Related By Murder: The McLaren Mysteries, #13

By Jo A Hiestand

From the moment ex-police detective Michael McLaren arrives at his friend's house, he's plunged into a nightmare of a case. Two men, hanged a year apart, each killed on a Good Friday. A barrister. A solicitor. Related careers. Related by murder. Related motives?

Pottery shards, a torn newspaper article, and biscuits are found in each man's pocket. What do they signify? And the blackmail letters Melanie receives… Are they related to the murders, or are they separate, terrifying in their own way?

Professions, calendar date, McLaren's attack. Could it all be entwined? Or is the motive for murder something else, something so secret that keeping it is worth attempting a third one?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Feb 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393887652

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

Chapter One

He barely heard the phone’s dial tone. It was inconsequential, vaguely distant, relegated to the list of his indifferent projects such as half-read books and unanswered emails. Things he’d begun or thought of starting but couldn’t settle on. Which, in itself unsettled him and had prompted the idea of the call. But now, with the hum of the phone receiver droning into the room, he wasn’t as certain as he’d been a minute ago. What was he, crazy or undependable? Why was he even contemplating this? Several stone wall repair jobs dotted this month’s work calendar, yet they didn’t seem to matter. Nothing did right now but Melanie.

The monotonous, steady pitch of the dial tone died as he punched her number into his phone and held it to his ear. Yes, he was definitely certifiable, he thought, sagging against the back of the sofa. He’d have no clients left if he continued shoving the jobs back, getting around to working them some vague date in the future. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, talking to her.

He stared out the window at the flowering trees dotting the May-blooming land while he considered hanging up. She’d not thank him for interrupting her work, especially if she was with someone. And his reason for the chat would sound inane if he told her or if she sensed it. Which she could do; she had an uncanny knack of reading him even at this early stage of their relationship. Perhaps he should spare them both the irritation and just ring off.

He grabbed the receiver more tightly, about to shift it from his ear. But his resolve crumbled as her voice drifted over the phone.

Mike!

He smiled in spite of his lingering indecision, picturing her curled up on the sofa, a cup of tea resting on her thigh. No, not the sofa in the back room. She was most likely in the kitchen, baking something. After all, it was Saturday morning, and she had a bed-and-breakfast establishment to run. His gaze shifted to her framed photograph in the bookcase opposite him, and he nodded, his throat suddenly dry. Melanie. I hope I haven’t interrupted something.

"Michael McLaren. How are you? Better yet, I hope you’ve rung me up to chat and not to tell me a killer’s on his way to Moorton." She laughed, and he imagined her blue eyes alive with humor.

Nothing like that, no. I just wanted to see how you are. We’ve not spoken since you returned home last month. You’re all right? Haven’t suffered any trauma from that episode in the cemetery? His mind went back to that night five weeks ago when he and Melanie tracked the killer to a village graveyard.

I’m fine. It’s sweet of you to be concerned about a delayed repercussion. Have you been busy with a new case?

He swung his legs up, propping them on the coffee table. I had one that ended last week, as a matter of fact. It was nasty and involved two murders and hit close to home for Jamie and his wife.

Melanie’s words must have caught in her throat, for McLaren could hear her cough and swallow noisily. "Oh, Lord. I hope they’re all right. I hope you’re all right."

Yes, ta, though it unnerved me, I admit. I’ve been trying to get back to a normal routine since then.

Don’t you have many dry stone wall repairs lined up? That would keep your mind busy and provide a good release for physical tension, I should think.

I have jobs, yes, but I…can’t seem to get enthused about them. And if you want to know the truth, I can’t quite settle down to anything. I don’t know if my thirty-eight years are catching up with me, and my body’s telling me I’m an old man.

Watch it. If you’re an old man, I’m an older woman.

He laughed, feeling somewhat better already. No insult intended, Melanie. You don't look older than twenty.

And you’re full of—

Careful…

Blarney. But thank you.

