Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

  “Any other suspicious letters or e-mail you intercepted?”

  “No other letters. And Oakley was terrified of technology. He never got near a computer.”

  Drayco hazarded a guess, “After he received this letter, he began drinking?”

  “With a vengeance. It was as if someone traded personalities with him. The difference was night-and-day.”

  “Do you remember the date?”

  “As if I could forget. The six-month anniversary of us moving here.” She got up and opened a buffet table drawer, handing Drayco a blackened scrap of paper that she kept in a plastic bag. “This is what I rescued.”

  Drayco peered at the fragile paper through the plastic, afraid to pull it out and have it disintegrate. The charred smell reminded him of the burned newspaper that greeted him at the Lazy Crab. A few legible words remained, penned in neat block letters. “Can’t make out much detail. A closer examination with a microscope or a fancier instrument might help.”

  “But that’s what I want you to do.” She put her hand on his arm, pleading. “You must think I’m hysterical, the grieving widow grasping at straws. I don’t care if nothing comes of it, I want to hire you. No matter what it is—another woman, debts, family feuds. I want to discover the part of my husband he kept from me.”

  With Oakley’s memorial service at noon, Drayco didn’t feel like adding to Nanette’s anxiety. But he didn’t have much hope the decades-old burned fragment would cough up useful information. He played the diplomat and told her he’d at least take a look.

  “Mrs. Keys, I hate to bring up a difficult subject, but do you have any further thoughts on what the carving on Oakley’s chest, the ‘G,’ might symbolize?”

  Nanette deserved an Academy Award if the look of horror and revulsion on her face weren’t authentic. It was hard to see her pulling the trigger of a gun that splattered her husband’s brains on the floor. She touched the corner of her lip that started to bleed again, looking at the blood on her finger, transfixed. “That image keeps lunging at me, making me relive it over and over again. It’s hard enough to imagine someone evil enough to kill Oakley in the first place, but to cut him in that way? It was so vindictive, so hateful.”

  She paused to wipe away a few tears. “I have no idea what the ‘G’ means. Unless it stands for that dreadful developer, Gallinger. But as emotional as the pro-development people are, I can’t believe it would lead to this.”

  There was something noble about Nanette. A dignity formed through years of wondering where her husband was, or with whom, and learning to hold her head up regardless. An innate strength, a will to persevere, no matter how brambled the journey.

  “What will you do now, Mrs. Keys?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t made up my mind, regarding my future or the house.”

  “Oakley’s Will left you the burden of dealing with both the property and the developers?”

  “That’s what the attorney told me. Frankly, I wouldn’t care if Oakley left the property to Peter Pan.”

  She rose to walk him to the door, her eyes shining with hope. Her grateful parting words to Drayco left him feeling like the proverbial knight in shining armor. “I’ll always be grateful for how you took my concerns seriously. I’m not sure anyone else would.”

  As Drayco climbed back into his car, he admitted that plenty of investigators would agree with the hysterical grieving-widow part. They’d also be as curious as he was why Nanette hadn’t looked him in the eye when she denied knowing what the “G” stood for. He picked up the bag with the letter fragment from the passenger seat. Were the two related? It was such an insignificant fragment. Then again, the Rosetta Stone hadn’t looked like much, either.

  On his way back into town, Drayco drove through the east side of town where the grander buildings gave way to the “have not” homes. None of these were listed on the National Register of Historic Places. This cheerless real estate lacked much in the way of color, none of the vivid hues of Victorians restored by wealthier D.C. expatriates, nor the green of cold hard cash.

  A billboard caught his eye, and he parked beneath it. It was a typical rectangle on wooden poles, featuring what some marketing genius must have thought was a happy scene of a family frolicking on a small beach in front of shiny new condos. The name Gallinger, with a large initial-letter “G,” occupied one corner of the sign. What the marketing genius couldn’t foresee was a personal touch by a local artist—the letter “G” had been slathered with red paint that made it look like it was dripping with blood.

