Requiem for Innocence

by BV Lawson

  “I don’t have to cast around for them. They practically jump in the boat.”

  “With greenbacks as bait.”

  “They seem to find it more appealing than worms. You’ll find trying to reel me in for the murder of Arnold Sterling is a waste of effort. As I’m sure the sheriff understands.”

  Drayco spotted the empty bait tanks. Should have stopped by Limping Mikes first. “You’ve caught a wide variety of fish in your day. Freaky Farland. Perhaps Cole Harston. Among others.”

  Quintier tilted his head toward the sky. “Plenty of sunshine we’ve had lately. It’s easy to get burned if you’re not careful.”

  “I put on sunscreen. Farland and Harston didn’t?”

  Quintier’s taut smile never wavered. “Pathetic cases, those two. Freaky and I had some minor business matters with IOUs, but he paid up on time. Not the same with Cole. He owed me twenty-five grand when he died. Divine justice intervened with them both. Freaky tried to blow up Arnold and has to live with the scars. Cole had a painful, drawn-out death. Fate has a way of evening up the score for me.”

  “I doubt you wrote off Cole’s debt on a Schedule C for the IRS. You weren’t tempted to settle that score some other way?”

  “And do what—take away the hovel of a destitute widow and her crippled kid? I may be what some call a hard-nosed wheeler-dealer, but that’s business. I’m not a monster.” He turned the back of his head to Drayco. “See? No horns.”

  No visible ones. Maybe removed at birth. “I imagine you have to cast a wide net to be successful. Eventually, you’ll run out of ‘clients’ on the Eastern Shore and need to spread out, over to D.C., say. Do the names Abby Ahlgren, Neal Radcliff, Reggie Munez, and Marcus Laessig mean anything to you?”

  Quintier’s face didn’t register any recognition of the four D.C. murder victims. “If you give me their business cards, I’ll be sure and look them up. Thanks for the referrals.”

  Drayco stood to stretch his legs and walk over to the cockpit. Must have taken several of Quintier’s weak fish to pay for those extras on the instrument panel. And did anyone need LCD TV on a fishing boat?

  “Getting back to Beth Sterling. Did you have any business dealings with her or just her husband?”

  “Just the husband, other than the checks she wrote each month.”

  “Any personal business with Beth, then?”

  Quintier let out a booming laugh. “You aren’t subtle with your fishing style, are you? You’re wondering if we had an affair? No, we didn’t. Not that I would have minded, she had a nice package.” He used his hands to draw a well-rounded hourglass.

  “You said you didn’t share your wife’s antipathy toward Beth. You didn’t blame her for the miscarriage?”

  “It’s not like I would have minded. Was never into that whole kid thing, and it was no skin off my nose. So you see? I had more reasons to want Beth alive than not. To keep those checks coming. And maybe score some day. I was willing to give the grieving widow breathing room.”

  Quintier glanced at his Rolex. “Speaking of time, I’m afraid our expedition has to end. My business calendar is always in a state of flux. I hardly have a day off.”

  As they headed back toward shore, Drayco had to raise his voice to be heard over the engine. “One more question. How much money did Arnold Sterling owe you that Beth was paying back?”

  “Around two hundred fifty.”

  “Thousand?” Drayco never imagined Sterling could get in that deep. Such an amount divided by a dozen years would be over twenty grand per year. Drayco had checked on the average income of a rural nurse midwife in the state. Decent, but after taxes and with normal household debts added to Arnold’s expensive vices, hardly enough to cover everything. Making Beth’s “lottery” money all the more necessary.

  Maybe Beth taking in Barry Farland wasn’t motivated so much by pity for the boy as a subconscious realization she made the wrong choice in picking Arnold over Barry’s father. How much different her life, and Barry’s, and Freaky’s might have been. The choices we make.

  Monday 13 July

  Four months ago, he was in town for another funeral at this church. It was one of the oldest buildings in town, dating back to 1899, built after the original 1823 sanctuary burned to the ground. Scored stucco covered the Romanesque Revival structure, imitating white stones. The rounded archways were typical, but they were outclassed by the two Tiffany windows added in 1915—back when the town prospered from the train and steamboat trade from the north.

