Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

  As if on cue, Darcie Squier made a grand entrance down the rosewood staircase, dressed in a red strapless dress and a dazzling ruby necklace. With her ancient-Greek nose, long and thin, and her wide-set eyes, she was a modern Aphrodite. It was obvious from the way he beamed at her, the councilman was proud of this particular acquisition.

  She gave the air of proper decorum, greeting Drayco with a casual handshake. But a second later, she put her hand on his shoulder and guided him into the dining room toward an elegantly-set table, with taper candles that smelled of vanilla mingling with the scent from a platter of fresh-baked croissants.

  “My gracious,” she apologized. “Our chairs may be too short for you. I don’t remember you being so tall.” Her eyes slowly assessed his body from head to toe. “Well over six feet.”

  “Six-four. But this is fine. I’m used to molding myself into small spaces.” He changed the subject, mindful of the warnings from Maida and Sheriff Sailor. “This table and chairs are unusual.”

  Squier was the one who answered. “It’s a walnut dining table from the nineteenth century. Observe the detailed scroll work.” He added happily, “My wife picked out the china. It’s Dauphin Spode. Darcie knows blue is my favorite color.”

  Drayco was hating the color of Squier’s voice even more. Worm-shaped blobs joined the burnt-caramel color, alongside the texture of razor tips. It was an unusual and unpleasant combination.

  Squier grabbed his wife’s hand. Darcie’s strained smile couldn’t hide a wince, but she quickly recovered, batting her charcoal-lined eyelashes and trilling out, “You flatter me, my darling.”

  The councilman bobbed his head, a repetitive mannerism of his. “I must apologize again for the other day, Mr. Drayco. Everyone hoped Seth Bakely would send Paddy off to an institution. Poor Seth. He’s devoted to the Opera House. Aside from Paddy, it’s all Seth has, which explains his obsessive work ethic. He spends a great deal of time there. Not much of a social life.”

  Drayco fingered his silver wine goblet. “I told him there wouldn’t be any personnel changes yet and he should plan on staying. I’m not sure he believed me.”

  Squier laughed like a terrier baying at snake. “Seth has never impressed me as the brightest bulb. After the Opera House is restored, I assume there will be need for more skilled labor?”

  Drayco was going to answer when a high-heeled foot brushed up against his leg. Subtle, but ... there it went again. He put the goblet down and reached for his water glass instead, so he could casually adjust his seat back an inch or two. Doing so meant it was harder to reach his plate of venison medallions, but he wasn’t hungry, anyway. Shouldn’t have eaten those Skipjacks nuts earlier.

  “Those documents you sent along, Councilman—interesting reading. There were break-ins decades ago, though nothing was taken from the Opera House.”

  “You must mean those thefts in the seventies? Every historic building in the area was targeted. A few things were taken here and there, but it was haphazard, and valuable items were left behind. The police had no suspects. After a few years, it magically stopped.”

  Drayco asked, “Only historic buildings?”

  Squier took a loud slurp from his glass. “Perhaps they were looking for proverbial buried treasure. Or someone reading too many National Enquirers. I am pleased to say,” he added in a self-congratulatory tone, “Nothing was taken from Cypress Manor. Of course, that’s long before you arrived on the scene, my dear.”

  Squier’s hand that clutched Darcie’s pulled her closer to him. “I’d have been upset knowing you were in jeopardy.”

  Darcie slipped her hand out of his grasp like one practiced in the maneuver and reached over to gave Squier a micro-peck on the cheek. “You’re always keeping an eye on me, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t look at her husband often. Whenever she did, as now, her hand reached up to touch her necklace. Nervous habit or a reminder to herself of why she married him? If it was gold and silver pheromones that attracted her, it made the appeal of a dirt-poor Oakley all the more inexplicable.

  Her eyes flitted to Drayco as he watched her fiddle with the necklace, and her hand dropped to her lap. “I was thrilled to hear you’re a detective. We don’t get a lot of excitement. Until the murder.” She leaned forward, far enough for her foot to reach his leg under the table again. “Give us your expert opinion on who-done-it.”

