Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

  “You shouldn’t be seen palling around with a detective. You being a suspect and all.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him. “Here I am flirting with you and you have to bring that up.”

  “And what about your husband, Darcie? Think he’d be happy to know where you are right now?”

  As she slowly combed her fingers through her hair, she cast a furtive glance at the courthouse. “He’s too busy playing the big man to see what I do. Besides, I’m just having a nice chat with a new friend. All very innocent. Even if the new friend happens to be sexy as hell.”

  She was trying to bait him, and her efforts at distracting him were working a little too well. “Let’s talk about Oakley Keys. He was a friend of yours, too. His name came up several times tonight.”

  Darcie picked at a loose thread on the leather trim. “It was horrible how they kept dragging his name through the dirt. Like road kill. I don’t appreciate my friends being treated that way. Or murdered.”

  “You’re not ready to turn yourself in as his murderer?”

  “Only to you. But they should be arresting Earl Yaegle any minute. Haven’t you pinned it on him yet?”

  “You mean that he’s the love child of Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper?”

  She ignored his sarcasm and persisted. “I hoped you’d have more details on how Earl did it.”

  “You’re the one who’s tuned in to all the gossip. I have a feeling when an arrest is made, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Any disappointment Darcie felt was hidden, as she used the rearview mirror to check her makeup. “Oakley called me an incorrigible gossip. I had to ask him what incorrigible meant.”

  Incorrigible—hopeless, incurable, unreformed. That pretty much covered it. “Did Oakley talk about himself, Darcie? His past, his family?”

  “One Mother’s Day, he mentioned his mother, that she’d been good to him. He did say her name was O’something. Something Irish. O’Hannon, I think that’s it. But that was as personal as he got. At least, with details of his life.”

  This time, she gave him that Abyssinian when-you-least-expect-it-I’m-going-to-pounce look. Drayco shifted in his seat, focusing instead on what Darcie had said. Oakley had a mother as recently as a few years ago? Major Jepson said he was an orphan.

  Drayco asked, “Was Oakley enough of a friend to consider putting you in his Will?”

  “You kidding? He was flat-broke. That whole thing with the development money came after we’d parted company.” She uncrossed her legs, and the seductive smile on her face and roving eyes made him feel like he’d already been stripped naked.

  She added, “You can put me in your Will. Maybe I’ll be Mrs. Darcie Drayco by then. Doesn’t that have a nice ring?”

  Each time Drayco was with Darcie, his defenses slipped a degree further. The way her honey-hazel eyes let fly with stings of passion was like looking directly at a photo of his former fiancée, whose Russian temperament matched those passionate eyes. She even used a similar perfume, with a hint of jasmine.

  Drayco massaged his right arm out of habit, and Darcie noticed. She said, “Let me see what a pianist’s hands look like,” and scooted closer, placing her palms under his wrists. She pulled his hands down until they were resting in his lap and traced the outlines. “Strong hands. And long fingers.”

  “How did you find out I play the piano?”

  “I have my sources. I want to learn everything about you.”

  He didn’t pull his hands away. He should, but he didn’t. She wasn’t making it easy for him to abide by his cardinal rule of staying away from married women. He also understood what the sheriff meant by saying Darcie wasn’t secretive in her relationship with Oakley, sitting as she was in Drayco’s car behind a public town meeting.

  He sensed she was on a fishing expedition. But for what? He had hints of that same feeling from his meeting with Nanette the day she was killed. “Were you friends with Oakley’s wife, Nanette?”

  She didn’t take her eyes off his hands. “Hardly. Doesn’t mean I murdered her. What would be the point with Oakley dead?”

  “The point? If your husband had a financial stake in the condos, he’d lose it all if the development didn’t go through. With Nanette out of the way, the project’s a done deal. Gallinger can wait patiently, a vulture hovering over that road kill of yours.”

  For a split second he caught a glimpse of worry passing across her face before she said, “You do like to spoil a mood, don’t you? I honestly don’t keep up with how my husband gets his money. I just spend it.”

