by B. V. Lawson
Once they’d dressed and made their way to the kitchen table where she’d wisely purchased bakery cinnamon rolls this time, she showed him once more how she was full of surprises. “I couldn’t stop thinking about that murdered girl, Cailan.”
At his raised eyebrows, she added, “Oh, don’t look so surprised. We do have the Internet here. I looked it up. The murder, I mean, and her name and all. The Post said it was likely someone she knew. Not one of those random things. But I don’t think it was a love triangle after all.”
He took a bite of the roll. Not bad. Lots of cinnamon and toasted pecans. And definitely not charbroiled. “All right, so tell me how you arrived at that conclusion.”
“The news hinted a boy was involved but didn’t mention his name. I’ll bet it’s because his Daddy is somebody important. Anyway, girls are afraid of snakes, right? Well, all the girls I know. So why would Cailan agree to meet a boy at night in a place full of snakes?”
He grinned at her. “Snakes aren’t so bad.”
She shuddered. “I think she was dumped there. I mean, if it was a crime of passion, he’d have stabbed her some place they went all the time. After an argument or whatever.”
Well, she definitely had the dumping part correct. Score one for Darcie. “Fair enough. What else?”
“The newspaper said nothing was removed from the body. I’ve read about these things in books. The murderous lover would have taken some token, like a ring or necklace or a photo. Kinda like a scalp in the old days.”
“Her shirt and bra were missing.” Probably to make it easier to drive in the heated knife, but that was mere speculation on the M.E.’s part.
Darcie frowned. “That’s hardly the kind of token a lover would take. No man develops attachments over clothing they give to a woman. Now jewelry, on the other hand … ”
“So, they got frightened off by a noise before they could remove it.”
“They certainly weren’t frightened enough not to dump her there, right?”
“True.” He reached out and held her now-ringless left hand. “Have you heard from Randolph lately?”
“My ex bonded out on bail. He’s got a good attorney. Probably won’t spend much time in jail for the embezzlement. We only speak through our attorneys, so I haven’t seen him in months.”
“Do you miss him?”
She squeezed his hand. “I should have gotten out long ago. I admit I married him as much for his money as I did love. Does that make me shallow?”
“Darcie, there are dozens of reasons people get married. Or stay married. Love, politics, money, convenience.” An image of Nelia and Tim popped into his head. “Surely a part of you loved him?”
She twirled strands of her hair around her finger. “He treated me like a queen. I’d rather be treated like a goddess. Venus, maybe. She’s the goddess of love and passion, right?”
When he said yes, she got up and came around behind him and nibbled along his neck. Being in the presence of a love goddess wasn’t such a bad way to spend part of a weekend.
* * *
On Sunday, Drayco stopped by the Lazy Crab B&B to visit with one of his favorite people in the world, Maida Jepson. If there was one person who grounded him squarely in the center of a peaceful universe, it was Maida. The Crab still looked the same, with the inn’s garden sporting late-blooming pink phlox, purple asters, and goldenrod.
As usual, she welcomed him with sweet tea so thick it needed a knife. It wasn’t as good as one of her famous toddies, but since he was driving to D.C. later, he had to pass on the alcohol.
It didn’t take long for her to suss out his mood, and she asked him point blank about his latest case. He couldn’t tell if she was more surprised at the music puzzle angle or the fact he was working with his former FBI partner.
She’d never pressed him on why he left the Bureau. Nor did she press him on it now, hovering around him with as much tea as his pancreas could handle. In her own way, Maida was like one of Troy Jaffray’s Buddha-like figures, which made it unsurprising when she came out with an astute insight into the music puzzle.
“I don’t know much about Schumann’s ciphers. But surely the murderer could have come up with something better than that. ‘Cailan Avenge’? Sounds like he’s playing a game with you law enforcement types.”
He’d briefly entertained the same thought, but discounted it. “Our murderous puzzlemeister didn’t send the notes to the police or FBI. So if that was his plan, he’s not very bright.”
