by B. V. Lawson
“Was your husband talented enough to make an intricate carving?”
“Can’t imagine he would be. And I haven’t seen him pull out the knives in a long time.”
She grabbed onto his arm again, allowing her fingers to trail down to his hand. “You’re wondering if I’m the reason they became enemies, aren’t you?” She traced the outlines of each of his fingers with her thumb.
“It did cross my mind.”
“Men have always fought over me.”
“Pistols at twenty paces?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’d think that would make it awfully hard for a man to trust you.”
“Oakley did.”
“Enough to give you anything to keep for him—files, documents, records?”
“I’m the last person anyone would trust with important things. Ask my husband.” She turned her head to the Bay, her eyes reflecting the whitecaps on the water.
She shivered and clung tighter to Drayco’s arm. Her sweater was hardly enough to provide a hedge against winds skipping off those white-capped waves, but he wasn’t sure that was the real problem. “Are you afraid, Darcie?”
She deflected his question. “Everybody’s afraid of something, aren’t they? Randolph’s afraid of his own shadow these days.” She reached up to brush aside a lock of Drayco’s hair from his forehead, and despite her cold hands, her touch felt warm on his skin.
He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been glad to see her. In this secluded spot with her beside him, he was more at peace than in days. Perhaps it was the cameo she made in one of his dreams last night. Not one of his nightmares. Decidedly more pleasant.
“That’s a lovely blue shirt you have on,” she said. “You should wear it more often. It matches the color of your eyes.”
“Did you bring me here to compliment me?”
“Just being neighborly. Thought you’d enjoy the view.”
Drayco stepped back. “If you meant for this to be that detailed tour you mentioned, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“I make a good tour guide.”
“I’m sure you do. So why is Randolph afraid of his own shadow?”
“It’s that development battle. And the murders. Not that he’s next in line. It’s always about his image. His standing in the community.”
“How far do you think he’d go to preserve that image? Especially if someone had proof of his involvement in embezzlement or fraud?”
Darcie twisted strands of her hair around her finger. “He can be—he’s been known to throw things. He has a loud voice when he yells like those drill sergeants in the movies. I guess I could see him throwing a tantrum, but beyond that ...” She shook her head, not looking at him.
“Did Oakley seem afraid?”
“I hadn’t seen him in months. I can’t tell you if he knew he was going to die, if that’s what you mean. When we were together, I never saw fear. Anger, yes, like a geyser ready to blow. Or maybe I should say, blow job.” She smirked at him.
“Were there other women, other affairs?”
She reached up again to stroke his hair and the sly grin returned to her face. “Lovers never talk about other lovers when they’re making love. You can call it Darcie’s Law.”
Seeing the hunger in her eyes and the succubus pout, he fought the urge to recreate Oakley’s tryst with her right there against the oak tree. Drayco took her hand this time and pulled her back in the direction of the car. “Come on. I think that’s enough viewing for one day.”
It was a peaceful place, with the wind rustling dead leaves clinging to the trees. The castaway tombstones must have witnessed a spectacle during Darcie and Oakley’s “meetings.” Drayco noted the date of death on one, June 6, 1944. D-Day. Had Oakley, the World War II buff, chosen this place by design? It would be a fitting location for his final resting place. Yet his Will left instructions for his body to be cremated and the ashes scattered over his backyard shrine. It wouldn’t happen now, with condos slated to occupy that very spot.
Chapter 28
As soon as he headed through the door, Maida handed him a cup of coffee “double black,” as she called it, having learned his tastes quickly. He ran the cup of warm liquid up and down against his aching right arm as he headed upstairs to his room.
He froze in place outside the doorway.
His suitcase lay open on the floor, items half-in and half-out. The books he bought at the Novel Café were lying on the end of the bed in disarray. Drawers in the chest were pulled out, and the closet was wide open. He took a quick inventory and headed back downstairs.
Intent on fried catfish and pumpkin fritters, Maida jumped at his quick return. “What’s the matter?”
