Last Seen Page 6
“I hope so.” Dena fought a sudden surge of panic. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. She had no credentials like McLaren did; she had no authority like a police officer; she wasn’t even a friend or family member of Kent Harrison’s. Why would Dave Morley talk to her?
“I hope I can, too,” Dave returned, coming up to her. He was tall and thin, with a receding hairline that visually added more years to him than was warranted. He had musician’s fingers—long and thin, good for playing a stringed instrument. Or a piano. Dena remembered some of the nearly impossible note reaches she’d attempted. Her hands had been too small, barely stretching an octave, so she had resorted to a quick roll of the chord. Glancing once more at his fingers, Dena thought how strong they probably were. Just chording alone developed muscles.
“Do you wish to see an instrument?” Dave broke her reverie. He rolled down the long sleeves of his pinstriped shirt and flicked a piece of lint from the cuff, giving her an optimistic smile. He leaned forward slightly, implying he was on the balls of his feet and ready to spring into action at her first word. “Or are you interested in an accessory or sheet music?”
“Actually, I’d like to speak to David Morley. Are you he?” She glanced at his nametag.
“Yes. Did someone recommend you to me?”
“I have a few questions, if you have a minute or two.” She should have phrased that better. He thinks this is about music. She started to explain further, but he said, “That’s why I’m here. Ask anything you’d like.”
“I’d like to ask you about Kent Harrison, about the night he died. You knew him, I understand.”
Dave’s dark eyes seemed to soften. He jammed his fists into his slacks pockets. “Why are you asking about Kent a year after his death? Did Sheri send you?”
Dena blinked, startled at the question. “I’m sorry—Sheri?”
“She must have done. She or Fay. Who was it?” A muscle in his forearm twitched.
“I assure you, Mr. Morley, neither of those two people sent me. I don’t even know them.”
“Then why are you here?” His brows lowered, as if he were mentally sizing up her authority and interest in him. He nodded slightly, evidently satisfied of the answer. “Newspaper. That’s it. You’re a reporter.”
Dena opened her mouth to protest, but Dave rushed on.
“Sure. One year anniversary of the murder. Only, there’s no planned vigil or prayer gathering at the castle. None that I know of, at least. And I think I would’ve been told, seeing as how Kent and I were singing partners.” He stopped so abruptly that it was several seconds before Dena could think of something to say.
“You’re under the wrong assumption, Mr. Morley. I’m not a reporter.”
“You’re not a cop, either.”
“No.” She was tempted to say that her boyfriend had been, but that wouldn’t add any weight to her basis for being here. “I was at the Minstrels Court festival at Tutbury Castle today. It reminded me of Kent’s last performance there and I want to see it solved. You see, I have a friend…” She paused, unsure if this were the best approach.
Dave sighed, visibly bored. “I’ve got work to do. Can you get on with it?”
“My friend…” She swallowed, blushing as she spoke. But Dave remained mute, his lips pressed together, staring at her. She took a deep breath and continued. “I think he could look into Kent’s death and find out who killed him.”
“Your friend can do this even though Derbyshire’s Finest failed. Who is he…Superman? Maybe Marvin the Mentalist?”
“I should think you’d want Kent’s killer caught. You were his friend.”
“Right on both accounts, luv. But you could be telling me anything. I don’t know you from Adam. Well…” He paused, his eyes taking in her well-proportioned figure and trendy hairstyle. Her understated clothes spoke of Money. “Eve. Like I said a minute ago, Sheri could have put you up to this. I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m not accusing you of Kent’s murder.”
“I should bloody well hope not.”
“I just have a question.”
“Like what?”
“Why you waited twenty-four hours to look for Kent. If you and he were such genial mates, I’d have thought you would’ve looked for him much sooner.”
“You would, eh? Well, I have news for you. I did look for him. “
Dena opened her mouth, then thought better of her response, and merely looked at Dave.
“I spent hours driving around, going to pubs and places I knew he frequented. I was worried sick. I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to find him.”