  Either the murderer copycatted his idea from the sign or took his symbolic gesture to literal new heights. The billboard and the plywood sign at the edge of town, both marred with red paint, were signs of anger dotting Cape Unity’s landscape like giant measles. Or maybe like the peeling-paint-pox on the Opera House door. If the Opera House survived, someone should stage Romeo and Juliet there. A plague on both your houses, indeed.

  ~~~

  After Drayco’s car pulled away from the house, Nanette felt a pang of regret. Should she have told him? He seemed like a nice young man, after all. Oakley was handsome once, filled with ambition and confidence. That image of him was burned in her memory, long after the weathering of time and Oakley’s self-destructive behavior cooled him into a virtual stranger. She walked again to the window to look out on Oakley’s strange little shrine. There were so many things about him she never understood, so many questions unanswered. He had closed off a part of himself from her, something she fought valiantly for the first part of their marriage. But after a while, she gave up trying.

  She’d spent hours on the eulogy for Oakley, tearing up draft after draft. It was a task she wished someone else would fill for her, but who was left? Friends of Oakley were few and far between.

  It wasn’t the eulogy she held in her hand right now. It was an odd letter she’d found earlier and didn’t know what to make of. More bizarre, drunken ramblings from one of Oakley’s benders? His reputation in town was already one of a lunatic, a nut, and she didn’t want to add to that after his death. If only he could be remembered as the man she had married so long ago.

  Or was this letter important, something that might explain everything she’d wondered about her husband and his behavior? Should she have shown Scott Drayco? The burned letter she’d given him was what had precipitated Oakley’s fall from grace, after all, wasn’t it? This other letter she’d sleep on and think about tomorrow. Perhaps she’d show it to Drayco then. For now, it was all she could do to muster enough strength to get through the memorial service.

  She looked out the window again, at the howling winds forming whitecaps on the water. The weather was so ugly lately. It would serve as a fitting backdrop for the end to a wretched life.

  Chapter 14

  The tire-busting cracks in unrepaired streets made Cape Unity’s delicate two-step around budget woes clear. It also made it hard for Drayco to avoid all the potholes in the gathering darkness of a clouded twilight sky. Not that streetlights would help, since several at the end of Main Street were broken.

  It felt good to be outside, after spending the last four hours following his visit to Nanette culling through more records at the Historical Society. Neither he nor Reece had attended the Memorial for Oakley. Neither of them felt welcome, or at least Reece hadn’t. Drayco feared his own presence would be a distraction.

  He pulled in front of the Novel Café. Not only did it serve decent coffee with free refills, in addition to selling books, he’d learned it was another of Earl Yaegle’s businesses. Drayco hoped to have the place to himself, but an elderly woman in a black-and-yellow crocheted sweater pressed against the counter like an overripe banana. She waved her hands at the salesclerk, whose face and neck sported a mottled red flush.

  “He’s a traitor, that’s what.” The elderly woman’s voice pitched as high as an aging tremolo would allow, and she banged her cane down on the counter. “He has no business selling out to those big-city sharks. They slam
through town like a hurricane, put up some hideous monstrosity and slink away with their ill-gotten gain.”

  Drayco walked to the counter. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of making your acquaintance. I’m Scott Drayco.”

  She stopped her tirade for a moment. Gradually, the muscles of her face relaxed. “You’re that new Opera House owner. It’s a pleasure to meet one who appreciates historic buildings for a change, instead of tearing them down willy-nilly.”

  “I’m sure most people have the town’s best interests at heart, don’t you?”

  She said, “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” and marched outside.

  The salesclerk waited until the other woman left. “Thanks for coming to my rescue, Mr. Drayco.”

  “My pleasure,” he read her name tag, “Zelda.”

  “We haven’t had many customers like that. Guess it was a matter of time. Business has been down since—” Zelda gripped the edges of the counter.

