Last Seen Page 7

  A motorcycle roared past his house in an eddy of dust and nodding roadside grasses, ascending the hill on its way to Castleton, perhaps. The noise startled him back to the present and he became aware of Dena again. He stared at her, as though he were annoyed, then grinned. “You look miserable. Relax, sweets. I’ve already talked to a few people who are connected with the case.”

  “A few people… You spoke with them today?”

  “Not before breakfast.” He dodged the thrown pillow.

  “You… Making me think you…” She took a deep breath, her emotions too swift to express. “You ought to be—”

  “I’m sure I should. I thought you’d be glad your phone message was so persuasive.”

  “Maybe I should have been a lawyer. What do you think?” She stood, picked up the pillow, and set it back on the sofa.

  “I think I like you just how you are.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her against his chest. “It might ruin my reputation if it became known I was kissing the other side.”

  “How do you know I’d be a defense lawyer?”

  “Because that’s who you are. Defender of the downtrodden, voice of the helpless.”

  “Latecomer is the more accurate term.” She allowed him a kiss before she picked up her handbag and car key. “I’ll be late if I don’t leave now.”

  “Where you off to, then? Should I be jealous?”

  “Just tea with a friend. A girl friend,” she said as McLaren’s eyebrow rose. She stood in the open doorway, looking undecided about something, then laid her right hand on his chest. “Thank you for doing this, Michael. It means a lot.”

  “A lot to whom? To you, I know it does. But to the family?” He shrugged, his right hand on top of hers, dwarfing it with its size.

  “They’ve been conspicuous by their absence, haven’t they?”

  “Maybe they’ve been hounding the police. Just because it’s not in the newspaper…” He shrugged again, not particularly caring why the family wasn’t staging one of the yearly vigils that recently have become popular. Anniversaries of missing people and murder victims usually were lead stories in television news spots.

  “Kent Harrison’s friends might be glad of your solving the case, even if the family has moved away. Just because they’re not pounding on doors doesn’t mean they won’t welcome your investigation, Michael.”

  He kissed her once more before she left, answered her exuberant declaration of love, and watched her car snake down the road until he could no longer see it.

  He remained in the doorway for several minutes, aware of her scent on his clothing and in the air, feeling the heat and pressure of her fingers imprinted on his palm, hearing her whispered words in his mind. A lamb bleated on the hill behind his house and he walked inside, leaving the shadows to darken and lengthen in the approaching twilight.

  ****

  Actually, she hadn’t really lied. Dena glanced at the rearview mirror. McLaren was fast becoming a dot in the thickening light. Her car rounded the bend in the road, obliterating the last of him from her view. She did have to meet Mary, but not as soon as she’d told him. She needed to do this first. Now, not tomorrow. She needed to talk to one or two more people so she could hand him some more information. But why, she challenged herself. He said he’d already begun. Why was she still playing at detective? Was she harming his chance of success if she inadvertently angered someone?

  Like Dave Morley, the music shop clerk…

  She frowned, suddenly wondering if she should just forget this wild idea and head into Buxton to meet Mary. But the chance to share one of McLaren’s passions whispered at her, lured her on. It would bring them closer. It’d show him she supported whatever he did and that she wanted to be part of his life.

  Or does it? Does it show, perhaps, that she has no faith in his ability, that she thought he needed help, no matter how amateurish and inept it might be? After all, if she was so bent on supporting him in whatever line of work he did, why wasn’t she hauling rocks for his stone wall work? Why wasn’t she bringing him lunch on some mountaintop? Why was she poking her nose into a murder case, of all places! Because I like it.

  The reason rushed at her with all the fascination and sparkle of a fireworks explosion, with the inescapable lure of wrapped Christmas gifts discovered in her parents’ bedroom closet. Because it was fun and she liked solving the puzzle. Because, it gave them something to discuss. She drowned the nagging voice with a dose of American bluegrass music, punching the Play button on the car’s tape deck console. The Lynn Morris Band underscored her mental discussion by singing ‘no one has to tell me what love is.’ Dena nodded and applied her attention to the road.

