by B. V. Lawson
—From the song “I want what I have not,” poem by Bohdan Zaleski,
music by Frédéric Chopin
Chapter 29
Sunday 21 March
True to his word from the previous night, Sheriff Sailor arranged to meet Drayco at noon. On his previous trip to the Seafood Hut, Drayco hadn’t paid much attention to the decor. As he waited for the Sheriff to arrive, he inspected a wall behind the register with signed photographs. They were the Seafood Hut’s version of celebrity patrons, including a TV news anchor from the D.C. area, a former Washington Senators baseball player, and a few other notables.
Drayco was surprised to see Oakley Keys on the wall, with the title “Author” beneath his signature. Drayco barely recognized him in the photo. This version of Oakley was smiling, with no signs of the male-pattern baldness that later plagued him, a Kirk Douglas cleft chin and a confident gaze. It was dated prior to the letter incident.
Sheriff Sailor piped up behind Drayco’s back, “They should put your picture up there. World-famous pianist, Opera House impresario, crime consultant to the rich and powerful.” He ignored Drayco’s glare. “I’ve got a digital camera in the car.”
“That’s one gallery I’ll stay away from. Most of them are deceased, some violently. That anchorman died in a plane crash, the Senators baseball player was killed in Vietnam, and of course, there’s Oakley.”
“Good point.”
They headed for the same booth as last time, and the waitress, who couldn’t be much over sixteen, poured two cups of coffee in a rapid-fire succession that would impress Earl Yaegle. Sailor eyeballed Drayco over the coffee cup he held in front of his face. “You seem faraway. Am I keeping you from a hot date?”
Drayco sat back in the booth and ran his finger across the table’s decoupaged pictures of beach scenes, tracing a “G” pattern. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep much.”
Sailor pushed the salt shaker over to him. “You having bad dreams or does our fine sea air disagree with you?”
“It’s not the sea air.” Drayco closed his eyes briefly, remembering. As if he could forget, when the images were burned into his nightmares. “Two months ago, a high-ranking diplomat and friend of Brock’s put pressure on me to find his grandkids. They were kidnapped by his son-in-law, their father. I never sensed the mother in the custody case, the diplomat’s daughter, would do what she did.”
He stopped to take a few sips of coffee. The Hut’s dark roast had that same smoky, charred aftertaste, but seemed darker, more bitter. “After I tracked down her children, twins, a boy and girl only five, she drowned them. Not just drowned them, but in a ritualized way—lily blossoms strewn across the pool, candles around the perimeter, the hands of the children tied behind them, their feet weighted. She invited me over to the house to show me what she’d done. I jumped in after them and tried CPR—”
“But they were already dead.”
The EMTs told Drayco there was nothing he could have done. But he’d agonized not only over the deaths of the twins, but how for a brief moment he felt he was playing God by choosing which twin to resuscitate first.
During the graveside service, he parked across the street and watched from afar, not wanting to be a negative presence. Some family members were none too happy with him, though the twins’ grandfather, Drayco’s client, didn’t blame him. Drayco hadn’t been able to bring himself to visit the two small graves on his own.
Sailor’s voice shook him from his reverie. “Surely you don’t blame yourself?”
Drayco looked at his hands, which for once, were still. “I shouldn’t. Elaina Cadden developed schizophrenia. Her own family didn’t realize it, not even the twins’ father who absconded with the kids for selfish reasons.”
He shifted his gaze to Sailor, who had his elbows propped on the table, looking at Drayco calmly over the coffee cup he grasped in both hands. Drayco said, “You’re not surprised by any of this.”
Sailor leaned back. “Remember that research I said I’d done on you? I read the news articles and police report on the Cadden case. The doctors concluded the Cadden woman had Type I schizophrenia. Comes on suddenly. She was apparently high-strung, so it’d be hard to notice the signs. But you know all that, don’t you?”
“Maybe I’m not to blame for her behavior, but—”
“Look, you’re not a screw-up. The police knew it, you know it, I know it. Hell, if I’d thought that from the beginning, I’d have found a way to kick you out of town.”
