Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

  Maida jumped in, “Remember, Scott’s the new owner of the Opera House.” She turned to Drayco. “I’m sure you’re eager to see it. It was a beauty once.”

  Drayco noted the word “once” and had a sudden vision of his accountant laughing hysterically in the background. “I was there this morning.”

  No need to spring the news of the murder on them yet. He was accustomed to death, to corpses, to depravity. Drayco and his colleagues lived those nightmares by day, so others didn’t have to dream them at night.

  “You probably ran into Seth or Paddy Bakely at the Opera House.” Maida chewed on her lip. “Seth’s the caretaker and Paddy’s his son, though neither is the warmest fuzzy on the planet. Paddy’s a loose cannon but Seth is a stable influence. Seth’s the primary custodian and Paddy helps out from time to time. When he’s not walking on a slant.”

  A phone ringing in another room interrupted them, and Maida scurried off after excusing herself, leaving the Major and Drayco alone. The older man sighed. “No handcuffs. No guns, either?”

  “I’m more cloak than dagger these days.” He didn’t mention the gun packed in his suitcase. But he hadn’t read any rules against guns on the inn’s website, and with any luck, he wouldn’t need it.

  “Used to be a fair shot myself, in my youth. Used to be good at a lot of things, before the wrinkles and arthritis. Kinda like the area around here. Once shiny and new, full of promise.” The Major held his hands next to the fireplace, but twisted around to stare at Drayco. “Word of advice, young fellow, don’t ever stand still or life will fossilize you on the spot.”

  When Maida walked back into the room, gone were the rosy cheeks and laughing eyes. Her shoulders were stooped forward and her arms wrapped over her stomach, as if she were on the verge of losing her breakfast.

  “What’s wrong?” Drayco asked.

  “That was a friend of mine. She says Oakley Keys was murdered. In your Opera House.”

  Reece’s STS again. At least, there went all need for Drayco to hide the truth from them. “Unfortunately, your friend is right. I met with the sheriff earlier.”

  The Jepsons exchanged looks of disbelief, the only sounds in the room the hissing and moaning from the fireplace logs. In a way, those sounds would be better for a funeral than the plasticized music from those instruments of the devil, Hammond organs and Wurlitzer spinet pianos.

  Maida dropped into a chair. “Damn it all. Oakley wasn’t one of my flock, but I knew him all the same.”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow. Your flock?”

  “I’m a lay pastor at Unity Presbyterian. We’re too out of the way to attract someone full time. We have lay pastors who alternate duties.”

  Drayco had a sudden mental image of the red-headed Reverend Maida hurtling through parking lots in a cassock and surplice on her red motor scooter. “Oakley’s troubles with the condo project—are they intense enough to lead to murder?”

  Maida rubbed her forehead. “Oh I do hope Oakley’s death isn’t related to that mess.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oakley Keys and his neighbor Earl Yaegle own several acres of waterfront property side-by-side. Along comes a Washington developer with talk of a resort complex and money as big as a pirate’s chest of gold. Next thing you know, Oakley and Earl aren’t speaking to each other.”

  “Not enough cash? Or maybe they didn’t agree on how to spend it.”

  Maida sighed. “There was plenty of money. Earl wants the cash to retire. Nanette Keys was agreeable to a sale, but Oakley appreciated the town the way it is. Didn’t want to see it become a generic beach resort. It’s getting hard to tell towns apart up and down Route 13 with all the billboards and strip malls popping up. Places like Cape Unity aren’t in plentiful supply anymore.”

  The sign on the road to Cape Unity was more and more like a call to battle. “Sounds like you’re on Oakley’s side.”

  “Don’t want to take sides, mind you. Tourism from development could generate jobs and bring traffic to our inn. What I hate to see is neighbor turned against neighbor. But to kill because of condos—for heaven’s sake, what’s the world coming to? And I fear it will only get worse.”

  Drayco wished he could reassure her, but experience taught him there were no boundaries in the field of motives. “People kill for less. But this could be an isolated incident.”

  The Major perked up. “You don’t think we’re suspects, do you? Never been a suspect.”