“Either you’ve turned into a sloppy housekeeper, which I doubt, or someone’s been rifling through my room.”
Maida gasped. “Was anything taken?”
“Not that I can tell. My guess—they were hunting for a specific item.”
“The only one here was Major, working in the garden during gaps in the deluge. Major?” she called.
The Major appeared on cue, sniffing the air. “Time for dinner already? It’s not six-thirty.”
“Major, dear, were you here all afternoon?”
“I spent time tidying up papers in the library. Then I checked on the progress of the crocuses, hyacinths, and bluebells. Oh, and the checkered lilies. Can’t forget them.”
“The entire afternoon?”
“Except for a walk I took down the road. It was still raining a tad. You know I love walks in the rain.”
“But what time, dear?”
“I think it was three-ish. I was gone for a half-hour, I think.”
“Did you notice anything unusual when you returned?”
“Unusual? Not a thing except for the cream gone south. Tea’s not the same without it.”
Maida sighed in exasperation. “Someone broke into the house and rummaged through Scott’s room. Probably while you were taking your walk.”
“A burglary, you say? How extraordinary.”
Drayco interrupted, “Technically not a burglary if nothing was stolen. At least in my room. You two should verify your belongings are intact.”
After a search, the Jepsons were relieved to find nothing missing. Maida said, “Our burglar must think you’re as rich as Croesus now you own the Opera House.”
“A real estate magnate, I’m not.” Drayco didn’t bring any valuables with him, nor had he picked up anything while he was here, except Nanette’s letter fragment. “I should mention this to our town gendarme, if you don’t mind.”
A call to the sheriff’s office found Sailor working late and willing to stop on his way home. “Besides,” the sheriff said as he stepped inside the hallway, “Maida knows I’ll do anything for a slice of her sweet potato pie. But don’t tell my wife. She’ll be furious if I don’t have room for the meal she’s been slaving over. Liver and onions.” Sailor wrinkled his nose.
They made a detailed search of Drayco’s room. He said, “They must have been in a hurry. Or didn’t care if I knew they were here.”
The sheriff removed the books on Drayco’s bed, using a pencil slipped between the pages. He flipped down the covers at the head of the bed and picked up a letter-sized piece of white cardboard. “Are you in the habit of leaving yourself threatening notes?”
The pair studied the letters in blood-red paint forming the words “Leave it alone.”
“That’s original. And how specific,” the sheriff muttered.
“Leave what alone? The murder investigation? The Opera House? The town? The piano? My playing is rusty, but it can’t be that bad.”
“This could be a prank. Until I know for sure, I’m treating it as a bona fide threat, Drayco.” Sailor added, “Be back in a sec,” and returned moments later with a paper bag into which he carefully slid the cardboard note. “Why don’t we meet at the Hut tomorrow? I’ll put someone on this first thing tomorrow and we might have
more around noonish. If I light a fire under her feet. And by her feet, I mean Tyler.”
He pulled out another paper from his pocket and handed it to over. “While we’re on the subject of threatening notes, here’s the copy of words Tyler recovered from Nanette’s letter fragment. You can make out phrases—‘I’m capable of. Your wife. Silence is golden. Consequences.’ Tyler put it under a microscope and she detected a few additional words around the burned bits, such as ‘schedule’ after wife and also ‘in the past.’”
“Multi-spectral imaging can detect black ink on burned paper.”
“That’s what Nelia said. But as I told her, our department doesn’t have that kind of money.”
Drayco smiled grimly. “Sure sounds like blackmail.”
“That’s the way it came across to me. One of Oakley’s early conquests.”
“But there’s a hint of a threat against Nanette. A little extreme to get someone to end an affair with your wife.”
The sheriff considered that for a moment. “Can’t see it has a connection to the murders. Still feel the development angle is the ticket. We tracked down who owns the plot of land north of the proposed condos.”
