by BV Lawson
Vesta Mae’s expression didn’t change, although Drayco glimpsed a fleeting look of pain. She explained, “That’s Jacob. Our son. He died of pneumonia at the age of four.”
Drayco said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He put the picture next to a small book on the same table. It was another copy of the poetry book Virginia showed him. He pointed to the book. “Was this a gift from Beth Sterling?”
Vesta Mae shrugged. “I can’t recall. That was a stressful time. I had a difficult pregnancy.”
“Did Beth Sterling help out?”
“My husband travels a lot and wanted to make sure someone was available. In case I went into labor while he was gone. So yes, he hired Beth.”
She tilted her head and stared off into the distance as if hearing something. She was so mesmerized, he followed her stare to see what was there. All he saw was one small housefly in a corner. Up ’til now, Vesta Mae avoided looking at him, gazing down or off to one side. So it surprised him as she whirled around to face him directly. “You’re the pianist, aren’t you?”
He nodded, and she motioned for him to follow her, leading him to a pristine Mason & Hamlin grand piano. “Please play for me. This sits here day after day untouched. It’s too beautiful to be another expensive status symbol like everything else,” she gestured around the room. “Please.”
Her request ended up sounding more like a commandment. But maybe she’d open up if he played a bit. He sat on the bench, pressed several of the keys, and ran through a scale. The action was in good working order, and the instrument had an even, mellow tone, like waves of shimmering blue silk.
“Any requests?” he asked.
“I like Debussy. Do you know a piece called Claire de lune?”
He hadn’t planned on any performances while in Cape Unity. But with Vesta Mae looking at him with an expression of childlike hope, he eased into the opening notes of the D-flat major chord. Soon, he surrendered to the music as he always did, lost in an alternate universe.
If Vesta Mae moved a muscle during the piece, he couldn’t tell. For when he looked up after the last notes died away, she was in the exact position as when he started. “I hope that was what you wanted,” he said.
When she didn’t respond and seemed once more transfixed, he tied her gaze to the wedding photo on the wall and pointed to it. “That looks like you wearing the wedding dress. I assume the groom is Winthrop?”
“In that dreadful tux he wore. I hated it. I wanted charcoal gray, not navy blue.”
Upon closer inspection, he saw a pocket watch she held in the picture that looked like a twin of the one from Beth Sterling’s office. “Is that an heirloom pocket watch, Mrs. Gatewood?”
“I lost it some time ago. It was the something old I took down the aisle.”
Drayco must have looked as nonplussed as he felt, for she added, “What brides carry—something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.”
“Ah, yes.”
She smiled. “You’ve never been married, have you?”
“Almost, once.” Funny she should ask. Claire de lune was one of his former fiancée’s favorites, too. She never got tired of asking him to play it, sitting next to him on the bench, cradling her head on his shoulder afterward with her arms wrapped around him.
He said, “That pocket watch is unusual. We found a similar piece at Beth Sterling’s house. And a gold locket with turquoise stones on the front and your picture inside. Was that a gift from you to Beth?”
He wasn’t sure what he expected from her. A simple affirmation, or confusion, or surprise. Not the lightning bolts that crackled across her features. Her breathing grew shallow, and the frail and aloof southern belle vanished.
She sputtered, droplets of spittle flying into his face, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Those can’t be mine. I have no idea how that woman got them. She must have stolen them. A common thief, that’s what she is.”
“You said earlier you lost the pocket watch. Do you have an exact date?”
Slightly less shrill, but with a hand pressed to her chest as if holding down her breathing, she countered, “Why should I? I have more than enough on my hands trying to keep this household together to worry over a few worthless trinkets. And if that’s what brought you here today, you’re wasting my time.”
Just as Drayco was opening his mouth to reply that it was she, and not he, who’d arranged this meeting, the front door whipped open and hurried footsteps echoed through the entry. A man resembling Winthrop Gatewood from the wedding photo moved toward them like a grouper being reeled in a fishing line, half jumping, half sliding, seeming to thrash in every direction at the same time.