Drayco reached for the salt shaker and rolled it around in his hand. Someone had added little grains of rice to the shaker. To draw out the moisture? He dropped the shaker on the table, the salt spilling into crystal spirals. “Nonetheless, I was a conduit for the loss of two innocent lives.”
“You think it’s happening again, with the Keys.”
“If neither Oakley nor Nanette tried to hire me, they might be alive today. The timing of their deaths is too coincidental. And personal.”
“We don’t have suspect number one in jail, let alone a motive. You’re jumping the clichéd gun. Or Webley.”
The bags under the sheriff’s eyes weren’t any lighter, and Drayco suspected he knew why. “The town council giving you grief again?”
The sheriff took his hint to change the subject. “Squier at least backed off after I asked about his property. And there’s talk of a recall vote.”
“Against Squier?”
“No, me.”
“Is Squier behind that?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. One bit of good news—a deputy tracked down the widow of Maxwell Chambliss, owner of the stolen scrimshaw, to Ocean City. Her son drove her here to claim the piece you found, picture in hand to prove it was her late husband’s. It was one of a pair. They sold the remaining one in the early ’90s for ten grand.”
Drayco let out a whistle. “A decent haul. Makes me wonder why the thief never sold it.”
“Could have feared selling it would provide a trace back.”
“Or our thief was looking for something else and picked this up on a whim, not knowing its worth. When I ran into a besotted Paddy, he accused Oakley of playing Opera House cat burglar. And another source confirmed Oakley was familiar with the place.”
Sailor said, “Hmm,” through crimped lips. “That source wouldn’t be Mrs. Squier, would it? One of my deputies thought he saw Darcie getting out of your car after the town meeting.”
“We’ve run into each other a few times. She’s been helpful.” Drayco didn’t mention Darcie’s account of having sex with Oakley at the Opera House. It didn’t feel necessary. For now.
Drayco turned the subject back to the thefts. “Hard to believe Seth wouldn’t have run across the scrimshaw piece before.”
“We questioned the Bakelys and Squiers. They denied knowledge. And the only fingerprints on it were yours. Hell, maybe Squier-the-scrimshaw-fanatic planted it as a joke.”
The waitress brought their plates, and the sheriff attacked his food with gusto, pausing long enough to wash it down with a few loud gulps of Orange Crush. Drayco was amazed. “You weren’t kidding when you said you liked those crab thingamabobs. Don’t forget to breathe.”
He gazed out the window to the crumbling pink shack the sheriff pointed out last time. Only now, it had a big For Sale sign plastered across it. Like everything else in town. “Thanks for bringing by a copy of Nanette’s letter fragment last night. It referenced ‘the past,’ but Oakley was in his mid-twenties at the time. Not much of a past at that age.”
The sheriff used bread to mop up the last traces of crab. The plate was so clean, it could have come straight from the dishwasher. “Might go back to his collegiate days. I’ll have Tyler contact the college. Can’t say I’m convinced it’s relevant.”
“You’re fixated on the condo project and Oakley’s refusal to sell his land as the murder motive?”
“And you aren’t. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
Drayco said slowly, “I think the fra
gment is connected and something older is at work. For several reasons.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Nanette being murdered shortly after she gave it to me. Such as, why would Oakley wear a jacket he hadn’t worn in decades the night he’s killed?”
“You tell me, Ellery. If you want to pursue it further, knock yourself out.”
Sailor’s situation wasn’t helped by losing not one, but two deputies now to the mumps, out for weeks. Drayco was none too happy to spend a week in bed when he was eight with his neck swollen and a fever high enough for ice packs, but now, he was grateful. He said, “I’ll save you one hassle, checking Oakley’s immigration records. I have a friend at the National Archives.”
The sheriff accepted the offer with a grateful nod. “Deal. FYI, we found no prints on the note left in your room.”
“I didn’t expect any.”
