by BV Lawson
“You and the Major don’t have children?”
Maida gripped the railing of the gazebo. “We had a son. It’s a long story and a long time ago, but we’re lucky to have terrific nieces and nephews to dote on.” She peered at Drayco. “Our son would be near your age.”
“At least you didn’t have to attend all those kiddy piano recitals.”
“Oh, I doubt your recitals were boring, you child prodigy, you.”
Drayco gaped at her. “How in the world did you know that?”
“I have a friend who thought your name sounded familiar, so she looked you up. She was impressed. Carnegie Hall at age twelve, soloing with the New York Philharmonic at fourteen.”
His father Brock certainly wasn’t impressed. Not that Drayco was impressed, himself. It was never about the applause, it was always the music, the need, the craving like a drug to immerse himself in the notes. At times, he wasn’t sure in which city he was playing. He showed up, they pointed him toward the piano, and he happily fed his habit.
“I wrote down part of a review my friend found.” Maida patted her coat. “Now where is it?” There was a crinkling sound in one pocket, and she triumphantly pulled out a piece of paper. “He plays Beethoven’s Appassionata in a more maniacal, furious, and apocalyptic manner than Sviatoslav Richter—I think that’s the name, the pianist’s name, right?—and yet pulled it off like a seasoned pro.”
Drayco remembered that review. He hadn’t paid much attention to reviews, but a friend cut that one out and read it to him. He was all of fifteen at the time. And here Maida was, reading it to him again two decades later.
Maida said, “How did you change gears from Mozart to murder?”
A fair question. And Sheriff Sailor and Maida weren’t the only ones to ask it. He rubbed his finger along the gazebo railing until the pain from a splinter stopped him. He pulled the splinter out, hoping none was left buried below the top layers of skin. Things buried too deep can fester.
“Musicians are a conduit for the composer. We try to get into the composer’s mind, revealing what he was trying to say through the music. In the same way, investigators try to find clues into the mind of a criminal.”
“The output of composer versus criminal is sure different.”
“True. Yet some criminals are also inordinately proud of their handiwork, almost like their children.”
Drayco monitored the cyclists as the older man stopped to tie one child’s uncooperative shoe. “Did Oakley have family other than Nanette? The sheriff didn’t think so.”
“He once told Major he was orphaned and alone. Might be why he was so antisocial.” She pulled a pipe and pouch out of another coat pocket and tamped tobacco down in the horn of the pipe before lighting it.
“I didn’t know you smoked. I didn’t smell it at the Lazy Crab.”
“I don’t smoke there. Might cause problems for guests with allergies. Only when I’m outside like this.”
Drayco watched her take a few puffs, and the aroma of bergamot and citrus wafted in his direction. He said, “My great-aunt told tales of her friend who smoked a corn-cob pipe. Maybe you should try it.”
“I think I’ll keep roasted corn on the menu where it belongs.” She took another puff. “I always loved the way my father smelled when he smoked his pipe. It was a treat to pick out new tobacco for his Christmas present. Tobacco used to be king in Virginia. I heard tell it’s only five percent of the crops now.”
Maida pointed out two large birds flying overhead with iridescent purple and green feathers, smaller than the geese from earlier. “Grackles. They may be nuisance birds at times, but they’re pretty. Sure hate the noisy Fourth of July fireworks. Earl Yaegle’s businesses sponsor the annual celebration here at the park. I guess if he’s arrested and his businesses go under, they’ll have to find money from somebody else. If they can.”
Maida ran her gloved hand across the gazebo’s lattice work. No splinters for her. “He helped pay for this, too. It makes me fit to be tied thinking he’d have anything to do with Oakley’s or Nanette’s deaths.”
Drayco suggested they walk along the path to warm up in the frosty air, and Maida readily agreed. He wished he’d packed warmer socks, his feet blocks of ice. She was right, though. The park was scenic, despite the chill. Not like his typical concrete-and-asphalt D.C. haunts. Did Oakley and Nanette Keys ever come here? Maybe have a picnic? Oakley didn’t seem the type, at least not the later-life Oakley.
