Requiem for Innocence

by BV Lawson

  Barry ran his hand over the part of the hood that was still somewhat intact. “This was an ’89 model. No airbags.”

  Looking at the damage, they wouldn’t have made much difference. Drayco went to the driver side and sniffed around the fabric on the seats and floor. Whiffs of gasoline, leaking antifreeze, and mildewed carpets, but no traces of alcohol. And no bottles or cans.

  It was hard for Drayco to look at the splintered windshield where Beth’s face made contact with the glass, so he scanned the back seat. Seeing nothing, he got out and tried to open the trunk. It was stuck. Barry loped to his tool chest and brought a crowbar and Sawzall. They pried the trunk open a half inch and then used the Sawzall to cut the latch. Their elation was short-lived when they opened the trunk. Empty.

  Barry stared at Drayco with one of the smudges forming a question mark on his forehead. He asked, “What are you looking for?”

  “Beth said to look ‘in the back’ for a gift for Virginia. But she didn’t specify where. I hoped there was something in the back of the car.”

  “Looks pretty empty. I checked the car out after they first brought it in. Did some work on Beth’s brakes a month ago. Guess I was worried it was something I did that caused her to wreck.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Well, not with the pads. I did find another thing that was odd.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “No brake fluid left. Maybe a drop or two. Not enough for brakes to work properly.”

  “Could that have happened during the accident?”

  “Most cars wouldn’t hold up under a severe impact, for sure. But fluid loss like that? It’s usually from failure of a brake hose or a rusted metal brake line. Or a worn cylinder or brake caliper. I checked those things when I worked on her car last month, and they were fine. I’ve been fixing cars for a long time, some after accidents. Never seen this.”

  “And someone could drain the brake fluid from this model easily?”

  Barry’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t thought of sabotage before. “Anyone who knows their way around cars.” He frowned, the speckled grease smudges on his face making him look like a Dalmatian. “There was one other weird thing. The cruise control cable was dislodged.”

  Drayco wasn’t sure where Barry was heading. “Couldn’t that also happen during the accident?”

  Barry tossed the crowbar onto the ground and put the Sawzall back in the tool chest. “If it happened before the accident, might cause the throttle to stay open when the accelerator pedal is released.”

  “Together with the fluid loss, it would mean a stuck gas pedal and no brakes.”

  “Yeah. I guess it would. A death-trap car.”

  They pondered the possibilities in silence. Barry’s head-shaking signaled his disbelief someone would hurt Beth in such a cruel and calculated way. Maybe Virginia wasn’t the only one who was a little naive, despite Barry’s Goth persona.

  “Barry, you didn’t happen to take a look at Arnold Sterling’s car, did you? The one totaled by that joyriding teenager?”

  “It’s on the other side of the yard. More a mess than this one. That kid was damn lucky. He coulda been killed like ...” He looked away from the car. “Like Beth.”

  “The spot where Beth had her accident is just outside of town, right? Do you get a lot of wrecks from that location?”

  Barry chewed on his lip. “One every four or five years, I guess. The area around here is flat and straight. That particular spot is the one curvy place we got. An S-curve, with oak and pine trees lining it.”

  “So if you were intentionally planning on having an accident, that would be the best choice.”

  “Planning? You mean suicide?”

  “It’s been mentioned as a possibility.”

  “No way.” Barry’s tone of voice was unequivocal. “Beth took me in for an entire year while my father was having some problems. She’d gone through rough times, but she was a fighter. Never gave up. The Beth Sterling I knew would never consider something like that.”

  Drayco pulled out his cellphone. No bars, no service. “Do you have a landline? Cell service around here is spotty.”

  “You got that right. There’s a phone in the office.”

  Barry guided him to the old-fashioned wall phone. As Drayco studied the interior of the shop and the stacks of car innards, he stopped in front of a pin on the wall hung with coils of wire. “Is that piano wire?” he asked.

  “Handy for all kinds of things. Replacing broken hood release cables, windshield removal, or snaking out sunroof drain tubes. Oh, and replacing cabling in heater controls.”

