Requiem for Innocence

by BV Lawson

  Drayco exhaled through pursed lips. “Shades of last time I was here.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. That scenario is highly unlikely. I hope you’re not taking my joke on the phone seriously. You are not cursed. If anything, it’s a copycat. Sterling was murdered two weeks after news of the D.C. murders leaked out in the papers. It mentioned the wire garroting and a possible serial killer.”

  Drayco stared at the oil slick forming on the black coffee in his cup. “The detectives working the case were thrilled with that leak. One of them, Ralph O’Dowd, blamed me for it. He and I have issues that go way back.”

  “I’d have some issues, too, with whoever sprang that leak. You’re more apt to go the other way—withholding info.”

  Drayco still felt a little bad about that. But complicated cases sometimes meant making complicated decisions. Murder didn’t come with a rule book. He gave up on the coffee and set the cup on the floor. “Is the victim’s wife a suspect?”

  “Arnold was enough of a bastard for her to want to off the guy.”

  “Any alibi?”

  “Of a sort. She was allegedly on her way back from visiting the Harstons, but the timeline fits. Some people call her Saint Beth because she’s delivered so many local children. Sometimes pro bono. We don’t have a lot of doctors around here. For some patients, she’s all they’ve got.”

  “Did she deliver Virginia, too?”

  “One of hundreds through the years.” The sheriff stopped when Drayco held up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. You hate coincidences. Not that I’m a fan of the damned things, myself.”

  Drayco tossed the plastic bag with the piano wire back onto the desk. “I’d like to meet this Saint Beth of yours.”

  “Be my guest. She’ll be a challenge for you—totally cooperative. I doubt you’ll get anything useful.”

  Tyler moved toward the door, but stopped to ask, “How long are you going to be in town, Drayco?”

  “Depends on what I find.”

  “So you might be here a while. Lucky, lucky us.” Her smile was one of those that lights up an entire face, a genuine smile with perfect white teeth which, unlike Darcie’s, didn’t hint of veneers. He smiled back. He’d forgotten how at home she made him feel with that smile.

  Sailor, who’d been sitting still in his chair, shot up and joined Nelia at the door, using his arms to indicate the exit. “Time’s up, Doc. Wouldn’t want you to wear out your welcome.”

  Sailor waited by the door, watching as if to make sure Deputy Tyler went one way and Drayco headed in another. Sailor’s expression was on the neutral side, but Drayco didn’t miss the hint of disapproval before the sheriff walked back into his office and shut the door.

  4

  The Arts and Crafts bungalow on the south side of town was goldfinch-yellow as if to cheerily dismiss the fact it wasn’t anywhere near a water view like those on “Snob Hill.” The cracks in the squat columns and window casings did little to further those aspirations. Still, the Arrowwood shrubs were trimmed and the Paspalum grass recently mowed—maybe too well, the cloudless mid-afternoon sun blazing down on exposed brown patches.

  The woman who welcomed Drayco inside had naturally blond hair streaked with dark highlights. Thanks to the sheriff’s background info, Drayco knew she was in her mid-forties. He didn’t smell cigarette smoke, so the wrinkles lining her face hinted at the way life had turned against her. Instead of nurse whites or blue scrubs, she wore gray linen slacks and an equally gray scooped-neck blouse, looking like a walking foggy day.

  Beth Sterling guided him to the office area of the house which was small and neat. OCD neat. He caught a glimpse of an examining room to his left. Instead of the pastels you’d expect with a midwife, it was off-white. No baby photos or patient-soothing pictures of flowers or landscapes. Nor a stork anywhere in sight.

  “Thanks for letting me take some of your time,” he said, taking a seat next to her desk. “I’m not keeping you from patients, am I?”

  She adjusted the knotted silver headband on her hair. “Not right now. But my schedule is unpredictable.”

  The appointment calendar in front of her held large sections of empty spaces. A list of baby names and birthdates tacked to the wall, divided by year, showed decreasing numbers, past to present. “I realize Sheriff Sailor talked with you. I just have a few questions of my own regarding your husband’s death.”

