by B. V. Lawson
Despite not having been used for God knows how long, the instrument wasn’t in horrible shape, certainly nothing some refurbishing couldn’t fix. He hadn’t been able to practice his daily half-hour as of late and missed the cathartic surrender from the chance to sit down and play.
He returned to the greenroom long enough to see if the hot water worked. Once it heated up to a sub-scalding temperature, he filled the basin and soaked his right hand and forearm for four minutes. Satisfied with his efforts, he headed to the piano and reeled off a few scales and arpeggios. Not too badly out of tune. He put the piano through its paces with Chopin’s “Minute Waltz.”
Following on his morbid thoughts earlier, Drayco started the “Funeral March” from Chopin’s second sonata. He fingered the opening B-flat minor chords gingerly, but soon got lost in the music’s dark meditation, the slightly-out-of-tune keyboard all but forgotten.
When he came to the end of the piece, he kept his hands on the keyboard, soaking up the last fading overtones and inhaling deeply, as if breathing them in. The only trouble with starting a piece is that he never wanted to stop.
The sound of slow, heavy steps echoed down the hallway, which he recognized as Seth Bakely’s. Seth also had an apricot, conical-shaped wheeze from his years of smoking that preceded his appearance. He looked from Drayco down to the pile of programs and scrimshaw, but his impassive features didn’t change, nor did he ask about the artifact.
He said, “You play the piano.”
Master of the obvious, eh, Seth? Drayco bit back an acerbic retort. “In my spare time.”
“I never liked the piano.”
So Seth didn’t like the piano in general or this particular pianist? “There’s a lot of music that doesn’t involve the piano. There must be something to suit your taste.”
“Don’t like music much. Too showy. I guess guitar’s okay. I work with my hands, and I fix things. Don’t need anything else.”
Seth’s hands were rough and callused, his fingernails dark and cracked from neglect. But no signs of palsy. Overall, he appeared to be in decent health except for the wheeze and the possible skin cancer. Seth was the type who would likely go on working until he dropped dead.
“You said you only met Horatio Rockingham on a couple of occasions. Yet he continued to keep you on the payroll as caretaker. He must have had a good opinion of you.”
“Doubt it. He was happy he didn’t have to deal with this place.”
Drayco shared a brief empathetic moment with the late Mr. Rockingham. “You’ve been the Opera House caretaker for decades. Don’t you get tired of it? Want to retire or take some time off?”
As if reading Drayco’s mind, Seth replied, “Don’t have a pension. And I have to work to take care of my son—. My bills.”
Drayco had a good picture of what a drain Seth’s son must be, emotionally and financially. “I ran into Paddy the other day at the courthouse. He seemed to think Horatio Rockingham should have left the Opera House to the two of you.”
Seth coughed and wheezed at the same time. “People around here have learned to ignore Paddy. Got a temper he can’t control. I’ll speak to him.” Seth didn’t address the legacy issue, ignoring the subject altogether.
“You were acquainted with Nanette Keys, I understand?”
“Saw Mrs. Keys at the agency. While trying to get help for Paddy.” Seth wheezed a few decibels louder. “There’s a rumor going around they’ll arrest Earl Yaegle soon.”
“The sheriff will arrest someone when he has the right culprit.”
Drayco hopped off the piano bench to gather the documents he’d found. He glanced up as he heard what sounded more like a gasp than a wheeze. Seth was staring at the cover of the top program in the pile, the one with the picture of Konstantina, and a look of dismay appeared fleetingly across his face.
Drayco picked up the program and showed it toward Seth. “Someone you recognize?”
“Don’t know any musicians.” He paused, still looking at the program. “But she reminds me of my wife, Angel. Looks a lot like her. She died when Paddy was born.”
“I heard that, and I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” Seth straightened up. “Nanette Keys was a good woman. She shouldn’t have gone like that. You looking into her murder?”
“I’m going to try.”
“As I said, don’t get around much but I’m happy to help. Say the word.”
“Thanks, Seth. I appreciate that.”
“I got rounds to make. If you need me,” Seth jerked his head toward the back of the building, “My house is back there. Drop by any time.”
