by BV Lawson
Sterling and Maida exchanged one-liners about Canadian snowbirds who migrated to Florida each winter, occasionally even stopping through Cape Unity along the way. Maida stopped laughing to ask, “How long have you lived in Canada?”
Trenton apparently decided “don’t talk with your mouth full” wasn’t high on his list of childhood aphorisms. He answered her while munching on a good-sized bite of sour cream coffeecake, crumbs spewing everywhere. “A decade now. I work for a U.S. corporation that opened offices in Toronto. So my wife and I bundled up the kids and headed north of the border.”
Maida smiled at Drayco as he joined them at the table. She said to Sterling, “You must have loved both job and country if you’ve stayed this long.”
Her guest washed down the last of the coffeecake with a cup of the appropriately-named beverage. “It’s been great for us. But we didn’t get to visit my brother and his wife often.”
Drayco sat on the opposite side of Trenton and pointed to the Eastern Shore Post on the table. It was folded over with an obituary notice circled in red. “I see the funeral service for Beth is tomorrow.”
“It’s the only day we could schedule. I have two days in town, then catch a plane immediately after the funeral. Good thing the medical examiner was able to release Beth’s body in time.”
Drayco had checked with the sheriff regarding Beth’s autopsy. Nothing out of the ordinary. The chemical contents of her stomach verified the BAC and odor of gin on her body.
“The M.E. found no signs of heart attack or stroke. Nor obvious signs of foul play. I guess the sheriff informed you of the blood alcohol level?”
“I was stunned. My sister-in-law is the last person I would peg for DUI. Life with my brother wasn’t a picnic, I admit. Beth never impressed me as being weak. On the contrary—she was the only rock in that pair.”
“Maida told me Arnold didn’t grow up in Cape Unity. Why did he settle here?”
“He moved to the Tidewater area for lucrative fishing jobs. Turns out he was a lousy fisherman. I don’t know why he settled in this town, other than he could be a big fish in a little pond. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
Trenton started on a second piece of coffeecake, stuffing another large bite into his mouth. Did Maida spike her food with an addictive drug? Drayco segued from one addiction to another. “Were you aware of your brother’s gambling?”
The senior Sterling pushed his plate away, jabbing at crumbs with the tip of his finger, then licking his fingers. “A family scandal. My parents were devastated. They’re both deceased now—heart problems. And who knows? Maybe Arnold’s behavior sent them to their graves early. I suppose we still loved him, though he only contacted us when he needed money. We gave it gladly at first. When we realized what he was doing with it, we stopped.”
“Beth was making good on his debts. Something about lottery winnings?”
“That’s what Beth told us years ago before we moved to Canada. Said she was putting the money into her account so Arnold couldn’t touch it. Must have used it up on those debts, because their rental house wasn’t a palace. It’s all they had. Though Beth did mention a small cottage her grandfather left her. I believe she sold it over a decade ago.”
“Did Arnold or Beth mention the names Farland or Quintier?”
To Drayco’s surprise, Trenton answered in the affirmative. “Quintier—sounds like it has a French origin of some kind, doesn’t it? Or French-Canadian. That was a name I found out by accident, and it was not under the best of circumstances. And Farland, that’s the name of the boy she took in for a year. Beth had a kind heart. Bless my brother’s soul, I do think Beth could have done much better.”
“When you say not the best of circumstances, are you referring to Quintier’s gambling racket? Or his so-called investment schemes?”
“Neither. During one of my infrequent visits a few years ago, Arnold had been drinking heavily. He confessed he was asked by Quintier to join him in wife-swapping.”
So Imler wasn’t too far off with his comment about Quintier and Beth. Quintier was full of such wholesome qualities. Drayco said, “You mean in a sexual context, not a permanent arrangement.”
“I believe so, yes. I think Arnold was tempted, but the wives put their four feet down hard. And I say, good for them.”
Maida, hovering in the background when she wasn’t bringing in more food, picked up the empty breakfast plates on the table with a loud “Humph.” She piled each one on top of the other with a crescendo of ever-louder clinks. “Wife-swapping indeed. As if Beth were a piece of worthless property. Iris too.”
