by BV Lawson
Drayco reached the end of the fugue, the last overtones fading away into the empty building, and he was suddenly not as interested in Bach. His insight hinted at where the trail headed from here, but he didn’t feel like celebrating. He placed his hands on the keyboard again and started playing Pavane pour une infante defunte, a piece he hadn’t played since Casey’s death over twenty years ago. He still remembered it, note for note. Part of the blessing, or curse, of an eidetic memory. It was impossible to forget so many things.
Friday 17 July
“Is this it?” The gray cinder-block shell of the building remained intact, but the windows were covered with nailed planks someone decorated with red and black graffiti. At one time, the old store offered gasoline. The pumps were long gone, the metal framework that once housed them rusted and falling down. A lone sign indicated the price per gallon as being under a dollar, dating the close of business to a decade or more.
Reece kicked at a couple of cockroaches. “This is it. He told us to park behind the building.”
They drove Reece’s car since Efron Thawley was a cautious man. It would be less suspicious than if one of his associates were to see Drayco’s Starfire. Thawley hadn’t gotten wealthy from his various exploits but did own a few properties in town such as this abandoned store.
When Drayco left the Opera House last night, his mind was clearer on some issues, more muddled on others. After staying up until four a.m. surfing through Internet eugenics chat rooms until he struck pay dirt, he called Detective Zeke Skiles and spelled out his theory of the connections and motive. Skiles wasn’t amused being awakened at that hour. But after listening to what Drayco had to say, he offered to buy him a steak dinner at J&G’s if Drayco was right.
The now-rising sun changed the landscape from a dark amorphous sameness, with features popping out little by little as the coral-colored light hit each in turn. “So, Reece, is Thawley always an early bird? Or is this more a plan to preserve some anonymity?”
“The latter. I think. You’re asking someone who knows him half an iota. Just because his father and mine were in the antiques business together doesn’t mean I’m ready to write the guy’s bio.”
Drayco studied the surroundings for uninvited guests or traps. Reece, who hadn’t initiated much conversation until now, cleared his throat. “One of the sheriff’s deputies was asking questions about Lucy. Wanted to know if I’d witnessed her hitting Virginia. You can’t honestly tell me she’s a suspect?”
“Reece, family members are always suspects in such attacks at first. Standard operating procedure.”
“Do you think she’s guilty?”
When Drayco didn’t defend Lucy immediately, Reece scowled. “You don’t seriously imagine that long-suffering woman capable of such nonsense?”
“That’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it—the long-suffering part.”
“What, that she resents her daughter enough to get rid of her? I know there are parents like that in this world. Lucy isn’t one of them.”
“There’s the Will. If Virginia dies, Lucy will get the money to herself. She might blame Virginia for Cole’s death, in a twisted way. Maybe blame Beth for Virginia’s disability, like Iris Quintier does.”
“No, impossible, and never. I’d stake my life on it.”
“Hope you won’t have to, Reece. She’s not high on my list, nor the sheriff’s.”
Reece grumbled, “Better not be, or I’ll dump you here and leave you to the tender mercies of Efron Thawley.” Reece stewed for another minute, then hopped out of the car and walked up to one of the boarded-up windows, trying to peer in. “Shall we go inside?”
Drayco tried the knob on the back door of the building, and the door swung open. “What, no creaking hinges? No haunted sound effects?”
The power was off, and the sole light came from finger-thin beams streaming in through cracks in the window boards. Drayco pulled out a flashlight. Everything that wasn’t nailed down was long gone, leaving the bare floors and walls. A few faded Coca-Cola posters and one forlorn broom were the only accessories left in the large, open space.
“I’ve thought of turning it into a bistro, with tea sandwiches and watercress salads. Playing against type. What do you think?” Efron Thawley had the type of basso profundo that rumbled like a small earthquake. It set off sharpened cobalt-and-orange blades in Drayco’s brain, the kind of voice that made him wince.
Thawley wasn’t tall, but he was solid. He carried a gun which made Drayco grateful he brought his own pocket Smith & Wesson J-frame. This was definitely one of the two men he saw outside Quintier’s office before his encounter with the Rottweilers.
