by BV Lawson
Drayco sought out Freaky in the Cave of Solitude. It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the room, darkened except for one intense light focused on a watch laid out on the workbench. Freaky pointed to a small backless chair where he should sit.
“I’ll give you fifteen minutes,” Freaky growled. “Don’t touch anything. Got my materials laid out in order. Let me finish this watch first, since I’m close to being done with it. The customer’s been calling every day for the last week.”
Drayco studied Freaky as he used an impossibly small tool to tweak an impossibly small gear inside the watch, using a jeweler’s headband magnifier. The darkness couldn’t conceal the reason for Freaky’s nickname. His face bore a burn victim’s mottled scars, his lips nearly rimless with pale pink slivers, his eyebrows nonexistent. And both ears missing. But the fact he could see, and that the skin around his eyes wasn’t scarred, pointed to the fact he must have worn some type of protective glasses that day. Things could have been a lot worse.
Drayco wasn’t squeamish. But focusing on that face in the inky room, surrounded by sharp instruments suitable for a torture chamber, made him jump when a creature vaulted into his lap. The tan-and-black-spotted animal had ears the size of small tents and easily weighed twenty-five pounds. It kneaded its paws into his leg several times before settling down. Drayco winced as the claws dug into his skin.
Freaky waved his hand toward the cat. “That’s Shoggoth, one of Barry’s zoo. Named after the Lovecraft monster. He says it’s a black Savannah. Animals are mysteriously attracted to Barry. I’ve lost count of how many cats and dogs he’s taken in. You should feel honored—Shoggoth is picky. Not usually friendly.”
Drayco rubbed the cat’s ears and fur, mindful of the claws. When his livelihood depended on the piano and having injury-free hands, he gave cats a wide berth. Old habits die hard. “Barry seems like a fine young man. And good to Virginia.”
Freaky formed the silvers of his lips into what passed for a slight smile. “Who doesn’t like Ginnie? She’s a jewel.”
“One reason it’s hard to see her upset. Like the day Beth Sterling died.”
Freaky stopped working for a moment, then grasped the small tool. “I was sorry to hear about Beth. She was a friend of Barry’s.”
No acknowledgment of his much-rumored deeper feelings, seemingly uninvolved and detached. Yet, the hand holding the tool trembled, where before it was as still as a surgeon’s scalpel.
“The sheriff feels Arnold’s death made her depressed and drove her to suicide.” Drayco waited for the impassioned defense of Beth he came to expect from her friends.
Freaky rubbed his forehead where his eyebrow should have been. “Could be. I wasn’t around either one of them much.”
“Yet your name was in an accounting ledger in Beth’s house.”
“Nothing much to tell. I loaned the Sterlings some money. Beth kindly looked after Barry when I had to spend time away from home.”
That was a different story from what he told the sheriff—that he did some work for the Sterlings and was being paid back. “Another name in that same book was Caleb Quintier. Ever run across him?”
Freaky concentrated on the watch. He appeared to be finished with it but picked at the case with his fingernail. “Caleb’s wife hated Beth.”
“The miscarriage?”
“What she doesn’t like to admit is some doctor told her it was genetic and wasn’t Beth’s fault. Caleb didn’t share his wife’s opinion. So maybe he loaned them money. It’s not like Arnold was a good provider.”
Freaky slammed the watch on the table. “Hell, call a spade a spade. Arnold was a gambler, a wastrel. Broke Beth’s spirit over time.”
Drayco let that one pass. Maida and the Harstons didn’t think Beth was broken in the slightest, although that watch might be. Again. “Other than Iris Quintier, who would want to hurt Beth?”
Freaky whipped his head around to stare at Drayco. “What do you mean?”
So Barry hadn’t shared what he found after inspecting Beth’s car. Afraid of what Freaky might do to someone he thought responsible? Or that Freaky himself was responsible—the man who’d taught Barry everything he knew about cars?
Shoggoth adjusted himself in Drayco’s lap, and the claws dug in. “Just covering all bases.”
“No one would want to hurt Beth. No one, you hear me?”
Barry bounded in, a marble mantel clock in hand. “Is this fixable, Dad? She says it’s old. And French.”