  Funerals were investigator microcosms, with fascinating mini-dramas taking place among the attendees. Sometimes all it took was a glance, a slight shift in posture, or a sudden silence to glean the storylines. This was never more important than at funerals for murder victims where Drayco spent most of his time scanning the crowds. And it was a good-sized crowd, despite the muggy morning and the fact it was a workday. Beth had touched many lives through her nursing practice.

  Funerals also produced a surprising roll call. The first unexpected guest was Winthrop Gatewood, dropped off by his chauffeur, Faris Usher. Gatewood spotted Beth’s brother-in-law Trenton Sterling and headed over to have a word. Drayco maneuvered himself closer to observe as Trenton gave Gatewood the same smile he flashed at everyone expressing their condolences. What could the man say to these strangers other than “thanks for coming?”

  Gatewood gripped Sterling’s shoulder. “Your brother Arnold and his wife were my tenants for such a long time, I considered them extended family.”

  Trenton was no doubt experiencing mourner fatigue by now, but he smiled politely. “Well,” Gatewood continued, “If you need anything else while you’re in town, give me a call.”

  He disappeared into the church, and Trenton turned to Drayco, shaking his head. “He didn’t bring his wife. Beth once told me she hadn’t seen that woman in years.”

  Drayco had noticed, too. “Could be her call—it’s possible she has a touch of agoraphobia.”

  “Maida said Mrs. Gatewood used to be quite the socialite, so if it’s agoraphobia, it’s recent. Could be more mundane, like alcohol or drugs.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gossip at a funeral. Not very fitting.”

  Trenton turned to talk with one of Beth’s former patients, and Drayco resumed scanning. If Gatewood were a wild card to attend Beth’s funeral, the two other curiosities who showed up were more like fifth and sixth aces in a traditional deck. Caleb Quintier moved with his usual catlike grace through the crowds, greeting the few friends who would acknowledge him.

  Freaky Farland was there, too, sitting in his car at the edge of the parking lot. Farland waited until everyone entered the building, then he ducked in and sat in the back on the left side, with Drayco on the back right. Farland wore a hat that cast a shadow across his face but removed it once the service began.

  The surprises didn’t end with unexpected guests. In a late-night discussion with Maida, he learned Lucy Harston spent years being tired, depressed, and burdened with the disappointments in her life. Not the type to enjoy being the center of attention. But here she was giving the eulogy, something he expected lay pastor Maida to offer instead.

  Lucy stood in front of the crowd, not reading a prepared speech. She made eye contact with everyone in the room as she spoke movingly of Beth’s life and the impact she had on others. Was her new self-esteem due to recent tentative forays into the local theater scene, via an audition at the Bay Street Playhouse? Or the attentions of one Reece Wable?

  She ended her comments with the words, “And there was not a finer friend anyone could hope to have.” Then she took her seat on the front row next to Virginia who whispered in her ear and put her arm around her mother’s shoulders.

  Drayco was sitting on a back pew on the far right side, with Freaky on the left. Not so far apart Drayco couldn’t see the other man wiping his eyes. Unlike Lucy, Freaky avoided catching anyone’s gaze and left the building during the benediction when everyone else had their heads bowed.

&
nbsp; As the crowd shuffled out of the church, Reece sidled up to Drayco while staring at Caleb Quintier. “Who’d have thunk it? The Evil One himself, acting like he’s Charlie Churchgoer. Maybe he’s here to rob the donation box.”

  “Maybe his feelings toward Beth went deeper than lust.”

  Reece craned his neck. “Have you met Quintier’s wife, Iris? I don’t see her.”

  “We’ve met. A grounded swan with clipped wings.”

  “A former high school cheerleader, if you can believe it. Homecoming Queen, too. Not that she was the squeaky-clean Miss America type. The usual teenage scene of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Guess Iris hoped Caleb was her ticket to the big time.”

  “Looks more like a ticket to permanent detention. Iris is damned if she stays, damned if she leaves.”