Drayco smiled as he imagined the hapless Major Jepson proposing such a thing only to have his head, if not other body parts, promptly chopped off by wife Maida. As if Major would. There was a much greater chance of a NASA probe discovering moon muenster.
Trenton’s revelation was another reason for Quintier to wish the Sterlings harm since his little proposition failed. Quintier’s continued fascination with Beth Sterling was surprising. And was this the first wife-swapping plan Arnold entertained? It was hard to envision Beth agreeing to any such arrangements.
Drayco asked, “Who else might have a beef with Arnold or Beth? Recent, or going back several years.”
Trenton didn’t hesitate when he replied, “He didn’t run around in the most law-abiding circles. But no one by name.”
“Thankfully, Beth had friends to watch her back.”
Trenton beamed at having something positive to discuss. “She did indeed. Lots of grateful patients like that woman with the handicapped child—Lucy, is it? She’s going to speak at the funeral.”
Drayco asked, “What’s to become of Arnold and Beth’s belongings?”
“I’ll deal with that some other time. I signed a three-month lease with their landlord, Mr. Gatewood, to have breathing room.” Sterling reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass key. “The sheriff thinks it would be okay to loan this to you. I gave him a copy. It opens the front door to the house.”
Drayco crammed the key in his pocket. Was this the same key found on Beth’s body? He’d witnessed the gamut of personal effects taken off corpses, from acid bottles and used condoms to Bibles in Hindi. And a five-leaf clover. No one gives much thought to the things they carry around that might accompany them in death.
Beth didn’t have much on her when found in that mangled car—the house key and a small red wallet with her driver’s license and fifteen dollars and seven cents. Hardly the kind of possessions to indicate that one Beth Sterling, aged forty-three, had existed in any realm other than a morgue.
23
Iris Quintier hated Sunday mornings. They reminded her of church as a child, learning the many ways she was headed straight to hell. She wasn’t there yet, just felt like it. The bottle of Beefeater’s looked good. Where was the vermouth? And the olives? Life was always brighter with a martini.
Time to find the newspaper—the front section should be easy to digest, kinda like a martini chaser. She got half-way through the first page and then threw the paper across the room. Goddamn it, why did Caleb never take her side? Why did the few meals they had together anymore always have to end in an argument? She rubbed her temples. Damn headache.
At the sound of a car outside, she wondered if Caleb had changed his mind. She meandered over to the curtains and pulled back one corner. It wasn’t Caleb, it was a blue car, one she saw recently. A tall, youngish man climbed out and headed toward the door, and she peeled off her housecoat and slippers and threw them into the hall closet. She smoothed her dress and took a look at her hair in the mirror. She should have scheduled that hair appointment last week. More gray roots than a laundromat had quarters.
She opened the door. “What a nice surprise. I see Maida isn’t with you this time.”
Scott Drayco handed over a fragrant package. “She asked me to send her regards and give you these.”
“Do come in.”
###
Drayco spied newspapers
looking like they’d been crumpled up and thrown at the wall. A martini glass sat on a coffee table sans coaster, leaving a white ring that joined several other rings, like a geometric painting. Iris must have seen him looking at the glass, as she asked, “Would you like a martini? I make a pretty good one. Caleb buys the best, Cadenhead’s Old Raj gin. None of that vodka swill.”
Drayco made a note to find out if the M.E. pinpointed the type of gin found on Beth. “I’m still full from Maida’s cooking. She used some of your herbs in an omelet.”
“Coriander and chervil. Glad you enjoyed some of the fruits of my labor. Won’t you sit down?” She nestled back among the sofa pillows, glass in hand. “My bitter half isn’t home right now. This is Sunday, so he’s off in his boat. I detest that boat. Reeks of rotting fish and slime.”
From Iris’s slurring and half-mast eyes, it was clear the martini wasn’t her first of the day. Drayco stole a peek at his watch—one o’clock. “I’ll catch up with Caleb another time. I’m curious about something you said last time I was here. Concerning Beth and your association with her.”