  Squier interrupted, “A transient, dear, an illegal. I doubt one of our good citizens was responsible.”

  Darcie tugged on a lock of hair. “A lot of people think Earl Yaegle lost it. Flipped his lid.” Her eyes grew meditative, closed off. “Oakley was freakish to some. And stubborn. But something could be worked out over that land sale. He didn’t deserve murder.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed her husband’s face. “Now, Darcie, we mustn’t repeat unfounded hearsay. There are too many rumor-mongers in this small town. Earl Yaegle does a lot of good around here. We need him.”

  “Of course, love.” She nodded to her husband, while giving Drayco a meaningful glance. “I’m sure you and I are the subject of many rumors.”

  Drayco waited for an explosion from Squier. The saccharine smile plastered on the man’s didn’t waver, but a vein on his neck stood out in a purple ridge. It was a well-used vein, tapping into a ready supply of suppressed anger.

  Drayco asked, “Has the town council taken an official stance on the development?”

  Squier pushed his chair back. “Why don’t we move over to the drawing room for coffee.”

  Darcie jumped up to link arms with Drayco and made certain he was seated next to her on the small, tight settee. The councilman chose a gold high-back chair that bore a passing resemblance to a throne. He continued, “The bottom line is that Cape Unity’s tax base is in need of a boost. The Yaegle and Keys properties are the ideal location. It’s a most generous offer from the developers.”

  “Not everyone in town agrees.”

  “Is there an issue where they do?” The councilman crossed his arms over his substantial barrel chest. “The major sticking point was Oakley Keys. I have never seen a man more determined to stay put. You’d think the damn fool didn’t appreciate the value of money. I hope the sheriff solves this case soon, as there’s too much gossip going around. Gossip can be death in a small town.”

  Darcie chimed in, “But there’s often truth in gossip, isn’t there? I heard the other day from your secretary, Adah Karbowski, that Nanette Keys was having an affair with Earl Yaegle.” Darcie batted her eyelashes.

  Neither Drayco nor the councilman said anything for a few moments. Randolph Squier cleared his throat, then chided his wife again. “Remember what I said about rumors, Darcie. I’m sure Mr. Drayco didn’t come tonight to hear idle talk. Beware lest he get the impression you’re a common busybody.”

  Unfazed, Darcie winked at Drayco. “I hope he has a far better impression of me than that.” She reached over him toward the carafe, making it difficult for him not to notice how low-cut her dress was.

  It was safer for Drayco to study the large oil painting on the wall. “A local artist, Councilman?”

  “A reproduction of a Frank Stick hunting illustration from the Brandywine school right up the Delmarva. I liked the scene but needed something more grandiose, so I had the fellow recreate it.”

  Grandiose was an apt word. The table-sized frame alone must have cost hundreds, enough to make the National Gallery jealous. Drayco asked, “So you’re a hunter.”

  “A small band of us formed a local hunt club. Earl Yaegle’s a member. The sunrise on the marsh, the flapping wings of the waterfowl, you can’t beat it. You should come with us. I imagine you know your way around guns.”

  “I prefer hunting for information.”

  Darcie reached over Drayco again for the carafe. She put only a tiny bit of coffee in her cup each time, which gave her excuses to reach for more. This time she put a warm hand on his thigh as she sat back down, as if to steady herself. It was hard to believe her
husband wasn’t noticing his wife’s flirtatious behavior. Drayco hazarded a quick peek at Squier. The purple vein had reappeared.

  The awkward situation hovered in the air like a flock of water balloons over Drayco’s head, but at the same, Darcie’s touch was—not entirely unpleasant. Was this how it started for Oakley?

  Using the Jepsons as an excuse, he bowed out as quickly as possible, happy to extricate himself from the suffocating grasp of Cypress Manor. He headed out into the cold night air and breathed in a lungful. He was greeted not by the stillness he expected, but by purple-tinged, high-pitched quavers from the American toads Maida mentioned in passing. It was the breeding season.