“Hmm. I’m not a composer—”
“Or a murderer.”
“Or a murderer, but it seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to annoy someone. It has to have a deeper meaning. Why else use music when a simple word cipher would do?” She smiled at him. “Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out.”
Drayco smiled back, then looked around for signs of Maida’s husband. “Don’t tell me I missed Major again.”
“He ran up to Salisbury for some new doorknobs. We had a family with kids who thought it’d be fun to put superglue in the locks. I don’t suppose you can stay overnight? I know Major would love to see you.”
“Wish I could. But I have to get back this evening.”
“You’ll return soon, I reckon. That Opera House of yours will bring you back to us, sooner or later. How are the grants coming?”
“Good. It’s looking good.” It was the truth—the preliminaries to restore the building were shaping up nicely, if slowly, but it wasn’t a topic he wanted to dwell on right now. Instead, he cast his eye on a plate of muffins on the counter. Orange and green muffins? For Halloween, perhaps?
Her gaze followed his, and she got up to bring the plate over. “A new creation of Lucy Harston’s via Lost-In-Tea Party shop. Sweet potato and jalapeño.” She handed him one. “Don’t be wrinkling up your nose, young man. They’re actually pretty tasty.”
He took a small nibble. Not bad. And then the jalapeño kicked in. He grabbed his glass of tea and gulped half of it down.
She sat in the chair across from him. “You don’t look very happy these days. Working with your former partner that hard?”
“It’s not easy, I’ll grant you. But better than working with Gilbow.”
“Gilbow?”
“A psych professor, the murdered girl’s godfather. He and I have butted heads on a case or two before. You might have seen him on TV, hawking his books and pearls of wisdom like a televangelist. Perhaps a part of him thinks he created the universe in a few days. Or at least he’s in the center of it.”
Maida shook her head. “He must have had a horrible childhood. How else can you explain his over-compensation by trying to make the world revolve around him?”
After filling him in on the latest Cape Unitarian gossip, Maida made him promise to return soon. He’d already been planning on it, especially when he lined up an architect to draw up restoration plans for the Opera House.
That Grande Dame of a building was where he found himself now, standing in the middle of the stage in front of the Steinway. It wasn’t that long ago he was Cailan’s age, his piano career bright with promise, getting accepted into the Tchaikovsky competition in Moscow. That was only a few months before the carjacking and his injury.
He’d survived the attack on his life, but Cailan hadn’t. If she’d lived, perhaps she would have stood here one day herself, in recital or in a staged production. What was there about Fortune that was so willing to paint bulls-eyes on musicians? So many seemed to die young or simply fade away.
He inhaled the familiar aromas of the century-plus building, with its musty original-fabric seats, layers of dust, and the earthy smell of old oil and grease. He was relieved to note there were no aromatic traces from the two men who’d died on stage. The crime scene crew had been very thorough. When blood seeps down through hardwood floors, it can sometimes mean a lingering stench for years.
Drayco walked around to the piano keyboard and caressed the white and black keys with his fingers. The hist
oric piano was quickly becoming an old but cherished friend. Each and every piano had as much character as most people, one reason pianists had their favorites. This one was the aging diva who could still sing circles around young upstarts, all while wearing a sonic cloak of shimmering rubies and garnet stones.
He started to sit down but stopped. He couldn’t. Not right now. The tightness in his chest must be from all that caffeine. He’d grab some decaf and Skipjacks nuts at the Novel Café on the return trip to D.C.
Before turning out the lights, he paused for a moment to listen. Even silence had color since nothing was truly silent. Right now, the jagged rust-colored shards of sound piercing him from the building’s creaks and air handler were more searing than soothing. He’d hoped coming to the Eastern Shore would clear his head. But even now, all he could think of was CAILAN AVENGE.
12
Monday, 20 October
Drayco awoke with the vague impression he was drenched in sweat, though he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. Was he floating? Floating out the window, floating into a warehouse, hearing colors and shapes bouncing off walls.
