Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

“To hang themselves?”

  “Or to get someone else hanged.”

  “Oakley Keys kept to himself. Me too. Can’t blame a man for that.”

  “Yet here you are at the laundromat, so you do get around. Surely you’ve heard rumors about Oakley. A feud, an argument, something at least one person felt was a deadly offense.”

  “Don’t take stock in idle talk. Talk from miserable people who ain’t happy until they drag others into their shit.” Seth twisted the screwdriver so hard, he almost fell off the engine.

  The sound of a high-pitched laugh filtered down from above. Drayco spotted the source at the top of stairs leading to a room over the laundromat, a woman, arm in arm with Paddy Bakely. She had on more makeup than a stucco frieze, which must take a chisel to scrape off at night. Poured into a short skirt over a tight red leotard, she teetered in high-heeled boots decorated with a leopard print.

  The woman clomped down the stairs and said to Seth, “He’s all yours, sugar. You done with my car?” Devoted fathers weren’t rare, but it was unusual to find one who’d go to such lengths for a son—servicing a prostitute’s car while she serviced the son.

  The woman caught sight of Drayco. Her fluorescent-red rimmed smile exposed a mouth with at least two gold caps. “You looking for a good time, stud?”

  “I’m not sure I can afford your good time.”

  She walked up to him and rubbed her hand up and down his shirt. “I don’t get types like you too often. Tell you what. Half-price special. And I might throw in a few extras, because I love your eyes.”

  Paddy strode up to the woman and dragged her by the arm back toward the stairs as he yelled, “Fuck, Regina, you don’t want his type. Stay far away from him He’s trouble. You go back up there. I’ll take care of this.”

  Seth was at Paddy’s side in an instant, whispering in his ear. Paddy’s face looked so much like an inflated balloon, Drayco thought it might pop if he pricked it with a pin. But Paddy dutifully dipped into the Bakely’s car and slumped down in the seat.

  Seth said to Drayco, “Paddy’s already had a few. He gets this way. I’ll take him home.”

  Seth didn’t acknowledge Regina or explain her away. He now had a grease smudge on his face, covering up the reddish-brown patch. Seth was like a war veteran who’d lost too many alcohol-hazed battles fought over his lost-cause-of-a-son. Who to pity more, the enabled or the enabler?

  Regina blew Drayco a kiss as he steered his Starfire in a direction away from the Bakely’s car. She had long brunette hair, and if you squinted, she’d pass for a seedy biker-bar clone of Darcie Squier. Was Paddy one more victim ensnared in Darcie’s man-trap? A bottle fly perched on the edge of a human pitcher-plant, drawn to its sweet smell. Only a couple more hours, and he’d get to see that trap up close and personal when he joined the good councilman and his wife at Cypress Manor.

  Drayco ran a hand through his hair. The sheriff didn’t want him to attend the dinner. He was pretty sure Squier himself was regretting his offer. Drayco had made his personal rule about not getting involved with married women for a good reason. Two reasons, Lindsay and Anika. But he’d been alone and lonely on a concert tour and much younger, too young to know a lot about regret. And he didn’t need any new regrets about Darcie. He pushed that thought out of his mind because right now, he had a tryst with a much older, more faded girl.

  Chapter 10

  The desolate Opera House looked even less inviting in the rain. So much for finding any footprints the sheriff overlooked, though Drayco got the impression this particular sheriff was thorough. Drayco wasn’t sure what he’d find inside, but at least this time, there were no bodies. It was relatively quiet, but even the ambient sounds of the furnace and creaking floorboards assaulted his senses with swirling and geometric shapes and morphing colors. Nothing was ever truly silent. Or black and white.

  He stood in the back of the hall, taking in the Spanish Moor design, the grimy blue and gold domed frescoed ceiling, the crystal chandeliers, the side box seats with their faded maroon velvet curtains. All expensive and luxurious, at the time it was built. Not surprising since Prince of Wales County had the highest per capita income of any non-urban area in the United States in the 1910 Census—a tidbit he’d learned from the Historical Society documents. Times changed, people moved away. The area had traded tourism for fishing, farming, and chicken processing plants.

