[Scott Drayco 01.0] Played to Death

by BV Lawson

  With a carefree wave of her hand, she left him sitting alone, lost in his thoughts. A few minutes later his cell phone rang, and he was surprised to hear Darcie. How had she gotten his number? “I almost forgot, darling. Meet me tomorrow evening at six at Cypress Manor. I won’t take no for an answer.” Then she hung up.

  Chapter 31

  Still mulling over Darcie’s phone call, Drayco collided with someone outside the Historical Society’s entrance. Randolph Squier pushed past him without saying a word and hurried around the corner street. Drayco opened the door to the Historical Society half-expecting to trip over more of Grace Waterworth’s books, but the hardcover mountains were nowhere in sight. The thick, musty smell was gone, and even Andrew Jackson seemed to be breathing easier.

  Drayco was impressed. “You must be a conjurer, my friend, because there’s no way you cataloged all those books in such a short time.”

  Reece snapped his fingers. “I did that three times, and voilà, they vanished.”

  “Allow me to translate. You dumped them somewhere else.”

  “The library,” Reece crowed.

  “Why am I not surprised. Libraries are the dumping ground for every unwanted moldy book.”

  Reece replied defensively, “I think the library staff, all one and a half of them, were grateful. Seeing as how the council slashed their budget. Old Squier led the way on that one. He’s rich enough to afford all the books he wants.”

  “You didn’t keep any of them?”

  Reece sniffed. “The sheriff snagged that garden poison book. But there were a couple of other gems for our archives.”

  “Speaking of the pompous councilman, is that why he was here? To add to your archives on a weekend when you’re not ordinarily open?”

  Reece took his time replying. “We’re both collectors. We keep each other informed of interesting pieces we come across. Animals desperate for fodder need access to all available fields. Even toxic ones.”

  Was that really all it was? Drayco didn’t like where a Reece-plus-Squiers collaboration might take him. Down into a dank crypt of conspiracy built on top of the duo’s shared hatred of Oakley Keys. Was there room in that crypt for Darcie and Nanette, too?

  Reece motioned for Drayco to follow him into a back room filled with vertical files. Pointing to a large black metal cabinet, he said, “Now for why I called you here. See that?”

  The cabinet looked like a standard office-supply item. The most unusual thing about it was the compact hygrothermograph sitting on top. It showed the humidity was forty-seven percent, which should make Reece—and the archive materials—happy.

  Drayco looked askance at Reece. “It’s a nice cabinet.”

  “I’ve been burgled.”

  “You mean someone broke in and stole something?”

  “Broke in, but I can’t say anything was stolen.”

  “Back up a minute. What made you think someone broke in, to begin with?”

  “Whoever it was bumped into the table by the back door where I keep figurines. When I came in this morning, they weren’t in their usual places. Like someone knocked them over and tried to put them back.”

  It was hard not to feel skeptical. But nothing was taken from Drayco’s room, either.

  Reece continued, “Also, file cabinet drawers weren’t closed all the way. I always shut them tight to keep dust and moisture out.”

  “Were there signs of forced entry? Footprints?”

  “No and no. I admit this fellow must be clever. With all the wet weather, there should be some dirt tracked in. Of course, it could be a woman, since they’re neater creatures. But I swear there was someone here.”

  “Are you the only one with a key?”

  Reece started to answer, then stopped himself. “The only living person. Oakley had a key he never gave back.”

  Squier had done the same thing with the key to the Opera House. “Whoever murdered Oakley could have stolen his key and waltzed right in, Reece.”

  Reece wrinkled his forehead in alarm. “I planned on having the locks changed, but I kept putting it off.”

  “You say certain file cabinet drawers weren’t closed completely. Which ones?”

  “That’s what I wanted you to see. Only cabinets containing Opera House memorabilia.”

  Drayco peered at the labels on the front of the cabinet in the corner and read Cape Unity Opera House in large black letters on the inserts. “How can you tell nothing was taken?”