  Beth’s expression didn’t waver, but she stopped fiddling with the headband and picked up a squeeze toy shaped like a spider’s web from the desk. “That’s all right, Mr. Drayco, I’m happy to help.”

  “I understand you were the one who found his body?”

  She gripped the webbed squeeze toy tighter. “And I wish to God I’d never seen him like that.”

  “You also stated you don’t know a motive for his murder?”

  She shook her head. “That’s what I told the sheriff.”

  He noted her choice of words. “I’m not a cop, and I can’t arrest anyone. Nor am I legally bound to disclose what you tell me in confidence. So let me rephrase the question—who hated your husband enough to kill him?”

  Beth bit her lip. “I suppose some folks would name Ferguson Farland due to bad blood between him and my husband, but that’s ancient history. Look, Mr. Drayco, my husband was no saint. A lot of bad habits, the worst being gambling. Ran with a rough crowd.”

  She stopped, hesitating. “There was one man in particular. I probably shouldn’t mention it. He’s ... he’s not someone you should cross.”

  “And your husband crossed him at some point?”

  “Not too long ago. His name is Caleb Quintier.” She looked around as if afraid the man was listening in on their conversation.

  “Did he threaten Arnold?”

  She gave a brief laugh. “Who hasn’t Caleb Quintier threatened? But, no ... well, not recently.”

  Drayco had read through Sailor’s report on the Sterling case. No mentions of a Caleb Quintier. Why had Beth left this out? He made a mental note to pursue that a bit later, more interested in the real reason he’d come. “Mrs. Sterling, had your husband traveled to D.C.? Or have friends or family there?”

  “He made a visit several years ago. None since he had to have a wheelchair. And neither of us has family there. My husband didn’t like cities. Said they made him claustrophobic.”

  “Are you aware of the murders in D.C. with similarities to your husband’s case?”

  She nodded. “Had a call from a Detective Ralph O’Dowd, I think his name was. Guess they didn’t find any connections. Never heard back.”

  So it was Detective O’Dowd who’d called. The one who’d accused Drayco of being the “fucking leak” to the newspapers.

  Beth continued, “That detective showed zero interest in pursuing this. With my husband’s background, people think he got what was coming. We all make mistakes, do things we regret. But my husband didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  A timer buzzed in the back of the house, and Beth excused herself for a moment. Drayco took the opportunity to roam the office and peer inside the examining room. Bare-bones basic everywhere. No magazines, no cushy padded chairs. The equipment looked sterile but well-used. Drayco hazarded a guess most of it was as old as Beth’s practice.

  Beth returned, with an apology. “That was rosemary bread for supper. A recipe I got from Lucy Harston. She has a catering business and is quite the cook.”

  “Are you close to the Harstons?”

  Beth smiled widely for the first time, her cheeks dimpling. “Lucy is an amazingly strong woman. And Virginia, well, if you’ve met her, you know what she’s like. Very bright.”

  “How long have you been a midwife?”

  “Twenty years now.”

  “Did you deliver Virginia?”

  “Yes, and I’ve kept watch on her since. I help her and Lucy out whenever they need a little health advice pro bono. It’s the least I can do.”

  “What do you think of the incident over the Fourt
h?”

  “Scared me to death. Lucy didn’t want her to go in the first place. But Virginia is awfully persuasive with those brown puppy dog eyes.”

  “You think she was intentionally targeted?”

  Beth’s smile wavered for a fraction of a second. “Anyone who’d want to do that to a little girl like Virginia should be boiled in oil.”

  The sheriff was right about Beth being cooperative. To a point. “Virginia’s mother, Lucy—is it possible she’s tired of taking care of her daughter? Wants an easy way out?”

  Beth’s red-faced indignation was so intense that he expected her to throw him out. But she seemed to consider his question as she settled back down. “I can see how someone who doesn’t know Lucy might think that.”

  “Going back to your husband’s death, Mrs. Sterling. Anything out of the ordinary happen beforehand? Even if you don’t think it’s connected.”