  Drayco moved next to the stage, catching a whiff of chalk and sawdust he missed last time. Sawdust? He’d have to line up a termite inspector. The stage had a catwalk above, with one room on each side for rehearsals or scenery storage, accessible via a twisting iron staircase. The catwalk railing exhibited bits of rust and was missing sections. He added that to his estimate of burgeoning renovation costs.

  Drayco scrutinized the rusted rails of the catwalk. It was the only way to access the two rooms at the top, so he’d have to risk it. He trod gingerly on the first couple of steps. Sturdy enough. Encouraged, he scaled the remaining steps, his feet clanging on each metal rung. At the top, he navigated the narrow walk to the two rooms. Both empty. There was a rug on the floor in the stage-right room, but when he lifted the edges and rolled it back, nothing but floorboards.

  Disappointed, he returned to the stage, to the red stain on the floor behind the piano and the chalk outline left over from where Oakley’s body fell. Apparently Seth took the sheriff’s instructions to heart and left blood and chalk alone.

  Without doing the actual trig calculations, Drayco estimated the distance and location of the shooter from the blood spatter. Fifteen feet from the piano to under the wings. To be thorough, he searched every seat in the house. All he found were decades-old spots and the scratches on seatbacks, including one unimaginative “Kilroy was here,” to which someone scratched on the adjacent seat, “So was Roosevelt.” The Opera House was a hundred twenty years old—which Roosevelt? Teddy or FDR?

  He made quick work of the doors, lighting boxes, wiring, ropes, and pulleys. It was, in a way, a space frozen in time with no upgrades or modifications made to it since the mid-20th century.

  The piano was in the same place as before, so Drayco lay on his side and checked around the feet. Nothing. He hoisted himself off the floor and went over the rest of the piano. It wasn’t until he searched the interior above the sounding board near the tuning pins that he found anything unusual. A flash of orange caught his eye, and he used a handkerchief to extract the small object.

  “What’cha got there?” a booming amber-tipped voice sounded near Drayco’s ear.

  “Whoa, Sheriff. Can you ratchet it down a few decibels?” Drayco faced him. “And are you following me?”

  “Sensitive ears?” The sheriff teased, evading Drayco’s question. He accepted the handkerchief-covered item as Drayco handed it to him. “A capsule?”

  “Looks like powder, but not much of an odor. Too orange for hallucinogens like Foxy, AMT or LSD. Or a drug like molly.”

  “A prescription?”

  “I don’t think so. No markings.”

  “I’ll sic the lab techs on it. Any other surprises for me, Drayco?”

  “No such luck. I did verify the door Seth mentioned in the back would be a perfect entryway for Oakley or the murderer, thanks to a faulty lock. And the exterior light has a cracked bulb. Looks like an old incandescent fixture from the ’40s. Probably hasn’t worked in a long time.”

  “We didn’t find footprints on the grass near that door other than Oakley’s. The downpour the night of the murder washed away footprint traces on the concrete.”

  “No interesting hits on fingerprints?”

  “Seth’s and Paddy’s, as you’d expect. And yours and Oakley’s on the door handles. Since the knife from the dumpster didn’t have prints either, we’re likely looking at gloves. I’m beginning to believe it was the Invisible Man. No forced entry, no fingerprints, no footprints, no witnesses.”

  Drayco knew that look on the sheriff’s face, had seen it on Drayco’s former FBI partner Ma
rk Sargosian, when looking at a new case file with all the earmarks of being unsolvable. Drayco preferred to see tough cases as a catalyst—do you allow a Gordian Knot to be a kick in the pants or a kick in the teeth? An image of the Cadden twins came to mind, and he reined in his inner cheerleader. He could use a big kick in the pants right now, truth be told.

  Drayco replied, “Our Invisible Man must be wearing the missing owl mask, thereby making it likewise invisible.”

  The sheriff wrinkled his nose. “I could understand if the damned thing was encrusted with rubies or diamonds. But it was wood and paint. What value can it have?”

  “Not financial, anyway.” Drayco couldn’t resist running his hand over the glossy finish on the curved arms of the Steinway Hamburg-D. The white keys were spotless. “Why no fingerprint powder?”