He drew near to Drayco and pumped his hand. “So sorry. Didn’t know you were coming. Are you from the roofing company? You weren’t due until next week.”
Drayco gave Vesta Mae a quick scan. Her pale skin splotched with violent patches of red, and he was afraid any second she’d turn blue. “The name is Scott Drayco, Mr. Gatewood. I came by to discuss a couple of items of your wife’s found in the home of one of your tenants, Beth Sterling.”
Winthrop turned to look at Vesta Mae, his face mapped with states of worry and concern. He hurried over and touched her face gently, murmuring in her ear.
Then he said to Drayco, his hands upturned in apology, “I’ll talk to my wife later and get back to you, Mr. Drayco, as this isn’t the best time. It was good of you to drop by.”
Vesta Mae shrieked at the top of her voice, “I want him off our property, Winthrop. Get him off now, or I’ll have him arrested for harassment.”
Her husband exchanged a puzzled glance with Drayco, who said, “My apologies for disturbing Mrs. Gatewood.”
Winthrop, with Vesta Mae trailing behind, walked Drayco to the door held open by a scrawny man in a chauffer’s uniform, smoking a cigar. Vesta Mae pointed to Drayco, “Faris, make sure this fellow leaves as quickly as possible and lock the gate behind him.”
Winthrop Gatewood squinted at the chauffeur and shook Drayco’s hand. Drayco drove out the gate and watched in his rearview mirror as Faris fastened the lock while Winthrop stood staring back toward the house. Vesta Mae, however, was nowhere to be seen.
18
Drayco mulled over his encounter with the Gatewoods all the way back to the Lazy Crab. He touched off a nerve with his questions. Yet, he still didn’t have a clue as to why she invited him in the first place. Somehow, he didn’t think it was to provide musical entertainment.
During a quick shower and change of clothes, he still couldn’t get Vesta Mae’s reactions out of his mind. Sailor said she had mental and emotional problems, yet she seemed fine until he mentioned the pocket watch and locket. And Beth.
Walking down the B&B’s stairs, past the gallery of black-and-white photos of Cape Unity on the walls, he smiled in appreciation at his waiting “date.” He’d never seen Maida in a dress and didn’t know she owned any, other than a liturgical surplice. As they drove away, Maida waved at Lucy and Virginia framed inside one of the Lazy Crab’s windows.
“It’s so nice of you to take me out to that new restaurant for supper, Scott. And thoughtful of Lucy and Virginia to look after the Crab. I’ll be relieved when the Major gets back. I hate having to impose on others when the need arises.”
“Will that be soon?”
“Next week, we hope. His sister is getting better.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ll bet you don’t go out to eat often.”
“Hazards of the trade.” She lifted the lid on a box she brought with her and took a quick look.
“Well, you’re a vision in red, Maida. But is that basil perfume I smell?”
Maida reached into the box and pulled out a packet of herbs wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. She hummed “My Favorite Things” from the Sound of Music. “Since we have extra time, didn’t think you’d mind if we dropped by Iris Quintier’s house.”
Maida’s ulterior motives were well-timed, if not subtle. Th
ey’d discussed the Quintiers earlier in the day, with Drayco wondering how best to approach them and not cause more trouble for the sheriff. He tried not to laugh. “An emergency herb delivery, Maida?”
“An herb exchange. She grows some I don’t and vice versa.”
Drayco followed Maida’s directions until they pulled in front of one of the few contemporary house designs he’d seen in Cape Unity, more accustomed as it was to Cape Cods and Victorians. In another location, it would be interesting. Here, it was like a prose poem slipped into a book of verse. They walked past a fountain cascading over a Henry Moore-like sculpture and were greeted by an open door before they had a chance to knock.
Iris Quintier was chronologically forty-something but must be uncomfortable with the fact. Her hair was a color of blond not seen in nature, and she was wearing form-fitting jeans with a midriff-baring purple tube top. Her makeup brought to mind images of Tammy Fay Baker’s kaleidoscopic facial plaster. Except more of it.