“Association?” Iris spat out the word like it was poison. “More like assassination. I trusted that woman. She was oh so highly recommended, so why the hell not? I started having bleeding and pain and went to her in a panic. She told me I’d expelled the fetus. So I go to a real doctor, and he says I can’t get pregnant anymore. Don’t know what she did, but I know it was her fault.”
Freaky Farland’s words echoed back to Drayco, that the doctor found a genetic problem with Iris. But Iris needed someone to blame. Maybe it was a pattern with her, to hold reality at arm’s length in order to cope.
Iris’s glass was empty, and she got up to mix another drink. “Beth shoulda been forced out of practice. So what happened to me doesn’t happen to anyone else. The state board is filled with wimps because they wouldn’t do a goddamn bloody thing. So I filed a lawsuit. That’ll teach her, I said. I asked some of Beth’s other patients to join me. Lucy Harston and Vesta Mae Gatewood.”
“Why those two in particular?”
“You see how Virginia Harston turned out. The way I figured it, Beth must have done something to her to cause that to happen. Vesta Mae’s boy died a few years later, maybe Beth’s incompetence messed up his immune system. Made him so he couldn’t ward off that bug that killed him. Those women were cowards. Wouldn’t join me.”
She slurred more words together. Was this martini number four or five? Or six. She plonked back onto the sofa and abandoned any remaining ladylike pretense, sitting with her legs wide open. “Do you have any kids, Scott?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Shame.” She winked at him. “’Cause you have the right equipment. Looks like great baby-making material from here.”
She speared the olive and swallowed it in one gulp, with more of the alcohol to ease its journey. “Caleb forbid me to pursue the lawsuit. Said it would be bad for his business. Business—ha. He didn’t want any negative publicity. He has a certain ... image he wants to maintain.”
Drayco asked, “Did Caleb want children too?”
“Nah, never said boo. Hell, it wouldn’t have fit in with his image.”
She smiled at him over the rim of the glass while running her tongue around the edge. “I’ll bet you know how to respect a lady. Caleb never respected me. If he did, he wouldn’t ask me to get involved in any of that kinky shit.”
How could he pursue that comment without learning more than he wanted to know, with an inebriated Iris providing every sordid detail? Iris saved him the trouble.
“You’re not married, so maybe you haven’t heard of swinging partners. And I’m not talking square dancing. Damned if I was going to let him have a crack at Beth Sterling, of all people. And how he thought I’d be interested in that good-for-nothing slab of fat Arnold is beyond me. He’s worse than Caleb.”
“I take it this, ah, arrangement, fell through.”
“Damn straight.”
“How long ago?”
“Three years.” She lowered the gin glass to her lap and swirled the small bit of liquid left, staring at the pattern as if mesmerized. “I won the battle and lost the war. Caleb hasn’t looked at me the same way since.”
“I imagine he was upset with the Sterlings over the crimp in his plans.”
“I suppose.” She yawned. “Caleb’s never been much of a talker. Not touchy-feely. Hard to tell what he thinks. Since he never discusses business with me, there’s not much left to say.”
She swirled the liquid around in her glass, following the whirlpool with her rapidly-drooping eyes. “Bet you want to know if I’m sorry Beth is dead. Well, I’m not. Now she won’t get the chance to butcher anyone else and maybe Caleb’ll stop mooning over her. They should make a monument out of that car of hers. What’s left of it.”
She smiled. Not a leering, come-hither smile this time. Just the soft smile of a lonely woman happy to have someone listen to what she had to say for a change. He stood to shake her hand. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Quintier. Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.”
“My pleasure, Scott.”
As he headed out the door, he saw her still sitting on the couch, drink in hand, still smiling at some unseen enigma in her private, disjointed world.
24
Drayco’s last visit to the Cape Unity pier was to catch a March sunrise. There wasn’t much traffic then, just a solitary deck boat heading out to sea. What a difference a season made, with no less than two dozen watercraft putting around—jon boats, sailboats, catamarans, power boats, and one impressive yacht. What better way to spend a blazing hot weekend afternoon?