  “I’m a meticulous record keeper. I have indices for each drawer.” Reece peered at Drayco out of the corner of his eye. “You’re the one person who would be interested. Did you sneak in?”

  Drayco shot him a withering look. It wasn’t out of the question this was a ruse on Reece’s part to throw Drayco off. Reece was one of the suspects who didn’t have an alibi but plenty of motive for Oakley’s murder. Yet visualizing Reece Wable as a cold-blooded murderer was like imagining the face of the puppet Charlie McCarthy—with whom Reece shared more than a passing resemblance—as a serial killer.

  “You didn’t contact the sheriff’s office?”

  “Since this is your bailiwick, both in profession and ownership, you were the logical person.”

  “I could wrangle some fingerprinting gear.”

  “Too much trouble. Besides, I have something more remarkable to tell you.”

  They moved into Reece’s newly uncluttered office, where Reece made a big production out of being able to put his feet on his desk again. “You remember that stolen clock? After Oakley’s murder, I had to know the truth. To absolve Oakley if he didn’t do it and forgive him if he did. I uncovered an auction house that listed a similar clock sold at the same time. As it turns out, my father and the owner of that auction house were old friends. I thought you might be interested to know who sold the clock.”

  Reece tipped his chair back, pausing for effect. “It was Oakley Keys. He didn’t bother to use an alias. He said he might have another piece to sell, even more valuable. Sounds like he planned more thefts.”

  Drayco pondered that for a moment. More thefts. Scrimshaw, perhaps? On an impulse, he reached over to turn on the miniature carousel on Reece’s desk and watched it go round and round in circles as it played the tune “The Windmills of Your Mind.” Like a clock whose hands are sweeping ... keys that jingle in your pocket ... words that jangle in your head.

  “That doesn’t prove Oakley stole your clock, only that he was the seller.”

  “Oh, I’m past being angry. I mean, the man was murdered, for God’s sake. I guess we’ll never know why Oakley did it. But if you apply Occam’s Razor, it was to fund his drinking habit. You tell me, you’re the crime consultant.”

  “Do you have the name of the buyer?”

  “Unless it’s absolutely necessary, I want to keep that private. It’s a respectable woman who comes from a long line of philanthropists. She has children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and is a paragon of virtue.”

  “It doesn’t sound like she’d have any involvement in Oakley’s murder. But if there comes a time when talking to this woman might be necessary—”

  “Then I’ll be happy to tell you. I can be a cooperative citizen.”

  Andrew Jackson squawked on his perch and repeated his familiar refrain, “Oakley’s a madman, Oakley’s a madman.”

  Drayco rubbed his temple. He’d been working on a headache since he woke up from another nightmare this morning. It was amazing how rhythmic the throbbing was, like the drum beats at the beginning of Brahms’s first symphony. “One more thing about the break-in, Reece. You said only drawers with Opera House records were opened. Can you tell which folders the burglar was interested in?”

  “As I said, I’m a meticulous sort. One, and only one, folder was rifled.”

  Drayco was growing tired of Reece’s melodrama, although the headache wasn’t helping. “Which folder, Reece?”

  “The file with old drawings of the Opera House layout. They’re not the same as detailed blu
eprints, mind you.”

  “Too bad they weren’t. I would love to see some blueprints.”

  “Must be some dusty old archives that has them. Did your benefactor, Mr. Rockingham, leave any?”

  “He left little. Definitely no blueprints. The courthouse didn’t have them, either.”

  “Pity. I’ll do some digging.”

  Drayco was beginning to feel that all the “coincidences” were merely variations on a theme. Historic buildings broken into. Historical documents stolen—from Oakley, the Opera House and ... “Reece, any theories why that manuscript was stolen from the library recently? There could be a connection.”

  Reece tapped his finger against his nose and grinned. “How can you be sure I didn’t steal it? It’s a pain waiting for people to donate items to the society. Mrs. Waterworth’s moth-eaten donation, notwithstanding.”

  “Did you?”

