by BV Lawson
He picked up one of the two items he’d placed on top of the desk and showed it to Sailor. He fingered the coral-pink enamel with detailed gold scrollwork, two cherubs, and red roses. “This is an elaborate pocket watch. But no name or any initials on it, nothing to indicate whether it was Beth’s or a gift.”
Grabbing the gold locket, he opened it to find a generic picture of a smiling model taken from a glossy magazine. He picked at it with his thumbnail and coaxed it out of the locket. Underneath the magazine cutout lay a photo of a blonde woman, looking to be in her 20s. Drayco turned the photo toward the sheriff. “Anyone you recognize?”
“Vesta Mae Gatewood, nee Longmire. Wife of Winthrop Gatewood, local businessman and philanthropist.”
“Maida mentioned him. She suggested I hit him up for Opera House funds.”
“Good call. He owns several properties and this house—the Sterlings were renters. Arnold Sterling worked for him as a cook in one of his businesses, an Italian restaurant. Another one of Gatewood’s charity cases. I doubt Arnold was a reliable employee.”
“Wonder how Beth came by this locket and why Mrs. Gatewood’s picture was covered up?”
Sailor grinned. “Pretend you’re a detective and go chat with Vesta Mae. A word of warning about Mrs. Gatewood. She’s a mental case. Another challenge for you.”
“Are we talking Prokofiev challenge, or more demonic, along the lines of Sorabji’s opus Clavicembalisticum?”
The sheriff shrugged. “Whatever the hell that is. I never made it past Chopsticks.”
Drayco put the locket and watch back in the drawer for Beth’s brother-in-law. Sailor didn’t bother saying it was a waste of time, but he slapped his hat on with more force than usual.
As they exited Beth’s house, a silver Jaguar sat parked in front with Darcie Squier leaning against the driver’s side door. Sailor looked askance at Drayco. “Were you expecting her?”
“I ran into her the other day, and she said she’d been following me. I thought she was joking.”
Sailor’s bottom lip jutted out. “You should steer clear of that one. Don’t forget her husband filed a complaint with Criminal Justice Services on you. Doubt you’d want to go through that again.”
“Hazards of the trade. But I’ll keep it in mind.”
The sheriff clapped him on the back. “It’s been nice knowin’ you.”
13
Darcie barely waited for the sheriff’s car to disappear before she grabbed both of his hands in hers and pulled him closer. “I spotted you as I was passing by. Isn’t that fortunate?”
“And oh so coincidental, I’m sure.”
She massaged his forearms, and he relaxed. Darcie was nothing if not the touchy-feely type, but who was he to turn down a massage? His right arm could always use the extra attention.
No matter what Darcie said, she had a remarkable way of making it sound like his neighbor’s Abyssinian purring. “I was thinking over what we discussed the other day. The attack on that girl? And then there was that attack on that man in a wheelchair, Arnold Sterling. Do you think they’re related?”
“The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Darcie seemed to have developed the fine art of ignoring his sarcasm. “Randolph used to rag on Arnold Sterling. Like he took the man’s presence in Cape Unity as a personal affront. My husband, Mr. Town Councilman, wanted postcard-perfect people in town.”
Until recently, Drayco imagined Darcie would readily agree. “Why did he focus on poor down-and-out Arnold, Darcie? If you want to start throwing out bums, Caleb Quintier would be first on that list.”
“Now there’s a wolf who wears his sheep’s clothing well.”
“And pays some taxes, unlike Sterling the gambler. What does your husband think of Virginia Harston? She’s not the classical postcard-perfect child on the beach, either.”
Darcie’s massaging slowed, then stopped. “Ex-husband. Or soon to be ex. Randolph doesn’t like children. He’s the type who’ll wind up in a no-kids retirement community some day.”
“After he gets out of jail?”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “I think Virginia’s cute, myself. We need more programs for the handicapped around here.”
That was twice she surprised him in as many days. “That social work degree of yours kicking in?”
“Virginia Commonwealth University, class of 2001.”
“Did you really see yourself mired in casework and bureaucracy?”