A corrugated sulfur spike pierced his senses: a gun firing. Then his shock and horror as he saw the red stain spreading over Officer Decker’s chest and a matching stain on Sarg’s leg. The room in the corner Sarg had skipped wasn’t unoccupied …
A blue-tipped fork of a bird call shot through his bedroom window, and he focused on it, willing himself out of the sleep paralysis. Then he was free.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hand through his hair. The alarm clock showed it was only four, but he got up and headed for his piano. Good thing he wasn’t supposed to meet Sarg until noon because he was in no shape to drive.
He needed something challenging to take his mind off the dream, something like the devilishly difficult “Ondine” by Ravel. It was just the ticket, with shimmering, modal ripples of sound and finger-knotting chord tremolos.
Six hours later—one-sixth of which was spent soaking his right arm in warm water—Drayco left the house to Sarg up from Union. Autumn skies were usually one of the perks of living in the Mid-Atlantic. Maybe that was why the leaden overcast sky greeting Drayco this morning was disappointing. The look on Sarg’s face as Drayco picked him up at the station didn’t do much to help.
Sarg hopped in and slammed the door. “This day keeps getting better and better. Train was late, some rail maintenance thing. So it was sardine city. Then the guy at the shop tells me my car’s going to cost three thousand to fix, so I asked him if he was putting on gold-plated mufflers. And a round, doughy fella who’s never seen the inside of a gym got the last pain au chocolat at Union Station.”
He pulled out a plain cheese danish and ate it over the bag. “What’d you have? The usual burnt toast? Or one of those godawful peanut butter marshmallow fluff concoctions of yours?”
“Just coffee.”
Sarg winced, moved his jaw from side to side and then rubbed his cheek.
“Didn’t you ever do anything about that crown of yours?”
Sarg took some more tentative bites before wolfing down the rest of the pastry. “Comes and goes.”
They made it to the Parkhurst psych building ten minutes early, which gave Drayco time to study the place. The windows were so shiny and new, they probably received their share of bird strikes. Was that why groups of birds had such violent names? A wreck of seabirds, a murder of crows.
Sarg stared up at the gleaming contemporary three-story structure with criss-crossing windows like a Picasso painting. “An entire building for psychology? I can understand music since you gotta save room for that canyon-sized performance hall.”
“I checked out the psychology department’s website this morning. A goodly part of the building was built by an ego fed on chat-show appearances.”
Sarg grinned. “Really don’t care for this guy, do you?” He studied Drayco’s face. “You look a little pale. Bet you popped a couple of NoDoz. More of those dream paralysis things?”
“Hadn’t had one in a long time.” Until Sarg showed up needing his help. Drayco held open the door. “Shall we get this over with?”
They found their prey in his office lair, the pristine neatness a stark contrast to Jaffray’s clutter. Not a stray paperclip anywhere. Neatly hung, organized frames of various university degrees and certificates lined the wall and shelves. A few occasional oddities, like a painting of mistletoe or the jar containing liquid surrounding what looked like a human brain.
The Great One himself turned around, holding a book in his hands he shut with a loud thump and slid back on a shelf. The overhead light gleamed off his shiny, egg-shaped skull, as he peered at them through his rimless round wire glasses. “You,” he looked at Sarg, “Must be Agent Sargosian.”
Then he turned to Drayco, “And you I didn’t expect. Slumming with the FBI, are we?” Gilbow’s green-pebbled voice rattled Drayco and made him wonder if that was part of his distaste for the man.
Drayco walked over to look at one of the degrees on the wall, from Patuxent Academy High School. “You grew up around here?” He’d never bothered to learn Gilbow’s background, other than his professional biography and court tactics. And the man’s bio never mentioned his younger years.
“My family moved here when I was in middle school so my father could open an offset printing business. When it failed, he became a cop.”
“Did you meet Troy Jaffray at Patuxent or here at the college? We understand you were Cailan’s godfather.”
“She was another of my advisees. Troy wasn’t keen on her being a music student. Wanted her to have something more practical to fall back on.”