  The MG hesitated momentarily as it started up a hill and Dena changed down into third gear. The motor rushed ahead with a growl as the tires bit into the asphalt and as she crested the hill she glanced at the cottages and farms spread below, the green earth sectioned off in gray, stony lines, the clumps of trees darker green and thickest along the brook. Her hair caught the wind, streaming behind her as the car descended in a clatter of groaning engine and excited birds flushed from road-hugging bushes. She headed south, toward Ashbourne, wanting to talk to Kent Harrison’s colleague. Maybe the teacher would remember something occurring at school that would have a bearing on the case.

  She made good time on the A515 and soon after turning off the main road she arrived at Trevor Pennell’s house, a semi-detached of brick with U-shaped orange terra cotta roof tiles. She parked in front of the house but let the motor idle. Was this really a good idea? She had no authority—she wasn’t a police detective. Not even a former one, which would lend a bit more weight to back up her inquiry.

  She had just talked herself into leaving when her mobile rang. Without looking at the caller ID, she flipped it open. Gwen’s voice gushed over the line.

  “Dena, hello. It’s Gwen. Have you talked to Mike yet? About the case, I mean. Explained it to him?”

  “No.”

  “No? I thought you were going to. I thought you were going to his house after we dropped you. Change your mind?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have to tell him.”

  “What?” There was a pause, and Dena envisioned Gwen shaking her head, perhaps mouthing something to Jerry, like ‘She’s round the twist.’ “I think I came in the middle of this, Dena. Back up and tell me what’s going on.”

  “He’s already begun the investigation. I didn’t have to say anything.”

  “Already begun?”

  “You heard me. He’s talked to some people already. I didn’t need to plead or cajole or bribe.”

  “You forgot lure, but it’s probably just as well.”

  “I may need to lure, though.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I’m about to talk to one of the people associated with the case.”

  “What!” Gwen’s concern exploded over the phone. “You’re going to talk… Dena, leave this to Mike. He’s had experience. He’s a pro. You might get—”

  “More information than he does?” she interrupted, purposely misreading Gwen’s statement. “Get him jealous?”

  “Might get into trouble,” Gwen finished, her voice taking on an edge of worry. “Who are you talking to? You want me or Jerry to go with you? Safety in numbers, dear girl. Where is this person? I can meet you—”

  “Too late for that, Gwen. I talked to a few before I met Michael. It was just to get some information in case I had to use it as lure.”

  “But if you didn’t need the lure… You said you were about to talk to someone else. Why, if Mike’s already interested?”

  Trevor Pennell opened the front door of his house and let his dog out. Dena lowered her voice and angled her lips closer to the phone. “Look, Gwen, I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you all about this tomorrow. Promise.” She rang off and called to Trevor before she heard Gwen’s squeak of protest.

  Trevor looked to be in his mid-fifties, with dark hair and eyes. He remained
on the front steps, watching his dog, and asked what she wanted.

  “Mr. Pennell?” Dena’s voice came out slightly breathy from her sprint up the walkway.

  “Yes. And you are…”

  “Dena Ellison.”

  “May I help you with something?”

  “If you have a minute or two, I’d like to ask you about Kent Harrison. You and he were colleagues, I believe. You teach at Grange Hall Performing Arts College.”

  Trevor’s eyes darkened and he tilted his head slightly, as though a different view would clear up the confusion. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know why you wish to talk about Kent. He’s not at the school any more.”

  A euphemism if I ever heard one, Dena thought. “You were a friend of his, correct? As opposed to someone you just nodded to in the halls, I mean.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, as if thinking of consequences if he spoke to her. “Where’s this leading?”

  “I’m with a group of people who think his case should be reopened.”

  “That’s a difficult procedure. I’m in favor of it, if that’s what you came to find out. Have you a petition you wish me to sign?” He glanced at her purse as though expecting her to produce a clipboard and pen.

  “Not at the moment. Right now I’d just like to know how well you knew him.”

