by BV Lawson
Lucy began to protest, but Virginia headed her off at the pass. “Mom, please? I’ve never touched a piano before.”
Despite wearing the same scowl plastered on her face like a theatrical mask, Lucy said, “Okay. But we don’t have long.”
Drayco led the way toward the Chickering piano, helping Virginia onto the piano bench. He sat next to her and showed her how to place her hands on the keys, noting how small her hands were next to his. First, he had her finger her way through a C major scale. Concentrating hard, she practiced it with her right hand several times, then her left hand, then together, the first tentative notes growing more confident.
He complimented her, “You’d get the hang of this in no time. You should take lessons.”
Virginia had the first traces of a smile blossoming on her face. “Ya think?”
Lucy stepped in, saying it was time to go. With one last skeptical look in Drayco’s direction, she trundled Virginia back to the car.
He waited until they’d driven off into the gathering darkness. “If Mrs. Harston doesn’t want me to investigate, I can’t go behind her back.”
Maida motioned him toward the kitchen and his favorite wooden armchair carved like a sailboat. “Let me work on her. Neither she nor Virginia is around men much. Except for Reece. She doesn’t know you like I do. And she’s easily spooked. Then there’s this whole freakish attack business.”
“I appreciate all that, but if you can’t convince her—”
“Convince her? I’m still not sure how I feel about this whole thing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“What Lucy didn’t say is she home-schools Virginia due to bullying from other kids. The usual name-calling and snubbing, mind you. Nothing violent.”
Maida brought him a fresh glass of tea. Drained from the bottom of the pitcher, it was more syrupy than the first. He should ask for a spoon.
“You think it was a prank gone bad?”
“We’re the third poorest county in Virginia. Poverty does strange things to young people. We’ve had some assaults, thefts. One eleven-year-old boy brought a hundred rounds of ammunition with him to school.”
“Yet Lucy doesn’t think another child was behind this.”
“Doesn’t want to imagine it’s another child, you mean.”
Drayco could understand that. Especially after his own youthful encounters with bullying. “Why hasn’t Lucy gotten prosthetics for Virginia?”
“She did, from the Shriners years ago. But Virginia didn’t like wearing them and dealing with the crutches. Plus, they have to be replaced every one to two years as a child grows, and for some reason, Virginia balked at the whole idea.”
“They have more high-tech models now. Perhaps she’d like those better?”
“Doubt the Shriners would fork over that much money. But I’m hoping to convince Virginia to try again.”
Maida took a sip from her own glass of tea. “Not to change the subject, but you haven’t said a word about the Opera House.”
Still a sore point, his Opera House. He was grateful the money from his last foray into Cape Unity would pay for restoring his unwanted legacy. But was he doing the right thing? He could still try and sell it—if potential buyers didn’t mind the thought of a murder victim found on stage. If he were to poll his colleagues, it would probably shake out forty-five percent for “Restore it, sell it, and make more money” versus fifty-five percent for “You’re insane.”
“I take it the Cape Unity natives are getting restless wondering when it will open?”
“They’re understanding. It was a sleeping beauty for decades after all. Even after the handsome prince came along, there’s bound to be a few kinks.”
“The foundation we created is looking healthy. Next up, a board of trustees. Want to be a charter member?”
“Hmm. Sounds interesting.” She frowned. “Lots of meetings?”
“I promise coffee and donuts. That’s all the budget will allow.”
Maida grinned, “Why don’t you ask Darcie Squier? I’m sure she would jump at the chance to work with you.”
He had to admit he’d been having thoughts of Darcie lately, even as he avoided her calls. Four months without one word and now all of sudden, a call every day. It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact her husband was recently indicted on embezzlement charges, could it?
Maida continued, “If Darcie’s estranged money-bags husband isn’t interested, there are other local philanthropists. Winthrop Gatewood and his wife give to a lot of charities.”
Drayco made a mental note of the Gatewood name while considering Maida’s use of the word “estranged” regarding Darcie’s husband. Darcie hadn’t mentioned that part on the phone. Suddenly her calls made more sense. And were a lot more disturbing. He’d deal with that later.
