by B. V. Lawson
The only thing not counted on was the arrival of Drayco himself, new owner of a strategic Opera House—the wild card.
Chapter 44
Sheriff Sailor read the testament Drayco discovered. His narrowed eyes focused like a laser on the paper, and Drayco waited to see if it would burst into flames. The sheriff growled, “Son of a bitch. Not sure how we missed this.” He pushed the paper back to Drayco. “Leaves a few questions unanswered. But it explains in better detail that other letter, the burned fragment.”
“It does and it doesn’t. Nanette likely read this testament before she met with me the day of her death. I’ve been puzzling over why she didn’t tell me—it might have saved her life.”
“She might have been killed anyway, but at least we’d have collared the murderer sooner. Why do you think she held back?”
“Fear, possibly, since she knew the identity of Oakley’s killer. In giving me the letter fragment as a form of bait, maybe she believed I’d track down the murderer and she wouldn’t have to get involved. She couldn’t have dreamed the killer was outside the window listening in when she showed me the fragment.”
“Here’s another puzzler, Drayco—why did Oakley never mention he had a mother? Why all the secrecy?”
“Short of Oakley coming back from the dead, the answer will remain with him in his grave. My guess—he didn’t want anyone prying into his past because it might ruin his plan for revenge.”
Sailor rubbed the back of his neck. He’d apparently been having headaches, too. “I’ve got the who, what, and where, but not the why, or I guess I should say, the why now?”
“That one will have to wait for a confession.”
“If we get one. At least now I understand the meaning of the ‘G’ part.” The sheriff regarded Drayco with a hint of a smile working its way across his face. “Sure does make Oakley’s college genealogy project look like a stroke of genius. Can you think of a better cover to track someone down?”
“Oakley wouldn’t have made a bad sleuth. At least with his writing skills, he’d make short work of that FBI paperwork I hated.”
The sheriff took a couple of aspirins out of his desk and swallowed them dry. “Speaking of paperwork—I’ll get a warrant to search the house for that other Webley, possible blood traces, and shoe treads to match our cast from the woods. But it’s a Friday evening, and you’ve seen those tabbies and poodles it’s raining out there. I’ll let you know as soon as I get the go-ahead. Keep me posted on your end.”
“I’m heading down to Norfolk.”
“Harmon Ainscough? The address you used Tyler’s computer to research?”
“Turns out, he lives within a half-day’s driving distance, lucky for me. I don’t think my bank account could handle last-minute plane tickets.”
“Safer for you out of town anyway, until we get this all nailed down, with that bull’s eye on your back.”
“Keep me from pestering you and adding to your migraines. How many calls are you up to?”
“Dozens. Injured drivers, people without power, live wires down on roads, trees toppled onto a couple of houses. And one terrified cat that won’t come out of an underground drain pipe.”
“Sounds fun. Wish I could help, but ...”
“Yeah, yeah, go practice scales.”
“I might do that. I should check on the Opera House to see if it’s still standing.”
“Hopefully it’ll get blown down. I’ll put in a good word with the weather gods for you.”
“Thanks. I think. By the way, Sheriff, did you know the word klucze means ‘keys’ in Polish?”
Chapter 45
The small cottage was such an archetype of a traditional English dwelling, it was stepping across the Pond. But this was Norfolk, Virginia, not Suffolk, England. He’d take the time to admire the architecture if it weren’t for the thirty-knot wind gusts.
A man wrapped in a plaid flannel shawl sitting in a wheelchair greeted Drayco’s knock. Harmon Ainscough was molded into his chair, as only one who is chronically ill can seem. He was bald, shriveled, oxygen tubes wedded to his nostrils. But his still-blue eyes were bright and his voice clear. He sized up Drayco. “Got any smokes?”
“’Fraid not.”
Disappointed, Ainscough folded himself farther into his prison of a chair. “They won’t let me have any. Doctor’s orders. Never hurts to ask.”
Dozens of signed photographs perched on tables and hung on walls. Drayco stopped to examine them and recognized several musical artists, including a picture of Konstantina, wearing a red carnation. He asked, “Clients of yours?”
Ainscough motioned Drayco toward a chair. “All clients at one time or another. I had my share of stars, but as you can see,” he made a sweeping gesture around the humble room, “I didn’t get rich off of them. I did all right, but no winter home in the Riviera. But I’ve got all I need here. A small plot of land, my daughter, grandkids, my bulldog Winston and memories. Lots of memories ...” He dozed off.
