewhere else.”

  “You were divorced by then, or planning to be?”

  “Divorced. Clean
ly separated. Nice and legal.”

  “And that was…”

  “One week to the day before he wound up dead. If I’d known that was going to happen, I would have saved my time, energy, and money and not hired my lawyer. Life’s funny, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Seven

  Dena thought she could have saved some time and energy, and certainly petrol money, if she and Dave Morley had talked by phone. But she wanted to judge his demeanor, see the facial expressions behind his words. After all, Michael always talked about ‘reading’ people. The phone masked communication nearly as well as email did. If you didn’t have voice inflections or couldn’t read body language something as mundane as ‘Everything’s just fine’ could be interpreted either as sarcastic or elated.

  Joyful Sound Music was a modest sized shop in Buxton. While not situated on the High Street or the Crescent—two of the more traveled spots—it was still in a location that brought a respectable amount of trade. Dena parked her MG opposite the store, applied a fresh coat of lipstick to her dry lips, and combed her hair while she mentally rehearsed what she would ask Dave Morley. Smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from her blue trousers, she took a deep breath, then walked into the shop.

  Unlike the stony, traditional front of the building that seemed to muscle room for itself between the bookstore on its left and the bakery on its right, the interior was light, airy, and open. One wall held guitars, banjos, mandolins, and lutes, while across the aisle woodwind and brass instruments waited to be bought. Large glass-front cases of accessories squeezed in between racks of sheet music and shelves of concertinas and tin whistles. Leather-cushioned stools dotted the interior, inviting the customer to sit and try out an instrument.

  Dave Morley turned from dusting a 5-string banjo, saw a potential customer in Dena, and laid down the dust rag. He smoothed his thinning hair and gave her a hesitant smile before asking if he could be of assistance.