“One of my professors, who happened to be my advisor, was very handsome. Not as much as you.” She grinned and smoothed a lock of hair on his forehead. “As I was saying, the two incidents must be related because they both involve wheelchairs. And Arnold Sterling and Cole Harston were friends.”
Drayco blinked hard at that little bombshell. Lucy hadn’t mentioned it. “Are you sure, Darcie? I thought Sterling had no friends. Just people he owed money.”
“Randolph and I were in town one day when we saw Virginia in her chair on a sidewalk. He muttered it was a wonder she hadn’t suffered more hardships, seeing as how her father was as thick as thieves with ‘that Sterling ape,’ as Randolph called him. I told him he was being hateful.”
“Did you, now?”
“Most certainly I did.” She sank back against her car. “I married Randolph right out of college. My family lost their land, so my mother kept egging me on to find a rich husband. Guess I took her advice to heart.”
“This isn’t the dark ages. They let women work now, did you know that?”
She grinned. “It’s so much easier if you can get the money without that pesky hard work, isn’t it?”
It was hard to argue with that. Harder to ignore the poor choices some Cape Unity women made. Darcie and Randolph. Lucy Harston and Cole. Beth Sterling and Arnold. If it weren’t for the Jepsons and Sheriff Sailor and his wife, he’d think Cape Unity was a marriage purgatory.
“See, now there’s a reason why I’m not a good catch, Darcie. I’m hardly a Daddy Warbucks.”
She smiled and traced a finger over his lips. “For you, I’ll make an exception.”
14
Leaving stalker-Darcie behind, but only after the promise of a lunch “date,” Drayco pulled his Starfire back alongside the Lazy Crab. Barry and Virginia were in front of the B&B under the watchful eye of Maida. The two young people were a study in visual contrasts. Virginia sported a pink T-shirt, laughingly popping wheelies in her chair, Barry was dressed in black despite the heat, slouched over with hands jammed in his pockets.
Drayco overheard enough of their conversation to determine Barry found a deal on acrylic paints and wanted to share them. According to Maida, Barry once told her Virginia’s talent was light years ahead of his “meager” efforts to be the next Dalí or Picasso.
Drayco watched the two young people head off in Barry’s car. “Is it wise to let him take her home, Maida?”
She waved a hand and motioned for him to join her inside, and they headed for the kitchen. “I trust Barry. He’s a good kid, even calls Virginia his ‘little sis.’ He’ll protect her if need be. If prayers count for anything, and I’ve said plenty of those, she’ll be fine.”
Maida proved herself to be a better judge of character than many law enforcement types he knew, so he gave her the benefit of the doubt. “The sheriff said Barry’s father is called Freaky—due to burns from an attack on Arnold Sterling?”
“A calamity of his own making. There are people who say he got what he deserved. But he was a lovesick young man, and I can’t help feeling sorry for him. The way people treat him is inexcusable. Either they avoid looking at him or stare, repulsed.”
Maida clucked her tongue. “There’s a saying around here, ugly enough to stop an eight-day clock. I’ve known more folks whose behavior matched that description than Freaky’s looks.”
“And this calamity centered around Beth?”
Maida got a match to light one of her homemade potpourri candles, and the smell of roses wafted through the air. “H
e was head over heels for her.”
“Before she married Arnold Sterling or after?”
“Both. He pursued her like a man possessed. She wasn’t interested and married slick Arnold instead. Freaky decided to get back at his rival and crafted a pipe bomb that was supposed to shake Arnold up. It went off too soon, and Freaky was burned badly.”
“There must have been a Mrs. Farland unless Barry is adopted.”
“Freaky married Jessica Kellaway shortly after Beth and Arnold got married. I’m not sure he cared for her. Once his true love was no longer available, he settled for what he could get. Irony was, Jessica left husband and son. Went to California and never came back.”
Drayco rubbed his arm, aware he now had two things in common with Barry’s father. Scars and the hurt of having someone you depend on leave and take your world with them. Drayco’s father bluntly told him his mother didn’t love them anymore when she disappeared that day. Brock wasn’t much on sugar-coating life’s bitter pills to a preschooler.