  To her credit, she concentrated as hard as she had on his other questions. As he waited for her reply, he knew what had been bothering him. It wasn’t just Beth’s hazel eyes clouded like a stagnant pond where the life was draining away. Whenever she mentioned Arnold Sterling, it was always “my husband” or “he,” never his first name. No pet names, not Arnie or anything close.

  Beth turned those clouded hazel eyes up at him as if searching for what he wanted her to say. “I don’t recall any strangers, Mr. Drayco. The only odd thing was the fire.”

  “Fire? The sheriff didn’t mention a fire.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell him. My husband was asleep in bed while I was on the couch two days before he was murdered.”

  She paused, blushing, aware of how that sounded. “My husband may have been in a wheelchair, but he wasn’t a gentle sleeper. At any rate, I smelled smoke and traced it to the kitchen. I keep a fire extinguisher handy and put out the flames before it went too far.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Started in the trash bin. Guess I put something hot down there and didn’t realize.”

  “It would be hard to set off a delayed burn like that. Unless you threw in some rags soaked in linseed or tung oil and solvent. Can you show me where you keep this trash bin?”

  She led him to the kitchen, where the freshly baked loaf of rosemary bread cooled on the counter with its golden crust. The trash container lurked under the sink behind cabinet drawers. But the damage was easy to see, with large patches of melted plastic and dark singed markings. She kept the container—why? Too expensive to buy another one? Most people would have tossed it. He fought the sudden urge to go out and get her a new one. Maybe buy her a seascape painting or two for her waiting room.

  “Is this back door locked at night, Mrs. Sterling?”

  “I make my rounds every night before bed. That’s one of the things I check.”

  He moved to the window in a corner, a typical double-hung style, and examined the latch. “Do you always leave this window unlocked?”

  “It’s unlocked?” She hurried to his side. “I always assumed those were locked. It never occurred to me to make sure. So someone broke in and set that fire?”

  “Just speculation, without proof.”

  “You think they were trying to burn my husband. And when it didn’t work, they strangled him instead, don’t you?”

  “If the fire was intentional, the target could have been you or your husband. Or both.”

  Beth reached to lock the window, and her hands were shaking. Drayco put a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t I help you check that the others are locked?”

  “Thanks for your offer, Mr. Drayco. I need to do this myself. And get in the habit of adding it to my nightly routine.”

  Drayco left her to her task and let himself out, with the passing idea he should stop by the Opera House. Or at least check into the two names Beth mentioned, Caleb Quintier and Ferguson Farland. But the case paperwork he’d brought with him would take all afternoon to catch up on. And Maida did mention pecan scallops and rhubarb pie. And he wasn’t itching to get his hands on that Chickering piano. Nope, not at all.

  As he headed toward his car, he passed a young woman who wasn’t much over eighteen, her swollen belly peeking out from under a tank top stretched to its limit. She smiled shyly at him before hurrying on inside. He didn’t see a ring on her finger, nor was there a parent or boyfriend to hold her hand. Saint Beth would have to do once again.

  5

  Barry Farland looked at the man slumped over the work bench in the dim light. When the man caught Barry’s stare, he straightened up and turned his face away. A lot of people couldn’t handle looking at that face, but Barry was used to it. Guess his father was just as used to people calling him “Freaky” instead of Ferguson. And having them look the other way in horror or fear or whatever.

  Except for Ginnie. She wasn’t afraid of his father and didn’t care what he looked like. Ginnie the Gem, Barry called her. Or maybe he should call her Ginnie the Genie—for how she was able to convince her mother to let her visit Barry and his dad. Barry smiled to himself. Ginnie the Genie. He liked that.

  A bell rang in the front of the house, and Barry left to greet the customer and take down all the deets. He carried the new “patient” back to his father’s work area. “Looks like another Black Forest cuckoo clock, Dad. That makes five of these fucking things this year.”

  His father gave a brief glance at the clock and returned to the watch in front of him. “Knock-off Black Forest cuckoo clock, you mean. Battery-operated quartz. Not certified VDS. The owner might as well buy a new one for what it’ll cost me to fix it.”