  “4NTech loaned us one of those portable green-laser print detectors to try. One of my CSI deputies, Nelia Tyler, hated to see the piano ruined. So your piano over there was the laser’s guinea pig.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yep. But I guess that fossil of a piano hasn’t been played in awhile. No prints.”

  Drayco wasn’t surprised. Nanette had said her husband didn’t know how to play the piano, and a killer would have other things on his mind. But a small, irrational part of Drayco hoped there might be traces of Konstantina Klucze’s fingerprints, despite the passing of time.

  Time. Timing was everything. So were coincidences, in crime solving. Drayco mused, “I saw a newspaper article about a manuscript stolen from the library. It happened the week before Oakley was murdered. Think it’s connected?”

  “Yes. No. Take your pick. One of the very minor British royals visited Cape Unity in the ’40s. This was an essay she’d written, pointing out highlights of her trip.”

  “Did she visit the Opera House?”

  Sailor thought for a moment. “Haven’t read the document, since they didn’t make a photocopy, believe it or not. But it’s possible Her Royal Whatever toured the building.”

  Drayco sat on the piano bench and automatically adjusted it to suit his height. “This Gallinger company in the middle of the development squabble—were they interested in buying the Opera House?”

  Sailor lifted an eyebrow. “Are you that desperate to dump the thing? Or are you looking for a tie-in with Oakley’s murder?”

  “As to the former, not yet. I have to line up building inspectors, property appraisers, who knows what else. Maybe a demolition crew? It would be the easy way out, and a ‘Land for Sale’ sign might lure more takers than a rundown building.”

  When the sheriff lifted the other eyebrow, Drayco added, “I’m not serious. I think. But as far as the murder is concerned, yes. The Gallinger angle is worth pursuing.”

  “We’re checking it out. To my knowledge, Gallinger’s only interested officially in the Keys and Yaegle properties.” Sailor rescued his hat from the top of the piano where he parked it, but didn’t put it on, twirling it in his hands. “I’m not sure it’s going to matter.” Sailor’s face was grim.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nanette Keys bought a gun.”

  “When?”

  “Few years ago. Said when Oakley left her by herself for long periods of time, she was scared and wanted to have some protection. A co-worker bought one first, a Kahr 9mm, and suggested Nanette get a gun.”

  “Does the co-worker’s story check out?’

  “Yep. She was the one who told us, Nanette didn’t volunteer the information.”

  “What make and model?”

  “Nanette said she doesn’t know. That it was ‘some old gun’ she bought from a classified ad.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Gone, she says. Discovered she hated having it in the house. So she dumped it in the trash.”

  “You kidding me?”

  “Welcome to my world. Means she has motive, opportunity, no alibi and a possible weapon. It won’t take much concrete evidence to arrest her on top of that.”

  The sheriff, never a smiling man, looked less happy than usual. A lot of circumstances drove good people to commit horrible acts, and Nanette certainly had her fair share. But the same man who said Nanette was a fine lady and did a lot for the community was clearly disappointed.

  The two men left the Opera House at the same time, Drayco noting the sheriff wasn’t following him this time. Drayco understood Sailor’s wariness, just like Drayco could sympathize with the pro-development forces. Here he was ready to sell property in town that held no personal attachment for him. Purely business, no more, no less.

  He remembered the day developers tore down the abandoned Prayers Mill when he was a boy. He hadn’t mourned it for its historic value, but for the loss of a place to play—swinging from ropes tied to the rafters, sliding down piles of old grist that filled his sinuses and made him sneeze. No one thought to restore the mill before it was bulldozed into oblivion.

  Where there is property, there are developers, and where there are developers, there are winners and losers. But it wasn’t always money at stake. Cultural sensitivities, ghosts from the past, they all played a role, too.

  Drayco was surrounded by ghosts of his own—the Cadden twins, his deceased client Horatio Rockingham, the murdered pseudo-client Oakley Keys, all the Opera House performers from bygone days. Now he had a dinner date with a woman who was a specter of his former fiancée. Hopefully, Councilman Squier had a nicely-stocked wine cellar.

