Black Moon: The McLaren Mysteries, #11

By Jo A Hiestand

Each April the members of a mystery writing group gather on Stanton Moon for camaraderie and to fuel their plots. The moody area seems the perfect setting for hatching a whodunit. Unfortunately, an unscripted mystery materializes like an unsolicited manuscript on a publisher's slush pile—the leader of their group is found on the moor, her head bashed in and very dead.

Lesley Keeton's murder takes on the aspects of a novel's first draft: the suspects shadowy and the killer unnamed. Now, a year later, ex-police detective Michael McLaren is asked to tidy up the plot and expose the killer.

McLaren investigates and discovers anger and jealousy cropping up as often as editor's red marks on a manuscript page. The group members crafted more than stories—they planned a mass exodus, fleeing Lesley's tutelage, dictatorship and tongue lashings. Add a tinge of blackmail, an illegal business and an affair to this framework, and the deadly combination has the earmarks of a bestseller.

In the midst of this, McLaren's lady friend arrives unannounced and disrupts the case…and unbalances his emotions. Both are tested one dark night in a churchyard when she stumbles into the arms of the killer…and McLaren must rescue her without letting evil go free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo A Hiestand
• Release date: Aug 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393262336

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

Book preview

1

I f you can spare a bit of time from your wall repairing jobs, how’d you like to solve a murder?

Michael McLaren eyed his friend with a sense of apprehension. The feeling was justified. Several times in the past year McLaren had suffered a variety of assaults while investigating cold murder cases. He wasn’t too anxious to repeat the experiences, and said so.

Jamie Kydd drew in the corner of his mouth and gave McLaren a look that would’ve said Don’t exaggerate if he’d spoken. He slid his hand over the tabletop, the dark wood dented and worn smooth by countless customers and years, and grabbed his beer mug. Why do you always expect the worst? You don’t tangle with everyone on every case you take on.

Oh no, of course not everyone. At least Janet Ennis’ seventy-three year old mother didn’t try to slug me or run me off the road this past September, and neither did that teenage girl two months ago, in February. It’s just everyone else who thought I would make a good target for their fists or cars. He sank against the wooden back of the booth, letting the conversations and clink of metal cutlery fill the pause in their conversation. The Split Oak—the pub born from a seventeenth-century coaching inn in McLaren’s home village of Somerley—seemed overly warm that April evening. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue shirt, seeking some relief from the heat that added to the intimate atmosphere. Despite the modern additions of electricity and Wi Fi, the slate roof still sagged over the oak beam ceiling; the wooden floor still dipped and creaked; the wind still buffeted the thickset casement windows and moaned into the expanse. At the moment, however, rain pelted the windows and slid down the wavy glass panes to collect in puddles on the sills. The management saw no need to dispose of timeworn ambience as long as the windows worked. The drafts, creaks and groans were all minor inconveniences when compared to the three-centuries-plus history within the pub’s walls.

McLaren watched a husband and wife settle their toddler in a highchair, then glanced around the area. The room was filled to near capacity, which was unusual for a Monday evening. Already the aromas of fried foods filled the air. He picked up his glass mug and wrapped his hands around it, then stared at Jamie. Who’s in such dire need of help? And why doesn’t she go to the police? He swallowed some beer, then set the mug on the cardboard mat.

It’s not a woman. It’s a man. A bloke I know via the job, Jamie explained, lowering his voice.

He at Silverlands, then? The question came slowly, as if McLaren was uneasy about an affirmation.

Jamie shook his head, leaning forward. He’s not at my police station. He’s up in Cumbria. That is, he was.

McLaren sighed, running his fingers through his blond hair. It was going to be a long explanation. He’s not in Cumbria now and he’s not in Buxton, with the Derbyshire Constabulary. Where is he? Undercover? He said it with more skepticism than he’d meant, then flashed a smile, hoping to ease the cynicism he conveyed.

He’s retired. I know him when we worked together on several cases, when our two constabularies shared information. He’s a nice, decent bloke. Hard working. He retired a detective sergeant.

Congrats to him, but I repeat: why does he—or at least you—think he needs my assistance? If the murder case is that bad, why can’t he ring up B Division in Derbyshire and get help? He frowned, sizing up Jamie’s expression. He didn’t look happy. He try already and Derbyshire Constabulary turned him down?

