by BV Lawson
He’d slowed his breathing, but his voice still held even more of an edge than usual. “Maybe you think if I can hit a duck with a single round at forty yards, I could kill a man. But you’d be wrong.”
“You have a temper, at least where Darcie is concerned.”
Squier kept rubbing his hands. His knuckles were bright red. “I get crazy when I think about Darcie and other men. I—look at you. And look at me. I’m more of a father figure with gout. But I have enough ego to believe Darcie married me for love.”
“She told me you can be charming if you aren’t out to prove yourself—”
“Success never lasts. You have to prove yourself, over and over.”
“Is that why you ran for town council?”
“I’m beginning to regret it. This whole development mess has mushroomed into one political nightmare. I’m in danger of losing what little respect I have left in this town.”
Drayco shot a quick glance into Squier’s car. On the passenger seat lay a round scrimshaw box with an elaborate etched sailing ship and whale on the cover. The date on front said 1793. Beside it was a white catalog envelope, like the one containing the latest threatening note, but this one had Gallinger as the return address. Spoils of the Gallinger money? Or the embezzlement?
“Change is inevitable, Councilman. The development will come, one way or another.”
“It’s not only the development. It’s the rumors about Darcie and the murders. If they’re not solved soon, I’ll be lynched, along with the rest of the council. And that sheriff friend of yours.”
“You’re worried about more violence?”
“We’ve been flooded with complaints about day laborers and foreigners.” He snarled at Drayco with a caged boar’s primal hatred. “Certainly you agree with me that immigrants are behind the murders? You must agree.”
“It may play a part. Just not the way people think.”
“My career is over one way or another. When word gets out about the land I purchased north of the Yaegles ... it will be my head on a platter.”
“If the new development brings in jobs and taxes, people will sing your praises.” Unless the embezzlement charges were proven, in which case Squier losing his job might not be the worst thing to happen to him.
The vein on Squier’s neck throbbed like a purple spaghetti eel thrashing in a net. “Easy for you to say. You can sell that Opera House and be done with Cape Unity. Come to think of it that might be for the best. The sooner you are gone, the sooner Darcie will forget about you. You’re bad luck. These murders didn’t start until you showed up.”
The conduit theme again. At least Squier was right about that. Since they were engaging in some nice parking-garage glasnost, it was Drayco’s turn. “Oakley’s wooden mask. Darcie said you bought it from someone in town.”
“I’m not the one who bought it. Darcie is. She saw the mask with Paddy and knew it was Oakley’s. I was furious.” Like an afterthought, he added, “Because of the murder, I was naturally worried how such an action might reflect upon her.”
So Squier and Darcie were both pointing the finger of blame about who bought the mask at each other. That wasn’t going to go well in the marriage-counseling sessions. “The day I was at your office, you and Paddy had a shouting match. Were you buying his silence about that mask?”
“Are you implying I would resort to blackmail, Drayco?”
“Not implying. Asking. I subscribe to the presumption of innocence, so if you’re not guilty, you have no worries. Be it embezzlement or blackmail. On the other hand, a dark sedan tried to run me over the other night, one that looked a lot like yours. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that incident, would you?”
Squier’s face was the color of framboise, but there was nothing sweet about the look in his eyes as he moved around the Starfire, his hands now balled tightly at his sides. He lost any remaining traces of his Southern-dandy charm as he morphed from trapped boar into a fair imitation of the snarling wolf-coyote from the woods and launched himself at Drayco.
Squier threw the first punch, but Drayco sidestepped around him, forced him into a headlock, and manhandled him into the driver’s seat of his Lexus. Drayco shut the door, quietly but firmly, and was surprised when Squier stayed put, a dazed expression on his face. Randolph Squier, manipulator, bully, and fallen master of his incredibly small universe.
Drayco headed back to the Starfire but paused to turn around. “And Squier—why don’t you take Darcie up to New York, see the sights, schedule a romantic dinner at Tavern on the Green. It might do wonders to rekindle that flame.”