Drayco watched him move as he always did, like a lumbering bear out the door. What to make of a man like Seth? Arousing pity yet tolerating none. Hardworking, but unable or unwilling to do what it took to hammer out a more productive existence. A man who tried to get help for his son from Social Services, at the same time he’s paying for the services of a prostitute for the son. A conundrum dressed in denim coveralls and tan chukka boots.
Although Sheriff Sailor released the crime scene three days ago, Drayco wasn’t at the point where he could hire a cleanup crew to remove the bloodstains from the stage floor. Not that he was inclined to do so until the case was solved. Hell, it wasn’t as if anyone was going use the place.
The crimson liquid had soaked into the unvarnished wood floor in macabre artistic patterns. Not the type of artwork Randolph Squier would hang on his wall. Darcie on the other hand—she might go for a wilder print, Jackson Pollock or Chagall. He’d gotten the distinct impression at Cypress Manor she’d been bored out of her skull with her husband’s hobbies. Perhaps her affair with Oakley was nothing more than a way to banish that boredom.
He toyed with the idea of calling her. For professional purposes, of course, more questioning. He wasn’t at all thinking about that tight dress, no sir. He forced himself to concentrate on the bloodstains. Oakley Keys was lured here, murdered here. And the only thing missing after Nanette’s murder was a file box concerning this very place—an empty building, save for one mysterious piece of scrimshaw.
Chapter 18
The early afternoon light should be streaming through the window, if it had a chance. But mountains of books were piled throughout Reece Wable’s office, where he sat buried up to his black-and-white checkered bowtie reminiscent of a NASCAR souvenir. The panorama of dust-covered spines saturated the air with a musty stench. He wore reading glasses, or glass to be more specific, a reading monocle. Drayco poked his head in the doorway.
Reece groaned in exasperation. “I’ve been overrun by history. Or at least, a little old lady’s collection thereof. You’re a detective, find me a way out of here.”
Drayco picked up the top book on one pile. Daily Bible meditations. A quick scan of other titles showed more of the same. Well-thumbed religious books, except for one title on garden pests. The only thing that wasn’t a dusty book on Reece’s desk was a carousel music box peeking out from behind one pile.
Drayco picked up a newspaper from a table near the door and fanned it up and down. “Got a window you can open?”
“I did. Once. It’s buried behind the stack of Virginia church history tomes somewhere over there.”
“The Historical Society received a gift?”
Reece snorted. “When the late Grace Waterworth’s husband said he had a few books of hers he wanted to donate, I said no problem. One of my volunteers let them in while I ran an errand, and I come back to find Mrs. Waterworth apparently saved every book she ever bought. Since childhood. Or before. But hopefully there’s a gem or two and I can sell the rest. All this dust will wreak havoc with my rheumatiz.”
He looked hopefully at Drayco. “Tell me you have something interesting to discuss. I need a break from my hardcover hell.”
“I have to confess I brought more documents. Should I back out the door and dodge the brickbats?”
Reece stood up and picked his way through the maze. “If it doesn�
��t smell like my granny’s old hope chest, it’s welcome.”
He led Drayco through the hallway toward the reading room, where Drayco opened his briefcase and took a whiff. “Aged, but infused with an earthy bouquet. Like a red Bordeaux.”
“Ah, a wine aficionado. Were you aware Thomas Jefferson was a wine advisor to several other presidents?”
Drayco laid the briefcase on Reece’s work room table and pulled out the contents. “I uncovered these while inspecting the Opera House.” He pointed out Konstantina’s program. “Here’s one I don’t think you have.”
Reece picked it up and his eyes widened. “Where did you say you got this?”
“Buried in a cabinet. Why?”
Reece quickly opened the program and leafed through it. “Konstantina Klucze’s last concert. My mother attended that event, did I tell you? She went backstage to meet the artist, who was gracious despite all she’d been through—and the fact a pipe burst in the Opera House greenroom making it unusable. My mother did say Konstantina was on edge. She wasn’t enamored of Konstantina’s manager. Had a weird name, musical, like Harmony. Hovered over the artist like a guard dog. Konstantina was complimentary of the people she’d met in the U.S., though. Even said she was going to immigrate to the States.”