“But you said in the newspaper interview—”
“I know what I said. I was scared I’d be accused of kidnapping or murder. I-I needed this job and I didn’t want to lose it by rotting in the nick. I know some folks are accused of crimes they didn’t commit and they end up behind bars for years, trying to prove their innocence. I had no alibi for that evening and that’s all I could think of. I was scared. I lied to the police.”
An embarrassed quiet settled over them and Dena tried to think of something to say.
The shop door opened and a woman and teenaged girl entered, the girl chattering about the merits of a used Goya versus new Martin, Cordoba or Ramirez classical guitars.
Dave ran his tongue over his lips and coughed. “Sorry. I have a customer. If you’ll excuse me…” His hand went to the knot of his necktie. He pulled it tighter and straightened the tie. “I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you, but Kent was actually the god. I just played second fiddle.” He stepped aside to allow Dena to precede him to the front of the shop. Dena felt his eyes on her as she exited—the bell attached to the door jangled. She peeked around in time to see him smile toward the mother and daughter.
****
The bell’s sound seemed to follow her into the street, multiplying into a dozen gonging tongues, deafening and whispering simultaneously. Trying to shake the clatter, she turned to her right and hurried up the street. Shoppers and workers crowded the pavement, slowing her escape. But she pushed through the sea of bodies, concentrating on the snippets of conversation and traffic noises. Dave’s hiss and the bell’s clamor seeped into the surrounding sounds. At the top of The Slopes she stopped. She had shaken off the din. And the embarrassment.
But she hadn’t shaken off the memory of the sound of hand bells. Hand bells and mockery.
She sat on a nearby bench. It had been…what? Twenty years ago? Yes. She nodded, the group of teenagers and the church hall once more standing before her, dredged up from some recess in her memory. They had been practicing their music for the village wakes. The week long celebration would begin the following day, opened by a village luminary who had blazed into fame through the music world. And therefore not only created excitement in the teenaged bell ringers but also added to the pressure to perform perfectly. They were on edge. Dena’s concentration had faltered during a passage; she hadn’t put down her hand bells to use the choir chimes. Consequently, the melody dipped into and out of prominence and eventually produced more foul ups. Normally Dena would have shrugged off the mistake, making a humorous excuse. But the jests and name-calling hurt more than usual, cut deeper and stayed longer. Remained with her even now, twenty years later. Nerves may have produced the initial verbal storm, but personal gripes and animosities flamed the exasperation into hatred. And the hostility turned into sharp-tongued gossip, following Dena for the rest of the year.
A woman’s mobile phone chimed as she passed, and the adolescent recollection faded. Dena got up slowly, glancing around to see if anyone stared at her, guessed her inner turmoil. But the human rush concentrated on its own wants and problems, having no time or desire to notice a solitary figure sitting idle. She returned to her car, questions resonating inside her head. The questions rang with the voices of McLaren, Gwen, Jamie Kydd, and Dave Morley. And, most upsetting, herself. Approaching the music shop, she glanced at its front, half expecting to see Dave Morley
leering at her. Or at least standing in the doorway to bar her entrance. But the shop front harbored no one.
Somewhat placated, she slid into the car’s driver’s seat, questions in her mind as persistent as the noise in the street. Was Dave Morley apparently telling the truth now? Perhaps more to the point, why is he so certain Sheri Harrison prompted my appearance? Does that mean she knows who’s behind Kent’s death?
Chapter Eight
Does that mean Sheri was happy about Kent’s death? McLaren wondered. Or merely making an observation about coincidence? He left the castle car park, shaking his head, swearing he’d had enough of women, cold cases, and poking his nose into other people’s lives.
When he got home he showered and changed clothes. He pitched the perspiration-soaked shirt into the linen bin, glad to be cool and dry once again, and downed a large glass of water in deep gulps. The wet leather cord of his necklace left damp impressions on his T-shirt.
