Played to Death

by B. V. Lawson

  He recalled a night long ago, when his father, in a rare moment of that hated sentimentality of his, took his son to the shore to watch the spawning of tiny horseshoe crabs. Brock patiently explained how they weren’t crabs at all, but closer to spiders, and it was the copper in their blood that made them blue. Descendants of ancestor crabs 450 million years old, the hatchlings were endangered by overfishing from humans and birds and loss of habitat. Yet they found a way to survive.

  A small sound carried on the wind caught his attention. Another bird? No, this was more of a faint mewling. He triangulated the sound, using the trees like mirrors to localize the source, and crept toward the large, dark hole carved out under the roots of a dying tree. He whipped out his flashlight and trained it into the opening.

  The mewling of the two infant cubs crescendoed as the light hit them. They were likely so desperate for food, their hunger overpowered their fear. Both coyote and wolf fathers often helped out with their young, but since only one animal attacked Drayco, he was fairly certain these little guys belonged to a single-parent household.

  He reached into another pocket and pulled out some soft gloves and carefully slid his hand into the den to pull out first one cub and then the other. They were blind, meaning only days old. But his flashlight had also revealed the mother chose her den well—a trickle of water via an underground water source kept the twins alive.

  Bundling the cubs inside his jacket, next to his shirt, he carried them back to the box and set them down onto the blanket inside, speaking to them soothingly. Once the box was safely parked onto the passenger floor of Drayco’s car, he headed toward a wildlife center Maida had told him about. The woman who greeted him was thrilled to see the cubs, and said they would raise them until they were old enough to release.