“Let me guess—Randolph Squier. He’s been a dog with a bone defending Earl, who he’ll need free and clear for the sale to go through. When I was in his office, he also tried to deflect questions about other property owners who’d benefit.”
“Squier is the owner all right, in a roundabout way. It’s in his mother-in-law’s name. She’s ninety and has Alzheimer’s. I doubt she understood what she was signing.”
“Darcie’s mother? Didn’t you tell me their family name was Gentner?”
“Yeah, but we haven’t been able to connect Gentner with Gallinger.”
“We can’t rule it out, can we?” Drayco didn’t like pointing that out, still finding himself trying to protect Darcie. But from what, he wasn’t exactly sure.
“Gotta wonder if Darcie knew her hubby used her mother’s name on that deed. If so, that makes her complicit. If she didn’t, maybe Squier hoped Darcie would take the fall if the deed came to light.”
“It sounds like you’re moving Squier up a notch on the suspect list.”
“Got a tip from Gallinger. After the condos go up, the north property is next in line. A hotel, shops. Tons of money for Squier. Ironic, isn’t it? He’s been piling on pressure for me to exonerate Earl, but in so doing, he gets to take his place. Add in Oakley’s affair with Darcie, the alleged embezzlement angle, Squier’s woodsman ability, the fact he’s a gun collector, and he’s a burly guy big enough to strangle Nanette ... he’s dueling Earl for the top spot.”
“And he’s handy with knives.”
“What?”
“Used them to carve his own scrimshaw. Carving up flesh would be easy next to ivory or bone.”
“Didn’t see any knives in that gun case of his. Wonder where he hides them?”
“In that palatial manor of his, there’d be plenty of places.”
“So you’re liking Squier as our killer, I take it?”
“Might even be willing to bet some money it.” The sheriff was right—Squier had the most motive, the most opportunity, and all the right skills and tools to kill both Oakley and Nanette. And Drayco hadn’t run across anyone with a voice as grotesquely colored as Squier’s who wasn’t guilty of something. If Darcie were a synesthete, she wouldn’t have lasted more than few days with that voice, surely.
He said, “If we could finagle a sample of Squier’s block printing, we might be able to match it with the block letters on Nanette’s letter fragment.”
Sailor whipped out a notepad from his pocket to jot something down. It was a standard white Rite in the Rain flip-top pad, four bucks each. Not like the pricier personalized leather-bound pads some officers used or a high-tech handheld PDA.
“Your department budget keeping you stuck in the 20th century, Sheriff?”
“What budget?” He stuffed the notepad back in his pocket. “I don’t mind these pads. They never break down, don’t need batteries and they impress a jury. Harder to forge an officer’s handwriting than with a digital file.”
“Going digital would save you a lot of time.”
“Next century. We just got laptops in the patrol cars two years ago.”
Tourism, taxes, some of Squier’s buried treasure. Cape Unity needed some of each if it were to survive, let alone thrive. The threads of the past, when wealth rode into town on rails from tourists with deep pockets, lingered like gossamer strands of hope scattered in the breezes of time. And Drayco’s Opera House was the patron saint of that past.
Drayco said, “Did you find out if Gallinger wanted to buy the Opera House?”
“They said no way. That’s the polite version. They phrased it more colorfully.”
Drayco fingered the copy of the letter fragment. It brought to mind Nanette’s face, sorrowful yet determined, unable to stop picking at old emotional scars. “And Nanette’s murder, any progress on that front?”
“Can’t find anyone with a bad word about her. Let alone a reason to kill her. But we haven’t forgotten her.” The sheriff picked up his hat. “Don’t you be a stranger. That love note of yours could indicate you’re next in line for an early demise. And I don’t need a third murder.”
Sailor slapped on his hat with more force than usual. “Or should I say fourth. I had somebody check into that woman’s death. Grace Waterworth. I think we’ll be able to get that exhumation order now. Turns out her husband had a secret life. Gambling, drinking, women, lots of trips to Vegas. Fortunately, he’s also your typical crook with the IQ of an orangutan. And a guilty conscience. He practically confessed to putting rat poison in his wife’s stew, from the moment we walked through the door. How’d you know?”
