by BV Lawson
“And catch the wild animals in their natural habitat?”
“Something like that. You should come back for lunch. Specialty of the house is crab cakes. Lots of lump crab, no glue-dust filler. If you’re a seafood fan, make a trip to Wachapreague while you’re on the Eastern Shore. One of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it places, but it’s the flounder capital of the world. Their fried flounder is a revelation.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Drayco reached for the carafe and refilled his cup, having gulped down the first in two minutes flat. It was a dark brew with a taste so bitter, it didn’t need salt.
The sheriff ignored the sugar but dumped what must be half a shaker of powdered cream into his coffee. “I released the crime scene—your Opera House.” Sailor blew into the cup before taking a sip. “Sold the place yet?”
“You’re certainly dead set on me selling it. Got a thing against music?”
Sailor flung his hat upon a nearby wall hook, nailing it straight on. “Checked up on you. You’re former FBI like your Dad. Got a fledgling investigative gig in the capital. High-profile clients, consulting work for law enforcement. Can’t see such a fellow wanting a small-town millstone dragging him down. Especially a relative youngster. Although shouldn’t I be calling you Dr. Drayco?”
Drayco could hear the guys at the Bureau as they teasingly called him Doc. The memory brought a small smile to his lips. “I don’t get that much these days, except when I teach the occasional seminar. It’s buried on the résumé somewhere.”
“A Ph.D. in criminology’s gotta be worth what—a few hundred more a year?”
A few hundred was about right. Drayco was lucky enough to buy his D.C. townhouse before the housing market skyrocketed, but freelancing was more expensive than he’d budgeted, and he’d gone into debt to hang out his shingle. The Opera House money sure wouldn’t hurt. “Am I scratched off your suspect list, Sheriff?”
“I didn’t say that.” Sailor signaled the waitress for another carafe of coffee. He was matching Drayco cup for cup. Not many people could do that. “You’re toward the bottom of the list. Although if you did switch to the dark side, I have a feeling you’d make a formidable criminal, Mr. Consultant.”
After the waitress came and left, Sailor continued, “I met your Dad once.”
“Brock? When?”
“He spoke at a conference I attended. Interesting presentation. Had him sign his book for me.”
“One of those law enforcement conferences where the highlight is the bar in the hotel lobby. Oh joy.”
The sheriff hesitated. “More of a literary conference. With a law enforcement component,” he hastened to add. “My mother named me so I got tagged with the Hemingway part. She’s a retired librarian.”
“Hemingway?”
“My middle name.” Sailor pulled his coffee cup closer to him. “Anyway, your father wasn’t as imposing as I’d imagined.”
“He can be intimidating. With large shoes to fill.” Drayco shifted his feet in his size thirteens. Symbolically, his father’s were double that.
“I understand the intimidating part. His book was brilliant although I have it on good authority you had a similar rep at the Bureau. Some even placing bets you might make Director some day. Hell, you made it into the NCAVC after only four years. Quite a hopscotch from concert pianist to FBI to freelancer, isn’t it?”
So the sheriff had excavated deeper into his past. Drayco replied slowly, “An accident ended my piano career. My arm wasn’t fit for the rigors of a pianist’s life, but it was good enough for the FBI. As for the Bureau, I’m not much of a bureaucrat. Ten years was enough.”
Sailor didn’t press him for details, looking out the window at the shell-strewn driveway that separated the restaurant from a boarded-up building with crumbling pink siding. “Lousy view, isn’t it? Same as a lot of the town, it’s seen better days.”
Better days, better years, better moods. “Seems like development would be welcome. And yet there’s a lot of tension between people against and those in favor. Like Earl Yaegle and my dead client Oakley Keys.”
The moment the word “client” came out of Drayco’s mouth, he knew there was no turning back. He’d been sucked in, against his better judgment, allowing the counterpoint to win him over again. It was like walking out on stage in front of an audience and sitting down at the piano. Once your fingers hit the keys, you were committed.
Sailor kept rubbing the back of his neck. The man was as tense as their first meeting in the Opera House although at least his jaw was no longer clenched. One corner of the sheriff’s mouth turned up briefly as he took a pause from guzzling coffee. “Your client?”