  After he returned to the car, he noticed in the rearview mirror how deep the dark circles under his eyes were, worse than the sheriff’s He was happy to have helped out those two orphans, but he had a much larger problem looming down the road.

  ~~~

  Unlike Phantom of the Opera, the Cape Unity Opera House had no subterranean chamber where a villain could lurk. Neither did Drayco agree with some locals the building was haunted. He ran one finger over the piano keys, often likened to bones. On this damp evening, the only vibe was akin to an archaeological dig, the structural skeleton a mute witness to a forgotten past.

  Drayco and the piano, alone on an empty stage under a spotlight. A scene he knew well. He had a strong sense of déjà vu similar to the first time he stepped inside the Opera House, the same funk he experienced then. Why such a sense of loss now?

  Sitting on the bench, he wondered what would become of the piano if he sold the building and its contents. It had a warm tone he liked, and when tuned, would sound quite good. This must be the same instrument Konstantina Klucze played. She would have sat in this same spot, focused on her concert, unaware of the cruel fate ahead.

  He tried a few scales before launching into Bach’s “Goldberg Variations.” Bach was a lifeline whenever Drayco had something to puzzle through. The musical counterpoint was like a reverse prism, taking scattered colors of light and focusing them into a cohesive whole. It helped him to concentrate on abstract thoughts.

  He made it through the opening aria, but after a few measures of the first variation, his hand started cramping. He tried again, but it only took a few notes for the pain to shoot up his arm like an electric shock. Frustrated, he banged his hands down on the keyboard. Should have performed the water bath first.

  He rubbed the arm until the cramps subsided, and started in gingerly this time, with a silent apology to the piano. Time always stood still when he played. He had no idea how long he’d been at it when he heard a familiar wheeze above the sound of his playing.

  He stopped, irritated.

  Seth walked over. “Thought I’d let you know you I was here.”

  “Just checking out the piano, Seth. Needs tuning, but otherwise you’ve kept it in good shape. For someone who hates pianos.”

  Seth coughed and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Shouldn’t have said that. It was rude. And the instrument’s a beauty all right.” He stared at Drayco, “You should do that for money. You’ve got your own place to play now.”

  “I’m happy doing what I am, for the most part.”

  “The detective stuff?”

  “Helping people. Solving puzzles. Right now one of the biggest puzzles to me is why Oakley Keys was so obsessed with this place.”

  Seth shrugged. “Ask Major Jepson.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oakley was a hermit. Didn’t have a lot of friends. But Major was his closest, them being ex-Brits and all.”

  Drayco tried not to laugh at Seth’s description of Oakley as a hermit, since it took one to know one. He no longer felt like smiling when Seth continued. “Oakley gave gifts to his friends. Once saw Major with a wooden mask Oakley made him.”

  “When was this?”

  “Been awhile.” Seth coughed again. “If you don’t mind, I’ve got mops back there that’ll stink to high heaven if I allow them to sour.”

  Drayco waited for Seth to leave, then dug into the Bach with a renewed intensity. Major Jepson never mentioned a mask. Not even when Drayco discussed Oakley’s creation with him. He only played a few more measures before something drew him out of his concentration, and again he stopped. He peered into the back of the hall, where a figure headed into the light. He waved her forward. “I see you made it on this lovely afternoon.”

  “Of course.” Maida laughed. “I’ve always wondered what the inside looked like. I must say it’s nicer than I imagined.”

  Drayco gestured around the hall. “Virtually the same as it was half a century ago, with faded makeup and a few wrinkles. You were expecting cobwebs?”

  “Worse. Spooky sheets, a few mice and dust everywhere. You didn’t have to stop playing. Was that Bach?”

  “The Goldberg Variations.”

  “You’re good, you know.”

  He grinned. “You sound surprised.”

  She whisked the Nationals baseball cap off her head and ran a hand through her hair. “I didn’t mean it that way. I thought with your injury, you couldn’t play much.”

  “Not enough to have a piano career. Too many hours of practice. But I can play in small bursts.”

  Maida circled the bottom of the stage to sit in the front row. “How much would a seat like this cost nowadays?”

  “Here, it’s free. At a place like the Kennedy Center, anywhere from eighty to hundred dollars a ticket.”

  “Too rich for my blood. I’ll stay right here and take the free ticket, thank you very much.”

  “Some rock concerts will set you back three or four times that.”

  “Tell you what—next time you have a concert, we’ll get a group of ladies together and throw some underwear at you. Make you feel like a rock star.”

  “I think you might be hard-pressed to come up with such a group.”

  “Not from what I’ve seen. I’m sure Darcie Squier would pay double for the opportunity.”

  Drayco winced. “I think I’ll stick to investigative work.”

  Having one woman at a time throw herself at him was enough. Especially since she was married. And a suspect. And like the Saproshin vodka Tatiana’s father smuggled from Moscow—a toxin you know you should avoid, but once indulged becomes a guilty pleasure. Darcie in a nutshell.

  He stood up and offered a hand to Maida as she climbed the stairs to the stage. “I promised the five-cent tour.”

  Maida pointed to the circular stairs and catwalk. “That looks like fun.”

  Drayco considered the creaky rails with reservation. “I’ve tried it once but I need to get it inspected. If it passes, I’ll take you up there.”

  Maida caught sight of the fading red stain on the wooden floor, and she shivered. “Is that—”

  Drayco nodded. “’Fraid so.” He focused on her expression. “
Are you all right?” Blood, viscera, decaying corpses—he’d been around them often enough to disassociate life from the mangled flesh of death. But he kicked himself mentally for not thinking about the stains when Maida asked for a tour.

  “Brings the murder closer to home. Makes it more real.”