  “You keep inventory of things like this?”

  “We keep inventory, sure. Whenever the mood strikes.”

  “So you couldn’t tell if any of this piano wire disappeared recently?”

  Barry scratched his head, without messing a single spike. “No, ’fraid not. Guess it’d be easy to do. Been warning the boss we need to get better security. Is there anything I should report to him?” Barry looked like he’d rather wear a pink tutu than discuss a possible theft with his boss.

  “Not yet. We’ll keep this between us for now.”

  Drayco stared at the wire. He should tell the sheriff about it. Last time he was in town, he made Sailor a promise he wouldn’t withhold information again. Yet, he hesitated. Maida trusted Lucy and Virginia, and they trusted Barry. Besides, as he told the sheriff, anyone could buy piano wire from Wal-Mart or eBay. The owner, Mr. Haffey, however, was another matter. Someone else to check into. Then he would tell the sheriff.

  “I could use a reliable mechanic for my Starfire when I’m in Washington. Thought of migrating?”

  “Never been to D.C. Might be fun to visit—I’ve always wanted to see the Air and Space Museum. My father would never move. And I can’t leave him behind.”

  Drayco made a note to ask Sheriff Sailor about that. “Then I guess it’s pointless to try to get Lucy Harston to open a catering business up there. I was at her house, and the Eau de Muffin aroma was intoxicating.”

  Barry laughed. “Nah, she’s a country girl. I doubt she’s been to D.C., either. The locals here tend not to get out much. People are friendly, there’s not much traffic, prices are reasonable. And you got the water. Life kinda goes in slow motion, which suits me fine.”

  Slow motion? Maybe for most. Not for Arnold Sterling, who hadn’t been able to fend off his attacker. Or for Virginia, pushed so swiftly in front of that car, bystanders barely had time to react.

  If his first trip to Cape Unity had taught him anything, it was small towns weren’t idyllic havens from the real-world madness afflicting urban jungles like many people thought. If that were true, he wouldn’t be here now.

  As he left Barry hands-deep in the guts of a car engine, Drayco almost wished he hadn’t come to Cape Unity. Maybe someone did have it in for the Sterlings, yet that seemed light years away from Marcus Laessig or an attack on a young girl in a wheelchair. He didn’t need a local vendetta or domestic dispute as a distraction. Sheriff Sailor could handle it. And yet ...

  And yet, a woman who was possibly murdered, her death made to look like a suicide, had told him to tell Virginia she “was sorry.” Sorry for what? Whatever was “in the back” could have all the answers. Barring a visitation from Beth’s ghost, they might never find the mysterious “it.” Whatever the item was, he had to find either it or a bona fide tie to Marcus Laessig soon or risk having to leave Cape Unity—and one heartbroken young girl—behind.

  12

  After grabbing a bottle of Manhattan Special and some saltines and Vienna sausages from Limping Mike’s for lunch, Drayco parked in front of the Opera House to see if it was still standing. For better or worse, it was. The century-old building had survived hurricanes, neglect, and one murder, while the mortals who built it and lived in its shadow had come and gone. With an apology to the old girl and a promise to return soon, he headed back down the road.

  Beth Sterling’s house wa
sn’t nearly as sturdy as the Opera House. But a quick call to the sheriff had him meeting Drayco there at mid-afternoon, the same time of day as his first visit. If anything, today was hotter, hazier, and more humid. The triple-H sort of hell. So where the hell were those iconic sea breezes?

  As they stepped inside, Drayco decided Beth Sterling could have authored a how-to book on organization. Seashells on a coffee table were aligned next to each other as if positioned by a ruler, and lamps were in the exact center of each table. She was the anti-Lucy Harston.

  Sheriff Sailor placed his hat on the empty coat tree. “Did this woman live here?”

  Drayco ran his finger along a table. No dust. “Someone did. It’s like living inside a photoshopped magazine spread.”

  “Guess her neatness will make the brother-in-law’s job easier. Said he’d be in town by tomorrow late morning. Taking the red-eye from Toronto to BWI. He’s planning the funeral and gave his blessing for the M.E.’s autopsy in Norfolk.”