Reece positioned himself between the other two men and crossed his arms in front of him, one hand pointing toward each man. “Drayco, Thawley. Thawley, Drayco. I’m not good on introductions, but brevity is wit. And I think a bistro would be charming. Don’t forget the French onion soup and doilies.”
The creeping sunlight gradually illuminated the room, and Drayco got a better view of Thawley’s face. He was studying Drayco in turn, coolly sizing him up like a prizefighter examining the competition. Bantamweight? Or heavyweight?
Thawley’s words echoed in the room as he spoke. “Reece said you wanted to talk to me. Okay, talk. I gotta warn you I don’t suffer idle chit-chat. I don’t mind bluntness, I prefer it.”
Drayco switched off the flashlight. “I’m here to discuss Caleb Quintier. If you’re not comfortable doing that, then I guess I’ve wasted your time.”
Thawley didn’t say anything for a moment. “Depends on what you ask.”
“Primarily, I’d like to know the full extent of his relationship with Arnold and Beth Sterling.”
The muscles around Thawley’s mouth relaxed, if just a fraction. Then his hand moved away from the gun where it had hovered. “I was sorry to hear of Beth’s death. Arnold I could take or leave. Caleb probably feels the same. Caleb wanted a romantic relationship with Beth. She would have none of it. Arnold, on the other hand, was another of Caleb’s patsies, one of his best. Between betting pools, roulette, card games, and pyramid schemes, Arnold was up to his neck in IOUs. In the six figures. Quintier loves taking advantage of the dim bulbs.”
“Would some of those other dim bulbs include Freaky Farland or Cole Harston?”
“They would.”
“Winthrop Gatewood, as well?”
Thawley laughed. “Yeah. You’ve done your research. Sounds like you don’t need me.”
“On the contrary. At the very least, you can verify a few things. Cole Harston owed Quintier several thousand when he died, yet Quintier hasn’t tried to extort it from Lucy. He’s not usually that charitable, is he?”
“Caleb’s favorite charity is himself. The reason he didn’t bother Lucy Harston is because she didn’t have the money. He’s been biding his time, waiting to see if she comes into some money or her business picks up. Then he’ll hit her up for it.”
“Would he lose patience—decide to take out his anger on someone close to Lucy, say, her daughter?”
“If she had money and wouldn’t pay, he might. If he doesn’t stand to gain anything monetarily, he wouldn’t bother. To Caleb, money is his God. And he’s a faithful disciple.”
Drayco glanced at Reece, who was maintaining a watchful eye on Thawley. Drayco wasn’t sure bringing Reece along was a good idea, but Reece insisted, saying Efron would be more likely to talk if Reece were there. So far, so good.
Drayco asked, “What about rich pigeon Gatewood? I mentioned Quintier’s name to him yesterday, and he turned the color of seagrass.”
Thawley grinned. “He’s a pigeon, all right. Flutters around and coos a lot. Has a brain the size of a seed. Was handed a bundle of money by his father, but he’s pissed most of it away. You’ve seen his house. He likes the good life. When he saw the bankbook shrinking, he panicked and came to see Caleb. Thought he might get lucky, get into some investments and turn a quick buck. Guess he didn’t do his research first. I
f you want safe, you don’t play with Caleb.”
“Does he still owe Quintier anything?”
“He had markers with Caleb for a hundred grand. He’s repaid a lot of it. Don’t know what his bottom line is, but he’s getting desperate. Sold some of his businesses lately, like that restaurant where Arnold Sterling worked.”
“Does Quintier have any other ties to the Gatewoods? With Winthrop, it would likely be money, but with Vesta Mae, something more ... personal?”
Thawley’s laugh was as deep as his speaking voice, sounding like a tuba. “Did Vesta Mae and Caleb have sex? No, and Vesta Mae isn’t his type to begin with. Too puny and pale. He likes ’em more robust, with emphasis on the bust. The only thing between Caleb and Winthrop is greed.”