  Then, she startled him. Straightening up to her full five feet one inches, she put her hands on her hips. Then she said in as loud as voice as he’d heard from the lay-pastor Maida, “I hope you catch whoever did this, no matter who it is, and stuff their worthless carcass into a cell so dark they’ll never see the light of day. Beneath the roguish exterior, Oakley was a sensitive man who wouldn’t hurt a soul. And there’s Nanette—”

  She stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes growing wider. “I’ve been assuming it was one person who killed both. You don’t think there are two of these animals running around?”

  “We’re not sure. But if it makes you feel any safer, I believe the murders are related. And I don’t think we’re looking at random killing.”

  “Don’t want you to get the idea I’m another hysterical old bat, Scott.”

  “Old, hysterical and bat are not terms I’d use to refer to you, Maida, trust me.”

  She squinted at the rows of empty seats. “Nanette told me something odd over a year ago. She had a premonition about Oakley’s death.”

  “Did she say how she saw him dying? Or why?”

  Maida shook her head and looked up toward the ceiling, although Drayco doubted it was in supplication. “You don’t believe it was a premonition, do you?”

  “Some people believe the subconscious creates images. Images that provide insights into problems the conscious mind suppresses. Perhaps Nanette picked up on signals from Oakley, but wasn’t aware of it.”

  “A dream message in a bottle?”

  “In a way.” He thought of his own reproachful nightmares. Signposts from the Freudian Id.

  Maida nibbled on her nails.

  He said, “That’s not the only thing bothering you.”

  “The same time as the premonition, another strange thing happened.”

  “With Nanette?”

  “She stopped going to church.” Maida swung her feet forward so they could touch the floor. “Nanette used to volunteer for everything and sang in the choir.”

  “Her absence must have raised eyebrows.”

  “It did. She said she was ailing and needed a break. The rumor mill had Oakley drinking again. But I’m not sure either was true. I tried to talk to her, both as pastor and friend, but she kept waving me off, using the health excuse.”

  He heard the sheriff’s voice in his head, “Well, now—was the affair between Earl and Nanette not as brief, or as long ago as Earl led us to believe?”

  “I’m sure you tried your best, Maida. Even if you aren’t the hellfire and brimstone type.”

  “My sermons nudge people in the right direction instead of beating them upside the head with be-saved-or-else boxing gloves. Though that might be more effective.”

  “And you could charge for ringside pews.”

  “We sure could use the money.” She excused herself to run an errand, leaving Drayco alone, at last. He switched from the Goldbergs to Bach’s “Art of the Fugue.”

  As Drayco’s fingers flew over the keys, he thought of Oakley and his inscription in Yaegle’s book. And what of the cryptic letter fragment? His left hand highlighted inner voices in one passage, up the scale then down. That word “phonic” on Oakley’s newspaper clipping. Phonic as in acoustics or speech? And the b-b on the clipping and tree? He forced his fingers over the keyboard ever faster. The questions lit up the parietal lobe in his brain, even as the musical notes brought forth a rainbow of colors to his senses.

  Oakley sprouted from nowhere, sans family or friends. Or that’s the impression he wanted to give. Then there was the sheriff’s brother and his murder, left unresolved. Was it better sometimes not to have family, if all it meant was sorrow and loss?

  Frustrated with his inability to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together, Drayco’s fingers dug forcefully into a section where Bach introduced a new counter-theme before bringing back the original melody, now inverted. Inverted—turned on its head.

  He stopped cold, as an idea occurred to him, something wilder than the theory he hinted to the sheriff, part allegory and part tragedy of operatic proportions. It fit together so beautifully, like Bach’s counterpoint, it was a possible solution to the murders. Trouble was, it could be nearly impossible to prove.

  Chapter 35

  Reece Wable stood looking at the Fairmont Hotel. Now, it was the crown jewel of downtown Cape Unity, but not too long ago, it symbolized the collapse of the tourist trade. It took a chunk of grant money, but the building now stood proudly on Atlantic Avenue as if it had always looked this elegant and unblemished. The movie star coyly denying knowledge of any plastic surgery.

  Although a few blocks down the street from the Historical Society, Reece always parked his car in front of the Hotel and walked to work. Partly because he liked the grandeur of the place and partly because he needed the exercise. He was terrified of middle-age spread.

  Reece was a few steps from the car when another vehicle screeched into the space behind his and came to an abrupt halt. Reece was relieved to note the driver barely avoided a fender bender, but annoyed all the same. His annoyance turned quickly to alarm when Paddy Bakely pulled himself out of the driver’s seat and headed in a rush toward Reece.

  “I’ve got this for you,” Paddy had a long slender object in his hand that vaguely resembled a weapon. Was he drunk or was he sober? Reese steeled himself against a possible assault and looked around for potential witnesses. Paddy held out the object at arm’s length and indicated Reece should take it. It was a walking cane, with a maple shaft tipped in silver and a silver animal figure for the handle. Reece wasn’t sure how to react. Better stick with the basics. “Thank you,” he said.

  Paddy pointed to the cane, “It’s been lying around the house gathering dust. I think it’s old. More your thing than mine. I reckon you can add it to your museum.” He rocked up and down on the balls of his feet, his face scrunched like he was in pain, although Reece doubted it was from ill-fitting shoes. Paddy was holding something else behind his back, which he pulled around. “Thought you might want this, too.”

  Reece accepted both offerings with a stiff nod. “I’ll take them back to the Historical Society with me.”

  As quickly as he had come, Paddy sped away, leaving a mystified historian in his wake. Just as Reece collected his thoughts enough to head once again toward his car, a dark blue coupe pulled into the slot vacated by Paddy and another man rolled down the window. He called to Reece, who wondered, how did I get in the middle of Grand Central Station all of a sudden?

  He fumbled for his cellphone in case he needed to call for help, but relaxed when he recognized the new arrival as the man hopped out of the car.