“Oakley said he wanted to hire me, he was murdered on my property, and I don’t know the reason for either. I can’t leave it at that.”
“Sounds like you’re going to be poking around.”
Drayco kept his own face blank. “I have a detective poking stick I keep in my car. It’s a divining rod. Point it toward the suspects and it’s drawn to the killer.”
“Better patent it, because if you’re like me, you’re not getting rich in this line of work.”
The sheriff’s creased forehead belied his joking manner as he stared at Drayco long and hard. “Don’t often run into investigators representing dead clients. Guess I’ll have to make doubly sure I keep my eye on you.”
Someone in the kitchen dropped a glass, but the sound barely registered with either man. “Look, Sheriff, I have no intention of muscling into your territory. I’m looking for answers. Same as everybody else in town.”
“At least they’re not paying you to find those answers. Murder’s rare around here. Makes people jittery. Since this is the first such case with me in charge, they’re not sure what to expect. I don’t aim to let them down.”
Drayco caught a whiff of rotten fish followed shortly by the sight through the window of a kitchen worker emptying a trash can. Perhaps not everyone liked the crab cakes. “You said you were one deputy shy. In my new, albeit unwelcome, role of Opera House owner, I might get info from people you wouldn’t.”
“Not so sure about that. Folks around here close themselves off to strangers. What makes you think people will answer your questions?”
Drayco studied his coffee spoon. “It’s not what you ask, it’s how you listen.”
The sheriff thought for a moment. “I can’t keep you from conducting legitimate business regarding your own property. And you’re a perceptive young pup. Just be sure and pass along any info you come across to the old dog who was on a beat in Richmond rounding up drug dealers when you were playing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.’”
“I skipped that part. First time I sat at a piano, I picked out Count Basie’s ‘Take the A Train.’” Drayco understood what Sailor wasn’t saying. A newly minted sheriff didn’t need rumors he was incompetent and needed outside help.
Sailor motioned to the waitress for the check and waited until she got out of earshot. “Since we’re on the same page and since you’d find out anyway, why don’t I save you divining with that stick of yours. The Keys’ attorney got back from the Caribbean. We know what was in Oakley’s Will.”
“The Caribbean? I could use some sunburn.”
“You and me both. My wife keeps pestering me for a vacation. Nanette was the sole beneficiary. Between the money she’d get from the land sale and being unhappy with Oakley’s extramarital affairs, plenty of motive. More than Yaegle. Then there’s that problem of no alibi. Says she was at home by herself.”
“The Keys lived alone?”
“Oakley and Nanette are virtually alone in this world. Nanette has one sister on the west coast, but that’s it.”
“Nanette came to see me earlier today. Not to confess. She was curious why Oakley wanted to hire me. And she did describe the missing mask.”
“Yeah, there’s that. A damned owl mask, just the clue I need.”
With the passing thought the sheriff’s middle name would be more app
ropriate as Ernest Sarcasm Sailor, Drayco asked, “Have you found the gun yet?”
Again, to his surprise, Sailor didn’t hesitate to provide details. “We ran the bullet through the ATF database. No match. The firearms examiner from the state lab in Norfolk gave us preliminary ballistics—it’s a.455 caliber, potentially from a vintage British Webley. And no, Oakley didn’t own a gun. It’s not the type that’s easy to come by around here, anyway. Unless you’re a veteran, a historian, or a gun dealer ...” his voice trailed off.
“Yaegle?”
“Has to be considered.”
“That would be too obvious, wouldn’t it?”
“Yaegle’s a hothead but I pegged him more as the litigious type. Looking at the historian angle, Reece Wable has resources for antiques that might include guns. He and Keys had a dispute.”
“So he told me, even made a point of it. He also said he had a run-in with a detective once. A ‘misunderstanding.’”
Sailor stopped counting the change he’d pulled out of his pocket. “So you have been poking around. That incident must be before my time.”
“Have you tied Wable or anyone other than the Gallinger company to the letter ‘G’?”