He mused aloud, “Oakley, the enigma.”
Maida paused to keep from tripping over two black squirrels chasing each other pell-mell across the pathway. “When Oakley and Nanette first moved here, it was exotic to have this young British-accented writer in town. Doesn’t seem that long ago, but he would have turned fifty-five in August.”
Maida sat in silence for a moment. “Don’t think Oakley had the sense God gave a goose, to tell the truth. The curse of the artistic spirit. After all, how many artist-types live miserable lives only to turn out masterpieces?”
“I guess Oakley forgot that last part. Or pickled it in booze along the way.”
“And always by his side stood Nanette. I swear she made the Rock of Gibraltar look like a pebble.”
Drayco had also pegged her as a graduate of the stand-by-your-man school. Unwilling to leave a bad relationship, tied emotionally to the husband even in the face of assault. He’d stood in morgues beside body bags of women who made that same mistake. “Do you think Oakley hurt her?”
“Nanette never had any bruises I could see. If anything, Oakley went the other way. Neglect.”
“Did she travel much? Have friends in other towns, near or far?”
“She was a homebody. I never heard her mention many friends other than co-workers, but I don’t think they were close.”
They stopped at a small boardwalk area designed to offer a glimpse of an egret or brown pelican. They watched for a few moments in silence, enjoying the panoramic view. Maida craned her neck looking around, telling him to look for pelican nests common in March and April. Not seeing any, she sighed with disappointment. “With all the new development, you have to wonder if wildlife will adapt.”
Maida parted company to head back to the Lazy Crab, leaving Drayco alone. The park was surrounded by thick vegetation, and she said it would be hard to walk from here to the Keys property unless you knew what you were doing. He didn’t, but wanted to gauge how hard it would be for a potential murderer. The hiking boots he brought came in handy, with tree stumps, fallen limbs and slick pine needles creating a muddy obstacle course.
True to Maida’s word, it wasn’t long before he reached an impasse due to a marshy inlet intruding into the forest. With persistence, he was able to navigate around it. After a few more twists and turns, he ended up at the edge of a naked clearing where he came upon the Keys’ property. He checked the time. Maida was good. It took him twenty-five minutes, and with practice, he could do it in fifteen, as she’d estimated.
He looked at the ground after he’d walked on it, but no prints among the thick carpet of pine needles, no signs he’d been there. Like the murderer? Since twilight was less than an hour away, he didn’t stay long.
Feeling more confident about his path on the return trip, he starting paying attention to the undergrowth. Halfway back he spied a disturbed patch of leaves near a persimmon tree, twisted in a pattern that a skidding shoe might leave behind. He examined the tree and found sections of bark recently shorn off. Someone bracing against a fall?
Drayco bent down and poked his fingers into the wet slime of the decaying organic goo at the base of the tree, avoiding the potential shoe print. His hand brushed against a round, smooth object, and he stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The object, protected by a mini-hut of twigs and leaves, turned out to be a pill capsule filled with an orange-red powder. Identical to the one he discovered at the Opera House.
Not far from the spot where he found the capsule, a white triangle peeked out from und
er a leaf. He grabbed the tip between two fingernails and pulled out a yellowed newspaper clipping, damp and smeared, but legible. It detailed a rumor about Horatio Rockingham selling the Opera House, and in the margins, someone had doodled “b-b” and the words “phonic” and “diabel.” This must have dropped from the missing file box. He gingerly tucked both capsule and clipping into the left pocket of his coat.
And then he froze. With a skin-tingling sixth sense, he knew he wasn’t alone.
He heard a low, snarling growl, right before something launched itself at him and tore into his right leg. The animal was spotted like a coyote but larger, like a wolf. At this point, he didn’t care what the hell it was. He just wanted it off him, so he kicked as hard as he could with his left foot at the animal’s head. It worked for a moment, as the beast fell to one side, slightly dazed. Then it roused itself, snarling louder. It was coming back for seconds.