Freaky touched the decorative dial, running his fingers along the gold columns on either side. “That’s a beaut. Don’t get too many like those in here. Sure, I’ll work on it. A thoroughbred instead of my usual nags.”
Barry asked Drayco, “Is it okay if Virginia stays a little longer? I got a new book on Impressionism I want to show her. I can drop her off at home on my way to the body shop.”
Still respecting Maida’s trust in Barry, Drayco relented, and Barry bounded back toward the front of the house. Barry and Virginia might be a decade apart, but they shared more than a love of art. They were misfits in a society that worshiped physical beauty and perfection, touched by prejudice—Virginia directly and Barry indirectly through his father.
As if reading Drayco’s mind, Freaky said, “They’re a pair, aren’t they? Met through Beth. Something else I owe her.”
He pushed the watch aside and leaned on the workbench. “I been thinking about that suicide thing you mentioned. I don’t buy it. Not Beth. You’re a detective aren’t you, so let me tell you this. If suicide is what they’re going to put in the record books, then prove ’em wrong. And if somebody did this on purpose ...”
Freaky’s jaw tightened, and Drayco finished his sentence for him, “I’ll try to discover the truth.” As if on cue, Shoggoth got up and rubbed against Drayco’s chest, then sat on his hindquarters and stared intently at Drayco’s face. Even the cat was looking for answers from him.
20
Drayco counted the line of cars parked on both sides of the road in front of the Gatewoods’ house. Sixty-five. He never thought he’d be here so soon again after what happened last time. But Maida had assured him the call she took from Gatewood last evening was genuine, and the invitation was not a mistake.
So here he was, unsure of his welcome to the kind of party he hated. Like the last time he came to town, he’d avoided packing a necktie. A pair of black dress slacks and the one short-sleeved silk shirt he brought would have to do. He took a few deep breaths and looked around outside, anything to forestall the inevitable.
On his first trip to visit the Gatewoods, Drayco hadn’t paid much attention to the wooded area opposite the house. Blackened tree stumps spiked the ground like charred stalagmites. Three-foot tall saplings half-obscured the decaying remains of wax myrtle and beach plum trees, an indication the fire damage happened a few years ago. Lucky for the Gatewoods, the wildfire hadn’t jumped the road between, or it could have consumed their house.
With the Eastern Shore slipping into a drought cycle in the middle of a summer heat wave, he hoped there weren’t more wildfires. As the peak hurricane season approached in August and September, the cure might be worse than the illness.
Faris Usher had the same nondescript expression on his face, but this time, he welcomed Drayco inside instead of throwing him out. The gathering was in full swing, with the conversations of a hundred fifty people bouncing off the acoustically flat room with its standing slap echoes.
Gatherings like this were like groups of noisy magpies clustered together with their black-and-white plumage. Fitting that a group of magpies was called a tittering. But all those sounds in one space tended to throw Drayco off-balance. The sounds and clashing of the different colors and textures was like an auditory acid trip.
He spied Sheriff Sailor in another first—he’d seen Maida in a dress, and now the sheriff wore a suit. Above his blue plaid necktie, Sailor grimaced. “I hate these things. Receptions, afternoon teas, soirees, whatever you call ’em, I’d rat
her be staking out a crack house in mid-winter.”
Drayco said, “Maybe they’re serving pie.”
Sailor perked up. “You think?” As a dark-haired woman made a beeline in their direction, the sheriff added a muttered, “Uh oh.”
“What?”
“You’d better take a tip from those ’50s filmstrips and duck and cover. Here comes Darcie Squier.” The sheriff sized up the food table in the corner. “You’re on your own, Doc.”
Drayco straightened up as Darcie drew closer. Now there was a dress. No offense to Maida, but Darcie knew how to take a bunch of formless fabric and turn it into a body glove that hugged every curve. It looked like the dress was walking her.
“Mrs. Squier, I’m surprised to find you slumming with the celebrity equivalent of cubic zirconia.” Drayco scanned the room. “Come to think of it, I’d prefer to be at a first-grade piano recital.”