Reece was close—it wasn’t Harmony, but Harmon Ainscough, as Drayco learned from his musicologist friend. Ainscough was one of the possible murderer suspects. There was a falling out, and Konstantina dumped the manager after her American tour.
Looking at all the files and papers around, it occurred to Drayco that if Reece were the one who stole Oakley’s Opera House file box, no one would know, its contents lost among the many in Reece’s collection.
Drayco pulled out the inscribed tusk. “Do you have any idea where this might have come from originally? It was all cold and lonely in a drawer.”
Reece rolled the tusk over and inspected the engravings. “Scrimshaw. Councilman Squier collects these.”
“I saw his collection when I had dinner there, but he didn’t mention anything missing. It would be interesting to hear him explain how one of his pieces wound up in an empty Opera House.”
Reece snapped his fingers. “It must be those burglaries years ago. The authorities never uncovered a who or a why, but the thief didn’t take much. Now that you mention it, I think there was something like this tusk thingie. Wait here.” He ducked around the corner.
Drayco took the opportunity to say “Hi” to Andrew Jackson, who mumbled “I’m afraid of banks.” More historian inside jokes via Reece’s coaching. When Drayco got closer, the bird said, “Drayco sorry.” Is sorry? Will be sorry? He’d never been threatened by a bird before.
Reece bounded back with a newspaper in hand. “The break-ins took place thirty years ago. I checked my index and found this.”
Drayco read the article Reece pointed to. A home owned by banker Maxwell Chambliss was burglarized, with two pieces stolen—a gold necklace and a scrimshaw walrus tusk dating from the nineteenth century. The banker’s name was one of the hosts who feted Konstantina Klucze in their home after her concert.
“I hate to say it, Reece, but if this tusk is one and the same, it’s stolen goods. I should hand it over to the sheriff.”
Reece sighed. “If you must. These things sell for thousands of dollars. Chambliss is deceased, meaning his estate that will get it. Who knows? There might be a rare stamp in one of Mrs. Waterworth’s books. A consolation prize.”
“That could fall under the finders, keepers law.” Drayco studied the details of the work table where they were sitting. “This looks handmade.” He ran his hand over the elaborate carving of a Scales of Justice. “This wouldn’t be one of Oakley’s pieces would it?”
Reece tapped his finger under the tabletop. Drayco bent down on one knee and examined the spot Reece pointed out, where OK was carved into the wood.
“When Oakley worked here and we were still friends, he made this piece for the Society. Took the design from my name, an old German word meaning bailiff. Talented fellow, don’t you think? At least at woodworking.”
“Did you see any other of Oakley’s projects—specifically a wooden mask?”
“A mask? Oakley did adopt some Native American beliefs. I think Nanette hoped it would help Oakley find some peace. Guess it didn’t take.”
Reece leaned against the table. “I learned of Nanette’s death this morning from one of my volunteers. Made me want to go out and get falling-down drunk.”
Drayco had passed through the “getting drunk” stage last night after Maida gave him the news. Following the initial shock, Drayco, Maida, and Major shared some of Maida’s concoctions that tasted even more potent than usual. “I didn’t think you knew her that well, Reece.”
“She was beautiful, kind, and loyal. And yes, I’ll admit I had a strong crush. She may not have had money like that pretentious alley cat Darcie Squier, but she more than made up for it in class.”
Crush indeed. Every time Reece mentioned her name, especially in conjunction with Oakley’s, he looked the part of a school geek whose dream prom date whirled off with a dull-witted jock.
Drayco said, “I met with her before her death. She tried to hire me.”
“Hire you? I hope she wasn’t in any trouble.”
“A personal matter. Did Oakley or Nanette mention an unusual letter they received not long after they moved here?”
“We didn’t discuss the post office. Except bills. We were both getting more than enough of those. But other than that, nope.”
“So Nanette never volunteered here?”