  Maida swatted him with the newspaper. “The day someone believes you’re capable of murder, we’re all doomed. Hell would freeze over and be carved into ice cubes for devilish martinis.”

  “This neighbor of Oakley’s, Earl Yaegle,” Drayco drained his mug, trying not to choke on the glob of spices and fruit pulp on the bottom. “Where would I find him?”

  “He owns several businesses in the area. His favorite is the gun shop. I’ll give you the address.”

  Maida grabbed a scrap of paper from underneath a crab paperweight to scribble on. “Technically we’re a bed and breakfast, but we’d love to have you join us for supper. Nothing fancy, but it’ll stick to your ribs.”

  Unlike Councilman Squier’s invitation, Drayco didn’t hesitate to say yes. A night without fast-food mystery meat and rubber potatoes would be a nice change from his typical fare. And no sultry specters of former fiancées as a distraction.

  He excused himself to call his answering service, which yielded a message from his accountant. Those were getting more frequent. He dialed another familiar number and waited for the steely baritone voice, which said, “Unloaded that damned Opera House yet?”

  “Actually, Dad, something else came up.”

  “It’d have to be a killer reason, as hot as you were to dump that thing and head for Mexico. Unless it’s a woman. It’s a little soon after Elizabeth, isn’t it? I liked that one. You should have married her while you had the chance.”

  Drayco didn’t feel like arguing, again, that the flame-haired cellist with a temper to match was a disaster from the start. Still, it had been nice to have someone warming his bed every night. “I found a body in the Opera House. A local man, murdered. He was going to meet me there.”

  A heavy silence weighed on the other end. “And you’re a suspect. I’m in the middle of this Princeton case, but I can send down Jeffrey, if you need a good lawyer—”

  “No Jeffrey. Not yet.”

  “Not the best way to get over that Cadden fiasco, right, son?”

  “Thanks for reminding me, Dad. I’m sure I’d completely forgotten.”

  His father’s gruff voice dialed down a notch. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. What happened wasn’t your fault. Take my advice and don’t get involved. It’s too soon.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” As Drayco hung up, a draft of air swooped up Maida’s scrap of paper with Yaegle’s address, and Drayco grabbed it before it landed in the fireplace. The sudden twisting caused a shooting pain up his right forearm, but it was a familiar pain he ignored.

  Tracing the address on the paper with his good hand, he memorized the street name, Rumble Road. That was appropriate for Oakley’s neighbor and nemesis, Earl Yaegle—the man with a lot of land and a shop full of guns, the all-American dream.

  Maida’s foreboding that neighbor-against-neighbor tensions could escalate bothered Drayco. And the axis in the center of that wheel of tension revolved around Yaegle. It wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions here and there, would it?

  Then again, what was it Councilman Squier had said? “A symbolic lynching”? Maybe that mob would be lining up for Drayco, too, if feelings against him, the Opera House and their place in the whole development quagmire sucked them down along with it.

  Drayco tucked the paper into a pocket. He headed out into the cold, dank wind that wrapped around him like a wet straitjacket. It was late in the afternoon, but if he hurried, he might just make it.

  Chapter 6

  The sign on the door still said
“Open.” As Drayco stepped over the threshold, he was assailed by the gun-shop bouquet of metal, plastic, and hints of Hoppe’s gun solvent, an aromatic blend reminiscent of bananas and diesel. He counted the rifles and shotguns stacked neatly in racks, losing count at four dozen. For a town with a small population, its one gun shop was well stocked. Earl Yaegle’s inventory filled cases holding everything from an antique Derringer to a left-handed Cooper rifle to the latest in laser sights. Drayco eyed a gun on sale and picked it up.

  A vertically-challenged man, sporting a blue vest with buttons that may have reached across once, hurried over to greet Drayco. “That’s one of our newest Glocks. Came in only a few days ago. Sure is a beauty, isn’t it? Looks comfortable in your hand there. Shoot much?”

  How many thousands of rounds did he go through at the academy? Enough to open his own ammo shop. Not to mention the rounds in the gun currently hidden in his shoulder holster. He put the Glock down to shake the man’s hand. “I’m Scott Drayco—”

  “You’re that crime consultant guy, aren’t you?”