  The rain died down enough to part the curtain of water off the windshield. A few people exited the courthouse, and Darcie tensed. “I have to leave now. I should try to keep up appearances.” She squeezed his hands one last time and reluctantly let go.

  She opened the door and as she left, adding, “If you want to do some in-depth exploring, I’ll give you a long, detailed tour. I’m sure you’d find it stimulating.”

  He rubbed his arm again, the soft touch of her hands lingering on his skin. For the first time since Darcie entered, he was aware of his cold wet feet. Dry socks now and a treatise on the wiles and treachery of married women, or at least this married woman, tomorrow.

  Chapter 24

  Saturday 20 March

  A typical morning in D.C. might find Drayco out for a run along the Tidal Basin. They didn’t call the area Foggy Bottom for nothing—every now and then a fog would settle in thick enough to cloak the Jefferson Memorial. This morning had that same air, white vapor settling on Cape Unity pines like angel hair swirled around a Christmas tree, partially obscuring the Yaegle house from Drayco’s view.

  “Both Squier and my lawyer told me not to talk to you anymore.” Yaegle thrust his hands into the pockets of his fraying wool plaid jacket. The forecast for temps ten degrees below normal were spot-on, and trees behind Yaegle’s house did little to brace against the chilly, damp air.

  “And yet, here I am, at your behest, not mine.”

  Yaegle rubbed his forehead. “I thought over some of the things you said last time. Besides, don’t think I want to cross someone who shoots like you do.”

  Drayco walked with Yaegle along a sandy walk imbedded with thousands of tiny seashell fragments down to a small dock. Earl stooped to pick up an intact shell he rolled around in his hand. “The money’ll be welcome, but I’ll miss the place. It may not be as grand as Cypress Manor but it’s been a good home.”

  Drayco inspected the shell in Yaegle’s hand. It was a knobbed whelk, shaped like the carousel on Reece’s desk. Or a circus tent. Either was appropriate for Earl’s situation. Drayco asked, “Will you stay in Cape Unity?”

  Earl rested his arms on the dock railing with his shoulders sagging, making him look more seventy than fifty. “If I’m arrested, I’ll have no choice.”

  “And if you’re not?”

  “Depends upon my businesses. Hell, I should buy one of those new condos myself.” Yaegle laughed briefly. “If they get built.”

  Despite what Drayco overheard at the courthouse, he had a feeling it was all but a done deal, barring a tsunami or a meltdown at the Calvert Cliffs nuclear power plant across the Bay. “You weren’t at the town meeting. At least, in person. Your name was mentioned quite a bit.”

  Yaegle snorted. “Didn’t think they needed a lightning rod in their midst. But I hear tell they set off some fireworks without me.” He looked at the rhinestone beads of water forming on Drayco’s coat. “Why don’t we go inside? I’ll try and burn some more soup like the last time you were here.”

  Maybe not soup, but he did offer Drayco a steaming cup of black coffee he gratefully accepted, salt or no salt, and took a seat near the fireplace. The eastern red cedar kindling from Earl’s property was pungent, but the loud popping made Drayco jumpy. It sounded too much like gunfire.

  Earl threw a couple more logs into the fire and grabbed a loose-leaf stack of papers. At first, Drayco thought he was going to throw them in the fir
e, too, but instead he thrust the papers into Drayco’s hands. “I want you to have this.”

  The author’s name on the title page was Oakley Keys. Like Nanette said, Oakley was a true Luddite—no CDs, no computers, and this undated manuscript was typed on an old manual typewriter. Sheriff Sailor had said they found a vintage Royal Quiet De Luxe in the Keys’ home.

  “Was this published?” Drayco asked.

  “It’s out of print now. Take a look at the index page.”

  Drayco flipped over to the spot. Oakley’s handwriting leaned to the left and was small and geometric, like on the clipping from the woods. Oakley wrote cryptically, “May we find the valuable things that lie hidden from us and discover what is rightfully ours.”

  Drayco asked, “He never said what this meant?”

  “Since it’s a book on the war, I guessed it had to do with that.”