Jamie shook his head and grabbed his beer mug. He hasn’t talked to anyone at the station, Mike, and he hasn’t asked for any help, either.

Brilliant. Nothing like pushing me into something neither he nor I want me to take on. You’re daft if you think I’m going to butt in. And you’re daft if you think he’ll welcome it if I do.

Just hear me out, Mike. A bead of condensation ran down the mug and dripped onto the front of his black tee shirt. He seemed not to notice. His name’s Holton Lacy. As I said, he’s a retired detective sergeant. He moved from Cumbria to put some distance between him and some of the berks he dealt with.

In prison or at his station?

Both, probably. You know how it is.

McLaren nodded. He’d had his own run-ins with colleagues and bosses. And with people he’d arrested and helped send away. The person who most readily came to mind was a former co-worker who’d arrested McLaren’s seventy-year-old friend for defending himself, his wife and his business from a burglar. The absurdity of the co-worker’s action so enraged McLaren that he’d pushed the detective into a handy rose bush. For his act, McLaren had been reprimanded for obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty and given the choice of reduction in rank or being escorted out the door. McLaren had resigned that week and at age thirty-six turned to repairing stone walls as his livelihood. All had gone well during the ensuing twenty-two months until several weeks ago when the former co-worker had stalked and ambushed McLaren, and had died in the resulting life-or-death fight.

Jamie gave his friend several seconds to consider the situation before continuing. Holton’s turned to writing mystery novels as his main time-filler.

Great. I can just imagine them. Tough, noir stuff, right?

Actually, they’re not. They’re quite high in the online book rankings.

So, what’s he need me for? Surely it can’t be for procedural information if he was a detective. McLaren leaned forward so their faces were mere inches apart. All you’ve told me is this brilliant bloke’s retired and now fills his days with concocting fiction. What the hell is this old murder about?

He belongs to a writing group, Mike. You know what they’re like—the kind that gets together monthly to talk over members’ writing problems and to offer moral support.

Fine.

They have an annual retreat. It’s a weekend of working on their individual manuscripts and they discuss ideas on book marketing. You know.

McLaren ran his fingertip around the lip of his glass. Get to the point, Jamie.

Well, during the writing retreat last year one of the group was murdered.

2

The reddish streaks in Jamie’s light brown hair seemed to brighten under the light from the wall sconce as McLaren stared at his friend. The noise in the room faded until all he heard was his voice as he automatically replied. Murdered? Who was it? Is this Lacy bloke suspected of it? Is that why you want me to look into it? Helping a fellow cop beat suspicion that threatens his good career?

Jamie nudged his beer to one side and rested his forearms on the table. Holton can give you the particulars. The murder happened last April.

Who’s under the lens?

Holton was a suspect during the first week of the investigation. He probably still is, since the killer hasn’t been apprehended yet. It’s hell living with that hanging over you. I’ve talked with him several times and he seems to be taking it all in stride, but I don’t see how he can really be fine. Besides him being a colleague and a friend of mine, and me wanting him cleared, it gets up my nose that the killer is still walking around. That’s why I figured you might like to look into this.

McLaren nodded, fingering the beads of his necklace. The beads—wooden and ceramic and strung on a leather cord—had been a gift from Dena, his murdered fiancée. He always wore it. Sometimes, as now, they acted as worry beads. He screwed up his mouth, as if considering something, then said, Was he fond of the murder victim? Who is it, by the way?

The woman who was in charge of the writers’ group. Lesley Keeton.

Killed in isolation, away from the group, I assume. She probably was, if no one’s been arrested. He exhaled audibly, his fingers kneading the back of his neck. A snatch of The Small Glories’ latest bluegrass offering filtered through conversations. I don’t know, Jamie. If the police haven’t solved this, I doubt if I can.

Jamie finished his beer. He returned the glass to the mat with a quiet thud. It’s not only a matter of justice for the victim… He left the inference dangle. McLaren was passionate about bringing closure to victims’ families and friends. He even had his own struggle with that, trying to curb his anger at the man who’d killed his fiancée. A prison term was not what he’d had in mind when the sentence was pronounced. Feeling the man’s neck between his fingers would’ve done a lot to placate his anger.