  “Was there a Will?”

  “He said the Sterlings hated lawyers. Wouldn’t have anything to do with them. So he’s not aware of one. Not that they had much property to worry over.”

  “I’d love to hear his thoughts on the depression-suicide theme.”

  “He spoke with Beth a couple of times since Arnold’s death. She didn’t seem depressed to him. Chalk one up for Lucy and Virginia.”

  “Did he know what Beth meant by ‘the back’?”

  “Clueless. And I mean that literally.”

  “By the way, I’ve stopped by Limping Mike’s a few times. You said the Metro Police ‘suggested strongly’ you keep the details of Arnold’s death out of the papers. But Mike knew he was strangled with wire.”

  “They wanted us to keep it out of the papers, so we did. But try and keep it off the gossip line around here.”

  Drayco looked from the office toward the kitchen. They’d cover more ground if they split up. “Beth showed me a trash can in her kitchen that caught fire shortly before Arnold’s murder. She had no idea how it started. But interestingly, the kitchen windows were unlocked.”

  “A weird way to try and burn a house down.”

  “Not if you’re hoping to make a death look like an accident.”

  “So maybe Beth started the fire herself. Never completely ruled her out as a murder suspect in her husband’s death.”

  “I thought she had an alibi.”

  “A sketchy one.”

  Sailor headed to the examination room, while Drayco took the kitchen, separating items from the bag in the burned trash can. He breathed through his mouth to escape the sulfuric odor of rotting eggshells and was grateful for his nitrile gloves while handling slimy black banana peels and coffee grinds.

  Next, he examined each cabinet, the small pantry, and the refrigerator. He called out to Sailor, “No alcoholic beverage containers—gin, beer, or anything else.”

  Moving to the bedroom, Drayco went through the closets and dressers one by one. Arnold had been dead how long now? A month? Yet, there were no traces of his clothing or personal effects. It sure didn’t take Beth long to get rid of them.

  Drayco scrutinized every inch of the fabrics on the bed, carpeting, and chairs. As Sailor joined him, Drayco said, “No alcohol stains or odor anywhere. So she bought her first and only bottle of gin ever on Monday, got herself drunk, sloshed alcohol all over her clothes—and then had the presence of mind to throw the bottle out the car window right before crashing into the tree?”

  Sailor folded his arms across his chest. “No need to get snotty. Nothing’s been ruled out yet. Except de-nominating you as an honorary deputy.”

  “Have you checked with the Fiddler’s Green Tavern?”

  “They don’t remember serving her. Certainly not Monday.”

  “Do any restaurants in town serve hard liquor?”

  “Two. Haven’t checked them yet, but this kind of thing’s a bitch to track. There’s a bar over the county line, plenty more up and down the Delmarva.”

  “Speaking of up and down the Delmarva, any luck checking other jurisdictions for attacks on handicapped people?”

  “No joy. In a manner of speaking.”

  They moved back to the living room, and Drayco surveyed the furniture, looking for potential hiding places. “We’ve yet to find a suicide note.”

  “Suicides don’t always leave notes. You know that.”

  They continued searching every conceivable nook, concentrating on their efforts in silence. Finally, Drayco said, “I’ve checked the back of cupboards, closets, shelves, and sofa cushions, but nothing earmarked for Virginia. Did you check the office?”

  “Just the examining room.”

  “To the office we go.”

  While the sheriff examined the books on one shelf that stood stacked in order of descending height and parked flush with the edges of shelves, Drayco tackled the desk. So he wouldn’t leave any “back” unturned, Drayco got to work looking in the back of the desk drawers. Not much, beyond paper clips arranged by color and size in trays, and file folders filled with receipts for utilities.

  But the otherwise-ordinary contents made it possible for Drayco to spy two objects that seemed out of place. He laid them on the desk blotter as Sailor brought a ledger over for him to read. Four names reappeared throughout the book. Entries beside each showed payment amounts and check numbers.