“Like psychology.”
“Better than being a starving singer waitressing in a sleazy club. I can’t fault him for that.”
“Did you talk with your goddaughter much?” Drayco fingered the slick glass of the jar with the brain. From the size and shape, the organ was most definitely human.
“I wasn’t as close to her as my wife was. I’m afraid my knowledge of Cailan was more of her career, as her advisor. So if you’re asking about boyfriends, enemies, the typical suspect line of questioning, I can’t help you.”
Drayco spied photos on the walls of Gilbow arm-in-arm with celebrity hosts from national TV programs. And the spines of several books showed they were all authored by Gilbow. Psychology was lucrative for a few people, anyway. “Did you have Shannon Krugh in any of your classes?”
“Krugh. Krugh.” He tapped his chin. “Yes, I remember her. A delicate face that didn’t match her personality. I found out from Cailan the young woman had bipolar disorder.”
“Were you aware she was bullying Cailan, sir?” Sarg asked.
“Wouldn’t surprise me one whit. Poor judgment, risk-taking, all hallmarks of bipolar. It’s not the same as schizophrenia. I’ve been called to testify in a lot of insanity-defense cases on that subject. Sociopaths sometimes displace their anger on other victims. Something you should look into.”
Gilbow frowned. “Then, you people allegedly do profiling, right? I must say I haven’t been impressed with what I’ve seen in the courtroom from FBI testimony.”
Drayco moved closer to Gilbow by the side of the desk, towering over the other man by a good seven inches. “Gary Zabowski. Was he also in one of your classes?”
“I can ask the secretary to go through my roll books. I take it he’s a suspect, too. Provided you with a half-dozen lies, did he?”
Sarg was gritting his teeth. “Then you do know him, sir?”
Gilbow turned his left ear toward Sarg. “You’ll have to say that again, agent. I’m deaf in my right ear.”
Sarg raised his voice. “I said, it sounds like you know Gary Zabowski.”
Gilbow winced. “I’m not deaf in both ears, Agent, just the one. It doesn’t matter if I know Mr. Zabowski or not because I can already tell a lot about him. It was Nietzsche’s belief that the lie is a condition of life. A colleague
of mine at UM found most people tell a falsehood once every ten minutes.”
“Do you count yourself among that group, sir?”
Gilbow smiled. “I think I like you, Agent Sargosian.”
Drayco made a note of that to use against Sarg later. “Professor Gilbow, Cailan was involved in a lab project with one of your doctoral students, Reed Upperman. A project involving synesthesia?”
“It’s his dissertation. Promising lad. I’ll let you ask him for details. He only meets with me every now and then. Pretty much runs it himself. His office is on the second floor, in the labs.”
Sarg nodded. “Yes, sir, we’re going there next. By the way, my unit chief, Jerry Onweller, said he’d contacted you.”
“Good man, Jerry. I gave him my opinion, naturally, since Cailan was my goddaughter. And since we’re dealing with college students, I fear it will boil down to a relationship gone awry. An act of profound wretchedness—the murderer willing to destroy another even if it entails destroying the self.”
“Did the police or Onweller tell you the manner of death?”
“You’re referring to the use of the knife and unusual burn marks? Young people often go through a period of religious experimentation. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a ritualistic aspect to this case. Human sacrifice is a feature of some occult belief systems. That’s more Troy’s bailiwick than mine.”
“However … ” Gilbow bent over to slide out a book from a lower shelf, and flipped through the pages and held it out so they could see violent icons from the past. War illustrations from cave paintings, a battle between barbarians and Romans carved on the Ludovisi Sarcophagus, the mummy of an Incan child sacrifice.
“It’s unfortunate humans can’t channel their energies for good. Take my wife, Adele. She finds the academic life boring, so she gets her thrills from skydiving and bungee jumping. Does a lot of fundraising, often combining the two, like a bungee jump to raise money for a new cancer center at the college, a favorite cause of ours. Adele’s sister died from colon cancer.”