McLaren made a cheese and tomato sandwich and took a bite from it as he carried it into the front room. Still chewing, he put the plate on the coffee table and got out his guitar. He sat on the couch, his back to the front window, and strummed a few chords, deciding on a song. The first verse of ‘The Swans’ Song’ poured from him in an emotional rendering, as though he were singing it at Kent Harrison’s funeral. Startled, he paused, his pulse racing. Then, realizing it was his subconscious reaction to the day’s questioning, he went on, singing the entire song.
Ah, says the swan a-swimming on the lake;
I’ll tell you why my heart did break.
Once I courted a love so fair
And when he left I did despair.
—
Ah, says the cob with his feathers white;
I loved a lass in the pale moonlight.
She proved untrue and from me fled
And since that day I bow my head.
—
Howdy dowdy diddle dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle dum day
Howdy dowdy diddle dum day
Hey li lee a-riddle dum dum.
—
Ah, says the pen on the wide millrace;
I knew a cob with a handsome face.
His words of love, they did deceive,
Now night and day I sit and grieve.
—
Ah, says the cob a-sitting on a stone;
I had a love but now I’m alone.
I brought her gifts by night and day
But she from me did fly away.
—
Ah, says the pen on the grassy bank;
I’ll tell you of a cruel prank.
He I loved, he did me woo;
Alas for me, he proved untrue.
—
Ah, says the cob with a saddened air;
Once I courted a lady fair.
She proved false, from me did turn,
But for my love I still do yearn.
—
Ah, says the pen with a mournful cry;
I loved a cob with a roving eye.
With words of love he filled my heart;
When he did leave it broke apart.
As the last chord of the song hung in the air, McLaren thought about himself and Dena. The past year they had been much like that swan couple, but Dena had done more of the grieving. At least demonstrative, he corrected, setting the guitar on the floor and leaning its neck against the edge of the sofa. And if he were truthful, he’d admit he was just as lonely. And hurt. He slowly shook his head, lowering it as his shameful behavior toward her welled up inside him. He would never treat her like that again. Her or anyone else he loved. It was a sin against God and a slap of her face.
He glanced at the partially eaten sandwich, wondering why he had thought himself hungry, and grabbed his guitar again. After a quick tuning, he sang ‘Some Rival Has Stolen My True Love Away.’ The words hit him with a fierceness that he couldn’t contain, especially the last lines of the final verse.
But it’s I’ll be as constant as a true turtle dove,
For I never will, at no time, prove false to my love.
He should take that as his motto. He laid the guitar on the sofa. Tattoo it on my cheek so I’ll see it when I shave; chisel it on the side of the stone wall. Better than his flippant phrases that his group heard all the time. He left the sandwich on the table and went into the kitchen.
He passed the next half hour phoning the Harrisons’ friends, making notations and tick marks next to the individual names on Sheri’s list. Everyone, in varying frequencies, had been to their home for dinner, had joined them in other social activities, had seen their marriage deteriorate over several years and finally fall apart, and had felt sympathy for them. Some had taken sides, some had abandoned the friendship, some had offered philosophy and shoulders. No one, however, harbored any suspicion that Sheri Harrison had killed Kent Harrison. She wasn’t that sort of person—even if she did end up hating Kent’s guts. Besides, hadn’t Sheri been working late that night? So, you see, she couldn’t have been in two places at once.
So much for opportunity, McLaren thought, even if motive is still rife. Besides, would all these people lie? They might if they were Sheri’s friends.
McLaren was pouring himself a cup of tea when the doorbell rang. As he walked into the front room, he glanced out of the large window. Dena’s red sports car sat in the driveway. Smiling, he put the cup on the side table, opened the door, and pulled her toward him.
“I was hoping you’d drop by,” he mumbled, his lips against her cheek, and thought how soft her skin was. “It’s been a while.”
Dena gave him a swift kiss and struggled out of his embrace. “Just two days.”
