by BV Lawson
“Maybe a cost thing—cameras and film before the age of digital. Still, it is odd.”
“Do you have children, Drayco?”
Iris Quintier asked him the same question. Coming from Nelia, it held a deeper meaning. Nelia was still young enough for kids, and yet here she was married to a disabled man with any hope of parenthood fading along with his deteriorating condition.
“Guess I never met the right woman.”
She chewed on her lower lip, giving him a slight smile. “Men don’t have ticking biological time bombs. But I hope you meet that right woman some day.”
“In the meantime, I’ll stick with my best girl, Leonora.”
Nelia looked toward the front yard. “That’s your Starfire, named after Beethoven’s heroine, right? Lucky lady.”
Was she joking? Of course, she must be. “All the luck I need is a break in this case. Or cases. We could be dealing with multiple killers.”
Drayco caught Nelia staring at him, so he held out his arm, pointing toward her squad car. “Tell you what, Tyler. I’ll make you a bet. I’m beginning to believe we’re dealing with two different killers, one in Washington, one in Cape Unity.”
He gave in to his subconscious instincts on that. For now. “And if I’m wrong, I’ll treat you to a couple rounds at Fiddler’s Green.”
“I’ll hold you to that, mister. I never forget a bet.” She turned toward her car, then hesitated. “You want to tag along at the Harstons?”
“I doubt Lucy would like that.”
“She hinted as much. Virginia wants you there.”
“Never let it be said I turned down an artistic damsel in distress.”
27
“First the incident with Virginia and now this. You must think I’m paranoid.” Lucy sat at the Harston’s kitchen table, her hands absently picking through a stack of flattened white paperboard bakery boxes.
Nelia gave Drayco a quick “She took the words right out of my mouth” look as she packed away lifting tape with its freshly captured powdered prints. Nelia said diplomatically, “It’s not unusual for burglaries to take place during funerals. But you say you haven’t found anything missing?”
Lucy pushed the stack of boxes away. “No, but the would-be thief couldn’t know we had nothing valuable. Guess I get the last laugh.”
As with Beth’s house, Drayco and Nelia found no signs of forced entry or ransacking—no items pulled haphazardly out of dressers, no closets hurriedly emptied. Nelia had taken fingerprints from the door and items Lucy thought may have been touched, but he wasn’t optimistic.
He asked Lucy, “Other than a few opened boxes and drawers and closet doors ajar, anything else out of whack?”
She shook her head. “I realize it’s not much to go on. And no one other than Virginia, me, and Reece has been in the house since you were here five days ago, Scott.”
They were on a first-name basis now. Progress in baby steps. He thought of the bookshelves in Beth’s office and headed toward the one bookcase he saw in Lucy’s house. “Do you have a spare glove, Tyler? If not, I’ve got a few in the car.”
Nelia wadded one up and threw it at him. “Catch.”
Drayco slipped on the blue nitrile glove, which barely fit his larger hands. Nelia came over out of curiosity. “What’s up?”
“Beth and Lucy share one thing in common—their habit of positioning books flush with the edges of shelves.” He pointed to the middle of each shelf. “These sections are out of kilter, the same as in Beth’s office. You can see the patterns in the dust on the tops of those books as if grabbed by fingers.”
He demonstrated on some of the untouched books. “You didn’t recently move the middle books on these shelves, did you, Lucy?”
Lucy’s neck flushed a pale pink. “Sorry about the dust. I’m not the best housekeeper. We don’t use that bookshelf much. Virginia keeps her textbooks in her room.”
Drayco smiled at her. “No need to apologize. It may have come in handy.”
He pulled out a section of books, creating access to the back. He still had Nelia’s flashlight in his pocket and shined it on the shelves. Smooth patterns in the dust looked like someone recently ran a hand along the surface. “You can take prints if you want, Tyler. But it looks like whoever did this also used gloves.”
The deputy unpacked her kit a second time and got to work. “Better safe than sorry. Why the sudden interest in books? Another ledger, possibly—a more incriminating one?”
Drayco replied, “Or another type of personal book. Say a diary, a bankbook, an address book. Lucy, did Beth give you anything like that?”