I’ll be more careful in my future age-related comments. I merely meant I mope around the house at the moment, and I see no end in sight for it.

Melanie inhaled sharply, as if her mental image or thought of him wasn’t pleasant. Her voice was tinged with concern. You’re not unwell, I hope, Mike. A pulled muscle can be debilitating.

McLaren leaned forward, repositioning his feet on the floor, and grabbed his cup of tea from the coffee table. No, I’m fine physically. It’s not that. The problem seems more emotional or mental than physical. My restlessness, I mean. Nothing holds my interest at the moment. Well, more than a moment. For the past several days. I can’t concentrate on anything, and I should be getting back to the wall repair work. I think the case upset me more than I’d realized.

Now that he’d voiced the situation, the thought surprised him. He was beginning to feel as strung out as he had nearly two years ago when he quit his police job. His seventy year-old friend, a publican, had been arrested for assaulting a burglar. Never mind that the criminal had broken into the pub at night, or that the older man had been defending himself, his wife and his establishment. The arrest had been purely personal, an act of revenge against McLaren by the senior investigating officer on the case. Just a form of tit for tat, the SIO’s nose-thumbing for the years of rivalry enveloping him and McLaren during police school and following them into their jobs. Hurting McLaren through his old friend had evidently been the officer’s plan. And it had worked, for he’d had the satisfaction of McLaren’s resignation from the Force. But not before he’d suffered the humiliation of McLaren tossing him into a handy rosebush the night of the burglary.

The burglary incident still hurt, the unfairness of the charge so overpowering that McLaren had spent nearly a year shut off from family and friends…and his fiancée. He’d gravitated to repairing dry stone walls. The solitary work suited him: he had no need to mix with people, he wasn’t betrayed by a coworker. And hefting large stones helped relieve his anger.

He snapped back to the present as Melanie voiced her concern.

Walks are good stress relievers. Have you tried that? A hint of concern underscored her tone, but the advice sounded kindly, rather than motherly, and he found it touching. Or…I’ve a better idea. Would you like to come visit? Would that settle you? I would’ve asked sooner, but I thought perhaps you were investigating another cold case.

Nothing’s reared its ugly head, thank God, but the day’s young.

She laughed, and he envisioned her dark blonde hair falling over her shoulder. Well, then, I’m elected to nudge you out of your… I forgot what you call your bad mood.

"My sister calls it my growlings. And I’m not in a bad mood. I just can’t focus on anything."

You’re still keyed up about your recent case. Just a second. I have to put the phone down. During the conversational break, he could hear metal sliding along something hard, like a baking sheet skimming across a granite kitchen worktop. Little scrapes, like an aluminum spatula scooting biscuits or scones off the sheet, convinced him he’d interrupted her work and he needed to let her get on with her day. He had just persuaded himself to tell her goodbye when her voice was back at his ear. You need a break, Mike. Something different from your usual schedule. Why don’t you drive up here? May is shining in its colorful glory at the moment. My housekeeping’s not too shabby, either. She seemed to add the last sentence as a joke, for her voice rose in an air of teasing.

I didn’t ring you up to wheedle a trip, Melanie. I thought a chat would do me good. And I needed to hear your voice, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

"I’d love if you’d come up, Mike. Really. Bring along your growlings, if you wish. We can deal with them and we can talk longer if you’re here. When can you come?"

He cleared his throat. Would tomorrow be too soon? Provided you’ve some time to spend with me. If your B&B is booked, I can always get a room at one of the other places in the village.

You will not. That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t have asked you to visit if I wasn’t prepared to offer you a place to stay. Why not come up today, provided you can be ready that soon? It’s just a tad over a two hour drive, if I remember correctly. Why waste a day by waiting until tomorrow? We can attack your growlings that much sooner.

All right. I’ll aim for arriving later this afternoon.

Why not make it around teatime? We can catch up on our five week separation over a cuppa and scones.

