by BV Lawson
“Quintier must have a soft spot. He keeps a couple of nice little puppies in his yard. He has some jolly friends visiting from D.C. The quaint picture of an ordinary businessman. Except they were trained attack puppies, the house was backed by security devices that would win CIA approval, and the D.C. friends aren’t here for the saltwater taffy.”
“Did you recognize these quote-unquote friends?”
“No, but I’ll do a check on the plate and men’s descriptions and see what turns up.”
“Was one of them a hulky guy, reminiscent of a WWA wrestler?”
Reece loved professional wrestling, which still amazed Drayco. Someone like Reece should have his TV set tuned to the History Channel. “Yes, with coal-black hair in a crew cut.”
“That would be Efron Thawley. I went to high school with him. He was captain of the chess club.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Chess moves could come in handy if you need to outwit you law enforcement types. He was a straight-A student who majored in Vice. Guess he had a minor in Home Ec, ’cause his official job is maître d’ at a private club up in Accomack County.”
“How’d he get mixed up with Quintier?”
“A college degree doesn’t pay like it used to. He has ties to Arnold Sterling and not the best kind.”
“Business ties, family ties, or orange-jumpsuit ties?”
“Arnold was the driver in a car when he and Thawley’s brother were sixteen. Arnold crashed the car. Thawley’s brother died. Mind you, they were both young and drunk. And had the brother been driving, Arnold would have been the one killed. That’s the way Kismet arranged it.”
Forty years was a long time to carry a grudge over something a drunken teenager did. But an arranged accident would be an eye-for-an-eye biblical justice, of a sort. Efron Thawley just landed on Drayco’s list of suspects for Arnold’s death. “Did Thawley have any associations with Beth?”
“None I’m aware of.” Reece fiddled with a loose button on his blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt. “So you’re saying you struck out at Quintier’s little hideout?”
“To be a hideout, technically it should be remote and secret. But no, I didn’t discover much except Quintier is a pro. Speaking of Beth, did you know Quintier had a thing for Beth Sterling?”
Reece wagged his finger in the air. “Therein lies a strange tale. I never could tell if he had the hots for her or was obsessed with forbidden fruit. Then you have Freaky Farland who was head over heels. So she winds up marrying a ne’er-do-well. The type who would have traded her for a few beads and a flintlock in the old days.”
“Any other suitors for Beth’s hand? Someone who might want Arnold Sterling out of the way?”
“Don’t think so. Besides, with those nut jobs she attracted, apparently no sane man would touch her.”
Drayco squinted at Reece’s shirt, with what he now saw were parrots embedded in the design. “How’s Andrew Jackson? I didn’t see him at the Historical Society the other day.”
“He was at the vet for a check-up. Eats, sleeps, and curses at me. In short, he’s one ecstatically healthy African Gray.”
“Too bad Quintier doesn’t own a parrot, Reece. We could birdnap it and get the dirt on his crime business.”
“I thought the saying was ‘sing like a canary.’”
“Odd that, considering canaries can’t talk.”
“A form of avian discrimination. Where I can report it, Mister Lawman?”
Drayco wiped at the sweat cascading down the back of his neck, gave up, and guzzled the iced drink in three gulps. “Tell you what. I’ll include it as an addendum to my write-up of the Laessig case.”
If there were a write-up. Drayco had never failed to finish a case before and didn’t know what he’d do with the paperwork if it came to that. But it wouldn’t come to that. Matthew Laessig’s media stunt notwithstanding, Drayco was determined to honor the life and service of the man’s murdered brother. If that arrogant prick Matthew fired him, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time Drayco ventured out onto a wire without a net. He shook off his sense of gloom.
The espresso was good, but right now one of Maida’s toddies sounded better—with whiskey, some lemon, and a pinch of nutmeg. Or as she called it, “a spirit guide.”
Friday 10 July
Mid-July wasn’t long after the summer solstice, meaning the sun rose around five and so did Drayco. It was the best time to take a run along the sand-filled road in front of the Lazy Crab and avoid the oppressive heat. The neighbor he’d run past on his last visit wasn’t outside this time. A look at the front told why—“For Sale” letters decorated a small yellow sign. Hadn’t the man said his family lived there for six generations?