“Maida, what’s your honest opinion on what happened in the park? Attempted homicide, bullying, or unfortunate accident?”
She hesitated. “My heart says I should listen to Lucy. Can’t think of a reason for anyone to hurt either of them. Even bullies. Virginia’s father, Cole, has been dead for ten years and they have little other family. They’re as poor as the field mice in my church and largely keep to themselves.”
“Had either Harston visited the District recently? Or used any D.C. social services like an agency or a health clinic?”
She tilted her head to look up at him. “I do believe you’re taking this seriously. And the answer to both questions is no.”
He drained the last drop of tea syrup, which sent him hurrying to the sink in search of a water chaser. “I have to be honest with you. I’m working a case in D.C., and there may be a connection with Virginia. Or the recent murder of Arnold Sterling. Or not. I don’t want you to think I’m here under false pretenses.”
“At this point, we’ll take what we can get.” She grabbed the glass from him and filled it up with water, with a smile. “Cape Unity better be on its best behavior. Last time you were here, three people died. Trouble follows you like a tiger shark after blue crab.”
“Are you calling me crabby, Maida?” He managed a smile. But her words, combined with those of the sheriff earlier, dredged up images he didn’t want lingering. Dark images, the kind that seep into your dreams when you’re not even aware of it.
Maida brought out a plate of still-warm ginger cookies. “I wasn’t being critical, mind you. It’s in your official job description to attract trouble, as an investigator.”
She grabbed one of the cookies herself and nibbled off the edge like a food taster. “I can help you a bit with that investigating. Arnold Sterling’s wife is a good friend of the Harstons.”
Drayco broke one of the cookies in half, trying to decide if those were bits of real crystallized ginger. But Maida’s words stopped him in mid-analysis. “Did Arnold Sterling himself have close ties to Lucy and Virginia?”
“Truth be told, they stayed as far from him as possible. He was trouble with a neon flashing T.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Don’t want to pass along unfounded gossip. Sheriff Sailor can read you verbatim from Arnold’s encyclopedic criminal file.”
Things were looking more promising than when he left the District. A good thing, too, considering the words his client, Matthew Laessig, said over the phone before Drayco left. “Don’t forget you’re working for me. And I’m not paying for some glorified beach vacation. Find who killed my brother, Drayco. I don’t want Piña Coladas showing up on the bill.”
He uttered those words like the coddled, Rolex-wearing, name-on-his-parking-space executive that he was. An executive talking down to a cubicle-caged neophyte employee, which Drayco wasn’t. The check hanging over Drayco’s head did matter, but he never forgot who he really worked for—not the arrogant Matthew, but Marcus, the murdered brother. The innocent.
Tuesday 7 July
After his best night’s sleep in a while and hoping to get an early start, Drayco wolfed down Maida’s li
nebacker-worthy breakfast and headed downtown as soon as the government buildings opened. Sheriff Sailor’s office still had the mounted flounder with the piranha-like teeth, a relic from the building’s former life as a fish processing plant. But the office also sported a new L-shaped desk as long as Drayco was tall. Much more sheriff-like than Sailor’s old warehouse castoff.
Drayco ran his finger along the smooth edge. Solid wood with hints of red. Cherry, or possibly bloodwood. That would be appropriate. “What’d you do, rob a bank? You said the town council would make Abe Lincoln wince, the way they pinch pennies.”
“Not wince. Scream. The council has collective heart failure every time I mention the word ‘raise.’ This desk is courtesy of my lovely wife who found it at a liquidation sale. Said the other one was too prehistoric. More suitable for someone named Ogg.”
Drayco pointed to the shiny new nameplate on the shiny new desk. Matched the occupant’s shiny bald head. “Sheriff Ernest Sailor. What happened to the middle Hemingway part?”
“Too long. They charge per letter.” The sheriff tipped back in his not-so-new chair that squeaked and set off wavy rectangles of pewter and jute colors in Drayco’s brain. Not a pleasant effect.