McLaren completed Jamie’s implication. The case is stuck in Holton’s craw, I assume. He doesn’t like the shadow cast on him or the group members. Fair enough. But I repeat, Jamie, I don’t think I should meddle. Your chum Holton’s not asked for help, and I don’t want to ruffle Derbyshire Constabulary feathers.

The hell you don’t. Jamie said it forcefully but gave a quick smile, both of them knowing McLaren didn't mind whose toes he stepped on in his investigations. He wasn’t out to win any popularity contests; the final outcome was what mattered.

I’m not the cavalry, Jamie. I can’t make this my career. I’ve a list of stone wall repair jobs that stretches into June. I’ll never get them finished if I keep taking time off to poke around musty cases.

If you’re worried about not getting paid—

I’m worried about being perceived as a pathetic berk who wants to reinstate himself in the cop shop so bad that he plays at detective any time he can. And who ends up looking damned foolish. An aging cock-of-the-walk mucking about with cold cases for a lark. During their thirty-eight years they’d saved each other’s lives, helped get each other out of innumerable jams, celebrated the other’s successes, and shared personal matters over immeasurable mugs of beer and cups of tea. This plea to look into an old murder seemed to be another of those lending-a-hand times. McLaren swallowed the last of the beer and shook his head. His voice was tinged with regret. Sorry, Jamie. Look to someone else for the rescue.

Jamie pulled his mobile phone from his jeans pocket and punched in a number as a bolt of lightning lit the sky. Just talk to him, Mike. You don’t have to commit to anything. Just hear him out. He’s never asked for any help as far as I know, but I think he’d welcome a fresh viewpoint on this.

That’s what the police are for, Jamie. They have the latest forensic tools, they’re trained in up-to-date techniques and have access to information I don’t. They get paid for poking about.

You get paid too, Mike.

McLaren glared at him and bit into his sandwich.

He’s a fellow cop, Mike. Surely that should count for something. Please, just talk— Hello? Holton? This is Jamie Kydd. Holton, I’m with my friend Mike McLaren. I told him the bare bones of the case dealing with the death in your writing group… Right. Jamie shook off McLaren’s fingers as he tried to grab the phone. Yes, he’s here. I’ll hand him the phone. Mike, this is Holton Lacy. Jamie dodged the thrown napkin as he jammed the phone into McLaren’s hand.

McLaren tugged at the ends of his hair—collar-length and blond—but took the phone. He forced a serenity into his voice that he didn’t feel, and spoke. Mr. Lacy, this is Mike McLaren. Jamie’s told me just the minimum of what happened… Yes. Right. Fine. Yes, I know where that is. All right. See you then. Ta. He ended the call and closed his fingers around the phone.

Jamie frowned, looking uncertain as to what had transpired. Well?

He sounds like a nice chap.

And?

He’s got a talent for relaying a concise summary.

So…?

Facts devoid of adjectives, no personal opinion given. Nice for a change.

Jamie grabbed the phone from McLaren’s hand. Are you going to take on the investigation?

I’d rather you phrased that as hearing the details of the case.

But you’re going to meet him and learn about it.

Tomorrow morning. Half past nine. He grinned and grabbed his jacket. Will you be able to calm down so you can sleep tonight?

Sure, but can you?

It was a few minutes before nine-thirty when McLaren arrived at Holton Lacy’s cottage Tuesday morning. The drive from his home on the outskirts of Somerley to Holton’s place in Bakewell had taken nearly thirty minutes. The A6 had shed most of its rush hour commuters, but a series of tractors sporadically placed along the road had slowed McLaren and the other drivers until just outside Bakewell. There they resumed the speed limit—or slightly more—and made up for lost minutes.

Remnants of last evening’s rain showed in the numerous puddles peppering the ground and road, but the sky had cleared, revealing an expanse of blue overhead. He was glad when the road descended from the hills and he turned off Buxton Road.

He found Holton’s residential street near All Saints Church. The cluster of homes sat west of the River Wye and the town center. Two streets farther from Bakewell’s hub the land opened up to a patchwork of green pastures. Trees, running like veins with green blood, embraced the banks of the river and the land beyond the town’s cluster of streets, lending life and color to the otherwise grey landscape.