  “And Opera House owner.” By now, Drayco wasn’t surprised his micro-fame had followed him again. But this clerk was the first to elevate the law enforcement role to the top.

  “True. Though people don’t need guns in Opera Houses.” The clerk had an asymmetrical grin with one corner of his mouth at half-mast. “I’m Randy, by the bye. Manager here. What can we do ya for?”

  “I thought I’d drop by to check out your inventory while I’m in town.” Drayco already had a fair idea of what he’d find, but it wasn’t the latest death tech he was interested in.

  “Guess you don’t get a chance to see these in the District. Now that guns aren’t outlawed up there, our boss Earl should open a franchise.”

  Drayco noted the two of them were alone in the shop. “Not many customers today. I’m surprised.”

  “Because of the murder, you mean?”

  Drayco was certain he missed a giant neon sign hanging over town flashing Oakley Keys Murdered in the Opera House! Reece’s STS moniker was too tame. News around here spread like the plague.

  Randy straightened a pyramid of cartridges where two boxes were poking out. “Give it time. These things mushroom. One person buys a gun, tells his neighbor, then the neighbor decides it’s a good idea. And there you go.”

  “Did you know Oakley?”

  “My girlfriend worked with his wife Nanette over at Social Services. Didn’t know the man myself, but he was friendly toward Earl’s two sons. Came by the store once while the boys were here. Guess it was before they went off to college. I remember him telling them how they should treasure the heritage their father was giving them. Ironic, that.”

  “Because of the infamous land dispute?”

  “For sure. Oakley stood in the way of the property sale, preventing Earl from passing along that so-called heritage.”

  A nasal voice behind Drayco’s back chimed in, “Oakley was like that, Randy, and you know it. A fuckin’ nut case, if you ask me.”

  Drayco spun around to see a man with mullet hair and a blue vest similar to Randy’s, but one that easily buttoned. “I’m Joel,” he said to Drayco. “Not a manager. Yet.” He shot a bitter glance at Randy. “That must be your blue Starfire out there with the D.C. tags. A real beaut. Don’t see many of those.”

  “She’s rare, all right.” Drayco had never cared how rare the Starfire was, blasphemy to true car acolytes. It was partial payment for an early case of his after he went solo. Maida was right—he did get unusual gifts from clients.

  Joel snorted, “Rare’s a good word these days. As in we rarely have any peace and quiet around here anymore.” He pointed out the window to a construction site, with cacophony from backhoes and jackhammers bleeding through the shop windows. “As in we rarely have murders. Until the new people started moving in. Goddamn spics.”

  Drayco had seen a couple of those “new people” coming out of the shop ahead of him. At least their money was welcome. “You don’t think the murderer’s lived here awhile?”

  Randy butted in, “Why didn’t they strike sooner? Timing’s too coincidental.”

  Joel keyed open the cash register and flipped through the twenties. “The development money, that’s why. And our good boss Earl’s up to his waist in that pile of paper shit.”

  Drayco said, “Yaegle’s businesses provide several jobs around these parts—yours, for instance. Is he a good boss?”

  Randy nodded with bobble-head vigor. “Earl’s the best.”

  “He’s okay.” Joel slammed the register shut.

  Drayco leaned against one of the cases. Workplace rivalries were goldmines for nuggets of truth, if you mined down deep. Drayco was a patient prospector. “The land dispute must be stressful for Earl.”

  “Earl can be moody, but he’s always been that way. He’s a straight shooter.” Randy’s eyes grew wide at his choice of words. “I mean, he’s opinionated but honest. Not violent.”

  Joel pounded his fist down on the counter. “Everyone can be violent. And Earl’s been grumpier, missing more work. Not to mention what he said the other day—that he wished Oakley Keys would disappear.”

  Randy pointed his finger at Joel. “Be careful what you say, Joel.”

  Joel waved his hand, dismissively. “I know what I heard.”

  Drayco positioned himself between the two, in case he needed to referee. “I hoped to bump into Earl in person.”