“He donated her collection of books right after her death.”
“They were religious books, right? So what? So he didn’t share his wife’s devotional habits.”
“Widowers tend to hold on to reminders of their wives for sentimental value. Yet he couldn’t get the books out of the house fast enough. Also, the only new book in the lot was one on how to kill garden pests with poisons. Complete with the sticker from a bookstore in Nevada.”
Sailor smiled slightly, before heading out with the threatening note from Drayco’s room and one pie box, compliments of Maida.
Since he was a guest of the Jepsons, Drayco decided to tell them about the threat. “If you’d prefer I stay somewhere else, in case,” he offered.
“Oh, Lord no,” Maida was adamant, and the Major headed to the library, bringing back a black fabric case he unzipped to reveal an Enfield pistol. “Don’t you worry, my boy. I’ve got Bertille here, handed down from my father, a veteran of the WWII RAF.” He stroked the gun, cradling it in one arm. “Besides, you aren’t going to find a finer place around these parts than the Lazy Crab.”
Maida scolded him, “I doubt you’ll be needing that any time soon, dear. You know how I feel around guns. Scott’s a big boy and can take care of himself. So you go put that away.” She turned to Drayco to explain, “Bertille’s the name of a former French heartthrob of Major’s.”
“Aha. Another reason to put the old girl back in moth balls.”
“At least he didn’t name it Angelina, after his first wife.”
The Major clucked his tongue. “I doubt our bandit will show his face again, now he’s discovered we’re not the Ming vase type. Hardly worth his time, I’d say.”
Satisfied the Jepson household was safe, Drayco headed into the den but didn’t sit down. He stood looking out the window at the unaccustomed sight of a nighttime view with no man-made lights, leaving only the phantom shapes of trees.
He settled beside a vintage wood cabinet the Jepsons owned, with an AM radio above a fan-shaped speaker grid. Opening the lid, he placed the 78-rpm record Nanette gave him on the turntable inside. He’d never heard any recordings of Konstantina Klucze playing the piano, and he wasn’t sure what to
expect.
From the first few notes of the Brahms capriccio, he was entranced. The age of the well-played recording and its scratchiness aside, it was clear Konstantina was a masterful and soulful pianist. He was sorry the 78 gave him a mere three minutes on each side, and this was all he had. He sat back and listened to the Brahms and the flip side Chopin waltz several times each.
It was easy to picture Konstantina on the Opera House stage, lights focused on her as she lifted her hands and prepared to play. It was if she were in the room with him, enjoying his reaction to the music. She’d been so young, yet her playing was as mature as Van Cliburn in his forties. Who knows where her career would have taken her had she not been brutally murdered? If she’d lived, she would be around 90.
Watching the record as it sped around, he compared it to the circle of truncated careers. Konstantina’s. Oakley’s. His. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock, but he was unusually tired and called it a night. Lying enveloped in his bed’s oversized goose down comforter, images of Oakley and Nanette kept flashing through his mind. Eccentric Oakley, looking like an anachronistic throwback to, what? The 1950s? The 1850s? And Nanette? Oakley’s opposite. Stylish, composed, outgoing.
Now both husband and wife lay in a morgue, any hopes and dreams within them forever extinguished. Nanette’s parting words to him the day she died haunted him, as they went around and around in his head like the turntable. “I’ll always be grateful you took my humble concerns seriously. I’m not sure anyone else would.”
What had he given her in exchange for that trust? So far, zilch. But if the murderer had indeed set his sights on Drayco, then he believed Drayco was on his trail. Meaning Drayco might be closer to keeping his promise to Nanette than he knew.
PART THREE
Oh, could I love again I'd sing with gladness.
Here, far from home, I long to dream.
I want what I have not - to love;
And there is no one to love, nor to sing to.