  “The head librarian and I get along well enough. The old I-scratch-her-book, she scratches-my-book thing.”

  As usual, Drayco ignored Reece’s bad jokes. “I’m surprised the document wasn’t here in the society to begin with.”

  “I can’t keep all the best stuff for myself. Although I don’t see what anyone would want with a letter from a long-dead member of the British royalty waxing poetic about Cape Extremity. Might get fifty dollars for it on eBay.”

  “Keep me posted if you have more mysterious break-ins. And since the crime rate seems to be skyrocketing in town, you should change that lock.”

  Reece used his hands to mimic a noose that he held over Drayco’s head. “I should set a trap. I can give as good as I get when my corner of the universe is threatened.”

  Chapter 32

  Sheriff Sailor and Deputy Tyler stood next to the body positioned parallel to the coffee table. Arms and legs lay straight and close to the man’s torso as if already laid out neatly on a slab in the morgue. Blood from his head seeped into the blue and green shag carpet, turning it a rusty brown mini-forest.

  The victim’s son, Nicholas, was the sheriff’s age, although you couldn’t tell it from the unnaturally black thatch of curly hair. Sailor hadn’t seen Nicholas in several years, but he remembered him as having more wrinkles, too. But that was before the man’s divorce, and near as Sailor could recall, his ex-wife ran off with one of her twenty-one-year-old students from a class she taught at Eastern Shore Community College.

  “I called you right away when I found him,” Nicholas said. “The first thing that came to my mind was Oakley and Nanette Keys.”

  That same thought was the main reason Sailor was here. Was this a sign of the serial killer link he’d been dreading? “When did you last see your father?”

  “Yesterday. I brought him supper and visited for a bit, and then we returned home. He seemed fine at the time.”

  “You say you called as soon as you found him. When was that exactly?”

  “About forty-five minutes ago. He knew I was going to drop off a new emergency weather radio I bought him. So when I knocked on the door and got no answer, I feared the worst.”

  All three turned toward the front of the house as the sounds of a siren drew closer and then quickly shut off. The sheriff turned to Nicholas, “Did you call anyone else besides me?” Sailor himself had called for a fire and rescue ambulance, but the closest team was already tied up with a near-drowning at the park. The best estimate dispatch could give him was fifteen minutes.

  Nicholas shook his head and moved to open the door as two emergency medical technicians rushed in and surveyed the scene. “We got a call from this location and came as fast as we could,” one of them said, quickly spying the man on the floor and setting to work.

  Sailor knew they were checking for life signs out of professional duty, but it was clear to him it was way too late for that. The sheriff queried the first EMT as the other bent over the body. “You mean someone dialed 9-1-1 about this?”

  “’Bout ten minutes ago.” The EMT looked apologetic.

  “What was the nature of the 9-1-1 call?”

  “A man, obviously with trouble breathing, told us he was having chest pains radiating out to his arm and that he was dizzy. We suspected a heart attack.”

  “And the blood on his head?”

  The EMT gently lifted up the man’s head before lowering it again. Then he pointed to the corner of a coffee table. It was a dark wood, but if you looked closely, you could see traces of blood.

  Sailor said, “He hit his head on the way down.”

  “That’d be my guess.”

  The sheriff observed the obese form of the man on the floor, a known two-pack-a-day smoker, and gave Nelia a sideways look of relief. They waited for verification the man was officially deceased, then left the body in the experienced hands of the EMTs. The sheriff consoled Nicholas and promised he would share the autopsy results with him to make certain the father had died from the suspected natural causes. The M.E. was certainly earning his pay lately.

  Back in the patrol car, Nelia said, “A waste of your time to tag along. I was surprised you wanted to come in the first place.”

  Sailor ran his hands along the steering wheel. “The deceased is Darion Stanz.”

  “Stanz, as in Stanz Marts?”

  “He and his cousin own the chain.”

  “Isn’t that the same chain where your brother—”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Nelia rubbed the small pink scar on her face. “Sorry. Sometimes I speak without thinking first.”