“Nor did I. But I also didn’t expect something else we found.” Sailor called the waitress for the check, then studied it as if trying to divine some deep secret. “You should be careful.”
“Any reason in particular?”
“Tyler took a closer look at the red paint on that note of yours. It was paint, all right. With flecks of dried blood.”
“Human?”
“Type A-negative. Like Oakley’s and what was on the knife from the dumpster. The author of the note wants his message heard loud and clear. Must have collected some blood in a vial before he left the murder scene or from gloves he used.”
Drayco smiled. “Guess there goes my dream of a cottage in town with a white picket fence.”
“You don’t seem the picket fence type.”
“And you’re no poster boy for the Stereotypical Sheriffs Association. What hooked you into this racket?”
Sailor was quiet for a moment. “An unsolved murder. My younger brother’s. I’d gone off to college when it happened during his night shift at a convenience store. I wasn’t there for him and vowed I’d make it up to him.”
Russian roulette again. The two men exchanged a wordless glance of understanding before the sheriff cleared his throat and added, “Of course, if I hadn’t picked this illustrious career, I’d be a penniless poet drowning my sorrows in a bar somewhere. Like Paddy.”
“Or Oakley.”
“Too much Type A personality to be depressive.”
“Type A personality to go with type A blood.”
Sailor frowned. “Yeah, there is that. Maybe you should leave it alone, like the warning said. Go sell your Opera House, take the money and run. Be a lot healthier for you all around.”
Drayco appreciated the concern but didn’t feel in imminent danger. The real threat was out there in a town not accustomed to urban woes of murder and rapid demographic changes. And the blame-gaming. With fingers pointed in every direction, the murderer would find it easy to blend in, one target among many.
“I almost forgot, Sheriff, did you track down the car with the tinted front windshield?”
“Have to wait until tomorrow at the earliest, since it’s Sunday.” Sailor got in one last passing shot before they got up to leave. “I’d be careful around Darcie. She can be dangerous when she wants something. And Squier filed a complaint against you with me and the Virginia Department of Criminal Justice. I’ve already gotten a call from some suit named Zeickert.”
That helped explain why Drayco had seen a few townspeople turning away from him as he approached them this morning. Such a move on Squier’s part could do more than make Drayco a pariah in town. A few days ago, he wasn’t sure he’d care about having to go before a review board or losing his license. But now ... “On what grounds, Sheriff?”
“Threatening bodily harm. Harassment. And stalking.”
“He must use a different dictionary than I do.”
“Like I said, might be a good idea to avoid Mrs. Squier. Not just to make her husband back off. All that thorny ethical stuff.”
Drayco deflected the other man’s scowl with a small nod. “No worries, there.” But as the words left his mouth, he had the sudden sensation of smelling jasmine perfume.
Chapter 30
Zelda at the Novel Café placed the book triumphantly in Drayco’s hands. “I have a contact who specializes in hard-to-find books.”
Drayco thumbed through the pages, inhaling the new-book smell. “What do I owe you?”
“This is a gift. The Opera House is a community treasure, after all.”
“At least let me buy you a drink from your café by way of thanks. And in honor of your anniversary at the store.”
She grinned, but nodded at a stack of boxes next to the counter. “That’s kind of you, but I’ll have to take a rain check. We got in two big shipments and I’m swamped.”
Drayco toted the book into a corner of the café where he settled into an overstuffed purple chair near the window, the view filled with wood-and-metal scaffolding across the street. Why did he feel drawn to the life of this one pianist? Certainly the fact Konstantina’s last concert was in the Opera House was enticing. Maybe his mind was fixated on murder, in this case an unusual one—it was rare for classical pianists to suffer such a fate.
As he read, he learned Konstantina’s rise to fame was meteoric. Which is why everyone was shocked when she got married at the peak of her talents to the rich businessman Edmund Gozdowski, a Polish Jew twenty years her senior and a widower with a son. Although Edmund and Konstantina’s relationship read like a fairy tale, there was family grumbling, and she became estranged from the stepson.