  “She hated Beth Sterling. Intensely, from what Lucy tells me.”

  “Lucy again, Reece? Are you dating now?”

  Reece blushed, to Drayco’s intense amusement, and stuck out his tongue. “I should ask the same thing about you and Darcie Squier. Fair is fair.”

  “She’s still married, Reece. If not for long.”

  “Hasn’t stopped people before.”

  The arrival of Virginia and Lucy Harston saved Drayco from having to reply. Reece reached out to hold Lucy’s hand, which Virginia seemed intent on ignoring. The girl carried the book of poetry she showed him at her house, from which Lucy had read “No Coward Soul Is Mine” by Emily Bronte.

  The girl looked up at Drayco for a moment. “You were in the FBI, weren’t you?”

  “For ten years.”

  “So you know that science-y CSI stuff about bodies and what are we made of and what happens when we die?”

  “From a biological standpoint, yes.”

  “What about what Emily Bronte says here,” she held up the book and read from a bookmarked page, “There is not room for Death nor atom that his might could render void. Since thou art Being and Breath, and what thou art may never be destroyed.” She put the book down. “Is that true?”

  He asked his uncle the same question after the death of Casey, a question he wanted to ask his absentee father. The uncle did his best, drawing upon his college philosophy classes. Drayco replied, “If it’s a theological answer you’re looking for, Maida is your best bet.”

  “I know all that. But what do you say?”

  A smile tugged at his lips over the young girl’s grit. “Speaking scientifically, bodies contain energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It changes from one form into another. So from that standpoint, the answer to your question would be yes. Technically, we’re all eternal.”

  She pondered that for a moment, then seemed satisfied. “Okay.” She started to wheel away, then added, “You’re coming to the wake, aren’t you? Reece is letting us hold it at the Historical Society.”

  With her hopeful look and Reece’s friendly nod, Drayco figured two out of three constituted a majority. He took one last study of the thinning crowd, not surprised Freaky and Quintier were long gone. Yet there was one face he hadn’t seen. “I haven’t bumped into Barry Farland.”

  Virginia frowned and looked around. “Bear must be here somewhere. Guess he had to go back to work.”

  Drayco was positive he’d never once seen the boy, and he had the advantage of sitting in the back of the church. Surely he’d want to be at the funeral of a woman he considered a mother figure. So where the hell was Barry Farland?

  26

  After driving Trenton Sterling to the Salisbury airport to catch a puddle-jumper to Philadelphia and then on to Toronto, Drayco headed to Beth Sterling’s house. Nelia was in her usual deputy brown when she greeted Drayco at the door.

  He said, “Here I was expecting our resident literary lawman and instead I find his most capable and comely assistant. Is the good sheriff tired of swatting the pesky P.I. fly?”

  Nelia reached around the door and held out a fly swatter, grinning. “Sailor had a meeting with the Chairman of the County Board of Supervisors. Sends his regards.”

  She returned the swatter to its hook. “He filled me in on your suspicions regarding Beth Sterling’s accident. What is it you’re looking for today?”

  “I’m not entirely sure. Maybe something we missed last time. At the very least, I’d like to get a better feel for who the Sterlings really were. A person’s belongings speak louder than words.”

  “You mean, we are what we keep?”

  He groaned. “My fault. I started the whole pun thing. But yeah, we are what we keep.” He sniffed the air. Eucalyptus. Probably an air freshener. “Trenton Sterling said he’d take out the trash. No landfill aroma this time.”

  Nelia asked, “So you’ve investigated the obvious places. Did you check her makeup drawer?”

  “Makeup?”

  “If a woman was trying to hide something from a man, she might put it there or in her underwear drawer.”

  “We didn’t find anything unusual, but we may have missed something.”

  “Then that’s where I’ll start.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll re-check her office for more goodies.”

  Drayco walked to the center of the office, studying every square inch from floor to ceiling. Why did Beth organize her personal space in a compulsive manner? A reaction to her untidy life? It started with the white curtains next to ecru walls in rooms filled with alabaster or cream-colored furniture. As if trying to purge the house of some evil by draining it of the colors of temptation.