“‘Sheriff’ sounds so formal. I should start calling you Ernie.”
“You do, and I’ll start calling you Doc, Mr. Ph.D.”
Drayco recoiled with mock horror. “Sheriff, it is.”
Sailor reached over to grab a cup of coffee and guzzled the last of it. “I gather you’re here to do some of that so-called consulting of yours.”
Drayco gravitated toward a familiar chair in the back of the office, with its swiveling bucket seat and ample room for his extra-long legs. Looking at Sailor’s desk, he pointed to the book lying on the side. “Crime and Punishment? Isn’t that a little predictable?”
“I’ll have you know Hemingway counted Dostoyevsky one of his primary influences.”
“Are you like Detective Porfiry? Using a mathematical proof to determine a suspect’s guilt?”
“If calculus helped me solve crimes, I’d have signed up long ago. Barely made it through algebra.”
Drayco had one memorable mid-term from high school trig where he got an “F” because a student he tutored copied Drayco’s answers. He had a hard time partnering with anyone after that. He exhaled a long, deep breath. “All right, let’s start with basic math and problem number one, Virginia Harston.”
“Lucy’s known to be a worrywart when it comes to her daughter. And there were an estimated four thousand people. More than the entire population of Cape Unity massed into a tight space. Other than a few fights and a couple of thefts, it was a peaceful bunch.”
“And the driver of the car who almost hit her?”
“A local dentist. He was freaked by it all. Very apologetic. And no ties to Virginia.”
“Well then, Sheriff Ernest, any threats against Lucy or Virginia? Or the deceased father, Cole?”
“Nothing reported. Look, we had tourists and people from all up and down the shore. So maybe it was just horseplay that got out of hand. Or some goddamn dunderhead with a couple of beers too many.”
“Any witnesses?”
“One of my deputies at the picnic talked to the three people who came to Virginia’s aid. All had different impressions—one said he didn’t think she was pushed. One said he did. The third wasn’t sure. They all agreed they didn’t see anyone actually do it.”
Drayco smiled. “Sounds like Cape Unity’s workhorse sheriff had the day off.”
“We rotate on holidays. I took volunteers.” The sheriff peered out the door, scanning the hallway. “Deputy Tyler was one of the lucky ones who got overtime pay. She was asking about you.”
Since his last visit to town, Drayco had entertained himself with reflections on the various Cape Unitarians, as he called them. Not least among them was Deputy Nelia Tyler, the newest, and one of the most dedicated members of the department.
“Nice to hear your staff isn’t ready to tar and feather me and send me out of town in a boxcar. If Cape Unity still had a railroad that is.”
A woman in a brown uniform with her blond hair pulled back in a French braid poked her head through the door. “Did you know the Eastern Shore Railroad has the sole remaining rail ferry in the country? Across the Chesapeake between Cape Charles and Norfolk. You’re probably thinking of the last passenger train that left the Eastern Shore in 1958. A sad day if you ask me.”
Sailor waved her in. “We were just discussing you, Tyler.”
“So I heard. Not that I make a habit of eavesdropping on my boss. But your door was open ...” She smiled at Drayco. “You here in town on business or pleasure?”
“I’ve been asked to look into the Virginia Harston incident at the park.”
Her eyebrows rose in tandem. “It seemed like a fairly cut-and-dried accident.”
“I agree it’ll be difficult to prove otherwise. Unless there’s another attack.”
Sailor piped up, “You haven’t heard of another one, have you?”
“Not real or rumored.”
“Rumored? You talked to other townsfolk about this?” Sailor’s facial muscles had a way of knitting themselves into expressions Drayco read like tea leaves. He wasn’t overjoyed.
“Just Maida.”
The corners of Sailor’s mouth inched up. “Ah. Well, I predict this will blow over in a week.”
Drayco drummed his fingers on the armrest. “I haven’t mentioned this yet to Maida ... You think the mother, Lucy, was behind this?”
Sailor said, “That Munchausen thing?”
“With the parent inducing symptoms of illness in the child to get sympathy, yeah. This would be the first case of wheelchair pushing I’ve heard of. It’s usually poisoning.”