Thanks, Melanie. This sounds smashing. See you around four, then. He rang off and realized he still held his cup of tea. It’d grown cold but he didn’t care.

Melanie shuffled through the letters that had arrived in the post that morning. The majority of the mail was junk: advertisements, brochures and circulars. The occasional personal letter appeared, probably requesting a stay at her bed-and-breakfast. She opened the top one. Yes. Did she have the weekend of twentieth October available for… She folded the sheet of paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. The second request for a two-night lodging was written on pale blue stationery, a fancy initial monogram at the top of the paper. She also set that aside.

She glanced at the third envelope. It was the standard white type sold in any chemist’s or office supply shop. There was no return address either on the front upper left corner or on the back flap. She opened it and withdrew the sheet of paper.

It matched the envelope style, common computer printer paper that was available for purchase most anywhere. But the typed message was hardly common.

Trevor was a coward. You know it. I know it. If you don’t pay me £500 on 28 May the whole world will know it.

She tried to still her trembling hand as she re-read it, but the paper fluttered. She pressed the page against the top of the hallway table, smoothing it taut and holding it still. The words hadn’t changed. The same four sentences glared back at her, smirking in their insinuation. When she finally looked up, the sunlight in the hallway had shifted and lay upon a framed photograph of her house. It had been taken in her grandparents’ day. The laurel trees beside the front door were barely waist-high then, planted when they and Gran and Gramps were young. The house meant a lot to Melanie. Besides being her livelihood, it was a link with her family. She didn’t have five hundred pounds to pay whoever this letter writer was.

She wadded up the paper and envelope, and pitched them into the waste bin, praying that was the end of it. But the words whispered to her from the bottom of the basket even as she returned to the kitchen.

Chapter Two

McLaren poured the cold tea down his kitchen sink. He considered brewing another cup but quickly rejected the idea. If he was going to leave around two o’clock, he had a few things to do. And having a cuppa, while ordinarily one of his pleasures, would eat into his time.

He walked into his office and looked at his list of up-coming stone wall jobs. He’d finished Thursday’s repair, working later than usual just so he could X the work order off the calendar. Nothing else was scheduled until later next week. Good. He’d be back by then, hopefully healed and without his growlings. He didn’t have to phone anyone.

Except Jamie.

McLaren settled into his desk chair, punched his friend’s number into the phone, and, while he waited for Jamie to answer, scanned the subjects of the emails he’d received since earlier that morning.

---

P. Harris: fog lamps for your vehicle

Gwen Hulme: remember the party date

MKA: online cooking class registration

J. Lindauer: Soon! Six pack deal!

---

He was about to fire off a reply to Gwen, his sister, when Jamie answered. His cheerfulness sailed over the phone. Mike. You’re up early on this delightful spring day.

You’re unusually chipper for so early, as you call it. It’s just gone nine o’clock. You not working?

I’m working. I’m always working, but not at the station.

I’m not referring to working on the weekend crossword in the newspaper or seeing how many hours you can binge watch on the telly, Jamie. I meant your police job. I’d think you’d rush back to your desk and show the gang your new sergeant stripes are well deserved by immediately plunging into a case.

The stripes’ll still be sparkling in the sunlight and mesmerizing one and all when I waltz through the station’s doors, Mike. Don’t worry about that. I’m back on active duty in a week, I think. I have it jotted down somewhere. Paula’s probably got it circled on the calendar.

No doubt, and with an exclamation point or two beside the date. She’s probably longing to have the quiet of the house back.

"Funny lad. But we are talking about going away for a long weekend in the summer. I think she needs a change of scenery." He stopped, and McLaren wondered if his friend was going to say anything about the recent murder.

Speaking of scenery change, McLaren said when nothing more came from Jamie. That’s why I rang you up. I’m leaving this afternoon and will be away for a few days. Just letting you know in case you’ll want to get together for a pint.

Change of scenery…does that mean Cumbria and Melanie?