For a wedding present, Edmund gave his wife a rare Chopin manuscript of the Piano Sonata in B Minor, one of the only items saved in their flight from persecution. It wasn’t seen since. That made Drayco sit up straight. It was the same composition he played at the Opera House the other day.
After reaching the back pages of the book, he was surprised to find he’d been reading for three hours. The clicking of heels on the parquet floor got his attention. Darcie Squier approached him, two cups in hand. “Mind if I join you?”
Drayco made room on the small table next to him. “We’ll be the talk of the town grapevine tomorrow.”
“As if I care.”
“At least you’re one of the few people in town who doesn’t mind being seen talking to me. Ironic, since it’s your husband who is responsible. Thinks I’m either unethical or dangerous. Or both.”
“Oh, I hope you’re dangerous.” She picked up his book. “What’s this about?”
“A concert pianist, her career, and her love affair that ended badly.”
“What happened?”
“She was murdered.”
Darcie could match Reese Wable in their ability to hide emotions behind a mask of indifference. But at times small openings popped up before she caught herself, like the fleeting ray of worry he observed at the graveyard, and again just now.
“A mystery novel?”
“True crime. The couple escaped to England from Poland in 1944, but the pianist’s husband ended up joining the Polish resistance during the war. He was never the same and died of a heart attack a decade later.”
“That’s a sad story, all right. But why does it matter to you?”
“The pianist’s last concert was in the Cape Unity Opera House. Before his death, her husband encouraged his wife to go on a concert tour in the states.”
A tour on which she was accompanied by her agent, Harmon Ainscough, one of the main suspects in her murder. The others included Konstantina’s stepson and her brother-in-law, now deceased. In fact, many of the suspects had long since died, throwing roadblocks into Drayco’s unofficial investigation. Like Oakley, Drayco was becoming obsessed with the unsolved murder. The two cases were some fifty years apart, but both tied to the Opera House.
Darcie’s voice interrupted his digression. “Was she killed here?”
“She was strangled in London. She’d only recently had a baby.”
“Why don’t you find her kid for more information?”
/>
“Apparently the child died.” Drayco put the book down on the table. “The pianist and her husband were very much in love. Like I think Oakley and Nanette were, deep down.”
Darcie picked her nails. “Perhaps.”
“Were you merely bored and toying with Oakley? What was it that attracted you, pity?” Time to force a few more cracks to open.
“You think I’m shallow, don’t you?” She seemed genuinely hurt. “Bet you don’t know I have a degree in social work.”
Darcie was definitely the “sociable” type, no doubt about it. “Was Oakley your thesis?”
“He was warm and kind. A friend. He gave me gifts.”
An elderly woman carrying a PBS tote bag walked in, heading in their direction. When she spied Darcie and then Drayco, she tutted and turned around. Yep. On the news grapevine soon.
“What type of gifts did Oakley give you? He didn’t have much money.”
She smiled. “A book of love letters between Elizabeth Barrett and that Browning guy. I don’t read much, but it was sweet.”
“Were you in love with him?”
Darcie put her cup down on the table. “He was a diversion. I was an ego boost.”
“Have you boosted the egos of other men, Earl Yaegle, Reece Wable?”
“Reece? Now there’s a fun thought.” She crossed her legs, showing off her fishnet stockings. “I’m picky who I have affairs with.” The sly grin returned. “Why, I think you’re jealous. That’s why you’re asking me these questions.”
“I call jealousy the dandelion emotion. Innocent-looking, until it morphs from sunny yellow to a gossamer skeleton. And impossible to stop from destroying your yard, once it spreads.” He picked up the cup of coffee she’d brought and tried not to recoil when he tasted sugar and cream. “Were you jealous of Nanette?”
“Of course not. I didn’t want a permanent relationship with Oakley.”
“You said he gave you gifts, plural. What else besides the book? Some of his wood carvings, like a mask?”
Darcie twirled her hair around her fingers. “Nothing interesting. And what would I do with a wooden mask? It’s not like we have masquerade parties.”