  “Really?” Barry held up the clock to the light. “It does look kinda cheap. Make that ‘cheep,’” and Barry made a chirping sound. He hoped to get a rise out of his father, but nada.

  That’s the way it was lately. Barry tried to remember when this latest black mood started, and he thought it was after Arnold Sterling’s death. Barry was pretty sure he knew why. He just didn’t want to obsess about it. Some things were better left dead.

  “You going to see Virginia today?” His father surprised him by asking.

  “Don’t know. Maybe.”

  “How’s she doing? After that Fourth thing.”

  “Fine. She’s fine. At least she says she is.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “She’s been quieter lately. Normally, you can’t get in a word without duct-taping her mouth shut.” Barry eased the clock onto a shelf. It might be a cheap knock-off, but that floozy of a clock would put groceries on the table. Chicken, maybe? Barry chuckled to himself, but then he had an image of Ginnie flying in front of that car. That wiped the smile off his face.

  “You don’t think anyone tried to bump her off, do you, Dad?”

  The other man cut off a small piece of wire from a spool and used it to secure the mainspring. “We fell hard out of Eden due to our wicked ways. Any of us is capable of evil. More than we know. The darkness can hide, change its shape, waiting for an opportunity before it strikes. People snap every day. Doesn’t take much.”

  That was heavy, for his father. Barry tried to lighten the mood, sorry he’d brought up the subject. “Ginnie’s a pint-sized saint. No one’s that wicked.”

  “The wicked are drawn to saints, my boy. Because they show them up for what they really are.” A quick snip and the wire was strung tightly around the mainspring. His father didn’t look up as he added, “Sometimes I fear for that girl.”

  Barry felt a sudden cold chill, despite the lack of air conditioning. Then he laughed. Laughed hard. His father was playing with him. Yeah, that must be it. Either that or Barry was catching the flu or some other thing that would keep him from work. They couldn’t afford that.

  He put his hand down on the shelf behind him and knocked over a bottle. The lid wasn’t shut tight, and liquid seeped out of the top. Barry read the label—oh great, it was his father’s timepiece cleaning recipe. Soon, a fruity ammonia odor permeated the room from the acetone and ammonia mixt
ure. Barry ran over to grab a rag to wipe up the spill.

  His eyes watered, and he couldn’t stop coughing. With a sharp tug on his sleeve, his father pulled him out of the room into the hallway. “Give it a half hour or so. It’ll be cleared up by then. You don’t wanna be breathing that shit.”

  “How do you take it? God, that’s awful.” Barry tried not to gag.

  “I wear a mask when I’m using that cleaner, that’s how.”

  A half hour. That was time his father wouldn’t be able to work on projects. And Barry had to leave for his afternoon job soon. Barry peeked through the door at the abandoned work bench. The clock would still be there, waiting. The tools, the magnifier, the spool of wire. Waiting for someone to use them, fix them. Too bad people couldn’t be fixed as easily as that.

  Wednesday 8 July

  The inside of Limping Mike’s Bait Shop was a wonder to behold. A multi-tiered station in the middle held rib lizards and salty rat tails, next to jerk minnows and crappie rigs. A rack of casting rods, spinning rods, and interline rods stood near the door, and shelves lined the walls filled with reels. Amid the high-tech trappings, some old-fashioned tin cans made Drayco smile.

  He walked over to study the chilled holding pens with the live crawdads, bait fish, and his favorite, the leeches, located uncomfortably close to the refrigerators with sandwiches and sodas. He reached in one refrigerator to capture his prize, two of the last remaining bottles of Manhattan Special, the main reason he got up this morning at the crack of dawn.

  The other reason was the fact he lost a bit of investigating time with an impromptu piano recital for Maida last night at the Lazy Crab. But it was worth it, to see her pleased reaction as he played the Schubert Impromptu and other pieces. Especially on such a colorful instrument as that Chickering, with its coppery bass, beveled-jade midrange, and crinkled bamboo treble.

  He brought the sodas to the cashier where a man limped over to ring him up. “You must be Mike,” Drayco said. “You weren’t here the last time.”