Maida handed her the herb bundle, and Iris gave Maida a fragrant box in return. Maida introduced Drayco, but Iris already knew who he was. She smiled up at him and batted caterpillar eyelashes. “I’ve been wanting to meet you, Scott. The accounts didn’t do you justice.”
Maida stifled a giggle.
Drayco said, “It’s nice to meet you, as well, Mrs. Quintier. I was discussing your husband with Sheriff Sailor. About the Sterlings and their unfortunate deaths.”
Iris stiffened, then flounced over to a backless sofa near the free-standing fireplace and gestured toward the other chairs for Drayco and Maida to join her. “I didn’t have much to do with the Sterlings. Not after Beth butchered me and ruined my chances of having babies.”
Maida gave him an apologetic “I probably should have mentioned that” look.
Drayco said, “I hadn’t heard. I’m sorry about your loss.”
Iris’s voice was dripping with venom. “She caused me to miscarry, and I wasn’t able to conceive after that. She should have been arrested or sued or had her license revoked. Everyone thinks she’s a saint. No one would take my side.”
“We’ve been through that before, Iris. You should let it rest.” Caleb Quintier managed to enter the room without making a sound and walked to his wife, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. “Evening, Maida. I’m guessing this gentleman is none other than Scott Ian Drayco.” He shot a quick, piercing look at his wife, who buried herself deeper into the sofa’s cushions and stared at the floor.
Quintier hadn’t just heard of Drayco, he did a little investigating. Drayco’s middle name hadn’t been printed in the papers.
Caleb was dressed in more age-appropriate fashion than his wife, a white cotton sport coat over a conservative navy blue shirt tucked into unwrinkled tailored slacks. He had the air of sporting a perpetual smile even when he wasn’t.
He addressed Drayco. “This talk of Beth Sterling makes me think you’ve been chatting with our good Sheriff Sailor, Mr. Drayco.”
“We came across a ledger at Beth Sterling’s house with your name in it. According to the sheriff, you told him Arnold Sterling was involved in a business venture of yours.”
Caleb eased himself onto the sofa, the regal king of the jungle with no predators and nothing to fear. He moved his hand onto the armrest, offering a glimpse of the holstered gun under his sport coat he didn’t bother concealing. “Sterling wasn’t savvy about money. I loaned him cash to start his own company, but he lost it all. Bad luck, really.”
Knowing one of the shady hats Quintier wore was loan shark, bad luck had nothing to do with it. Drayco asked, “Beth was paying you back, wasn’t she?”
“We were close to square when she died. And the pittance remaining is barely enough to buy a set of Wusthof boning knives. Arnold was lucky to have Beth. She kept him out of trouble.”
“And what type of trouble might that be?”
“Let me tell you about this area around here, Mr. Drayco. You’ve got a lot of desperate people, the bottom feeders. Easy prey to more cunning animals. It’s a game as old as the cavemen, and if you want to survive, you learn to play it well. Arnold Sterling lacked the skills to play the game.”
“So he was a bottom feeder.”
Caleb’s lips parted in a smile that showed off rows of gleaming white teeth. “Worse. Arnold Sterling was plankton.”
Drayco leaned forward. “Plankton don’t end up with wires wrapped around their microscopic necks. Unless they owe money to other plankton.”
Caleb chuckled. “I like the sound of that. A tiny plankton mafia.” Caleb’s voice was the color of smooth, polished coral. It wasn’t often Drayco encountered a voice that didn’t match its owner, didn’t match those peppery eyes watching every move he made.
Drayco picked up a small cowrie seashell on the end table next to him, ran his finger along the sharp inner edge, then set it back down. “If the innocent plankton population have an advocate as capable as Sheriff Sailor, the plankton mafia should be very worried.”
“Then obviously, they’re not doing it right.” Caleb stood up and walked to the end table. He picked up the cowrie and threw it into the fireplace. “Never liked those. Too bothersome.”
Drayco looked at Iris out of the corner of his eye. She slouched further in her seat, nibbling on her cuticles. Drayco said, “Well, we don’t want to be bothersome, do we, Maida?” He checked his watch. They needed to make their reservation time, anyway.