  “What does the degree of our friendship have to do with anything?”

  “If you knew him well, I hope you’ll give me names of other friends to whom I could talk, that’s all.”

  Trevor nodded, his hand scratching his chin. He called his dog before he answered. “Logical, yes. Of course I’d like it to be solved. A year is a bloody long time to live with something like this. His friends are still upset over it, as am I, and we’d like his killer arrested. I wasn’t very close to him, but we had the camaraderie of academia and the shared love of teaching. It’s a damned shame such a talent is gone.”

  “In the year since his death, have you thought of anyone who might’ve killed him?”

  “Motive is sometimes difficult to divine. There are always people who let envy or greed rule them. It could be that.”

  “Dave Morley, you mean?”

  “I’m not naming names. But jealousy could point the finger in Kent’s instance, since he was so talented. I guess there’s always the spurned spouse. Don’t those people seek revenge?” He patted the dog and frowned. “Although, I don’t believe that applies here. I still like envy. Well, good luck to you.”

  She thanked him for giving her something to consider, got into her car and started the engine. Envy certainly could be a deciding factor. Or desperation if the killer could do nothing to appease his envy. She didn’t put the MG in gear right away, but sat looking at the countryside. Due east of Ashbourne lay the A517, and not many miles along the road Rawlton Hall perched on top of its craggy hill. Rawlton Hall, whose curator Ellen Fairfield had been so eager to lure Kent to her events. Maybe Ellen knew about envy. She’d been envious that the castle claimed Kent as its own. She swung her MG onto the A517 and thirty minutes later stood in Rawlton’s massive hall, talking to Ellen.

  ****

  The Hall probably would still be recognizable to monarchs and visitors who had visited in its heyday, for nothing much had changed except perhaps the gardens. The main structure spoke of late Medieval, built in the early 1300s when Edward II reigned. Two hundred years later, a magnificent great hall of Tudor design had been added, its movable carved screen and large stone fireplace among the Hall’s architectural gems. Dena stood beside one of the tapestries decorating the northern wall.

  “This is magnificent.” Dena gazed at the woven tableau depicting a courting couple in Tudor dress. They sat in a garden of red roses. Two swans drifted lazily on a lake. “Is this Tudor or an earlier period? I’m not up on my historical eras, I’m afraid.”

  “Tudor.” Ellen watched Dena.

  “I’m a Yorkist myself.” She smiled.

  The curator said nothing and the hall fell into silence except for the chatter of a magpie in the back garden.

  Obviously not a people person, Dena thought. Better suited to office work. “I appreciate your time,” she said, hoping to break the ice. “I realize you’re terribly busy, so I shan’t keep you too long.” She explained that she and her friend were delving into Kent Harrison’s death.

  “I left him alive and well.” Ellen’s blue eyes flashed, as though resenting the intrusion into her workday and the topic in general.

  Probably puts her in the Bored Rich Girl category, Dena thought, aware of the woman’s frank assessment of her clothing and makeup. A woman in her early thirties, of minimal build, average height, and substantial voice, Ellen wore a dark blue skirt and pale yellow blouse—neither of the garments exceptionally well tailored or of the current fashion. But the style suited the woman. Simple lines, straightforward colors and fabric. Utilitarian, Dena thought, taking in Ellen’s short bobbed hairstyle. Nothing complicated. Just something to wear that will get her through her day. No doubt a mirror of her personality. And she was probably wondering how to get rid of Dena without appearing involved with Kent.

  “Why would I kill him if I wanted him to sing at the Hall?” Ellen shoved her silver bangle bracelet up her forearm. “Shouldn’t you, or your friend, be looking for someone who hated him?”

  “And that’s not you?”

  The woman drew in a deep breath, seeming to inflate her petite stature. “I didn’t hate him. I was envious of his talent and I was jealous that Clark MacKay corralled him into appearing exclusively at the castle. I admit that. But I wasn’t enraged to the point of killing him if I couldn’t have him. That’s absurd. My type of envy didn’t lead to murder. I was working on an event for the Hall, and Kent wouldn’t have been able to resist participating in it. He would have come.” She uttered the last sentence almost as a challenge. Dena noticed Ellen’s flushed cheeks. But a suggestion of sadness tinted her tone, seeming to yearn for Kent’s appearance.