You don’t have to show off your detective skills on me. I know you rate them. Yes, I’m driving up. I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to settle down to anything right now. It’s frustrating.

Jamie’s voice took on a serious tone. You have to take care of yourself, Mike. That was an intense workout last week, investigating that damned case. Paula and I never would’ve asked you to take it on if we’d known what would be involved. Take your holiday and have a good time. Though if you’ll be with Melanie, I’m sure you will. You’re staying at The Laurels, I assume.

Yeah. And I hope it’s restful this time.

That murder case in her village this past February was enough, yes.

The drive to Moorton, the village in Cumbria where Melanie lived, was an easy two and a quarter hours drive. Being a Saturday afternoon, the M6 and A6 roads were busy with traffic, but there were no slow-downs. McLaren watched the countryside slide past his window and wondered for the second time since leaving home if the thank you gift he was bringing her was suitable. He’d decided on a matted and framed photograph he’d taken of the Cork Stone on Stanton Moor, thinking she’d like a remembrance of her visit to his residence in April. But now, during the drive northward, he debated if he should’ve opted instead for one of his sister’s paintings. Perhaps the photo of the moor would bring back memories of her fright in the cemetery when the killer grabbed her. But she told him this morning she was fine, and she didn’t lie. Anyway, the cemetery and the moor were different things.

He shoved a CD of 1930s music into the car’s player and sang along to The Very Thought of You. But halfway through the song, he stopped. Heat flooded his cheeks, and his mouth suddenly felt as dry as sandpaper. The lyrics seemed to be about him. Forgetting to do things, living in a daydream… Hadn’t he been doing that since she left his house? Granted, the lyric’s symptoms hadn’t been as bad as the ones he’d been subjected to this past week, following Jamie’s case, but he’d certainly not been himself. He’d been thrown off his complacent everyday outlook ever since he met her in February, actually. Fate had seemed to direct him to her bed-and-breakfast establishment in Moorton, and when she’d learned he’d been a detective in the Staffordshire Constabulary she asked him to look into the unsolved murder of her daughter’s fiancé. That had drawn the two of them together, and he’d begun to have feelings for her. Which had surprised him, for he’d gone to Cumbria to heal emotionally from his fiancée’s murder. And at the end of the trip he’d started to let Melanie into his heart.

The song ended, and the bouncy Nice Work If You Can Get It wound into the car’s interior. He turned up the volume, determined to have a relaxing few days with Melanie and not think about love and murder cases. Maybe this trip would help him sort out his feelings.

He left the motorway at the village of Old Tebay and turned onto the B6260. A short drive brought him to the wood that squatted to the south of Moorton. He slowed the car to the speed limit, glancing into the forest’s interior, thick with trees and boulders. Sunlight fell in patches, illuminating a trunk or a lichen-frosted rock where the mass of green leaves shifted in the breeze. Even though it lacked five hours until twilight, the wood gave off the same eerie atmosphere it had held in February. As if it held secrets.

He hurried on.

The main road stretched north, skirting the village and twining with the stream on its right side. Two lanes branched from the major thoroughfare and led into the village, carelessly embracing it. McLaren took the second of these smaller roads and entered Moorton proper.

Green Lane, the main drag—if a small village could have such a thing—supported a dozen shops and a pub along its length. It ran in an unbroken front of grey stone until West End Road stated the end of the business district. McLaren crossed the B road running alongside the church and continued on until he arrived at Melanie’s home. He parked where he had on his previous visit, in the rectangle allocated from the lawn and defined by bracketing boxwood hedges.

He grabbed his duffle bag and laptop from the car’s rear seat, slammed and locked the door, and strolled up the pavestone walk.

Nothing much had changed since his February visit. The Laurels—a two-story residence, ancient looking in its stone and timber façade—sat back from the road, as though cherishing the quiet away from the main section of the village. Two bay trees that evidently gave their name to the house stood sentry-straight on each side of the front door. They too seemed ancient, having reached roof-top height. The white wrought iron table and chairs on the front lawn, however, were of recent vintage and looked freshly painted. Knowing her, he thought, she did the job herself.