  Chapter 11

  The deputy handed over Paddy’s few personal effects, a thin wallet, a small folding knife, and two keys, making sure the paperwork was properly signed. Seth hovered in the background, then walked in silence with Paddy to the car. Finally, he muttered, “It’s a good thing they didn’t set bail for you this time. I’m not made of money. You never get arrested when you’re sober, Paddy. If you’re going to be drinking, then do it at home and maybe I can keep an eye on you.”

  Paddy nodded, but stayed silent.

  Seth drove them home and flopped into a chair, staring at the bare walls. The room was chilly, the thermostat turned down to save money. Paddy picked up an empty glass from the shaky metal TV trays that served as their dining table and headed to the kitchen for water. Seth knew his son always felt more comfortable with a glass in his hand.

  When Paddy returned, he waited nervously for Seth to speak. Seth wasn’t sure if he preferred the silences or the shouting matches, but Seth was quiet this time and avoided looking at his son.

  Paddy blurted out, “It wasn’t my fault. The other fellow baited me. He knew I’d fall for it, he knew I’d hit him. They were all laughing about it. The sheriff has it in for me, anyway. I know you said I had to be good. I know you said it was too dangerous for me to get in trouble again, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  Seth sank farther back into the chair and closed his eyes. “You’re right, Paddy. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

  Paddy’s red cheeks, frown, and watery eyes make him look like one of the sad-faced clowns at the circus. Seth hated those clowns. Hated the circus, except for the high wire act. Perched up there, without a net, that took guts.

  Paddy thrust his hands under his armpits. “I can do better, you’ll see. Everything will be all right.”

  “Of course it’ll be all right. Don’t I always make everything all right?” Seth’s voice softened and he added, “Why don’t you go take a nap, get some rest. It can’t be easy to sleep inside a jail cell.”

  Paddy meekly complied and Seth flipped on the lone television. Without cable, they were able to get all of three stations thanks to a homemade antenna Seth rigged up. Not much to see, but with the volume turned low, the murmuring hypnotized him into a quiet stupor, where he didn’t have to think. He’d been doing a lot of thinking lately, and he was tired. Look where it had gotten him, after all.

  He was glad he’d finished his rounds at the Opera House. Rockingham had demanded he use the barest minimum of electricity to do his job, and the place was
a sauna in July and a freezer in December. And always filled with darkness, as he turned the lights on and then off again, moving from room to room. It remained to be seen what Drayco would do. This might be Seth’s last chance at the place before new staff took over. And then what?

  He reached over and picked up the one photograph in the room, staring at the young woman gazing dreamily at him from the frame. He didn’t believe in angels, but he knew she was the closest thing to redemption he and Paddy ever had.

  Chapter 12

  Drayco took his time arriving for dinner with the Squiers. Obligations wrapped en croûte were still obligations. Especially when the host was a jealous man and tight-lidded politician. And Darcie ... what to make of her alleged affair with Oakley Keys? He doubted she’d confess to Oakley’s murder over cheesecake.

  Resigned to a torturous evening, he zigzagged through Highbrow Hill, as the locals called it, although the Eastern Shore was flatter than that en croûte dough. He pulled in front of his destination. Not very encouraging, at first glance. Maida was spot-on about Cypress Manor’s aspirations, with its antebellum design and row of gleaming white columns. Even the three-car garage was built in the same vein. Isolated in location and style, the house would look ill-matched among the Victorian architecture in town.

  The interior gave the impression of an uninhabited museum, antique candlesticks on antique sideboards next to antique busts on pedestals. Artwork hung around every corner, in gold filigreed frames. The thick carpeting stretched throughout the main floor, muffling sounds like acoustical foam.

  Randolph Squier seemed to have forgotten Darcie’s flirting the other day and was all too happy to show his guest around his collections—mounted animal heads, built-in shelves creaking under the weight of books on the American Civil War, a variety of Native American pottery, and a curious assembly of scrimshaw.

  “And last but certainly not least ...” The councilman drew Drayco’s attention to a floor-to-ceiling display case that served as the focal point of the large drawing room. It made the massive marble fireplace look puny. The case was filled with guns of all types, many with pearl or ebony grips, one with filigreed deer engraved in the barrels. Death at its most beautiful. There was nothing subtle in the tastes of Randolph Squier.