  “You think people don’t want to buy books from a murder suspect?”

  She paused, then moved her hands to straighten a rack of crossword paperbacks on top of the counter. “It’s only been a few days. I hope it will pick back up because I need this job. Earl’s a generous man. Without him, I couldn’t pay for my son’s asthma meds.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “It’ll be my tenth anniversary next month.”

  Since the elephant in the room was already out and marching around, asking about Oakley appeared to be a safe topic. “Did Oakley Keys come here often? He was a writer and historian, so he must have bought his share of books.”

  Zelda pointed to a section in the corner. “He practically lived over there a few years ago. That’s the history and reference section.”

  “A few years ago? But not lately?”

  “He stopped coming ... I think it was last year sometime. I asked Earl why.”

  She hesitated, and Drayco prompted her, “What did Earl say?”

  “He didn’t want to talk about it. Seemed angry. So I never brought the subject up again.”

  “What were your impressions of Oakley? Other than as a customer.”

  “He was sweet. And great with kids. Always seemed to be here when we were having children’s story hour. He volunteered to read to them a couple times.”

  “After he stopped coming by the store, did you see Oakley around town?”

  “On occasion. He was friendly enough. Waved, asked about business, the kids, my son. Things like that.” Zelda’s hands no longer gripped the counter. Good. One little victory.

  He said, “I can help a little with business. Some books on the area’s history. And the Opera House, if you have them.”

  To his surprise, the store had an extensive and varied collection. Drayco cast a wistful eye at the travel section before purchasing a few books and ordering the biography Reece mentioned about Konstantina Klucze. Reece said the pianist was killed after she returned from Cape Unity to Britain. From the meager research Drayco could do via his smartphone—when he got a connection for more than a few minutes—he discovered Konstantina was murdered, the culprit unknown. Maybe the book would suggest some potential suspects.

  As he threaded his way through narrow aisles toward the exit, he flipped through one of his new books, a title on brewing the perfect cup of coffee. Grinders, gold filters, a French press? Who knew?

  Someone in front of him blocked his path, forcing him to look up. Darcie Squier was planted between him and the door. With a quick two-step, she moved in closer, pinning him to the shelves behind. “Fancy meeting you here,” she purred. “After our dinner party the other night, Randolph and I were discussing how interesting it is you show up in our tame little town—and all of a sudden, we have a murder.”

  Her tone was fogged with rebuke, but her eyes sparkled like a sundog prism. “You must be intimate with crimes and all the passions they arouse.” She drew out the word passions to three syllables.

  Darcie smoothed the outlines of her form-fitting sweater dress. She definitely had the form such a dress could love, accentuating every curve. She moistened her lips, looking at him the way Drayco’s neighbor Abyssinian did when it was ready to pounce. “With a dangerous killer on the loose, it’s comforting to know you’re on the trail, Scott. And the sheriff, of course.”

  Drayco recalled Maida’s offer to be his bodyguard and looked around for possible avenues of escape. “I’m sure the sheriff’s grateful for your confidence in his abilities.”

  Darcie examined him from head to toe like she had at Cypress Manor, as if sizing up his abilities on a more personal level. “It’s Earl Yaegle who did it. I mean, if I got offered millions of dollars for land and someone stood in my way, I’d do something about it.”

  The way she said “about” set off light bulbs in his brain. She had a regional accent hard to find anywhere else, not so much Tidewater as Tangier. “Are you from this area, Mrs. Squier?”

  “It’s Darcie, remember? And I grew up on Tangier Island, although we left when I was a young girl. You’ve heard of it?”

  “I flew a small plane there once. Quite a history, that island. Captain John Smith, pirates, the British using it during the Revolutionary War. Some residents have a more Elizabethan accent than you, although you sound a little like Seth Bakely. Is he from Tangier?”

  “I believe so. Several people in Cape Unity are from there.”