Darcie said she’d never give up on Drayco, that she always got what she wanted. But he wasn’t convinced she knew what that was. Hopefully, she wouldn’t strangle her happiness with vague strands of discontentment only to find too late there’s no turning back. Of course, if Squier wound up in jail, all that property and money would be hers alone. Drayco wasn’t sure he or anyone else could compete with that.
Maybe it was too late for Tavern on the Green and flowers. Too late for a lot of things.
Chapter 42
Wednesday 24 March
The nor’easter threatening all week gathered its forces together, taking aim at Cape Unity and other cities northward into Philadelphia, New York, Boston. Drayco awoke early Friday to the howling of wind under the eaves, rattling the storm windows. He peered outside in time to see an empty trash can launch across the street. Rain pelted the holly bushes where one lone cardinal hunkered down among the branches, fluffing itself into a ball.
The wind gusts awakened him several times from fragments of disturbing dreams. In one, Nanette Keys and the Cadden twins were begging for mercy as a laughing demon chased them into a pool where they sank lifeless beneath a layer of blood. Paddy filled another nightmare, methodically strangling each citizen of Cape Unity until no one was left. And in a third, Konstantina was at his side as the carjacker threw them both out of Drayco’s car, only she pushed him away, leaving his arm intact, and it was she who was caught in the door instead, dragged to her death.
He sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes, waiting for the violent images to fade.
Undaunted by the storm, the Major was in his usual place, cutting his scone into four equal sections and placing one pat of butter on each. “Morning, Scott. You enjoying the gorgeous weather we arranged for you?”
Drayco plopped down into a chair, eyeing the pile of scones warily. He’d watched the wind churn the inlet waters into small whitecaps in the distance from an upstairs window, and his stomach was doing a remarkably similar impression. Something went clunk on the roof.
“This is a sturdy old house you have. Must have endured a lot of nasty weather in its history.”
The Major cracked his knuckles. “It’ll reach the century mark next year. The fact it’s still standing is testimony to its craftsmanship. If this were one of those new-fangled homes they cobble together in a week, a storm like this would knock it all cattywampus.”
Maida handed Drayco a steaming mug, and he asked, “No cognac?” His nighttime thrashing left him with another headache, and the cognac didn’t sound like such a bad idea.
“No cognac. I can add some.”
“A couple shots of caffeine straight up will do.” He took a sip of coffee, his mouth only getting scalded a little. “Major, I’ve been meaning to ask about a piece Oakley made for you once. A wooden mask of some sort? When I asked you about it earlier, you couldn’t recall.”
The Major took his time finishing his buttered masterpiece. “I don’t remember it, to be honest. But with senile geezers like me, memory’s the first thing to go. My memory started leaking the minute I left the service. Self-preservation, I guess. Or that concussion I had that knocked me flat for weeks. They said I might have brain damage. Better that than dwell on some of the things you’ve seen and done.”
Drayco might have agreed, having witnessed several cases of veteran PTSD, but this from a man who could n
ail a Trivial Pursuit tournament?
The Major washed down a piece of scone and smacked his lips. “You should ask Maida about that mask. If I leave anything lying around long enough, she’ll cart it off to the Salvation Army.”
A loud rattle announced the mail had arrived through the front door. Drayco was impressed. “I guess they mean it when they say neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night will stop the postal service.”
“Not Ed Alshire, anyway. He’s been our mailman for as long as we’ve lived here.”
When the Major left to get the mail, Maida went to a book and pulled out a photocopy, waving it at Drayco. “The Polish borscht recipe. I got the complete page from the library, including the contributor. It was Angel Quillen, Paddy’s mother, of all people.”
Drayco was grateful for Maida’s efforts, but not surprised at the results. Another piece of the circumstantial puzzle that was fitting everything together.
“I have another question for you since you undoubtedly know the Bible better than I do. Is there a verse along the lines of ‘the righteous shall rejoice when he sees vengeance’?”