  Nanette Keys and Earl Yaegle having an affair? Perhaps Darcie fabricated the whole thing, but why? And there was Randolph Squier himself, with so much jealousy twisted into his DNA, murdering Oakley would have felt compulsory. Drayco tried to catalog all the details of the Squier home, particularly the guns, but his mental inventory got interrupted with visions of white teeth and ruby lips smiling back at him.

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday 17 March

  The next morning, the day of Oakley’s memorial service, dawned with patchy gray clouds and a surprising call from Nanette, who wanted to see Drayco again, this time at her house. He got directions and made his way past the historic district, into an area north of the small picturesque harbor.

  The Starfire nosed down a sandy road turnoff, and the further he went, the more deserted the landscape became. Not being far from the shoreline, he wasn’t surprised when a stilt-legged heron flew above the road. He tried to envision the tousled Virginia pines and broomsedge grass replaced by future particleboard condos.

  He also tried to tell where the Keys property ended and the Yaegle border began.

  Nanette met him at the door, casting a quick look around the yard behind, before inviting him in. Drayco was grateful for the shelter, the wind beginning to cut through his thin slacks. The house was a small two-bedroom cottage, ringed by a wraparound porch with views to the water’s edge. The furniture pieces included a mismatched poinsettia-red sofa and goldenrod-yellow chair—which gave him the fleeting impression of being inside a McDonalds—with throw pillows strategically trying to hide worn spots.

  A handcrafted console table took up the better part of one wall. It must be the Oakley Keys original Nanette had told him about, but even it was bare of accessories. Taking a look at the humble furnishings, few people would have blamed Nanette for wanting to milk the developer cash cow for all it was worth.

  The landscaping around the house consisted of a few trees and not much else, although a look out the casement window showed a small, but more elaborate, planting area in the back. Surrounded by a bed of seashells, it stood out against the khaki winter grasses. He pointed it out to Nanette and asked, “Are you the gardener?”

  “That was Oakley’s creation. When we moved here, he found an unusual heart-shaped rock. He added the benches and arbor around it and planted the weeping willow and passion flower vines. He called it his shrine to life, spending many a morning there watching the sun rise.”

  “He took good care of it. Like you have with your home. It’s immaculate.”

  “After the sheriff and deputies were here the other day, I gave the place the cleaning of its life, top to bottom.”

  She slumped onto the red sofa and wrapped her arms around her, as if to hold in her grief, keep it from spilling out. “I have to be honest—when Oakley told me he wanted to hire you, I was furious.”

  She bit her lip, drawing a speck of blood, which she wiped away. “We had our ups and downs. But lately, Oakley seemed more comfortable with his lot in life.”

  She started to smile, but the corners of her lips drooped as if too tired for the effort. “He’d gotten his drinking under control. And signed a new contract for a book.”

  “What was the topic of the book?”

  “America’s vanishing landmarks, a pet theme of his. I couldn’t understand why he’d hire you and risk stirring up more animosity with Earl Yaegle.”

  Drayco studied her swollen eyes, quivering chin, nails bitten down to the quick. Despite being one of the chief suspects in her husband’s murder, and the recent revelation of her possible affair, this wasn’t another Elaina Cadden. This woman’s grief was genuine. “He wanted me to find something incriminating on your neighbor?”

  “That was my first thought.” Nanette paused, eyes darting to the ceiling.

  “Any reason he might do that, other than the property sale?” Drayco was fishing for an admission of her alleged affair with Earl, but if she was guilty, she wasn’t ready to admit it. Or Darcie really dreamed up the whole thing.

  She said, “Those business trips of his, when he was unreachable for a week or two at a time. It might have to do with that.”

  “How frequently?”

  “Three or four times a year, often around Christmas. The trips stopped a decade ago. I guess I was afraid there was another family—you read about men with a double life. It sounds silly, and I didn’t ask you here to burden you with my conspiracy theories.”