“Nothing other than Virginia’s book of poetry on the table over there. If they were looking for that, they’d have seen it straight away.”
Drayco admired Nelia’s print-taking technique. Fast, efficient, yet thorough. He sensed she was warming to the theory someone was targeting Virginia. And to the idea someone burgled the Harston’s house.
Drayco said, “If someone broke into both houses during the funeral, he would have under a half hour at each. Since he focused most of his attention on bookshelves and desks, a reasonable explanation is the thief was hunting for a specific book. Not valuables like cash or jewelry. Unless he thinks everyone owns those hollow books they hawk in catalogs.”
Nelia bundled up the fingerprint kit. “In both houses? Not likely. We’ll check other burglary reports for comparison. If these two are it, makes your murder theory regarding Beth more interesting.”
And potentially tie the attack on Virginia with Beth’s murder, which Drayco didn’t want to mention aloud. No need to alarm the Harstons further. For the moment, the only link between the Sterlings and Harstons was Virginia and Quintier.
Drayco sat at the table across from Lucy. “Did your husband Cole have any business with the Sterlings?”
“When I was pregnant, Cole was away on construction jobs most of the time. So he didn’t get to know Beth. And I’m not sure if he exchanged more than a dozen words with Arnold Sterling the entire time we were married.”
Yet according to Darcie, Cole and Arnold were much closer. Who was lying—Darcie, Lucy, or Cole? “Did Cole mention the name Caleb Quintier?”
Lucy folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve heard rumors. Not somebody I’d want my family associating with. Cole stayed as far away from him as possible.”
Nelia finished with the kit and asked Lucy, “Does anyone else have a key to your house, Lucy?”
She replied, “Just me and Virginia.”
“You might want to get a deadbolt for this door. Hopefully, it was a one-time opportunistic thing. We’ll call you if we hear anything. You coming, Drayco?”
Before he left, he wanted to make sure Lucy was okay. “I’m sure Maida wouldn’t mind if you and Virginia stayed at the Crab tonight.”
Lucy smiled at him. Another first. “Reece said he’d come over and spend a few hours with us.” She wouldn’t let them go until she gave each a box of homemade goods, tarts for Nelia and muffins for Drayco.
The deputy and Drayco headed to their cars, but Nelia stopped Drayco before he could open his door. “Why did you ask her about Quintier?”
“I have it on good authority Cole Harston owed Quintier twenty-five grand when he died. So Cole had one secret he kept from his wife. Makes you wonder if there were more.”
“If you’re thinking Quintier was behind the attack on Virginia, a twelve-year-old grudge against a dead man is a bit far-fetched.”
Nelia deposited her gear in the back of her cruiser. “If your good authority is who I think it is, tread lightly. Quintier is like one of these invasive Trees of Heaven we have around here—spreads out deep roots everywhere and produces chemicals that choke the life out of plants around it.”
“One has to scrounge around in sewers to find vermin. It might be a good idea to dig into Cole Harston’s work background. In case some of those construction jobs took him to D.C.”
“Check. And I’ll get a list of
funeral attendees. We can rule them out as direct suspects in the burglaries.”
Drayco could think of three key people who weren’t there—Iris Quintier, Vesta Mae Gatewood and Barry Farland. Drayco’s cellphone rang, and it took a moment to register. He didn’t get many calls over here. Another of Cape Unity’s “charms” was the lack of cell towers. For the laid-back residents, it wasn’t a huge problem. For a detective, it meant unlearning ingrained big-city habits.
He answered, “Drayco.”
“I could say the same thing, but it would get confusing.”
“This is a surprise, Brock. What’s on your mind?”
“Other than D.C. is hot as hell, and most people would likely agree it’s the center of hell, you mean? I bumped into Matthew Laessig yesterday.”
Drayco knew what was coming. His client descended from money older than Winthrop Gatewood. He lived a privileged existence of bucks, butlers, and the occasional rented bimbo when his wife was out of town. How he managed to have a war-hero brother was a mystery. The man was motivated to find his brother’s killer more out of guilt than brotherly love.