The door opened nearly before he relinquished the brass knocker. Melanie Travers stepped forward, smiling, her hand on the edge of the door. The light from the hall ceiling fixture pulled her out of the dark interior, creating a halo-like edge to her figure. She still looked younger than her forty years, still had the trim figure of youth. He was always astonished at her beauty each time he saw her.

Mike! Come in. You made good time. Did you leave early or speed? She stepped aside as he entered.

I don’t know. Either. Both. He took a breath, taking in the scents of lavender, lemon and baked bread. Homey, comforting fragrances that he had grown to associate with her, harking back to the first time he’d entered her residence. He glanced around the entry. The flagstone floor looked as though it had just been polished, for it threw back the light from the fixtures, as did the small table hugging the wall. It held the registry book and a small pot of roses. Unlike his February visit, this time no music filtered through the house. It seemed strangely empty.

Melanie grabbed his arm, rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek before closing the door. I’m so glad you’re here. Oh! You’re still wearing it!

McLaren blinked, unsure if whatever he wore was good or bad. Sorry?

The beads I gave you.

His duffle bag slid to the floor as his fingers moved to his throat. A leather thong threaded with wood beads encircled his neck. Of course I’m wearing them. I don’t take it off. Thank you again.

She nodded and eyed his luggage. I thought this was a holiday for you. Why the laptop?

Habit. I have to keep up with emails about stone wall jobs. It’s easier to type on a proper keyboard than on a mobile. My hands are too big for such small work.

I’ll give you your email, then, but you’re here to enjoy Cumbria, not spend hours on the computer.

Don’t worry about that.

Well, let’s get you settled, Mike, and then we’ll have tea, all right?

McLaren nodded, grabbed the duffle bag, and followed her up the stairs.

The sunlight was brighter at the top of the landing, slanting in through a window and turning the bannister golden brown under its brilliance. It also warmed the air, pulling the subtler scents of potpourri and freshly laundered sheets into the air.

The corridor, like the front of the house, had seen no changes. The timber and plaster walls still reeked of age, as did the maroon and grey carpet, thick and muffling their footsteps and muting their voices. He briefly thought of the past December when he stole downstairs at the bed-and-breakfast in Edinburgh. Those steps had squeezed in one section, and he’d held his breath, hoping the sound hadn’t carried to the owner. The experience hadn’t turned his hair white, though it had kicked his heart rate into overdrive. But he had no need to sneak around Melanie’s house.

I’ve put you in the same room as you had in February. She opened the door and preceded him into the room. Nothing had been done over, as far as he could tell. Navy and white were abundant in the color scheme represented by wallpaper, curtains and bed linen. The king-sized bed, chest of drawers, dresser and small table, all of dark walnut and looking as though they were antiques, claimed three walls. The window seat overlooked the back garden. Her fingertip ran along the open edge of the casement window, as though she was inspecting for dust. I opened it this morning, after our phone call. The room was a bit stuffy in here so I aired it out for you. You can always close it if it proves too windy. As if listening to the conversation, a wisp of wind curled through the opening, bringing the fragrance of honeysuckle into the space and mingling with her perfume.

McLaren waited for her to vacate the space. Feels like home. He set his duffle bag and laptop on the window seat cushion as he glanced outside. The patio and back garden had transformed from the bleak greys and whites of winter and taken on the lively colors of spring. He pressed his hand against the glass, momentarily startled it didn’t hold the cold he remembered. He’d spent hours on the window seat, reading the small stack of tourist brochures and researching things about February’s case. The brochures—evidently as standard for visitors as the basket of hot beverage fixings and the checkout notice card on the small table—were gone, he noticed. The seat cushion looked oddly naked without them, but it pleased him. He’d graduated from paying lodger to friend.

Melanie’s voice broke into his thoughts. "You ready for tea? Or do you