Darcie grabbed onto his arm. “You make it sound like you’re at a funeral. Lighten up, it’s a party. And you know how I love parties,” she said, with a wink. “Preferably smaller ones. Parties of two in particular.”
“It’s a party, all right. Gatewood went to a lot of trouble.” The Delmarva Peninsula was a fishing Mecca, but fried oysters and flounder were more common than the spread the sheriff headed for. Where had Gatewood found a fresh supply of sevruga caviar and Ahi tuna sushi?
Darcie was a human Border Collie, pulling him by the arm and herding him into a corner where she could have him alone. They ended up behind a large topiary potted plant shaped like a Christmas tree. “You clean up nicely, Scott. I’ll bet you’d look amazing in a tux.”
“I had my fill of penguin suits years ago. I prefer chinos.”
He tried not to look too closely at Darcie’s dress with her customary cleavage-bearing style. His pants were already a touch tighter than he liked, thanks to Maida’s cooking. Darcie wasn’t helping matters by pressing herself against him and rubbing his chest.
If he were brutally honest with himself, he’d admit he felt a connection to Darcie from the moment he laid eyes on her. And not because she looked like his ex-fiancée. Maybe it was those eyes of hers, hinting of a wounded soul that belied her drama-queen exterior. Or maybe it was her voice—the same texture and hue as red piano-damper felt, his favorite color.
She placed her lips next to his ear and whispered, “Randolph is staying at a house up in Salisbury until the divorce is final. Why don’t you stop by some evening.” She pulled back and smiled. “I serve a mean omelet breakfast.”
A different female voice at his side startled him. “Excuse us, Darcie. I have law enforcement business to discuss with Mr. Drayco,” and the owner of the voice motioned him toward a window at the other end of the room. Darcie’s eyes narrowed into slits. If she had a tail, it would be twitching. He felt a little sorry for her.
Nelia Tyler wasn’t Darcie’s opposite, yet the differences were striking. Her blond hair was pulled back in a professional chignon, and her dress was a simple blue cotton number. She’d wrangled a pair of high-heeled shoes accentuating shapely legs ordinarily hidden under her drab uniform.
“Sorry if I interrupted something important,” she said, not looking the least bit apologetic.
“Just making the social rounds.”
“Is this your first time inside Gatewood Villa, Drayco? And don’t you love that name? If you’re going to go all pretentious, why not name it Gatewood Castle?”
“I was here the other day when Vesta Mae Gatewood had me thrown out. Didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”
“Thrown out?”
“Guess I wore out my welcome.”
“Ah. Well, this fête is supposedly a thank you for local government and public service officials for the ‘fine work they do for Cape Unity.’ Or so the invitation said.”
“So why am I here?”
She laughed. “You’re adjunct public service, I guess. Or Gatewood wanted to make amends for his wife tossing out such an important person on his bum.”
As if on cue, Winthrop materialized out of the crowd, shaking hands as he went along. He stopped in front of Nelia and Drayco. “I’m so thrilled you could join us, Mr. Drayco. My wife’s behavior the other day was inexcusable. You have to understand, she’s a delicate creature.”
Nelia asked, “Is Mrs. Gatewood here?”
Gatewood shook his head. “She’s upstairs sleeping off one of her migraines and won’t be joining us.”
Nelia gave Drayco a funny look and said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Gatewood wore an air of perpetual resignation around him like a fashion accessory. It went well with his slight limp and world-weary wrinkles lining his brow. The effect served to elicit more attention and pats on the back from his fawning guests.
The snippets of conservation Drayco gleaned made it clear the sympathies of said guests lay with the long-suffering husband and not the long-vexing wife. Not surprising, since it was Winthrop’s signature on the checks handed out to local businesses.
From where he was standing, Drayco had a glimpse of the wedding photo that caught his attention last time. Remembering Gatewood’s promise, he asked the man, “What did your wife say regarding the locket and pocket watch?”
“I’m afraid you won’t find it helpful. She said she lost those items years ago and doesn’t know the exact date. Vesta Mae has always been careless with her belongings.”
“She hinted Beth Sterling had a history of theft. Are you sure she doesn’t think Beth stole the items instead?”