  Earl got up to stoke the fireplace logs. “Your question the other day—why Oakley didn’t want to sell his land? He said something to me once, probably his war research. It was along the lines of not appreciating land until someone tries to take it away and wipe all traces of you off the face of the Earth.”

  “Did he mean you, Earl? You emigrated from Germany.”

  Earl’s hands folded in his lap, although his thumbs kept crossing over and under. “You’ll find out, anyway. My father belonged to Hitler’s youth organization and believed in the Nazi cause, lock, stock, and barrel. I didn’t and so cut ties with my family when I moved here. But I never mentioned it before now, so I doubt I was the subject for that inscription.”

  Despite the seriousness of the subject, Drayco caught the irony of Earl’s use of a gun-based phrase. “When did he give you this?”

  “Back during the time he came over for a beer on a regular basis. Or should I say beers. The more he drank, the more depressed he got. Even quoted depressing poetry.”

  “Such as?”

  “One of his favorite poets was a British soldier. Omen, Odon, something like that.”

  “Wilfred Owen?”

  “That sounds right. Man, were those poems depressing.”

  “Owen was only in his twenties when he was killed in the First World War”

  “That figures. Oakley had one favorite poem—death was absurd and life absurder.”

  Drayco thought about Paddy Bakely’s own depressing poetry, his “black angels.” Maybe they weren’t bosom buddies, but Paddy and Oakley shared much in common. Poetry, woodworking, alcoholism. Could be why they didn’t get along—they were two magnetic poles repelling each other.

  The morning fog lifted enough for Drayco to see outlines of the dock silhouetted against the pale green sheet of water beyond. Light contrasted against dark, like a chiaroscuro photograph. “Going back to when Oakley’s personality changed, did anything unusual precede it, any odd, even subtle, signs?”

  A series of loud pops from the fireplace even got Yaegle’s attention. He hopped up to shove the fireplace screen in closer. “It was the same time he built that garden shrine. Not long after, he came over and got falling-down drunk. Kept mumbling over and over about a destiny that makes us brothers. I thought he was referring to me. But Oakley and I certainly didn’t end up like brothers.”

  Earl focused on the fire, the yellow and orange light reflecting off his wide pupils. Only an occasional hiss from the complaining logs broke the silence in the room. Fireplaces were an enigma in many ways. Noise, fire, smoke, ash—it was like a controlled volcano people willingly put in their homes.

  They sat in silence for awhile and the firewood was a good two minutes further charred into nonexistence when Earl spoke again. “Guess I’m still the main suspect. Every knock on the door, every phone call ...” He paused, straightening up in his seat. “Any day now I expect to find myself behind bars.”

  He might be right, but if Randolph Squier had his way, Earl was safe. A lot rode on Earl’s innocence—jobs, taxes the new development would cough up, the fate of a few charities thrown in for good measure. And Squier’s prospects for a future property sale.

  Drayco read the inscription on Oakley’s manuscript again. Something valuable, something hidden, something he felt to be rightfully his. The Opera House scrimshaw? Reece’s clock, or a different piece Oakley stole? Even more worrying, had Nanette been involved? In Spiritu et Veritate.

  Chapter 25

  Drayco pulled up in front of a weathered clapboard-box of a house. Squier’s secretary Adah Karbowski waved him inside, but kept casting her eyes from him to the sofa, as if hoping he wouldn’t stay long. He heard coughing from a back room, and Adah briefly turned her head to listen. “That’s my sister, Emily. They once called it ague, now it’s flu. Ague, flu, they rhyme, don’t know why I never thought of that,” she babbled. She licked her lips, then stood up straighter and pointed at the sofa. “Won’t you sit down?”

  He sat on the low-pitched sofa, which pretzled his long legs into odd angles. She needn’t worry, no chance he’d get too comfortable. He caught a strong scent of Vick’s VapoRub, and he also noted a box of chamomile tea on a side table next to a box of Mackenzies Smelling Salts. “I’m sorry your sister isn’t well. Is there someone who can help?”

  Adah settled into a chair opposite. “The Haberlands next door. She said she ran into you at the town hall. They struggle to make ends meet, what with six kids, but they’re fine neighbors. Cape Unity is full of good folks. We’re not all louts and murderers.”