He parked on the street, up from Holton’s house, and glanced at All Saints as he locked his car. The building looked like it had been there since Victorian times, but it was probably on an older site, as many churches had been rebuilt or altered in the centuries between their Anglo-Saxon or Renaissance birth. Sunlight glanced off its grimy face and showed a row of perpendicular stained glass windows. He could imagine the lozenge-shaped reds, greens and blues, glowing jewel-bright as they fell onto the pews and flooring. He abandoned his impulse of roaming around the church—he would be late if he did—and promised himself he’d come back for a look.

Holton Lacy wasn’t quite what McLaren had expected from talking to the man on the phone. Instead of a tall, beer-bellied man with thinning hair, McLaren found himself greeted by a slim man of average height. Brown eyes looked at McLaren, as though sizing up his personality or aptitude for detective work. McLaren, in his turn, thought there was a lot of intelligence behind the older man’s eyes.

The men sat in the front room, the sunshine slanting through the window and throwing shadows of the maple tree’s bare branches onto the carpet. The tree, McLaren had noticed as he’d walked to the door, looked to be decades old and took center place in the front garden. A black wrought iron bench snuggled up to the trunk and would offer a good view of the perennial bed opposite it later in the spring.

Holton took a deep breath, as though about to relate some long, involved tale. His voice was strong but low-volumed. Jamie Kydd mentioned that you’re not in the job anymore. Is this correct, or did I get that wrong?

McLaren nodded. Not for nearly two years.

You’ve kept in fine trim.

I shift rocks for a living.

By choice, I hope.

McLaren smiled. Should he put Holton out of his misery? I like having a roof over my head and food in the fridge.

Holton—casual in a green striped shirt, blue cargo trousers and blue knitted waistcoat—stirred his tea but balanced the cup and saucer on his thigh. He seemed to consider how to relate the story of the murder, for he frowned and shifted his gaze from his tea to the window.

McLaren didn’t prod him with questions. He knew the man would speak when ready.

The branch outside the window bounced under the breeze, and the corresponding shadow bobbed within its carpeted patch and emphasized the sofa and curtain fabrics that echoed the carpet’s colors. McLaren noticed a framed certificate on the mantle. It looked like a Chief Constable’s commendation.

Six of us went on the writers’ retreat last year. The sentence shot into the quiet without warning: no cough or clearing of his throat, no preamble or explanation. Holton set his cup and saucer on the side table and leaned forward in his chair. He looked like he was going to divulge a secret. I’ve made a list of group members’ names, along with everyone’s ages and other pertinent information. I thought it’d make things easier for you if you take the case. He slipped the sheet of paper from beneath the cup and saucer and handed it to McLaren. His voice took on a professional tone. I compiled it after I spoke to you last evening.

McLaren scanned the paper.

Lesley Keeton, 50. Victim. Established full time writer. Ashbourne

George Gow, 60. Librarian. Established part-time writer. Fenny Bentley

Rosemary Gow, 60. George’s wife. Shop manager. Beginning writer. Fenny Bentley

Samantha Waterman, 40. Career counselor. Beginning writer. Ashbourne

Terence Staley, 70. Retired warder. Beginning writer. Ashbourne

Holton Lacy, 50. Retired detective sergeant, Cumbria Constabulary. Established full time writer. Bakewell

Very helpful, especially noting where each person lives. Thank you. McLaren extracted a pen from his pocket. What happened the day of Lesley’s murder, or leading up to it?

I’ll give you a brief overview of the retreat so you’ll know who everyone is and how they fit into this thing. He ran his hand over his chin and turned slightly. The sunlight caught blond highlights in his brown hair and illuminated the roughness of his cheeks and hand. The group was created and led by Lesley Keeton, the victim.

I see there’s a couple on the list, the Gows. Was anyone else married in the group?

Lesley was. However, her husband, Joseph, never went on any of the retreats or attended the monthly writing meetings. He’s not a writer. And none of us remaining three are married.

McLaren scribbled something down on the paper, then asked Holton to continue.