Gatewood pursed his lips. “Well, I don’t accept Beth Sterling was a thief. Poor Beth. A terrible tragedy. She and her husband lived in that house I rented them since they were married. And now they’re both gone. Fate is the cruelest landlord, is it not?” He made a small bow before excusing himself to the company of one of the town councilmen.
Drayco turned to Nelia, “If she’s such a hermit, how would she have lost a locket and pocket watch, both wedding keepsakes?”
Nelia poked a stray hair behind her ear. “If she’s living in a fantasy world caused by her mental illness, I’m not sure we can believe anything she says.”
“Unless she’s faking that illness.”
“You saw her in action, Drayco. You think it was an act?”
He’d been around clever criminals who’d gamed the system to fool psychiatrists, jury, and judge. But his encounter with Vesta Mae was too brief for an accurate reading of her mental state. “Right now I’d say it’s fifty-fifty. Any flies on our magisterial host?”
“Nope. One of the only philanthropists left in the area, with Randolph Squier facing jail time and Earl Yaegle moving away. Gives money to our department charity softball game to benefit youth programs.”
“I’m sure his efforts are appreciated, considering department cutbacks. But what was that look you gave me about Vesta Mae’s migraine?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s an excuse to avoid being around people. She was the social gadfly once, but as you pointed out, she’s now the opposite. I’ll bet she’ll be relieved when everyone’s gone. The only time I’ve seen her in public is at night.”
“A vampire?”
Nelia grinned. “Did you see fangs when she threw you out? I’m surprised she’s the weird one of the family, given Winthrop’s upbringing.”
Drayco grabbed a bottle of something green and carbonated from a man carrying a chiller of drinks. Better acid reflux than a DUI. “What kind of upbringing?”
“An authoritarian father who didn’t approve of his son. He was going to disinherit Winthrop when he reached his mid-forties and hadn’t accomplished enough, by his father’s calculations. Allegedly Gatewood senior issued an ultimatum—Winthrop had to give him an heir or else no more money.”
“And Vesta Mae was the lucky Cracker Jack prize.”
“They got married, nine months later she bore him a son. Bottom line, Winthrop got the money. Just in time, as Gibson Gatewood died a year after the birth of his g
randson.”
“The boy also died. Any hint of unnatural causes there? With Jacob deceased, Winthrop gets the entire estate.”
“I heard it was a routine case of pneumonia.”
Drayco nodded toward the adjacent room. “Vesta Mae keeps a picture of the child, Jacob, on a table. I got the impression she still hasn’t gotten over his death.”
“What parent does? Not that it’s easy losing any loved one,” Nelia said softly.
Drayco felt like kicking himself in the ass. He hadn’t thought to ask the sheriff how Nelia’s husband was faring. He researched primary progressive multiple sclerosis when he returned to D.C. in March, and the prognosis was grim. A few new research trials offered amelioration, no cure.
“I’m sorry, Tyler. How is your husband doing? Is he still getting around on crutches?”
The faltering smile told him plenty. “He has to use a wheelchair now but can meet his law clients at the office. And he’s on new meds. Fingers crossed they’ll help.”
“I can’t imagine how hideously frustrating that would be.”
She bit her lip. “Tim ... he doesn’t always handle it well.” She added, with a wistful look on her face, “Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t pursue my law degree. Too much student loan debt on top of medical bills.”
Sheriff Sailor joined them, plate in hand as he polished off a piece of some decadent-looking chocolate goo. “Not pie. Close enough.”
Drayco scrutinized the empty plate. “It’ll go straight to your thighs.”
Sailor scrunched up his face in protest. “Easy for you to say, Jack Sprat.” Noting Nelia and Drayco standing together, he added, louder this time, “Tyler’s husband may move to Cape Unity from Baltimore, isn’t that right? No more commuter marriage.”
Nelia’s smile was as half-masted as Sailor’s. “We’ve discussed it. He needs that job. And its generous insurance policy. Might have to stay put for now.”
“The department will help as much as we’re able, Tyler. But yeah, I’d imagine any health insurance is better than what we’ve got.” Turning to Drayco, the sheriff goaded, “So you managed to slip out of Darcie’s grasp. What’s your secret?”