  “You said you left him alive and well.” Dena rushed on, not wanting to be trapped in Ellen’s sentimentality. “When was that? Sunday night as Kent was finishing his last set? Sunday afternoon?”

  “I don’t have to answer that. You’re not a cop and you’re not here on Kent’s behalf.”

  “I realize you don’t have to speak to me, Ms. Fairfield, but I thought you might be able to shed some light on his death. Perhaps you overheard something that night or maybe you know of an argument he had that—”

  “Look.” Ellen pointed her right index finger at Dena. “I had an alibi for the time he went missing, all right? That satisfy you so you’ll stop looking at me as his killer?”

  “I’m not looking at you as the killer or as anything particular, Ms. Fairfield. I just want to know if you were aware of any quarrel that may have got out of hand. Then the police would have a line on his killer. Don’t you owe it to Kent to help bring this person to justice?”

  “Kent was a super human being and an incredible singer, and I’m sorry for his death. But you’re wasting your time with me. I wasn’t at Tutbury that night. I was working here at the Hall. I’m out of the picture as far as Kent’s murder goes. I wasn’t there and I don’t know about any personal problem Kent had. He didn’t confide in me, and I didn’t see him that day. I’m not involved in any of this. It’s the Castle’s and Ashbourne’s problem.”

  “But surely, as a simple matter of justice and as a courtesy to Kent, wouldn’t you want his killer caught? Won’t you sleep better, knowing you helped bring justice to Kent?”

  “I just told you.” Ellen exhaled deeply and thrust her hands into her skirt pockets. “I don’t want any part of this. I’m not mixed up in it, either directly or from any knowledge. I was elsewhere that night, and since I have neither clairvoyance nor clairaudience ability I don’t know what went on or who killed him. I’m sorry he’s dead. A talent like he had is a staggering loss to the musical world. But it’s over. It was over a year ago. Let the past stay past. Don�
�t dredge up things that might only hurt the living. I’m not interested in helping you or the cops or your friend, and I sleep just fine. I’ve nothing preying on my conscience, as you just implied. I don’t know a thing about any of it. Plain enough?”

  Plain as a pikestaff, Dena thought as the Jacobean carved staircase creaked with each step of her exit and the massive wooden door whooshed closed behind her.

  Once more in her car she gazed at the Hall. The oriel windows threw back the sunlight and reflected the glories of the summer garden. Rawlton really was a perfect setting for any period-type event. She envisioned Kent in medieval dress sitting under the willow. A gardener pushing a cart filled with sacks of fertilizer and gardening tools strolled past, breaking the spell. She started the engine and drove toward Ashbourne. She had turned onto the A515, heading back north, when an explanation whispered at her. The idea broke through the bluegrass group’s rendition of ‘Ain’t Necessarily So.’ Ellen stressed her type of envy wouldn’t lead to murder. But had she another type? Had she tried to affiance herself to Kent and failed? Revenge was also a powerful motive for murder.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’m afraid I have nothing to tell you, Mr. McLaren. Nothing new that I haven’t told the police last year, that is.” Aaron Unsworth leaned against the front wall of his house, his figure in shadow, the tip of his lit cigarette a glowing beacon in the dusk. His arms were folded across his chest, revealing his muscular biceps, strengthened and toughened from lifting large, steel pots and pans in the restaurant where he worked. The smooth skin mirrored Aaron’s head, hairless and tanned from days off in the sun. He flicked the column of ash off the end of the cigarette before taking another puff. “You used to be one of them, right? A police officer, I mean.”

  McLaren nodded. Where was this heading? He repeated the phrase that was fast becoming an automatic reply. “You’re under no obligation to answer any of my questions, you know. I’m investigating on my own.”