“Kinda late for that, wouldn’t you say? That syndrome happens when the kid’s younger.”
“Exactly why it’s not at the top of my motive list.” Drayco turned to Nelia. “Problem number two, and the real reason I’m in town, is Arnold Sterling’s murder. It may be tied to a case I’m working in D.C.”
She replied, “Now that’s more intriguing. Nothing like we’ve had here before.”
Sailor was tilted at an angle, and the ceiling lights shining through a crystal fish-shaped mobile created a prism on his balding head. “There are similarities to your D.C. cases, Drayco. The fact he was murdered in his wheelchair, the garroting. And he was alone when he died.”
“You said the wire used to strangle him was found near the body. That wasn’t the case in the District. I don’t suppose you have that wire handy?”
Sailor reached into an evidence box behind his desk, pulled out a see-through plastic bag, and handed it over. Drayco held it up to the light. He wasn’t a technician but had seen plenty of this type before. “That’s piano wire. Several companies manufacture it—Maples and NewOctave in the U.S., Roeslau in Germany, others in Canada, Japan, and China. It’s also used in jewelry and hobbies. You can buy it anywhere. But if it’s high-grade, it’s likely from a piano supply company.”
The sheriff smiled. “I should have placed a bet with Tyler here as to how many seconds it would take you to make that call. Yeah, it’s piano wire. Haven’t been able to trace its origin. Damned things don’t have serial numbers or ballistics.”
“Ah, that word—serial.”
“I’m surprised your old buddies at the Bureau haven’t taken over your case. Or have they?”
“Not yet. I can draw you the same profile they’d come up with. The only things tying the four D.C. victims together are a social services agency they used and a clinic where they got flu shots. Both investigated inside and out.”
Drayco fingered the bag of piano wire in his lap. The District investigation was shooting blanks. In every other way, except for the mode of death, the victims had absolutely nothing in common. Two were wheelchair-bound due to accidents—one car, one diving—the third had cancer. The fourth, the client’s brother, was a Gulf Wa
r veteran and double amputee studying to be a counselor to help other vets with PTSD.
Sailor picked up a stack of notes. “The police up your way said none of the victims had rap sheets. Arnold Sterling’s got one a mile long. Allegedly hadn’t been to D.C. in years. And Arnold and his wife Beth Sterling didn’t employ an aide service. Beth’s a Certified Professional Midwife, so they didn’t need one.”
Drayco drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair again but stopped when Sailor stared at him. “Was anything stolen from the Sterlings, Sheriff? Money and other items were taken from the crime scenes in D.C.”
“According to Sterling’s wife, nada.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“There is one thing.” Sailor got up to pour coffee that smelled like burned popcorn into cups and handed one, black, to Drayco and another with cream to Tyler. “Arnold Sterling had one of those cars equipped with hand brakes. A few days before Sterling died, some young punk, only fifteen, stole his car and totaled it outside of town. We’ve talked with him extensively. Don’t think he had anything to do with the murder. Just ironic, I guess.”
“Sterling could still drive?”
“Barely. But he was stubborn that way.”
“Any motives for Arnold’s death?”
Nelia replied, “Plenty. Sterling was an inveterate gambler who played in nasty circles. Often in debt, frequently in fights.”
“Was that why he was in a wheelchair? Payback for a gambling debt gone wrong?”
“That was due to diabetes. He was too fond of Twinkies and Milky Ways if you get my drift. Or maybe it was Lucy Harston’s pastries that did him in—I often saw Sterling wheeling himself into the bake shop that sells her wares.”
Drayco took a sip of the coffee. Not as sludgy as usual. “On the surface, it doesn’t sound like Arnold’s death and the D.C. murders are connected. It’s not as if there’s a wealth of wheelchair patients on the Eastern Shore to target. It wouldn’t make sense for the killer to head this way. Unless ...”
Sailor looked at him, with a slight smile. “You’re thinking the killer knew you were investigating the murder of your client’s brother. And then discovered your ties to Cape Unity?”