“Oakley’s middle name is John, no ‘G’ there. But Earl’s middle name, on the other hand, is Gerik. Hell, it’d be handier if the letter were a la Hester Prynne—an ‘A’ for Oakley’s adultery.”
Drayco rubbed his finger along the smooth metal of the spoon. The handle was cold and had an unusual bird pattern etched into the curved handle. At least it wasn’t an owl. “I hope Oakley wasn’t alive when the carving was made on his chest.”
“The M.E. may be able to tell, but it’s possible.”
Adding torture into the mix told Drayco more than the killer possessed a sadistic streak. Psychopaths often enjoyed making victims suffer and were partial to mutilation. But this would make a random killer less likely, despite the fears of the man he encountered at the mailbox and his “rotten fish,” the new people in town. “What do you think of the theory the murderer was an immigrant looking for work?”
Sailor grunted. “‘G’ is for gringo, you mean? We’ve had a few minor scuffles, nothing violent. Workers around here have long included migrants, with the seafood industry hanging out a Help Wanted sign twice a year for crab pickers. This murder smells too homegrown.”
“What is homegrown anymore, when you get apples in December from New Zealand or oranges in March from Mexico?”
Sailor paused for a moment. “Point taken.”
“Okay, if ‘G’ doesn’t stand for a proper name, it could represent what—Gold? God?”
“Gold would be appropriate, if you’re talking about the property. ‘G’ for God—Oakley wasn’t a religious fellow, but the murderer could be. Nanette certainly was. Guilt? Gotcha? How about ‘G’ for Great Britain, since Oakley’s from there. Makes as much damn sense as everything else.”
“Was the knife found?”
“A pocket knife was left inside a dumpster behind Earl Yaegle’s gun shop, but no prints. If it’s the same one the murderer used, he wore gloves or wiped the handle clean. We won’t get DNA results back from the lab for a while due to backlogs. And the fact we’re small potatoes.”
“Any residue for blood typing?”
“Enough to tell it matches that from the crime scene. A-negative, same as Oakley’s and not common. As you know, only seven percent of the population carries it.”
“A possible plant to cast suspicion on Yaegle. You should check with Paddy Bakely. I bumped into him the other day. He seemed thrilled Oakley Keys was dead.”
“Considering the state Paddy’s in most of the time, he’d be a suspect in any crime around these parts. Motive or no.”
“By state, you mean alcoholic stupor? Or other drugs?”
“Just booze. We’ve got a drug problem around here, nothing organized.”
“And Seth? Like son, like father?”
“Seth is clean. Or at least, he’s never been caught. Seth and Paddy are nicely providing alibis for each other, saying they were together at home all Sunday evening.”
“Motive-wise you’ve got the development issue and greed, and there’s jealousy and revenge from Oakley’s affairs. Anything else?”
“You summed it up. I haven’t gotten the opportunity to interview the good councilman and his wife although they’re next on my list. I’m dreading that one. Such is the life of a lowly county mounty.”
Drayco leaned back in the booth. “If you’re referring to Councilman Squier, he’s invited me to dinner at his house tonight.”
Sailor put his cup down with a loud clink and gave Drayco a hard look through narrowed eyes. “I would have preferred you wait until I had a chance to talk to them.”
The coffee had grown cold, so Drayco pushed it away. “I didn’t know they were officially suspects when I accepted.”
“Well, they are.”
Drayco joined the sheriff in looking out the window. Strips of pink siding on the building next door had peeled away, like a giant had nibbled pink frosting off a gingerbread house. Sailor gave Drayco the briefest of smiles. “I guess you’ll be around Darcie, then. Best of luck. Fresh meat.”
“The rumors circling around Darcie and Oakley are true?”
“Certified. Which means both Randolph and Darcie Squier have a possible motive to kill Oakley, if you believe Darcie cared for him.”
“Sounds like her husband believed it.”
“Squier tried to cover it up in public. In private, he was trying to run Keys out of town on a rail. As for Darcie, that’s another ‘G’ for you. Her maiden name was Gentner.”