  The sheriff pointed to a couple of the names. “Those two are deceased—you can see where the last dated entry for each is a few years ago. These other two, they’re still very much around.”

  Drayco read the entries. “Caleb Quintier and Ferguson Farland.”

  “Farland is better known as Freaky Farland.”

  “Freaky? I hate to ask.”

  “A loner, disfigured in an accident, hence the name.”

  “Farland—he wouldn’t be related to Barry Farland, would he?”

  “Yup, his father, who we investigated concerning Arnold Sterling’s murder. Freaky was disfigured trying to hurt Sterling years ago. If at first you don’t succeed.”

  So that was why Barry had said he couldn’t leave his father. “What was Farland’s beef with Sterling?”

  “It was long before my time, but it’s a local legend. Freaky had a thing for Beth but won’t admit it. Says he didn’t like the guy and swears he wasn’t trying to kill him, just warn him off. Freaky didn’t spend time in jail—guess the judge figured Freaky’s months in the burn ward was punishment enough.”

  Sailor took scratched his head. “Thanks for the tip about Beth’s car. Gotta deputy looking into it. Sounds to me the alleged tampering was damage from the accident itself.”

  Drayco scanned the ledger. “Any idea why these names are in here? Beth told me Quintier was someone to stay away from. She seemed afraid of him and yet here she is paying the guy money?”

  “Freaky’s been clean for years. And as I mentioned, keeps to himself. So no ideas on why his name would be in here. As for Quintier, it could be a variety of things. Simply because of who he is and his unhealthy business practices.”

  “Why didn’t I run across him last time I was in town?”

  “He was out of the country. Must have been checking on his offshore accounts in the Caymans. Or Switzerland. Or wherever.”

  Drayco checked the dollar amounts next to the names in the ledger. “Looks like Quintier got the biggest checks.”

  The sheriff rubbed his head harder. “We law enforcement types—and I mean local, state, and federal—have tried for years to make charges against Quintier stick. He keeps slipping out of them. If there’s a crooked investment scheme or gambling op he hasn’t tried, I’ll be a monkey’s Dutch uncle.”

  Drayco recalled a conversation with his friend on the D.C. police force, Detective Zeke Skiles. If you looked up the definition of the word “thorough,” there’d be a picture of Skiles. The detective examined the financial backgrounds of the four D.C. victims and found not so much as one defaulted credit card with Qui
ntier or anyone else.

  He asked, “So, no provable connections of illegal financial deals between the Sterlings and Quintier?”

  “None. More’s the pity. Might be the opportunity we’ve been looking for to nail him.”

  “Beth admitted to me Quintier and Arnold crossed paths. But she wasn’t aware of any recent threats.”

  “Arnold Sterling was in and out of trouble for decades. A gambling addict like him would be financial chum to a loan shark like Quintier.”

  “That may explain Sterling’s name in the ledger. Debt installments. Why the payments to Farland, then—was he involved in illegal gambling, too?”

  “Beats me. Have to add it to my list.”

  Drayco examined a note on the desk Beth wrote to a patient and hadn’t delivered. He compared the handwriting with that in the ledger. “Looks like Beth was definitely the check writer. If you do a rough calculation, it’s not a small sum. Where did she—or both Sterlings—get the money to pay these people off?”

  “The brother-in-law said Beth won a lottery. Didn’t think it was a big payout. Maybe she used those winnings to square Arnold’s debts. Hoped she’d keep him alive that way. Scum like Quintier aren’t kind to welshers.”

  “Maida did say Beth’s nursing skills came in handy patching up her husband.”

  “Every now and then, reports come across my desk of beatings. Beatings that hint of Quintier’s hand. Funny thing, no one ever wants to press charges.”

  Building searches in investigations were often disappointing, but this one hit a low note. Make that an infrasound note. Not a single name in the ledger tied in with Marcus Laessig or the other handicapped victims from the District.

  Drayco had hoped for an illegal gambling link tying them all together into a nice, neat motive bundle, but nada. And the only lottery connection was the car accident victim from D.C., a sixty-five-year-old grandmother addicted to scratch-off games.