Lesley has two novels out, both of which are very strong sellers. A third one is slated to come out in a few months. Her publisher had accepted the manuscript prior to her murder last year. I don’t know how the edits were handled, since Lesley didn’t finish with that before her death. But I suppose someone in the publishing house took care of that.

Which will make three published books to her credit, then.

"Yes, though I think she has a few indie-published things she did a decade ago, but I don’t know if that’s still available. From what Lesley’s said, they rarely sell at all. Anyway, the book that shot her onto the bestselling list is Assumption of Murder. He paused, perhaps waiting for McLaren to acknowledge he’d heard of it or read it, but continued when McLaren didn’t reply. She was writing a series featuring a female private investigator who’s based out of Yorkshire. They’re quite good. Anyway, she started the group six years ago and she ruled it with an iron fist."

I assume you get together to read a few pages of work in progress, help a member with a sticky point in a plot, and such.

Yes. Support and ideas are crucial to writing. It’s such a lonely occupation.

I’d think so. McLaren imagined the hours sitting at a computer, alone in a room, sheets of paper holding notes and a plot outline cluttering the desktop, the stop/start of typing in the pursuit of information.

George Gow is the other writer in the group who has a book out. It’s a true crime thing. It, too, is doing very well. He hasn’t a lot of time to devote to writing because he works a nine-to-five job. I believe he’s writing another book, though I don’t know how far along he is.

Your group sounds like you have a good mix of experienced and beginning writers. The pre-published people should be able to gain a lot of helpful advice.

Unfortunately, we’ve learned over the past few years that our advice should be given outside the group. Phone calls and emails were the best way to avoid Lesley’s directives, which were as diverse as telling the beginners how to write a query letter to letting us all know when our annual retreat would take place.

What’s the good of a group if Lesley was so authoritative? Didn’t she allow people to voice opinions?

Somewhat, but it was begrudgingly given and when it did happen, it wasn’t often enough. Her treatment of the other members was getting so bad that the rest of us talked of forming our own group. There was a lot of resentment and envy boiling beneath the surface.

Resentment and envy about Lesley?

Holton nodded. The only other people anywhere near Lesley’s fame, if you want to call it that, or selling power are George Gow and me. He smiled faintly, as if recalling some private joke. But I would be less than truthful if I said I didn’t envy Lesley her fans and huge royalties. The others, the beginning writers, were envious but it motivated them and suggested they, too, could achieve the same. Which, of course, they could.

McLaren glanced at the paper. Three of the members were beginning writers, so I can understand if they were envious of Lesley’s published books, but is resentment the correct word to use?

Holton took another sip of tea before answering. Resentment. That’s correct. I was resentful of the quick outpouring of her second book and the way they both appeared on the bestselling list online. I had struggled for a few years before coming to the group, so I’d experienced the difficulties of plotting, characterization, and writing a decent sentence. George was slightly envious. He had worked long and hard on his manuscript before submitting it to his publisher, then went through two rounds of edits that evidently were quite extensive. Lesley didn’t have any troubles with those things.

Thereby causing the ill feelings, yes. When was the retreat?

Last year, the weekend of 19 April. That was a Friday. This was our fourth or fifth annual retreat—I’ve lost track. We always go to a farm on the edge of Eagle Tor. That’s a hamlet near Stanton Moor. Do you know the place?

I’ve passed it, though I can’t quite place it right now.

The farmer has a guest cottage. Well, it’s actually a converted barn that can sleep six to eight, so it suits us fine. He built a massive barn years ago for his own use, so this smaller place is perfect for us. He put in a nice kitchen at one end, a U-shaped thing that flows into the main room. It’s all open space. No separate bedrooms. Metal bedframes with mattresses sit along two opposing walls. There’s a good amount of space between them, so you don’t feel you’re sleeping beside anyone. The loo is private, of course. Wood floor with area rugs, painted drywall, plenty of windows to let in daylight. We sleep and eat in the cottage but spend our days on the moor if the weather’s nice. It’s a quiet place, which is good for writing. And being outdoors is relaxing, which those who still have nine-to-five jobs appreciate. But I always wonder why we go to the same place.

Why? Are you bored with it?

Holton shook his head and exhaled heavily. "Oh, the accommodation is fine. It’s just that Lesley and the farmer, Ben Arkwright, never