With the Wallops Island spaceport twenty miles up the road increasing its profile, it wouldn’t be long before the sleepy lower end of the Eastern Shore faded like photos stashed in Reece’s Historical Society cabinets. The controversial condo development issue Drayco faced three months ago was one more sign of the inevitability of change. Even to an aviation and space enthusiast like him, that sepia-tinted inevitability held the air of a haunted memory.
Maybe it was those dour thoughts, or maybe it was a secret worry the Crab might be in worse shape than Maida said. But Drayco went to work helping her with a few fix-up chores when he returned from his run. She protested, he insisted. She did admit the new hole-free window screens he’d hung looked a lot better.
To give her a break from meal prep, he arranged a “working lunch” with Sheriff Sailor at his favorite Seafood Hut. This was one local icon that hadn’t gotten wind of all the changes in the area. Or simply didn’t care. Long live the Seafood Hut.
Drayco slid into their usual booth and stared at his companion. “Shouldn’t you have on a funny nose and fake glasses? What if Mrs. Sheriff finds you here?”
Sailor took note of the other patrons one by one, then settled back into the booth. “I think I can count on their complicity. Besides, I haven’t had one single solitary blue-crab cake in over a month.”
“How do you think I feel? I haven’t had one of these since March.”
“Then we’d better order fast before one of us comes down with the DT’s.”
The menu hadn’t changed one iota since Drayco’s last visit. The developers might have the Eastern Shore in their sights, but it was nice to see places where the splintered floorboards came from local red cedar and not carted in from a McWarehouse. Plus, the walls held photos of customers from the restaurant’s seventy-year history. No corporate test-marketing bling.
The waitress didn’t bother bringing the sheriff a menu, nor did she bother writing anything down. She winked at him. “You’re in luck, hon. They brought in a fresh catch of blues this morning.”
The sheriff rubbed his hands together with glee. “See? It was ordained.”
Drayco waited until the waitress took his order and left, then said, “You been spending time with Reece, Mr. Kismet himself?”
“Maybe I should.” Sailor pushed the salt shaker over to Drayco when the coffee arrived and watched as Drayco shook some grains into his java.
Sailor pointed at the coffee cup. “I tried that. Doesn’t make the coffee less bitter to me. So, anyway, I checked out the names in that ledger we found in Beth Sterling’s house. Most of the transactions are antique, date-wise.”
“And Quintier and Farland?”
“Quintier was cagey. Said Arnold Sterling owed him money from so-called ‘failed business initiatives.’ Beth sent him installment checks to pay him back. Farland didn’t want to talk at all. Did say he’d done odd jobs for Arnold. Hence the payback.”
“And the money for all of this came from Beth’s lottery winnings?”
“Quintier volunteered that the Sterlings had come into a chunk of change. He assumed it was the result of some big payout where Arnold finally got lucky. Arnold was the one who told people Beth won the lottery. More of his lies? Who knows?”
Drayco waited whil
e the sheriff popped a corn muffin into his mouth whole and chewed and chewed ... and chewed. “You used to inhale those things. What’s up with the cud-chewing routine?”
“I read this book on getting the most out of your digestive system. Said to chew your food twenty-four times.” Sailor belched.
Drayco waited until the last morsel of corn was headed toward hydrochloric acid territory to ask, “Any luck with Beth’s recent maternity patients?”
“Only three since Arnold’s death. Both had alibis around the time of Beth’s accident. Had only good things to say about her—one was using Beth for her third pregnancy.”
“Three patients in a few months? With no income from Arnold and continuing payments to Quintier and Farland, those lottery winnings were stretched to their limit.”
“Does seem dicey. I’ll have Giles check on lottery payouts in surrounding states.”
“How’s Giles these days? I haven’t seen him around.”
“His wife had triplets. Took a couple of weeks off, but I think he’s secretly glad to be back. Oh, and I checked with the couple of restaurants that serve hard liquor. No one recalls seeing her.”