Amid the smell of wet rotting wood and stale urine from animals or vagrants, Drayco got a whiff of an intense mixture of cinnamon, vanilla, and a touch of pine. He wouldn’t expect Thawley to wear a sweet-smelling cologne, yet he’d doused himself with it. “So according to you, Quintier wouldn’t hesitate to hurt a child under the right circumstances. What about embezzling from a children’s charity?”
“I heard him mention it, sure. I didn’t have a direct hand in it. He likes to keep things compartmentalized. He doesn’t tell Partner A what he’s doing with Partner B and so on. A form of personal insurance.”
It was Thawley’s turn to ask the questions. “So, Drayco, why the sudden interest in this sorry bunch? You may be a detective, but this shit is old news.”
“Not old news if Beth Sterling was also murdered.”
Thawley gave Drayco a knowing look. “And you want to find out if Caleb had anything to do with either. This doesn’t fit his style. He likes things tidy. No evidence, like bodies. Arnold’s death was too messy for him. I don’t mind saying, if Beth was murdered, I wouldn’t mind seeing the bastard get his just desserts. Even if it is Caleb. She was our midwife when my kids were born.”
Thawley had kids? Wonder what he told them he did for a living—unlike Quintier, he didn’t look the part of a “financial analyst.”
Drayco studied Thawley while putting his hand in his pocket, the one with the gun, before he asked, “I understand your brother was killed in a car driven by Arnold Sterling.”
Thawley stood perfectly still. “Your point being?”
“That would give you motive to kill Arnold. And his car was tampered with before he was murdered. Setting up a revenge car accident?”
“And why the hell would I wait over thirty years? I’ve had plenty of opportunity since. Did I blame the guy? Sure. But he was sixteen, and my brother was as drunk as Sterling was.” Thawley relaxed a second time, a small smile on his lips. “You don’t really think I did it, do you?”
Drayco matched the smile. “Checking all angles.”
Thawley chuckled. “I do believe it’s time Quintier started watching his back. You’re the first lawman to come along who I think could take him on and win. It’d be fun to see.”
“Is that why you’re being cooperative about Quintier?”
“I may have business with Caleb, but there’s no love lost. No one likes the guy, not even his dogs—he once had a Cairn Terrier put down because it bit him. Hell, can’t blame the dog for that.”
“Quintier’s wife Iris had a grudge against Beth. Since you’re a gambling man, are you willing to lay odds on whether she killed Beth?”
For the first time in their conversation, Thawley didn’t have a ready answer. “Iris lives in a fantasy world. Doesn’t want to see things the way they are. And being soused half the time doesn’t help. Is she capable of something like that? Damned if I know.”
Thawley held up his arm, so light streaming through a crack in a board shone on his watch. “It’s been a blast, gentlemen, but I’ve got those proverbial places to go.”
Quintier’s right-hand man made sure to lock up behind them, then roared off toward parts unknown. Reece waited until Thawley was long gone to start up the car. “Ready to have the sheriff arrest somebody now?”
“The sheriff’s handcuffs will have to remain empty a little bit longer. I’m ruling out a few candidates.”
“How ’bout a motive? Pinned that one down?”
Drayco started to sing, “Money makes the world go ’round, the world go ’round, the world go ’round.”
“For someone who’s a hot-shot pianist, you can’t sing.” Reece peeled out onto Old Harbor Road, where the local kids conducted drag racing, much to Sheriff Sailor’s annoyance. “You didn’t mention those D.C. murders. Not like you to give up.”
“I haven’t. I called the District police this morning, asking them to check on a person of interest.”
“Not one of our locals? Hope you’re right.”
They drove in silence for a couple of miles before Reece spoke up again. “Too bad it’s early for the Fiddler’s Green. I could use some more chili beer. Since fair Maida won’t be up for a bit, what say we grab some double espresso downtown. Or I’m going to have to get some toothpicks to prop open my eye.”
The image of Reece thus bedecked didn’t do anything for Drayco’s appetite. He knew a kid in school who tried that very thing and had one of the toothpicks puncture his eyeball. The kid was miraculously okay, but the same couldn’t be said for the schoolmates who watched the whole thing, like Drayco. Couldn’t view toothpicks the same way since.