Quintier leaned against the fireplace. “I’m glad to see you appreciate the little niceties, Mr. Drayco. So few of the people I encounter show such good judgment.”
He motioned for Iris to join him as they walked Drayco and Maida to the door. “I doubt I’ll be seeing much of you, Mr. Drayco, but I’ve enjoyed our chat.”
“Oh, I imagine we’ll cross paths. Or I should say cross poles since we seem to share an interest in fishing.”
When they were out of earshot back in the car, Maida said, “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
“If you mean able to stay one step ahead of the law and proud of it, yes.” And after looking up the license plate on that D.C. car he’d seen visiting Quintier’s office, he was beginning to understand why. The plate was registered to the brother of a U.S. Senator.
Maida shivered. “I hope you don’t have many dealings with him. Promise me you’ll stay out of his way.”
He didn’t mention his surveillance the other day. “I consider myself duly warned.”
She settled back into her seat and said, “Well, the seafood chowder at The Captain’s Table is getting rave reviews.”
“It’s impossible to imagine anyone’s being better than yours.”
She beamed. “Thanks, Scott. Not just for dinner. For being nice to Lucy and Virginia and not dismissing their concerns out of hand. Despite Lucy’s hostility. I know you’re checking into it as a favor to me. But it still means a lot.”
A flock of pink-billed ibis flew over the car. Their agitated honking made Drayco look for a source, and he spied it perched high in a loblolly pine tree. A red-tailed hawk. Plankton, hawks, Quintier, all part of the food-chain follies. He rolled up the windows and cranked up the air conditioning. No need to get all hot and bothered by heat or deceit. And he was decidedly looking forward to that seafood chowder to get the sour tang of Quintier off his mental palate.
He wasn’t sure which of the Quintiers intrigued him more. Caleb had reason to kill Sterling, Iris had reason to kill Beth. And always the outlier was one young girl in a wheelchair—although Virginia, Lucy, Vesta Mae, and Iris did have some ties back to Beth.
There was one other tie they had. The cowrie shell in Quintier’s home wasn’t the only item on that table. Right next to it lay the now-familiar little book of classic poems.
Saturday 11 July
“Sorry to get you up so early on a Saturday,” Drayco apologized, though he liked this time of morning. Or earlier, when he could catch a glimpse of Cassiopeia, Perseus, or Draco, the dragon.
Barry F
arland grinned. “The light in the morning makes for good painting. Besides, I enjoy the time Dad and I have to ourselves. Before the customers drop off their broken anniversary necklaces. Or heirloom clocks stuck on twelve. Or Rolex watches stepped on by owners who have more money than sense.”
“Do you really get a lot of Rolex watches in an area like this?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Doesn’t your father have weekends off?”
“You kidding? Dad works long hours, seven days of the week. I stay with him until noon and man the front desk while Dad stays in his workshop. I call it his Cave of Solitude. Kinda like Superman.”
“And in the afternoons?”
“No one can drop anything off after then, ’cause that’s when I head off to Haffey's Auto Body.”
It was easy to understand why Barry’s antisocial father avoided dealing with customers whining over their precious broken trinket as if it were a disobedient child. Some days Drayco would just as soon punt his own demanding clients and hunker alone with the piano, playing for as long as his mangled arm would allow.
Business was slow on Saturday mornings, which is why Barry had said Virginia and Drayco could stop by. Virginia volunteered to help with customers, writing detailed descriptions of their problems with the intensity of a court reporter using a steno machine, even making drawings.
She’d brought some of her latest sketches she offered to Drayco wordlessly. Her eyes fixed on his face, an unspoken “What do you think?” hung in the air.
He’d developed a repertoire of diplomatic replies when asked that question by people who happened to be the parent of the most talented child in the universe. In Virginia’s case, it wasn’t necessary. She genuinely did have talent, and he told her so. She seemed satisfied with his response, clutching the sketches as she and Barry headed off to the kitchen table to pore over their art work.