Instinctively, he pulled the Glock out of his shoulder holster and with his first shot, he knew he hit his target. The animal fell still and didn’t move again.
Drayco wasn’t sure he could get up again easily if he sat down, so he propped his injured leg up on a rock to see how bad it was. Most of the bite chomped down on Drayco’s thick boot, but a few teeth broke the skin, the warm blood flowing down into his sock, the ripped pant leg exposing puncture woods.
Canid attacks on humans were rare, but there was a report of a rabid coyote spotted near Pungoteague last week. He was not looking forward to getting rabies shots. Limping, he headed back to the overlook as seagulls picked their way around the waves in the gathering darkness.
He made it back near the overlook when a rustling in the woods off to his right got his attention. The wax myrtle branches were grouped in dense thickets that blended into a forest of American holly, providing a perfect hiding place. Mindful of the coyote, he pulled out his gun, maneuvering painfully around the brush where he heard the sounds. He stopped to listen. Silence at first, then the unmistakable crunch of a footstep. Heavy-sounding for a coyote. A hunter? Drayco sincerely hoped he wasn’t the prey again.
The adrenaline pumped as he prepared for another battle. Instead, the ringing of his cell phone punched an immediate hole in the tense stillness around him. It was Maida, checking on his plans for dinner. When he told her of the attack, she said she’d phone the sheriff’s office straight away so animal control could find and test the carcass for rabies.
Gritting his teeth the entire way, Drayco made it safely to the Starfire but continued his watchful eye on the perimeter. The only movements came from the flapping of reproachful birds settling back into their roost in the trees. Using his left leg on the accelerator, the Starfire soon lumbered out of the parking area. At least he could be grateful his sock and boot would keep blood from pooling on the Starfire’s floorboard.
The road into town was empty, save for one lone black sedan. It had a tinted windshield which meant either the driver had a medical exemption for tinting or was doing it illegally. Seeing as how it didn’t have a required front license plate, Drayco was betting on the latter.
But if someone was following him, he didn’t have time to deal with it right now.
Chapter 20
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“No doctors, unless the rabies test on the animal is positive. Besides, Maida did a fine job with her magic poultice.” Drayco moved his leg slightly where he had propped it up on a chair. If he took deep breaths, he could ignore the throbbing.
“Suit yourself.” Sheriff Sailor’s eyes, parked at half-mast above dark circles, were carbon copies from the other day. Add in a toiletry bag in one corner and the smell of a charred coffee pot, and you’d think Sailor lived at the office.
As if two murders weren’t enough, a migrant worker looking for a landscaping job wandered onto someone else’s private property by mistake and got beaten for trespassing. Since the Keys’ deaths, there’d been an increase in people spouting off threats, some motivated by race, others by the developer mess. It was primarily the bar crowd and primarily gun-free. So far.
Sailor examined the scrimshaw tusk now lying on his desk while Drayco placed a photocopy in front of him of the newspaper article Reece dug up. Sailor scanned it. “If this turns out to be the same item stolen in the early ’70s, it could have been in that drawer all this time. Any other Easter eggs hiding in your basket?”
“Possibly.” Drayco reached into his briefcase and pulled a plastic bag where he’d placed the capsule and clipping from his trek in the woods. “I also found these near a tree where someone took a fall. On the trail between Powhatan Park and the Keys’ house where the coyote attacked.”
The sheriff sat up straight. “You see anyone?”
“I got the impression a human animal was watching me. A phone call from Maida intervened.”
The sheriff picked up the plastic bag and pointed at the newspaper clipping. “Look familiar to you?”
“The handwriting on it resembles Oakley’s. I’d hazard a guess it’s from the stolen file box. The murderer must have dropped it during his dive.”
“Don’t suppose you could show Giles that spot you stumbled on?”
“I may not be Daniel Boone, but I think so. Near the tree, there’s also the potential for a footprint.”
The sheriff rubbed his hands together. “No more Invisible Man. I’ll have Giles take a cast. And that’s all your Easter eggs, now?”