At Drayco’s silence, Brock continued, “You’ve had his brother’s case for three weeks, which in law enforcement circles is normal. But Laessig’s getting antsy. He was hopeful when you told him about the possible break on the Eastern Shore, the new victim. He’s wondering now if you like to party on the client’s nickel.”
The same thing he told Drayco, minus the Piña Coladas. “What did you tell him?”
“I defended your honor, naturally. He said he might want me to take over. If you don’t come up with a concrete lead soon. But I know you need the money.”
Drayco ignored the dig. Brock was none too happy when he decided to restore the Opera House rather than sell it. “Give me a couple of days. If nothing pans out here relating to Marcus Laessig’s murder, I’ll give up on the Cape Unity tie-in. Deal?”
“Sure thing, son. We all make mistakes in this business.”
Drayco hung up with Brock’s less-than-ringing-endorsement echoing in his ears. Rather than head back to the Crab straight away to go through his Laessig case notes, he pulled the car into a small overlook. Its glimpses of the Chesapeake Bay lay partially hidden by one of the Trees of Heaven Nelia mentioned, plants some called the stink tree, for good reason.
Had he made a mistake in coming to the Eastern Shore in search of clues to the Laessig case? This peninsula had a way of dragging him into an undertow of second-guessing his instincts. Maybe it was being around people he liked for a change, pulling him off-center. That was the problem with allowing yourself to form attachments.
He rescued his briefcase from the floorboard and pulled out pictures of Marcus Laessig, alive while playing with his son, and dead, from the crime scene. Laessig put up more of a struggle than the other victims. His death came slowly, as seen by the deep ligature bruises, the congested cyanosed forehead, and the nose and ear bleeds. Garroting could overcome a healthy male without a struggle. The fact Laessig fought off his attacker, even briefly, was a testament to the man’s military training and dogged will to live.
Drayco put the photos back in the case. Just in time to watch the sunset’s layers of crimson, orange, and purple create their own ligature lines across the sky. He turned the car around and headed for the Lazy Crab. He wasn’t used to having someone to come home to. But right now, Maida and her potent nightcaps were calling him like one of her prodigal sinners returning to the fold.
###
“Dad, Mrs. Roby called. She says you promised you’d have that clock fixed three days ago.” Barry watched his father pick up his slide-lock tweezer, put it down, then pick it up again. Freaky held the tool in his hand while staring at the clock in front of him, then put it on the table once more.
“Dad, did you hear me?” Freaky didn’t say anything. Barry sighed, then said, “I’ll tell her you’ve got the flu. Promise me you’ll keep working on that ugly thing, okay?”
Barry had to force-feed his father breakfast this morning. Freaky was forgetting to eat and hadn’t showered in days. When Barry returned home from the shop last night, he fed his father and then the animals, washed the piled-up laundry, ironed his father’s shirts, and cleaned up the house as best he could. Including a stain on the rug from a wine glass his father dropped and left in place.
Before Barry left his father’s Cave, he paused and asked, “Dad—you’re not gambling again, are you?”
Freaky’s eyes remained downcast. Barry continued, “I mean, if you’re having money troubles, I can ask Mr. Haffey for more hours at work.”
Freaky snorted. “What is work? Clock gears spinning around going nowhere, twelve, then four, then eight, then back to twelve. One hour after another. And where is the purpose in that?”
This was not the first odd thing Barry’s father had uttered lately. Trying to get a coherent sentence out of him was getting harder every day. With Beth’s death, the installment checks had stopped coming. But Barry didn’t think that was the problem. They had money troubles before and managed to work around them. Were all the adults around him going mad? Freaky, Lucy, Iris, maybe Beth before she died.
Barry felt old. His father had done his best to take care of him, and now he’d do what he could to return the favor. If Freaky did lose his marbles, what would they do? Barry didn’t have money to put him in one of those homes.
It all came back to Beth. Beth, love, and death. Freaky was right about one thing. Barry wouldn’t let himself fall in love. No way. All it brought was trouble.