“Double espresso is fine,” he said, trying to concentrate on the dashboard, the road, the scenery, anything else. The toothpicks morphed into shards of glass, the type still clinging to the front window frame of Beth Sterling’s car. For once, Reece didn’t say anything, and Drayco was grateful for the silence.
43
Drayco wasn’t sure if he should pull the car in front of the house or not. Vesta Mae had planned his visit when she’d be alone, meaning she didn’t want her husband or Faris to know he was here. He was curious to hear what she had to say. And the chance to observe her in person. Mrs. Gatewood’s symptoms, panic attacks, sleeplessness, low self-esteem, social phobia, and her sudden mood swings sounded like post-traumatic stress. Marriage didn’t usually bring on PTSD—unless there was violence or some other underlying trauma.
Vesta Mae opened the door before he had a chance to ring. He waited to see what her mood was this time and what role she would play—calm as when he first met her? Enraged like the end of that meeting? Mysterious with her shadowy appearance at the party? Or the carefree socialite hostess when she handed him the note?
“Thank you for coming,” she said, motioning for him to join her in the parlor. “I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger. My husband can be ... overprotective.”
Drayco smiled. “I understand.” He took stock of the room. A couple of items were missing from his last visit, a foyer table and an Asian cloisonné vase. Redecorating or selling off more items to pay debts? On the wall where the wedding photo once hung, there was an outline of lighter paint.
He pointed toward the spot. “You’ve done some rearranging. I was going to ask you about the pocket watch in your wedding picture—the ‘something old’ you mentioned. Maida saw a watch similar to it at Tallent’s Antiques. Along with a golden locket with turquoise stones. The one you said Beth stole.”
He’d thought long and hard about bringing the subject up first thing, mindful of her reaction before. He didn’t want to be thrown out when he’d just arrived. But he needed to catch her off guard.
Deer in the headlights didn’t describe the expression on Vesta Mae’s face. Not so much afraid as a battle-weary soldier who’d had her hiding place discovered. Her jutting chin and clenched teeth made it clear she hadn’t parted with the items happily or willingly.
She drew in a sharp breath. “It’s possible Maida saw a similar piece. Tallent’s shop has been around for decades. They get items from all over the mid-Atlantic including jewelry. Those were likely from some elderly man’s estate.”
This was her third different story about the watch and locket. Everyone in
volved with this case seemed to have a trove of shifting stories. He was collecting excuses like a philatelist collects penny-blue stamps.
He said, “Yet I saw someone who could be your twin buying that locket at Tallent’s.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. He saw her enter Tallent’s. And Allison, the clerk, told him a woman bought the locket around that time.
She put a hand to her throat as if to touch the locket, but there was no necklace. What he did see were purple-yellow bruises on her wrist in a finger-like pattern, the type made by someone holding on with an iron grip.
He pointed to her wrist. “That’s a mean-looking bruise.”
She rubbed it a moment. “It’s nothing. I’m on blood thinners. I bruise easily.”
He restated his earlier question, “And you weren’t at Tallent’s the other day?”
She drew in a long fluttered breath. “People say we all have a double in the world. Who knew mine would live here on the Eastern Shore? I don’t get out much. So it couldn’t have been me.”
“An employee at the art gallery said he’s seen you several times with Faris Usher. I saw you there, myself.”
She froze. “I have Faris drive me around so I can feel I’m still part of the world. I like the view downtown because I can watch people come and go. That’s not against the law, is it?”
“By people, you mean the Harstons?”
Sniffling now, she grabbed a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve heard of them. Mrs. Harston is that woman with the poor unfortunate crippled child, isn’t she? She reminds me of my poor little Jacob.”
He nodded and waited for her to compose herself. She jumped up and headed for the curve of the Mason & Hamlin, reaching out as if to touch it. “I miss going to plays and concerts.” She yanked her hand away. “You were so kind to play for me last time. And I know you get asked this a lot, but would you mind playing again?”