Drayco stopped to question an older sailor who pointed to the end of the dock. At the spot the man indicated stood a gleaming white cruiser with the name “Accrewed Interest” painted on the hull.
Caleb Quintier stood bent over one of the front seats and didn’t notice Drayco until he neared the starboard side. If Quintier was surprised or annoyed, his face didn’t register anything other than the same indifference Drayco saw on their first meeting.
Drayco said, “Nice boat. Going fishing?”
“Going out there somewhere,” Quintier waved his hand toward the horizon. “I might fish, I might not. Depends on my mood.” He eyed Drayco’s chinos and white button-up cotton shirt, not exactly sportswear. “You here to fish, Drayco?”
Drayco replied, “Lovely day for it.”
“Quite. Since you seem to be looking for a fishing expedition of some kind, and since I happen to have a boat, why don’t you join me. We won’t be gone more than a hour, as that’s all I can spare. What do you say?”
Drayco probably should have mentioned to someone he was heading off to see Quintier before setting sail alone with him. Still, plenty of witnesses around, and it was a golden opportunity to talk to Quintier one-on-one, sans wife, sheriff, or “business associates,” better known as goons. Off the record.
As Quintier’s engine cranked up, a second engine grew louder. Drayco looked skyward to see a small plane turning out over the water before marking a heading back across the peninsula. Quintier watched it until it faded to a speck in the distance. “Haven’t seen that one around here before,” he muttered.
“No doubt, a sightseeing flight. High-wings like that Cessna 182 make for great views.”
Quintier turned to Drayco. “You a pilot?”
“Private.”
“Hmm. That’s good to know.”
As Quintier maneuvered around the crisscrossing fleet of boats, the pier grew smaller in the background, giving Drayco his first view of the Cape Unity shoreline from the water. Contrary to Iris’s perceptions, Drayco smelled neither stale fish nor slime. Just an agreeable mix of new vinyl and briny sea spray.
Quintier spent a chunk of change on this boat, as much as some small houses. The powerful horses in the engine were making the shore disappear fast. They headed out to a spot Quintier calculated from his onboard GPS, surrounded by water
and only water, the lone speck in a field of aqua and seaweed-green. Quintier anchored the boat and turned off the motor.
Drayco asked, “A favorite fishing spot?”
Quintier smiled and eased himself onto one of the seats, wearing his relaxed confidence like a second skin. “This is a good spot for a lot of things. Quiet, secluded—a place where I can lose my problems quickly and efficiently.”
“It’s a couple of those problems I’d like to discuss.”
“I keep my problems to myself, Drayco.”
“So do I. But my client wanted me to check the circumstances surrounding Beth Sterling’s death. If it’s a suicide or accident, so be it.” So maybe Virginia wasn’t a “client,” technically, but she felt like one.
“I didn’t share my wife’s venom toward Beth. And I was sorry to hear she died. I’m not sure how that relates to me.”
“I saw your wife earlier when I dropped off some herbs from Maida. Iris said she wasn’t sorry Beth was dead. But that might have been the gin talking.”
Quintier pulled dark sunglasses out of his pocket and slid them on. “Iris is a very emotional woman, even by feminine standards. She’s all bark, no bite. I would appreciate it if the next time you want to see my wife, you’ll let me know in advance.” No “or else.” His tone said it for him.
The water slapped the sides of the boat, rocking it up and down. Good thing Drayco wasn’t prone to being seasick. “Arnold Sterling owed you a substantial chunk of change.”
“From the business investment I mentioned.”
“Which business would that be? Financial analyst? It’s odd I haven’t been able to find any business licenses for you locally or in the state records office. I gather you’re a freelancer of sorts.”
“Of sorts.”
Quintier’s amused expression didn’t change when Drayco asked, “Tell me—does it give you pleasure to reel in weak, diseased fish? Hardly sporting, since they’re so easy to catch.”