Drayco said, “Barry told me Beth took him in for a period of time. Was this after the mother left?”
“Much later, when the lad was a teenager. Freaky may be a recluse most of the time, but he pops up now and then to indulge in a few bad habits.”
Drayco thought of the ledger in Beth’s office. “Gambling?”
“That’s the worst one. He got sentenced to twelve months in jail. Can’t remember the charges offhand.”
“It’s odd under the circumstances Beth would take Barry, isn’t it?”
“Freaky never got over Beth and probably loved her to the day she died. I think Beth felt responsible for Freaky’s accident. So she offered to look after the boy while Freaky was incarcerated.”
“Must have been awkward for Arnold to be around the son of the man who’d try to bomb him.”
“Maybe a part of him felt responsible, too. Besides, Barry was in school during the day while Arnold was at home, and Barry was at home while Arnold was working in the restaurant at night. So they didn’t cross paths much.”
Drayco got up and went to the refrigerator to pour himself a glass of Maida’s candied tea. “Does Freaky mind Barry’s friendship with Virginia?”
“He secretly enjoys her visits to their house. Virginia’s an equal-opportunity ray of sunshine that falls on everyone she meets. Which makes it all the more difficult to imagine anyone wanting to do her harm.”
He took a sip of the tea, the combination of bitter tea and treacle an odd one. Maida was right about Virginia, but wasn’t it Cervantes’ Don Quixote who said virtue is persecuted more by the wicked than loved by the good?
Drayco’s cellphone rang, and with a look at the caller ID, he answered, “Hello, Brock.” If Maida noted the use of his father’s first name rather than “Dad,” he couldn’t tell it from her expression.
Also usually, his father didn’t call unless it was bad news. “Thought I should give you a head’s up, son. I got word there’ll be an article in tomorrow’s Washington Post that mentions Matthew Laessig hiring you.”
Drayco took a couple of slow sips of tea. “Did a reporter talk to you?”
“Just to fill me in. He didn’t get the story from me. Maybe one of Laessig’s cronies. Or Laessig himself, to put pressure on both you and the police at the same time.”
Drayco swirled the tea in his glass. Needed some shots of tequila. “Ralph O’Dowd won’t be happy. Or Detective Uxley.”
“O’Dowd’s an ass. Uxley’ll get over it.”
“Yeah. Zeke Skiles is the one I’m worried about.”
“I could call him for you—”
“I need to check in with him, anyway.”
Brock cleared his throat. “Okay, then. Fair warned—”
“Is fair armed. Thanks. You know how I hate these media tangles.”
“I’m not fond of them, myself.”
Which was a half-truth. There were all those occasions with his father laughing in front of the photogs after closing a successful case, lapping it up. Maybe it was his counterbalance to his son’s piano playing, becoming Brock’s stage, his performance.
Brock cleared his throat again. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to it. It’ll blow over. A non-story.”
“Yeah. A non-story.” As Drayco hung up, he considered the truth in that. A non-story? The Metropolitan Police Department detectives had a tough job. It wasn’t helped by the fact one of their own was arrested for operating a prostitution ring, leading to increased scrutiny of all their members. Add in news that a high-profile citizen felt he had to go outside the force for help, and Drayco could get sucked into a blue riptide.
Law enforcement agencies hired him because they believed they could trust him. And he them. Drayco took another sip of the tea. Definitely needed some tequila.
15
Drayco gave one longing look at the Chickering and headed to his room instead. Thank God Maida had installed DSL at the Crab since his last visit. He needed to ask her if she did it for him, like the Chickering piano.
He’d brought his laptop this time and checked some of his favorite online databases. Did people know how incredibly easy it was to get detailed and personal information on them? Tolerance levels being more lax these days, most people might simply shrug.
First up, Blake Haffey the Third. That one was easy. No ties to the Sterlings or Virginia and an active social life. So active, he was on a fishing trip off Virginia Beach on the Fourth of July. Complete with a photo of himself in the Eastern Shore Post holding up the 200-pound bigeye tuna he caught that day.