“Seemed more like two weeks. You’re not working at the sanctuary today?” He followed her to the sofa but remained standing while she seated herself. The turquoise color of her blouse complemented the coppery strands in her brunette hair. “Want some tea? Coffee? Wine?”
“Nothing, thanks. I just dropped by for a minute.”
“Then let’s make the most of that minute.” He took the seat next to her and waited for her to find the words.
“You got the message I left on your ansafone, I guess.” She raised her gaze to his eyes, looking doe-eyed and hopeful at once.
“Yes.” He left it hanging there and watched her top teeth bite into her lower lip. Her fingers twisted the ring on her finger while she tried to bring up a smile. Pathetic. He needed to put her out of her misery. He sighed heavily and leaned back. “I couldn’t quite figure it out so I played it a few times.” He glanced out the window and fastened his gaze on her car. “It still made no sense, so I erased it.” He waited for the cry. It came right on time.
“You erased it! Why didn’t you ring me up if you didn’t understand what I was saying? I go to all this trouble to—”
McLaren spoke slowly, as though addressing the car. “I really couldn’t see anything interesting in what I could make out. Besides, I’ve been working on a stone wall job up in Hathersage.” He turned, eyeing her flushed face. “All I could make out is that you have some murder case gone cold, right? At Tutbury Castle. Well, if the body was found elsewhere…”
“It’s that murder that happened last year. Kent Harrison. He was performing at the Minstrels Court. I thought you could give it a try, if you’re not too busy.” She rushed on with her explanation. “It had everyone baffled at the time. Do you recall the facts?”
“I reread the newspaper account. Is the castle curator making noises about the death? Is that why you want me to look into it?”
“No. Not that I know of. I just thought that since it’s been a year, and since the police don’t seem to be making any headway, and since—”
“Since I cleared up another little cold case last month, you thought I might as well strike while I’m hot and clear this one up, too. Right?” He smiled as she glared at him.
“Not at all. It’s a matter of justice, that’s all. You care about justice.”
&
nbsp; “Without saying the obvious that everyone should, I’ll comment that I just got out of that previous case by the skin of my teeth. Harvester and some other not too friendly coppers weren’t half pleased with me popping up again. You want me to go through all that a second time, maybe get stopped for something that will stick, something other than a suspicion of driving under the influence?” A surge of heat hit his cheeks and he was painfully aware that his heart rate had increased. Talking about Charlie Harvester, his former coworker and current nemesis, did that. “Do they allow prisoners to get mail these days? We’ll have to look up when my visiting days are.” He leaned back, the red in his cheeks starting to fade, and looked at Dena.
“I won’t dignify that remark with a response, Michael. I’ll assume you’re joking. But honestly, I did think you’d be interested in the Harrison case. Besides being a bit of a mystery, the chap was a musician.”
“So I’m supposed to feel this overwhelming brotherly love for a fellow guitarist?”
“Well, that’s part of it, sure. But he touched so many people in his life. Positively, I mean.”
“The Great Influence? He was such a smashing teacher?”
“Yes, I think he was. And more than that, Michael. He was a human being who didn’t deserve to be killed. He was too young and his killer got away. It’s indecent that it happened to him. To anyone.”
“So you call me in to fix everything.”
Dena pursed up her lips in a half pout. There was a small whine to her voice. “I thought you could. That you might be interested. That you might want to help his family and friends see some justice done.”
“That’s what the police are for, Dena. I’m through with the Constabulary, remember?”
A silence fell between them, thick as the skin he’d grown to ward off prisoners’ insults and threats, the mockery of the public, the chastisement of his bosses and judges. A year ago, he’d thought a year ago when he had left the job and taken up the work of repairing and building dry stone walls that he could forget all that. But the voices sounded remarkably loud at times, the words as sharp now as the day they had been hurled at him. They hadn’t faded with time, nor lain forgotten. They woke him some nights, wouldn’t let him fall asleep other nightswhirling in his mind with the clarity of the judge’s gavel emphasizing a verdict. He was surprised they still had the power to hurt.