“They’re that certain?”
“It’s still a small town. People pay attention to those things.”
Drayco had trouble wrapping his head around that. In a metropolitan area of three million people like D.C. and the seasonal influx of millions of tourists, law enforcement types were lucky if they got a witness to describe someone they’d seen minutes ago.
The crab cakes arrived in resplendent lightly browned glory, with an uncharacteristic sprig of parsley added on the side. Drayco grinned. “The Seafood Hut is going uptown.”
“Never. They had a visit from a good parsley salesman.”
Consuming such ambrosia didn’t lend itself to multitasking, so they munched in silence, the sheriff masticating by the numbers. Drayco watched a young mother outside the window as she tried to cajole a pigtailed child in a sailor suit with tiny matching hat and saddle oxfords to stand still for a picture. Was the Seafood Hut a highlight of their Cape Unity vacation? Drayco’s albatross of an Opera House would be more scenic. Photos for posterity in hand, the mother dragged the tot off toward a waiting car.
Drayco asked, “Have you filled in Lucy?”
Sailor made a crater out of his coleslaw, pushing the sides higher and higher. “Not sure what to tell her. No evidence anyone tried to hurt Virginia. No hard evidence Beth’s accident was anything other than that. Can’t justify pursuing either one.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I did?”
“Hell, as I said earlier, it’s your nickel. Or lack thereof. Don’t you have clients in D.C. breathing down your neck?”
“Just the Laessig case that brought me here. Brock can take any new cases in a pinch though I may head back soon.”
The sheriff brightened at the mention of the name. “How is dearest Dad? Working on more police procedural books?”
“Nope. I’ll tell him one of his fans has put in a request.”
“You do that. Maybe he’ll dedicate it to me.”
Drayco resumed looking out the window. The China-doll child in the suit straight from Baby Gap waited patiently as she got strapped into her car seat in the back of a Mercedes. No dumpster diving for you.
“Do you have anything on Efron Thawley?”
Sailor peered over his cup of coffee. “A chip off the old Teflon Quintier block. Lots of rumors, nothing sticks. You found some juicy tidbit?”
“Arnold Sterling was driving the car that killed Thawley’s brother.”
Sailor pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket. “When?”
“They were in high school, so it’s been over thirty years.”
Sailor made some notes. “Quintier could have pressed him into service to off Sterling, using that as motivation. Thanks for the tip.”
“Sure thing. Just for that, you get to pick up the tab.”
###
Some of the locals said Haffey’s Auto Body was an eyesore, and Barry guessed he could see why. He loved cars, loved being around them, loved working them, loved driving them. But you wouldn’t find piles of car skeletons and engine guts in a fancy place like Beverly Hills. Hell, even the Beverly Hillbillies didn’t have rusting carburetors or dented hubcaps on their lawn.
There must be a metaphor for life in there somewhere. Or it was as simple as nothing lasts forever. Not that mangled Lexus over there someone was once so proud of. Now, it looked like the rusting Gremlins, Pacers, and Yugos. Kinda like out of a Salvador Dalí painting. Or a Warhol.
Good ole Haffey was upfront about the type of business he was running. Knew he filled a need by helping folks maintain their precious cars. He was honest, too, and Barry appreciated that. Barry hadn’t known a lot of honest adults he could trust.
He studied Beth’s car, which made him think of Scott Drayco. Barry didn’t really know him, either, but maybe enough to trust him. Maybe. Having to fend for yourself most of your life made you develop a feel for these things. And Ginnie seemed to like him.
Should he warn Drayco away from Iris Quintier? Caleb wasn’t in love with his wife, saw her as his property. But after someone tried to hit on her once, the poor schlub was beaten to a bloody pulp. Barry wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve. Best not to think about Caleb or Iris Quintier. Or bloody-pulp people.
He felt drawn to Beth’s car and walked over to stroke the frame. As long as the car was still around, it was kinda like a piece of Beth’s spirit was, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, he helped get to the bottom of Beth’s accident by telling Drayco what he found.