Drayco tried to ignore the increase in his pulse rate at the mention of Darcie. “Tell you what, Sheriff. I’ve been told I write up a mean field report. You want it in duplicate?”
“Indexed and typed.” As Sailor rose to leave, he rescued his hat and pointed it at Drayco. “While you’re there, take a look at Squier’s extensive gun collection. He belongs to a local hunt club. I hear he’s quite the shot.”
Drayco checked his phone, noting some voice mail messages finally made it through. One from his accountant and one from a reporter doing a follow-up story on the Cadden family. Drayco’s finger hovered over the delete button, but he thought better of it. A third message from his attorney sank Drayco’s spirits even more. Due to questions over Rockingham’s estate and IRS taxes, there’d been a federal tax lien placed on the Opera House. Bye-bye, quick sale.
He headed for the front cash register to order more coffee, extra nuclear. They made coffee here the way it should be, the color of gunpowder and about as hot when lit. Drayco grabbed some teriyaki marlin jerky and a bag of Skipjacks nuts, a local treat with honey and Chesapeake Bay seasoning. That would have to do until his date with Randolph and Darcie Squier later.
So, a knife with blood matching Oakley’s rarish type was in a dumpster behind Earl Yaegle’s gun shop. Maybe it was a plant. Maybe Earl wasn’t bright, maybe he panicked, maybe he was crafty and knew they’d think it was too obvious. The last time Drayco was involved with a knife-in-the-dumpster case, they found the knife with a hand still attached—just the hand. Earl Yaegle had better be careful. The owner of that other knife was on Death Row at Sussex State Prison in Waverly.
Chapter 9
Drayco was a minute too late again. He hoped to catch Earl at the gun shop this time, but when Randy the manager pointed to Yaegle’s car pulling out of the parking lot, Drayco decided to do a little tailing. Not a tactic he’d ordinarily undertake in his out-of-the-ordinary Starfire.
Yaegle drove at a slow, steady pace at exactly twenty-five miles an hour the entire time and never once checked his mirror. It was as if the man was operating on autopilot. As they passed the small downtown area, Drayco recognized some landmarks, and sure enough, they were soon in sight of the Opera House. He couldn’t escape it.
Yaegle pulled into the circular drive in front and parked his car, sitting and staring stra
ight ahead. After five minutes of playing zombie-Earl, he turned his head to look at the building. Drayco pulled out a pair of binoculars and studied the other man’s profile. No emotion whatsoever, only a riveted stare at the building.
They sat there for ten minutes before Earl awakened from his stupor and started the car moving again. Drayco followed a few more blocks until Yaegle parked his car and ducked into a bank. After another thirty minutes and no Yaegle, Drayco decided to try him another time.
He’d only traveled a few miles when he caught a glimpse of a neon-bright object. Seeing who was attached to it, he made a sharp turn over some railroad tracks and parked next to a laundromat with a cracked glass front. The biting smell of coal tar creosote from railroad ties hit him the moment he opened the door.
He walked over to a man working under the hood of a fuchsia-colored car. “Guess you’re handy in more ways than one, Seth.”
Bakely didn’t look up. “Helping someone. As a favor.”
Drayco was amazed the man could be elbow deep in oil and grease and not have a speck on his denim coveralls. “If you need a hand—”
“I don’t. Simple valve cover gasket.”
Drayco took advantage of the man’s silent concentration to study him. The wet ashtray-smell from a few feet away served as a dead giveaway the man was a heavy smoker. But Drayco had to lean in to see a small brownish-red crusted patch near Seth’s ear, partly hidden by his hair. Drayco was no dermatologist, but he’d seen pictures of skin cancer.
Without lifting his head, Seth spoke up, “Washing machines are a buck a load, and the dryers are buck and a half.”
“I’m more interested in a dirty problem those machines can’t fix. The problem of why Oakley Keys wanted to meet me at the Opera House. Especially when, as you say, he’d never been there before.”
“Why do people usually hire you?”
“More dirty little problems. Sometimes big problems when people are at the end of their rope.”
“To hang themselves?”
“Or to get someone else hanged.”