  Sailor had relived the moment he heard the news about Zeke so many times that the edge was gone. But for a brief second, when the call came in about Stanz, the psychic nerve shot pangs through his soul. Now that it was cauterized again, Nelia’s comment washed over it more like a mild sting. “The Stanz clan was good to my family after Zeke’s death.”

  Nelia surveyed the ambulance with her forehead creased in thought. Sailor sensed she’d been thinking along the same lines as he, which was verified when she said, “Well, Stanz’s death looks straightforward. But it would almost be easier if we were dealing with a serial killer, you know? We’d have a better idea the same person killed Oakley and Nanette. One murderer and not two.”

  The death of Stanz was straightforward, all right, though people like Nicholas were understandably jumpy. Sailor hoped there wouldn’t be a spate of additional false alarms from over-imaginative relatives. Or worse, nervous new gun owners causing tragic accidents. Business at Earl Yaegle’s gun shop was brisk lately. As it was, focusing on the Keys’ investigation was stretching the limits of manpower available to his small office. In truth, he was grateful Drayco got involved, if by default. He’d never tell him that.

  The sheriff radioed the office to indicate they’d be returning sooner than first thought and pointed the car down Route 13. “Our friend Scott Drayco believes it’s one murderer, not two, but I’m not entirely sure I agree. A killer doesn’t usually go to the trouble to mutilate one corpse and then leave the other one fairly pristine. Still, we can’t pin down two separate motives. At least ones we can verify.”

  Nelia nodded. “I suppose a love affair gone awry would be a logical jump for the two-murders-one-perpetrator scenario. Although I interviewed three women who admit being linked romantically with Oakley decades ago. They all remember him fondly. That makes Darcie Squier the wild card. Why her? Or I guess I should say why him? And why so long after the other affairs ended?”

  “Darcie maintains it was platonic. That she was just bored. She talked to me as if Oakley were a trifling plaything, a temporary novelty. Hard to refute when the other person involved can’t speak for himself.”

  Sailor hadn’t enjoyed talking to the disagreeable Squier duo. He’d come away frustrated with the Squier’s convenient alibis for each other, a tactic that bordered on stonewalling. If the councilman knew his wife was involved in the murders, he was definitely the type who would think nothing about covering up her culpability to save his own reputation. On the other hand, Darcie wo
uldn’t risk being arrested as an accomplice if her husband were involved. Unless she was motivated by maintaining a stake in her husband’s fortune.

  Nelia said, “Drayco didn’t seem to take the warning note from his room seriously. But it has to be related to the Keys’ deaths in some way.”

  “Nothing he’s come across seems incriminating enough to inspire a threat. But it does appear he’s hit a nerve with someone.”

  Nelia turned to look out the window as they passed by a dirty white building with broken windows and a rusting Mexican Store sign out front. “Do you really trust him?”

  “I checked on him. He’s known to be intense, focused. He’s got good instincts. And a sharp mind, making connections between bits of information and tying them together. In one of his first private gigs after leaving the Bureau, he solved a case mired in law enforcement purgatory for a decade. Takes after his father, I suppose. Brock Drayco developed a well-regarded international reputation during his own career. But to answer your question, yeah, I’d say I trust him.”

  Nelia’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled to herself. Sailor was still getting to know his newest deputy, and he was a little worried by that smile. Tyler apparently found Drayco appealing, but the sheriff also knew Nelia prided herself on her objectivity. She once turned in a boyfriend for stealing cases of beer to sell at top dollar to minors.

  Objectivity was one of the tougher parts of the job. Sailor had lived in Cape Unity longer than Nelia, but they were both acquainted with many of its residents. Thefts, drugs, fights—those were the pebbles at the bottom of the criminal rock heap. The town certainly had its share. It was far more troubling to believe one or more of the townspeople committed a double murder. But he and his deputies had a job to do and were determined to see this case through, no matter what the consequences. The town’s sense of security depended on it.

  Chapter 33

  Monday 22 March