Drayco’s other target was more complicated.
On the surface, the data on Caleb Quintier made him look like an average Joe Do-gooder. His birth and marriage documents were all standard and unremarkable. He made sixty grand a year—officially—as a “financial analyst.” Drayco grinned at that one. Quintier had a perfect credit rating, paid his bills on time, and had a clean driving record. He’d lived at two other addresses prior to his current one, all on the Eastern Shore.
No social media footprint at all. No records plus no trails equaled no problems—if you want your business dealings to stay hidden and untraceable.
The public court records proved to be interesting, not so much for what they included as what they didn’t. Quintier had a dynamite lawyer. After being in court a dozen times for racketeering, money laundering, and loan sharking, each charge was dismissed or resulted in a judgment in Quintier’s favor. He was tidy in his proceedings, no co-defendants for any of the charges. In a few of the cases, witnesses recanted their stories or disappeared.
Quintier also had D.C. connections. He had a banker-brother who lived there, sans court records or rap sheets. And Quintier had a branch of his “financial analyst business” based in D.C. via a post office box. But no links to the aide service used by the four murdered handicapped victims.
Satisfied he got everything he could on Quintier via the Internet and court documents, Drayco drove Reece’s borrowed, less-noticeable black car into a parking spot near Drayco’s target. Reece wanted to come along. Knowing Quintier’s reputation, Drayco didn’t think it wise.
Time to observe the wolf in his natural environment. It was close to five, and the wolf should be leaving soon to head home to his den.
The windows in the Lost-In-Tea Party shop provided an oblique view from across the street, so Drayco ordered a couple of double-chocolate cake donuts and coffee and grabbed a newspaper. Maybe he should have ordered one of the muffins, likely a Lucy Harston creation. Healthier, too. Perhaps if they made broccoli donuts? His appetite evaporated, and he pushed the second chocolate confection away.
As he surveilled Quintier’s office, a red convertible pulled up and two men entered the building. The first resembled a kid-book version of Santa Claus, short and round, with full white beard. His companion was more like what you’d expect in Quintier’s line of work, a man over six feet with shoulders like a gorilla. At least he wasn’t dragging his knuckles along t
he ground.
The pair weren’t inside for ten minutes before they strolled out laughing, as they were joined by a third man who matched the description Maida gave him of Caleb Quintier—tallish, not quite Drayco’s six-four, with a deep tan and a head of silver hair. The trio hopped into the convertible with a D.C. tag and the “taxation without representation” motto emblazoned on the bottom.
A D.C. tag—that was intriguing. He wrote down the plate number to look up later.
He climbed out of Reece’s car and headed around the back of Quintier’s building, which had a fenced-in yard. Was that Quintier’s sole security? If so, he was more self-assured than Drayco thought. But no, a series of security cameras lay cleverly hidden inside floodlights, and he spied an infrared barrier intruder detector. He gauged the range of both and got as close to the fence as he dared, making a quick perimeter check.
A low growling started up, a sound that made him perspire more than he already was in the ninety-degree air. A shed-like building in a corner of the backyard had an odd square hinged cutout in the fence. Putting two and two together, he backed off. The growls morphed into snarling barks. He spied two of the largest Rottweilers he’d ever seen, with teeth that wouldn’t look out of place on a Great White.
Drayco liked dogs, truly. His father Brock once had a mastiff who thought it was a kitten. He just didn’t like dogs that wanted to turn him into a Drayco burger. No time to wonder how Quintier trained the dogs to return inside the fenced fortress after attacking an intruder because Drayco was half-way to Reece’s car.
He hopped inside with the windows rolled up. Inches behind him, the dogs halted short of the sidewalk while barking as loud as a pack of banshees, going no further. Saved by an invisible electronic fence.
When Drayco returned the car to Reece, the historian handed him a tumbler with a black liquid in ice. He bounced up and down on his feet, waiting for Drayco’s mission report. “Well?” he asked.
Drayco stared at the drink. “What’s this?”
“An iced espresso. With a shot of ginseng. Puts pep in your step. So I ask again, well?”