  Nanette sighed. “Although it’s ironic, since Oakley himself always loved puzzles.” She gazed outside, past the marshy channels circling lazily out to sea. The blue heron perched on one leg in the shallow water, waiting for a tidbit to come along, some unlucky frog. Drayco waited, too, sensing his companion was debating how much she was willing to tell him.

  She brushed a hand across her face. “I hesitate to mention it ... but it’s been bothering me all these years. Now Oakley’s gone, I find myself craving resolution.”

  She kept trying to smile, but failing miserably. “Oakley and I moved here after we got married. I was a child bride, only sixteen. I never understood why he chose this area to live. Especially since he planned to write books, and we could have lived anywhere. He was originally from London and I harbored a faint hope we might settle there. But Cape Unity is where Oakley wanted to come. Said he enjoyed the peace and quiet, the lack of interruptions. For the first several months, it was pleasant. Then I had a miscarriage and discovered I couldn’t have any more children, which threw Oakley into a funk. Long story short, with the new book contract, things were looking up for the first time in, well, decades.”

  “How long ago did he start working on this book?”

  “Five years or so.”

  “Did he send off the manuscript yet?” When she shook her head, Drayco asked, “Could I see it?”

  “Take it with you. I haven’t been able to bring myself to read it.” She darted into a back room, returning with a thick stack of papers she handed to him.

  She didn’t sit down again, looking at Drayco shyly as she reached over and pulled out a photograph. “This is Bendek. The name means ‘blessed’ in Polish. He’s six years old. I haven’t told anyone except a couple of friends at work, but Oakley and I were working toward adopting a child. We’ve been saving our pennies, long before this whole development issue. It was Oakley’s idea we adopt a Polish child, because he had a college friend from Poland who died his senior year. His way of honoring the roommate’s memory.”

  A boy with a gap-toothed grin stared back from the photograph. He had coal-black hair and brown eyes with flecks of black like pecan shells, resembling one of Drayco’s childhood friends he lost track of, one of many who took second place to the piano. “Are you going through with the adoption?”

  “If they’ll agree to it. Our application was already approved, but it was based on us as a couple, not me as a single mother. Although I guess I’m old enough to be a single grandmother.” She sported the first real smile since he met her. But it soon faded. “Getting arrested for murdering my husband might change their minds. I know I’m the sheriff’s chief suspect.”

  She fell back into the role of hostess. “Would you care for a drink? I’m forgetting my manners. I should have offered first thing.”

  He declined, and she added, “Do you mind if I open
the window? The radiator knob in this room is broken and I can’t turn it down. Only on and off. It gets a bit stuffy.”

  He offered to help, but she made quick work of opening the casement window before heading into the kitchen. With the window open, Drayco heard the low-pitched, lime-colored cry of the heron, as well as ripplets lapping up on the beachless shore.

  He took the opportunity of Nanette’s absence to study the room. Spying a shelf with LPs and 78s, he bounded over to examine the contents. Mostly classical, the greatest-hits variety, but a few oddities. He stopped at one of the latter, his hands sweating with excitement as he pulled it out.

  Nanette returned and noticed the record in his hand. “Something of interest?”

  “This is a recording of pianist Konstantina Klucze. Her last performance was here in town at the Opera House. This is rare.”

  Nanette sat down again and waved a hand in his direction. “By all means you must keep it. It doesn’t have any significance for me. Oakley would want it to have a good home.”

  Drayco stifled the urge to ask if he could listen to the recording on the spot. “Over the phone, you mentioned something you wanted to show me. I’m guessing it’s something other than the photograph?”

  “It was a letter. The letter that prompted Oakley’s downward spiral.”

  “An old-fashioned letter via the post office?”

  “One page, in a plain white envelope. Oakley was reading it when I came home from work one afternoon. He was quiet at first. And then his face convulsed with anger before he threw the letter into the fireplace and ran outside. He didn’t come back for hours.”

  She rested a hand on her chest. “Here is where I have to admit a sin. I tried to grab the remains of the letter from the fire before it was consumed. All I rescued was a small fragment and I couldn’t tell anything from it. I hid it away and never told Oakley what I’d done.”