  ~~~

  Scott Drayco strolled over and considered the two articles Reece was holding tightly in his arms, as Reece beamed at him. For once, someone seemed glad to see him. “New toys?”

  “Souvenirs from Paddy. Guess I’ll have to put him on my Christmas card list.”

  “Gifts from Paddy? I guess that explains why you looked distressed. You were standing so still, I had to stop. I was worried you were having a seizure.”

  “Seized with stupefaction, is more like it.” He handed the cane to Drayco. “Paddy said he had this goodie lying around all cold and lonely and thought it might find a better home at the Society. Too bad it’s not solid gold. I could sell that.”

  “If it were solid gold, I doubt Paddy would part with it. Looks like sterling silver, at least the accents.” Drayco fingered the handle. “Is this a foxhound?”

  “Beats me. Guess I need to watch those dog shows on TV.”

  Drayco pointed out three letters engraved on the silver band at the tip. “H-A-H.”

  Reece twitched h
is nose. “Hah, indeed. Maybe Paddy thought he was getting the last laugh. I suppose that’s the manufacturer. I’ll have to look it up. Might be some value there, after all.”

  Drayco handed it back and eyed the angel clutched in Reece’s arm. “What’s the story behind that?”

  Reece laid the angel in the back seat of his car. “With Paddy, who knows? Maybe he gave me the cane out of fear Seth would use it on him.”

  “Somebody needs to knock some sense into Paddy, cane or no cane.”

  Reece scrunched up his face muscles. “You think it’s stolen and Paddy’s trying to get rid of it?”

  “I don’t think so, Reece. He’d be more likely to sell it. Or throw it away.”

  “You can tell your friend the sheriff, since you’re in the habit of giving him all my valuable goodies. Hell, I should tell him in person since we’re bosom buddies now. Thanks to me being a person of interest.”

  So, Sheriff Sailor wasted no time on his threat to bring Reece in for questioning. Even if it was a waste of time, as Drayco suspected. “You and the sheriff had a nice talk?”

  “Oh, lovely. Someone plants a knife in my car, some busybody biddie gets in the act, and ta-da, I’m infamous. Guess I’ll have to go on all the chat shows. Or write a memoir.”

  “You weren’t arguing with Oakley before his death as the witness described?”

  Reece squinted his good eye at Drayco. “Witness? You knew about this beforehand?”

  “The sheriff told me earlier today about it, but that was the first I’d heard. What about that argument, Reece?”

  Reece hesitated. “We might have had a word or two. But I didn’t start it, he did, and I think he’d been drinking again.”

  “Drinking? Nanette said he was sober.”

  “That’s what he wanted her to think. Alcoholism is a disease with no cure. Only remission. Or relapses.”

  “And Oakley’s charge about your affair with Nanette?”

  Reece slammed the cane down on the sidewalk. “You don’t pull any punches, do you? Maybe you’re the one who ratted me out to the sheriff. Look, I’ve told you I had a crush. That’s it. I doubt she would have been interested in a cranky historian. I’m one of those wussy males who’s afraid of blood. Which makes that whole knife thing ludicrous.”