“She was partial to children’s charities. I didn’t have many opportunities to spend time with her. But we toured the Opera House together once.”
“Did Rockingham take you?”
“Councilman Squier played tour guide. We asked Oakley if he wanted to go, but didn’t. Wouldn’t say why.”
Drayco didn’t know which part of that surprised him more. That Squier was familiar enough with the Opera House to play tour guide, that Nanette and Reese were there together, or that Oakley, a man obsessed with the place, turned down an opportunity to explore it. And yet he died there.
Reece touched the edge of Oakley’s work table. “I wish I could feel sorry about Oakley’s death. But I don’t. Between his treatment of Nanette and the clock—”
“Reece, are you certain no one else had opportunity to steal that clock? I see a pattern of theft here.”
“It must have been Oakley. And I’ll bet he got a pretty penny for it, too. Guess I’ll have to make an exhibit on him now. I’ll file it under ‘G’ for greedy.”
Reece’s face always held a remarkable sameness of expression, as if injected with a permanent dose of Botox. It was impossible to tell from his features if he’d uttered a startling coincidence or it was a secret jab at Drayco’s expense.
Andrew Jackson banged on his cage, and Reece pulled some pellets out his pocket that resembled the bran cereal Drayco loathed and poured them into the bird’s feeder. “Everybody thinks Earl Yaegle killed the Keys, but I don’t. We get a few tourists and looky-loos stopping on their way from Virginia Beach to Ocean City. Cape Unity’s too stagnant to harbor murderous wildlife. I’d bet my money on an outsider.”
“That makes for a good story, but it’s unlikely, Reece.”
Reece countered, “Then I’ll bet on Paddy Bakely, the town sot. That’s where I’ll put my money.”
Drayco crossed his arms. “Is there really a betting pool on this?”
Reece smiled inscrutably and tapped his nose with one finger.
Drayco paused to look at the Historical Society’s neighbors on his way out of the building. As Maida indicated, they were primarily Victorians in various stages of renovation. One sign marked a weaver’s shop, not hard to guess with the colorful assortment of rugs and alpaca-yarn blankets hanging on the porch. Another, a ceramics artist. From watermen to weavers to writers, Cape Unity and the rest of the Eastern Shore were stuck in
mid-evolution.
Drayco fingered the Leatherman multi-tool in his pocket. The knife it contained wasn’t too different from what sailors once used to make scrimshaw on whaling ships. Why all the interest in scrimshaw? First Squier, now Rockingham’s father. Valuable, yes, but Drayco preferred his ivory on top of piano keys. At least, pianos made prior to the 1950s, like the Opera House instrument, before ivory was wisely banned.
“G” is for greedy, Reece? Drayco liked the historian, liked almost everyone he met in town, but maybe that was the trouble. His reasons for coming into town had already crashed and burned around him, and his objectivity was in danger of getting burned in the wreckage.
A flock of Squier’s waterfowl flew overhead, but Drayco wasn’t listening to their musical honking calls, synchronized with the downbeat of their wings. All he heard were the dark sable-hued timbres of the dissonances.
Chapter 19
The gazebo needed paint and patching on the Swiss-cheese platform, but it afforded a decent view of the beach. A towheaded family of four braved the cold on bicycles along a path winding through Cape Unity’s Powhatan Park. Drayco noted that the father of the cycling foursome detoured his family around a couple of men speaking in Spanish.
Maida pointed toward the area off to their left. “You can’t see it from here, but that’s in the direction of the Yaegle and Keys properties. There are channels and inlets and a maze of trees nestled in-between. You could walk from here to there, but you might get lost if you didn’t know your way around. If you were familiar with the area, I’ll bet you could do it in fifteen minutes.”
This gave the Yaegles, the Keys—and future condo owners—privacy, preventing riffraff from wandering onto their private land. Unless said riffraff were determined, like a murderer with an agenda. Drayco eyed the undergrowth, calculating the potential hazards.
Maida sounded wistful. “It’s nice to have more families moving into the area.” She pointed to her hair. “Most of our residents have some snow on top. The young blood should invigorate the town.”