  The muscles around Drayco’s lips twitched, threatening to smile. “I doubt the whole town is involved in a conspiracy. People blame the murders on new arrivals, it seems.”

  “Can’t stomach such nonsense. Those unfortunates have a hard life and want the same things as everyone else. A little work, a little chance at happiness. Let ’em alone, I say. Half the town is immigrants—the Spencers, the Coles, Reece Wable’s family, even Ari Johnsson, the photographer, he’s from Iceland. We’re all mutts. ”

  After a quick scan of the decor, some might label the decor of Emily and Adah’s house as shabby-without-the-chic, but it was spotless with knitted pastel seashell designs on pillows, throws, and a wall hanging. The exception was a blood-red woven rug on the floor. Compared to the palatial accommodations of Cypress Manor, it was like a dollhouse furnished by the Salvation Army.

  Drayco leaned forward to examine a hand-lettered book of family recipes lying on the coffee table, bound together with brown jute thread between the pumpkin-orange covers. “Maida says you’re the chef who created the fine meal I enjoyed at the Squiers’ home.”

  Adah picked up the book and opened it to a page with a recipe for braised venison with oyster dressing. “That’s the one I made, right there. From my grandmother Maribel to you.”

  “I hope the Squiers appreciate your culinary talents as much as I did.”

  “They’re not much to notice. Guess they’ve come to expect it.”

  He read the ingredient list for the venison dish. Red wine, rosemary, shitake mushrooms. So that’s what those were. “You’ve been employed by Mr. Squier for some time?”

  “Fifteen years. Doesn’t seem that long.”

  “You were a live-in housekeeper. Your duties changed when the councilman married?”

  “Mrs. Squier didn’t want a live-in. I still clean for them, but only once a week. He kept me on as his secretary.”

  “Was it a smooth transition after the marriage?”

  Adah swallowed hard. “There were issues at first. I’m not sure Mrs. Squier wanted to have me around. That’s to be expected, of course, her being a new bride and all. But it hasn’t got much better.”

  Drayco found himself wanting to defend Darcie, but bit his tongue. “The night I was there, Mrs. Squier mentioned a rumor about Nanette Keys and Earl Yaegle. And that you were the source.”

  Adah twisted a lace doily in her lap until the cloth was in a tight roll. “I guess I am guilty of repeating gossip from time to time. It’s a bad habit.”

  Adah and Darcie had mo
re in common than either thought. Drayco said, “We all have bad habits. But in this case, any bit of information could make a difference.”

  As he’d observed at Squier’s office, Adah’s eyes darted around the room. She might be an inveterate gossip, but she was also as nervous as a child on a balance beam, not knowing when she might fall off.

  Drayco leaned forward, like a conspirator discussing a shared secret. “There’s an outbreak of affairs going around. Is it something in the water?”

  Adah released the doily, allowing it to unroll into wrinkled lace. “I’ve wondered that myself. I’d say we’re on par with the rest of the world. Nanette and Earl—that was a shock.”

  “And you heard this recently?”

  “It’s been awhile. But I mentioned it to a friend on the phone after Oakley was killed. I guess Darcie overheard.”

  “Ironic, don’t you think? That Darcie would repeat such gossip, considering it’s common knowledge she was linked with Oakley. Was the gossip line active about them?”

  Adah licked her lips again. “No one heard it from me. Didn’t have to—they weren’t discreet. I wasn’t surprised, mind you, that Darcie might stray. Wouldn’t have picked Oakley as her choice.”

  “Did the affair last long?”

  “Don’t think it lasted a year. Hard to tell when Darcie cares for anyone, if you ask me.” Adah looked directly into his eyes, unconcerned to be maligning Darcie in front of him.

  “No signs she and Oakley had rekindled that relationship recently?”

  “Darcie’s been good about reining in her flirting.” She tilted her head at Drayco. “But I think she’s getting restless again.”

  Drayco let that pass and carefully phrased his next question. “The councilman was understandably angry about the affair. But did that anger translate to violence or abuse?”