Maida thought for a moment. “The Bible talks of vengeance a lot. But that particular phrase sounds like one of the Psalms—‘the righteous shall rejoice when he sees vengeance and shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.’”
The Major returned and sorted the mail on the table. “Bills, bills, and more bills. Except—here’s one for you.” He handed Drayco a plain white catalog envelope. It had Scott Drayco and the Lazy Crab address. No return address, but the postmark was local.
He opened it and took out a note smaller than the two previous ones, but with similar red lettering. This was messier and uneven and said, “If you value your life leave now.”
When Maida saw what it was, she craned her neck over to read it. “That’s less friendly than the other. Perhaps you should call Sheriff Sailor.”
Drayco held the note up to the light. No unusual watermarks. And while the lettering was indeed red, it didn’t look the same. Maybe the note-sender ran out of Oakley’s blood?
He dialed the sheriff who pulled the mouthpiece away while he coughed, apologizing between sniffles. “Exactly what I don’t need right now, a cold. At least I was vaccinated against mumps so it could be worse. Drop off that letter, and we’ll add it to the pile of your fan mail. But take a tip from Hollywood slasher movies and don’t make trips along lonely stretches of roads or hikes out in the backcountry.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got all those columns of Oakley’s you gave me. Should make for fun reading on a day like this.”
“Day like this is right. We’ve got our hands full of incidents already. And it’s going to get worse. The weather gods sure aren’t happy. Make me wish I could stay home myself and catch up on some reading.”
“I’ll toast some marshmallows in your honor.”
“You do that. And tell everyone there to stay put. We don’t want anyone outside today who doesn’t have to be.”
When Drayco returned to the kitchen, Maida handed him a book. “You asked if the local library had a Polish dictionary. Here it is.”
“Thanks, Maida. We should get the Lazy Crab hooked up with the Internet and bring you into the twenty-first century. Next time I can bring my laptop.”
She grinned. “Cape Unity’s only now getting caught up with the twentieth. We just got semi-reliable Internet service on the Eastern Shore a year ago.”
He’d already looked up a Polish dictionary on his smartphone, although with the spotty, painfully slow coverage on the shore, it was an ordeal. But he wanted to verify what he’d found via a more reliable source. Drayco flipped first to D in the book and found the entry for diabel. Devil. Then he flipped ahead to the K’s, and there it was. Oakley’s joke or homage, it was hard to say.
Drayco commandeered the Jepsons’ study, where they’d been gracious enough to allow him free rein. It was one of his favorite rooms there, a masculine room with dark oak paneling and the largest fireplace in the house, flanked with cast-iron lions. Drayco imagined they were glaring at him, asking why he hadn’t kept his promise to Nanette.
He skimmed through several Oakley columns for “Brits Abroad,” fascinated by the man’s surprising sense of humor. But darkness and hints of rancor also peppered his writing. Drayco’s former FBI colleagues would sink their teeth into Oakley’s profile, recreating Oakley’s character from nuances of his words like a forensic artist modeling a face from a skull.
Oakley ended up a hermit, but an intelligent one. As Earl said, “I figured we’d be reading about him in the papers one day, a Pulitzer. I guess it wasn’t in the cards.” Oakley was a gifted writer, but his real passion, and it was hardly a gift, was his inability to let things go, as Paddy said.
Every column contained at least one diatribe against some perceived injustice. The mind of Oakley Keys was like a mental prison forged from an all-consuming bitterness. In that sense, Oakley and the murderer shared everything in common.
Drayco wanted to trade places with Sheriff Sailor by the time he picked up column number eighteen and saw the pile of magazines still in the box. He waded through two more, surprised to see a reference to Konstantina and musicians silenced by Hitler’s “final solution.”
It was telling and poignant that Oakley singled out Konstantina. The same column rambled on with an odd reference to Orestes in Greek mythology and a snide comment that Americans knew more about the Osmonds than Orestes. The Osmonds? What was the date of the magazine? Ah, 1990.