The way the car was tampered with—it wasn’t creative, but it did the trick. Several other mechanics and tinkerers he knew could do it. Dad, too, back in his day. Hell, he could still do it now. Barry didn’t like admitting it, but it was true.
So what? So, Dad may have tried to hurt Arnold Sterling. But he wouldn’t kill him. Not with that bomb, not with the car, not by strangling. As for Beth’s murder, why would Dad want to kill the very woman he loved most?
Dad said to him the other day, “Don’t fall in love. You don’t need it to survive. You can have all the women you want without love getting in the way.” This was right before he started singing about “enough tears to fill an ocean.” He never used to sing. Well, forget having a conversation with his father after that. Not that Barry would discuss women with him. And not that one woman in particular.
Hell, as if Barry could explain why he let himself get carried away that night, why he’d been so weak and vulnerable. And look where it led him. He’d spent years building up a barrier between his emotions and the outside world. All it took was one night of passion to bring down his walls like Jericho.
Barry pried open the mangled hood of the car wider to look around. No signs of where the sheriff’s mechanic touched anything. Nice enough guy, kept to himself, and didn’t talk much. Was it because he didn’t trust Barry? Or didn’t trust Freaky?
Barry slammed his fist on the side of the car. What if Dad really was responsible? Then Barry would have ratted him out. Helped solve Beth’s murder and put his father in jail. Barry slumped against what remained of the hood of Beth’s car and rubbed his eyes. What was he supposed to do now?
17
Gatewood Villa—as the black and verdigris sign outside the gated driveway proclaimed—would blend in nicely with the old-money digs in parts of D.C.’s Georgetown. And it was indeed old money that erected this manse. The Gatewood family shipping fortunes dated back five generations, one shy of Maida’s former neighbor. Once a summer house, the “villa” now served as a year-round residence for the last of the Gatewood line consisting solely of Winthrop and his wife, Vesta Mae.
Having arranged to meet Mrs. Gatewood at the prearranged time of her choosing, oddly, two-thirty-five exactly, Drayco nudged his Oldsmobile Starfire up the long narrow driveway. He was afraid to let one wheel slip off into the tight rows of alyssum and
petunia flowers that lined both sides.
The house itself boasted plenty of architectural details for a student thesis, but it was the front doors that drew his attention. Three panels of cherry wood and etched glass lay set inside a tall alcove with a matching plaster arch surround. By contrast, the brass doorbell was small and partially hidden, as if doing its best to discourage visitors. The bell worked, however. One press and the massive door swung open.
Vesta Mae Gatewood was Drayco’s age but had wisps of white hair framing her thin face. She wasn’t an albino, but her alabaster skin was unusual for a coastal dweller. The type Victorian maidens used to covet. Maida told him Vesta Mae was half Winthrop’s age when they married, twenty-four to his forty-eight. Had Drayco first encountered her without that knowledge, he would guess she was closer to mid-fifties than mid-thirties.
The lord of his domain wasn’t home, which begged the question—did the lady of the house plan Drayco’s visit accordingly? She didn’t offer to shake his hand, and when he moved a few inches closer, she gasped and jumped back, making him recall Sheriff Sailor’s warning about her mental instability.
She tried to recover, saying “You startled me. Please, come on in.”
The furnishings consisted of obligatory Persian rugs and dark veneered wood furniture, some rivaling the size of Drayco’s car. In fact, the various mixed-period pieces must be chosen solely on the basis of size. It created an odd feeling of being in the middle of a furniture fight-club, the six-seater sofa ready to duke it out with the wall-length armoire.
He couldn’t help comparing the place to the Harston home, filled with Lazy Crab loaners and furniture scavenged at Goodwill. That was typical of Cape Unity, as he’d discovered. Old wealth and new poverty lay within shouting distance of each other.
He stopped in front of a lineup of painted family portraits that served as a trip through the history of fashion. Few photos, save one wedding picture on the wall and one framed photo on a nearby table of a small boy. Drayco picked up the child’s picture and studied the features. Not having met Winthrop Gatewood, it was hard to tell if this was the kingfish himself as a guppy or someone else.