  Joel’s laugh was more like a goat bleat. “Good luck. He’s in hiding.”

  Randy hesitated. “He might be willing to come to the store, if I called him.”

  Noting it was five-thirty and the store closed at six, Drayco said, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll run into him eventually. There is something else you can help me with—I want to buy a knife for a friend. A small pocket knife, nothing fancy, but sharp. Do you sell those, too?”

  Randy pointed to a small case. “We’ve got a few. Multi-tools, Remingtons, Spydercos, mainly the sportsman type.”

  Drayco asked, “You don’t sell many knives?” The carving on Oakley’s chest was likely made using a small but sharp blade like a surgeon’s scalpel or a Kodi-Caper knife.

  Randy replied, “Haven’t sold any in two forevers, since the new megamart decided to carry knives. Cheaper, too. You might check there.”

  Once back outside, Drayco rolled up his car window to drown out the construction noise Joel mentioned. In the growing darkness, he barely made out the sign in front of the half-finished foundation for the new building: “Coming soon—another fine hardware store from the Luckett Corporation.” Future customers could buy guns from Earl Yaegle and plowshares at the neighboring hardware store. Not quite biblical, but close enough.

  He was disappointed to miss Yaegle. He consoled himself with the tidbit he gleaned from Joel about Yaegle wanting Oakley to “disappear.” An angry neighbor who also happened to be a hot-headed gun shop owner was easier to bet on as a murder suspect than a saintly wife or vengeful historian. Too bad murders weren’t solved by the numbers.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, reminding himself to drop it. It’s. Not. Your. Case. But there wasn’t anything wrong with doing a little friendly checking to allay Maida’s worries, was there? Especially if he stayed under the sheriff’s radar.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a figure silhouetted against a building across the street with Going Out of Business painted on the front. The figure who moved out of the shadows for a split second looked for all the world like Darcie Squier, staring at him. The woman stepped back into the cover of the shuttered building. By the time he pulled his car around in front of where she’d been standing, the woman had vanished. Vanished so quickly, in fact, he wondered if he imagined the whole thing.

  Chapter 7

  Tuesday 16 March

  He awoke gasping for air. This one felt more real than the others. It was the three of them, submerged so deeply they couldn’t tell which way led to
the surface. He reached his hand to the boy, but their fingers drifted farther apart. The boy’s sister wasn’t moving at all, arms out to her sides, floating like a piece of driftwood—eyes open, mouth and lungs filled with water. The details changed, but the gist was the same. The twins always died, and he was always unable to save them.

  Drayco peered at the clock, then let his head flop back on the pillow. Five a.m. So much for sleeping late on his pseudo-vacation. He kicked off the covers, waiting for the violent images to fade and waiting for the cool air to hit his bare skin. This bed with its toffee-colored down comforter was far too comfortable, too easy to melt into.

  Drayco’s first morning in Cape Unity dawned with an overcast sky out his bedroom window, the meteorological equivalent of elevator music. Weather, yes, interesting, no. He must be insane to leave that comfortable sanctuary for a run in the cold, but he didn’t want to get out of the habit and have his muscles atrophy. The brain was like that, too—allow the frontal lobe to decondition, and before you knew it, senility crept in.

  Pulling his favorite FBI sweatshirt over his chest, he inhaled two lungs full of frosty air and the scent of marsh mud, a combination of mud, fish, sea salt, and a hint of sulfur. He started along the sand-filled road away from the Lazy Crab, which the daylight revealed in its full glory. It was the sole English Tudor building in town, the reason Major Jepson bought it, in a nod to his roots.

  Maida told him there weren’t any homes left from the Revolutionary War, the “pinnacle days for Virginia,” but a few dated from the Civil War. She’d added, “Unfortunately, that was a different story for the area, pitting fathers against sons, brothers against brothers. A little like the present.”

  Drayco expected he’d be the only one up, but he passed one man on his front porch, dressed in plaid pajama bottoms and a neon yellow raincoat with hood up, despite the lack of raindrops. His eyes followed Drayco all the way down the road. When Drayco jogged back a half-hour later, the man was still there, this time standing by his roadside mailbox, waiting.