  There were few knick-knacks, save for functional ones—a clock, a pencil holder, a lamp. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was the spiritual descendant of the early-American Shakers. ’Tis a gift to be simple.

  The books—all reference and medical, no novels—were organized in order alphabetically by title. As he studied the bookshelves, something had changed since his last visit. Beth’s obsessive neatness extended to how she arranged the volumes, each spine pulled flush to the shelf edge. Some of the books were now pushed back a few inches. He checked behind the rows. Nothing. And the lack of spaces made it appear no books were missing.

  When he checked the desk, the spider-web stress ball was still there. But the two items he expected to find—the pocket watch and locket—weren’t. He opened the bottom drawers where Beth kept the files with the receipts. He searched through the folders on his first visit but kept them in the same layout, spaced equidistant from the next. Now, the folders had much more haphazard spacing between.

  Nelia rejoined him, her hands empty. “Find anything?”

  “Did the sheriff come back and remove anything from the house?”

  “He was only here the one time, with you. The sheriff and Trenton Sterling came to an agreement everything would be left as is. Except for the trash.”

  Drayco opened the remainder of the drawers to no avail. “There was a pocket watch and locket I left on top of the desk. They’re gone.”

  “They weren’t in the bathroom. Or her bedroom. Nothing much helpful at all. Unless some items were stolen from there, too.”

  “If neither the sheriff nor Trenton took those items, that leaves landlord Gatewood. Or one of Arnold’s creditors looking for payback.”

  Nelia chewed on her lip. “It’s not impossible Gatewood was here. But he told Trenton Sterling he didn’t want to intrude on family privacy until Trenton returned. Frankly, I think Gatewood wants to avoid possible lawsuits.”

  Drayco examined the windows. Locked from the inside, unlike his last visit. “Any signs of a break-in when you arrived?”

  “Not at the main door.”

  They walked together around the exterior of the small rambler. No evidence of forced entry. Gatewood was the type of landlord who kept his properties well-maintained, likely as an investment more than anything. The yellow vinyl siding and grayish-green slate roof were new, the double-glazed windows not cheap. Drayco focused on the back yard. No sheds, no garages.

  “Tyler, did the sheriff mention Beth’s last wo
rds?”

  “You’re referring to the ‘look for it in the back’ thing?”

  “I’ve looked in the back of her car, cabinets, closets, no luck. Trenton Sterling was as mystified as I am.”

  “Is it possible Beth was delirious?”

  After initially considering the notion, he ultimately rejected it. He’d looked into the eyes of the mentally ill and the dying—everything from shifting fog as the last traces of a soul’s light faded, to the focused intensity of a deathbed confessional. Beth’s eyes were closer to the latter.

  “I’m not a medical expert, but no, I think she wanted me to find this item, whatever it is, for Virginia.”

  Drayco walked along the white picket fencing, until he spied a small mound in the back of the yard, covered with ivy. After pulling away the vines, he saw a metal hinged lid on top of the mound which he opened. Only darkness at the bottom. Nelia went to grab a flashlight from her cruiser, and they focused it into the murk.

  Drayco said, “Looks like a cistern. Bit on the dry side.”

  Nelia trained the light on the bottom. “We’re in the middle of a drought right now. Ten inches below normal rainfall.”

  Nelia’s radio squawked to life, and she handed the flashlight to Drayco. Problems with the sound quality made her head back to the cruiser. After a few short moments, she returned. “That was the boss. Lucy Harston gave the department a call after she got home from the funeral. Thinks someone was in her house while she was at the service. The pocket watch bandit strikes twice.”

  “Or someone read the obituary and knew which houses to hit.” Disappointed to see nothing but dirt, Drayco put the lid back on the cistern, and they headed to the front of the house.

  Nelia locked the front door. “What a neat freak. I can understand wanting to keep the office sanitary for her work. Most ob-gyn type offices are full of pictures of the mothers and babies. Wonder why Beth didn’t have any?”