  He’d picked up on the hints of an accent earlier, but her years spent away from the island had watered down the tells. No “noyce” instead of “nice,” or "ye" instead of "you." That was the problem with melting pots, all flavors started tasting the same.

  Darcie positioned herself closer to Drayco, as the almost-forgotten book dangled from his hand. Her lips were tantalizingly close, her breath warm on his face and smelling of cinnamon and alcohol—not booze, but the distinct odor of fresh mouthwash. She’d come prepared for this?

  He let go of the coffee-brewing book, where it fell with a thud. Stooping to pick it up, he backed away from Darcie, half-knocking over a display of books in a rack. “Oops. I’m so clumsy. It was great to bump into you,” he lied. Maybe only a half-lie. Okay. Not a lie at all. He wasn’t running from her because he didn’t want to see her, but because of the part of him that stirred at the prospect of being close to her.

  “I’m sure we’ll meet again.” Darcie’s expression was now the Abyssinian licking its lips over catnip. “Sooner rather than later.”

  Drayco climbed into the Starfire, refusing to acknowledge his growing attraction to Darcie. Besides, if the figure across the street from Earl’s gun shop was Darcie, it appeared she was stalking him. And what of her flirtations? Was he “fresh meat” as the sheriff suggested, or was this a misdirection, to cover up the fact she’d cared for Oakley? She projected the air of someone on a hunting expedition—whether for him, or for information, it was hard to say.

  It got dark early in the Mid-Atlantic this time of year, but looking back, he caught a glimpse of Darcie leaving. In his haste to put distance between them, he gave only a passing glance toward the black sedan parked on the curb behind him, a car that was vaguely familiar. He might go days or weeks in D.C. without bumping into a soul he knew. Every car around here was beginning to look like an old friend.

  He caught a quick glimpse of the stars through his windshield. In such a dark-sky site as this, it was easy to see some of the Milky Way and constellations. Should have brought his telescope. He pulled the car over and got out long enough to take a better look. There was Cancer, appropriately—the crab. Leo, the lion, was there. That would be Squier, king of his jungle. And Darcie? What constellation would best suit her? Hydra, the water serpent. Or better yet, Orion, the Great Hunter, chasing after hapless males. Oakley would be Ursa Minor, the lesser bear.

  Back on the road, he passed through town and spotted a group standing around in a parking lot. The group of teenage boys on the left wore the same type of jea
ns and famous-athlete-du-jour sneakers as in private schools like Georgetown Day or Sidwell. On the right a group of young men with dark hair and olive complexions sported extra-large hoodies and defiance. No gang emblems anywhere, just some cuts and bruises.

  A car with flashing lights and Sheriff’s Department lettering on the side sat in the middle, with a deputy talking to a boy in the back of the patrol car. This same scene played out in southern border states or in a host of larger cities, except it was only now coming to Cape Unity. And it was also likely why many people in town found it more palatable to pin Oakley’s murder on an outsider.

  But it wasn’t an outsider who was the main murder suspect, and if Drayco stayed around much longer, he’d likely see the sheriff arrest Nanette Keys. Another husband-wife dispute turned deadly. Remembering his conversation earlier with Nanette, and her heartfelt pleading, he didn’t feel much like a white knight at the moment.

  He headed back to the Lazy Crab, met at the door by Maida who gestured him wordlessly into the kitchen. Her pale face had traces of tears leaving red streaks. Piles of dirty dishes lay untouched in the sink, and the reek of food baked to a blackened crisp in the oven hung over the room. “I have horrible news, Scott.”

  Somehow, he didn’t think it was related to the brawl aftermath. A skein of foreboding crawled up his spine. “What is it, Maida?”

  “The sheriff called. It’s Nanette Keys. She was murdered earlier today. Sometime after the memorial service.”

  PART TWO

  All that I long for is faded and gone.

  I wander here in anguish, lonely and sad.

  The sun has gone from my heaven.

  And I must languish here in this loveless place.

  —From the song “I want what I have not,” poem by Bohdan Zaleski,

  music by Frédéric Chopin