Tuesday 14 July
Drayco had reason to be grateful he was the Lazy Crab’s sole current guest, after spending three hours overnight worshipping the porcelain altar. He racked his brain trying to recall what he ate that caused it. It wasn’t Maida’s offerings, as she had the same supper and was fine.
The only things that fit the timeline for food poisoning were the muffins Lucy gave him. Darcie once made a throwaway comment about the Harstons not having any enemies unless one of Lucy’s catering recipients got poisoned by her muffins. And earlier, he discounted the theory Lucy may have a case of Munchausen by Proxy, harming Virginia to gain attention for herself. He shouldn’t have been so hasty.
Determined to bounce back quickly, he forced his shaky legs to go for another run in the cool morning air before the humid 90s they were predicting enveloped everything like a wet, thermal blanket. He set off on the sandy road leading from the Jepson’s Tudor B&B through the sparsely populated neighborhood, more trees and salt marsh than houses. Few unspoiled regions lurked within the state, but the Eastern Shore had several of them. At times, it was like being in another country. If you threw in the unusual Elizabethan accents on nearby Tangier Island, it sounded like it.
He mentally replayed the phone call he had with Barry Farland earlier. After asking him point blank why he wasn’t at the funeral, Barry said he wanted to hold down the business so his father could attend instead. Logical enough. But was that the sole reason?
According to Barry, Freaky’s behavior changed after Beth’s death. Beth was Freaky’s first love, maybe his only real love, and he gave up everything for it—a chance at happiness, his physical appearance, and now his very sanity.
###
Maida wished her husband would be home soon. She missed the dotty old dear. It’d been years since he was gone this long, and she forgot how trying it could be to run a bed and breakfast alone. Here she was, having to run errands, rushing around in a mad dash, hoping no one would show up looking for a room while she was out. She couldn’t keep bothering Lucy to help, not with her own busy life and recent troubles. After learning Scott was up most of the night with a stomach ailment, she wasn’t about to ask him.
Maida wasn’t a chronic worrier but found herself worrying over Lucy and Virginia. She asked Scott if he thought the house break-in was tied to Virginia’s attack. He tried to put the best light on it. Still, she was learning to read him like the proverbial book
. He suspected there was a connection.
Maida had picked up a lot of things from Scott, including his instinct for seemingly trivial matters that turn out to be meaningful. Which is why she did a double-take when she saw Caleb Quintier heading into Tallent’s Antiques Store. Caleb wasn’t the doily and Louis Quatorze type, preferring Scan design over grandma’s bentwood rocker.
Maida prided herself on being a people person, a handy thing in her business, always trying to find the best in folks. But Caleb defied her best efforts, and she decided there were some fish in the sea God himself would throw back.
Caleb Quintier was on Scott’s list of suspects. It wouldn’t hurt to see if Tallent’s had any new banquet lamps for the Lazy Crab parlor, would it? Maida ducked inside and examined a glass shade, trying not to look too nosy as she peeked at Caleb handing an object to Ford Tallent, the owner’s son.
Tallent was saying, “These are both nice pieces, Caleb. The best I can give you for the locket here is three hundred. Not knowing anything special of its history, I can only go on the general worth of similar lockets. It’s still a good price.”
Caleb pushed the other item toward Tallent, “And this one?”
“This one is more interesting. It may be a Vacheron Enamel, early twentieth century. I can give you twenty-five hundred for it.”
Maida craned her neck to get a look. It was a small item, and she was curious to find out what tiny thing could be so valuable. She caught a glimpse of a pocket watch. It was blue and pink with gold trim, and when Tallent opened it, she saw the watch face. What poor soul forked over some family heirlooms to pay off debts owed Quintier? Then Maida remembered Scott telling her about the watch and locket he found in Beth Sterling’s office. These couldn’t be the same, could they?
She picked up one of the lamps and headed to the counter, standing to the side of Quintier. From that vantage point, she noted more details of the two pieces and tried to commit the images to memory. Quintier took the money Tallent offered and headed out of the store. Maida asked Tallent how much he wanted for the lamp. She demurred at the price, thanked him for his time, and put the lamp back.