“Unless you count some old Opera House receipts and concert programs.”
“Did any of those receipts have a line item for murder, assassins, weapons?” When Drayco indicated no, the sheriff said, “Damn. I could use a few cut-and-dried clues.”
“Hardly any clue is cut-and-dried. Ask any defense attorney. So what’s up?”
“Can’t trace the bullet or Webley used on Oakley. We tried to match them to guns at Earl’s house and shop as well as those in Councilman Squier’s collection. That last one was fun. Actually, Squier was cooperative since he and Darcie are vouching for each other’s whereabouts during both murders. Like Paddy and Seth. I doubt Yaegle or Squier would have left the murder weapon in plain sight, anyway. Hell, both bullets and gun could have been hiding in a drawer for decades, like that scrimshaw.”
“And the red carnation?”
“A garden-variety flower, if you’ll pardon the pun. We traced it to the one and only local flower shop. Oakley bought just one the day he was killed. Paid for it in cash. First time he’d set foot in the store.”
So Oakley wasn’t the flowers-and-candy type of guy. Had he never given Nanette any gifts or remembered her birthday or their anniversary? “Any luck tracking down Oakley’s family?”
“Nope. Maybe he was an alien—not the illegal kind, the flying saucer kind.”
Drayco picked up a pad of paper and drew a Roswell alien head with large black eyes. He added a caption for his wanted poster, “Have you seen this man?” and pushed it over to the sheriff.
Sailor glared at him. “I got a subpoena for credit card and phone records. No interesting calls, but Oakley charged a few trips to London Heathrow. Only airfare, no lodging. Must have stayed with someone he knew. Those trips ended ten years ago.”
“Have you been able to determine if Nanette had a Will, too?”
“It’s straightforward. Oakley’s the beneficiary unless he preceded her in death. Which of course he did, leaving Nanette’s sister in California as next in line. There’s considerable optimism among the Gallinger ranks she’ll be favorable to the right deal.”
Sailor picked up a pencil with a broken lead. “It’s been less than a week, but the town council and a few other notable citizens are antsy. Councilman Squier is eager for me to move away from Earl as prime suspect.”
The sheriff pushed the tusk around on his desk with the pencil. “Oh, and Deputy Tyler tracked down that city clerk. The one who made the embezzlement accusations ten years ago.”
He pushed a button on his intercom.
“Nelia, you there?” When there was no answer, he said to Drayco, “Forgot to ask Jake this morning if we’d heard from Norfolk about the DNA. Be right back. If I see Tyler, I’ll send her in.”
“Before you go, a woman named Grace Waterworth died recently. Did she and her husband have a difficult relationship?”
“Didn’t see them together much. But they acted normal enough. Why?”
“I’d be interested to know if there was any weed killer or rat poison in her system.”
Sailor scratched his head. “Without probable cause, we can’t get an exhumation order.”
“I understand. Thought it was worth an ask.”
With a last, hard look at Drayco, Sailor withdrew down the hall. He’d only been gone for a minute when Nelia’s blonde head popped in the open door. “Hi, there,” she said. “Come to check on that fragment?”
“Among other things. I appreciate your help, especially since it may not have anything to do with the murders.”
“Over fifty percent of the leg work we do is wasted effort. But you have to cull through the chaff to get to the wheat. Or should I say wheatberry.”
“Wheatberry?”
“My mother’s on a health-food kick. If she hands you one of her green smoothies—run.”
Drayco readjusted his leg on the chair, and Nelia went to a file cabinet and pulled out a doughnut-shaped cushion that she propped under his leg. “Sheriff Sailor used this once. I don’t think he needs it anymore.”
“He had a bum leg?”
Nelia coughed, trying to hide a laugh. “‘Bum’ is the operative word. We don’t call him anal-retentive for nothing.”
Drayco wrinkled his nose at the cushion. “From his ass to my leg. I don’t know whether to feel honored or disgusted.” He adjusted his leg a few inches. Much better. “The sheriff said you’d tracked down the clerk with the embezzlement claims?”