He recalled seeing some reference books in the Keys’ home. Including one on mythology. Well, the sheriff had given Drayco a key to Oakley and Nanette’s house, hadn’t he? Drayco looked at the key now, sparkling in the light from the fire as he rolled it around in his hand. Puny, compared to the Opera House key.
He didn’t doubt Sailor and his deputies were meticulous in their search, but the sheriff was thinking horses, not zebras. Drayco briefly toyed with the idea of calling Sailor first, but the overworked man was swamped. He could do this alone.
A peek out the window revealed the rain was slacking up. The marshmallows for the sheriff would have to wait.
Chapter 43
The house looked the same as when Drayco said goodbye to Nanette a week ago, except for a fine coating of dust lying on the furniture like a shroud. The place was beginning to smell abandoned, save for the dust mites and mold. Tidy Nanette would be horrified at this lapse in housekeeping.
From the sheriff’s report, he approximated the location where Nanette’s body was found and started his search there, in the kitchen. With no evidence of forced entry, Drayco agreed with the sheriff that Nanette let her killer inside. Someone she knew.
A gallery of framed photographs hung on a wall, including beatific wedding pictures of Oakley and Nanette. The youthful Oakley exhibited darker hair and fewer crow’s feet than the older version lying on the Opera House floor. But Oakley’s young eyes in the photo, clear and penetrating instead of cloudy with incipient cataracts, were eyes that now looked familiar on someone else.
He scanned the books on the shelves until he pulled out the one on mythology, with a citation for “Orestes” that Oakley highlighted in yellow. Drayco knew the play by Euripides but wanted to verify the plot. And there it was. Orestes killed his mother, Clytemnestra, in order to avenge the murder of his father.
Another book, on European folklore, caught his eye. Out of curiosity, Drayco leafed through the index and jumped to the section on owls, again highlighted in yellow. The article referenced the owl’s symbolism throughout Polish history as an evil omen. Oakley wanted to make certain the message of his owl mask wouldn’t be lost on the intended recipient, the “devil.”
Furniture Oakley crafted was scattered around the house. But the granddaddy of all was the long console table, Nanette’s favorite among Oakley’s creations. This was the piece someone offered Oakley a thousand dollars for, but he wouldn’t sell.
The smooth t
op resting on the legs was thick, for a table without drawers. The carvings were the most elaborate on any of Oakley’s works, with passion vines like those in Oakley’s outdoor shrine circling the legs. Two doves flew across the front panel, beaks pointing toward the central figure of the piece, a heart in the shape of Oakley’s rock.
Drayco knelt to take a better look and ran his hand underneath the tabletop at the point behind the heart. Feeling a rough section, he ducked his head under the table. Seeing an area with slight seams, he tugged at it and slid open a small hidden drawer.
He retrieved an envelope wadded inside, with the familiar sideways lettering. It read, “To be opened upon my death.” But it was opened already, steamed, not slit. He took a whiff of it, smelling traces of a sweet perfume, a woman’s scent, but not like Darcie’s jasmine. Inside the envelope was a one-page handwritten testament.
He read it several times. Had Nanette found it before or after Oakley’s murder? And why didn’t she tell Drayco when he was at her house? The murderer obviously hadn’t discovered it. But if Nanette confronted the murderer over the contents, she sealed her fate.
Drayco felt a pang of intense loss. The narrative in Oakley’s testament wasn’t a surprise. But it touched upon so many tragedies, was so symbolic of the consequences of war—and the jealousy, greed, and hatred upon which war was based—it was hard to separate these two deaths from the many.
A disputable and rambling testament of a dead man, a burned letter fragment, the dates on an immigration record, a bloody “G” carved into a victim’s chest, the b-b carving in a tree—he could find more tangible evidence in a supermarket tabloid. Darkness, distance, and the passing of time were what the killer counted on, and so far the formula was working well.
The only thing not counted on was the arrival of Drayco himself, new owner of a strategic Opera House—the wild card.