Drayco raised his voice slightly. “It’s one of those memories I’ve come to discuss.”
Ainscough perked up again. “Sorry about that lapse. It’s all the bloody meds they have me on.”
“I need to ask about a former client, a pianist who died in the 1950s. Konstantina Klucze.”
At the mention of her name, Ainscough’s jaw dropped open, and his whole body froze. He answered with a quaver, “One of the most promising talents I came across. Lost after the war.”
“She was murdered.”
“That’s what the police said.”
“You don’t agree?”
Ainscough tried to steady the spasms in his hands, from what was likely Parkinson’s, and wrapped the shawl tighter around him. “They never found who did it. It was a difficult time for everyone in Europe, citizens, soldiers, the police.”
“Was she threatened in some way?”
Ainscough again hesitated. “Curious timing of yours. It was so long ago.” He coughed. “She’s one of the reasons I moved here, you know. I liked the area when we went on tour together.” He coughed again and wiped his sleeve across his lips. “Now, what did you say your interests were about Konstantina?”
“I’m acting on behalf of someone with reason to inquire into her death.”
“Her son? She had a baby before she died. Never heard what happened to him.” Drayco didn’t contradict him, and Ainscough sighed. “If it’s her son looking for answers, he should have some. I can’t tell him who murdered her. But I do know she and Filip had many arguments beforehand.”
“Filip? Would that be her stepson?”
Ainscough’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s right. Filip Gozdowski. He was Edmund’s—her husband’s—son from his first marriage. One of those sad family disputes. The Nazi invasion forced them out of Poland, and they lost most of the family fortune in the process. Filip was embittered at the prospect of being poor. Felt the manuscript his father gave Konstantina rightfully belonged to him. Been in the family for a few generations, after all. I think Filip made Konstantina’s life miserable after Edward left to join the resistance.”
“This was the Chopin manuscript.”
“A piano sonata.”
“The one in B-flat minor?” B-flat, written as b-b in certain musical notation. Phonic, an anagram for Chopin. Oakley’s tree carving, the paper from the dropped file. All the puzzle pieces were fitting together. Oddly, it was a snippet from Reece’s carousel tune that popped into Drayco’s mind, Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand? ... Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel ...”
The older man’s voice was a whisper. “Yes, yes. An original copy Chopin intended for a publisher. Filip thought it would be worth a small fortune.”
“What happened to it after Konstantina’s death?”
Ainscough’s spasms grew more agitated, and Drayco reached over to hold his hand. “Mr. Ainscough, at this point, nothing you say would be held against you. It’s a relief
to tell the truth, don’t you agree?”
Ainscough calmed down, though his breathing remained labored. “I’ve had a few ethical crises. Konstantina was the innocent object of one. Filip came to me before Konstantina’s American tour, knowing I’d be with her the whole time, and asked—no, demanded—I keep an eye on the manuscript. He was just shy of twenty, but he could be a formidable fellow. He learned she was going to take it with her for safekeeping. Told me if I could find a way to steal it, he’d give me a share of the profits.”
“You tried to sell it?”
“Konstantina carried around a black satchel with the manuscript and its jeweled case inside. After she caught me trying to steal it in New York, she never let it out of her sight. I’m sure she figured out I was acting on behalf of Filip. I never had a chance to sell it.”
“What happened after the last concert in Cape Unity?”
“I hurt my arm. Konstantina drove me to a clinic and dropped me off for a couple of hours. When she returned, she no longer carried the satchel. You’re too young to remember, but there were few transatlantic flights in those days. We rushed back to New York to catch the one we’d booked.”
Ainscough paused, twisting awkwardly in his chair, the constant shaking of his body making it difficult. “Back in London when I told Filip about the satchel, he was livid. Grew violent. Accused me of making the whole story up. Taking the manuscript myself. I convinced him it was the truth. He left me alone, but stole a few of my possessions, out of spite I guess. Never heard from him again. I think he left the country.”
“How does this fit, time-wise, with Konstantina’s murder?”
“This was right after we got back. Konstantina found out she was pregnant, had the baby a few months later, and was killed not long after. She fired me when we returned. I didn’t have a chance to see her again before her death.”
He coughed so hard, Drayco went to the kitchen to pour him a glass of water and waited for the other man’s attack to subside. “Do you personally believe Filip was involved with her murder?”
“He had a pattern of violence. But to kill his own stepmother?”
Drayco sized up Konstantina’s photograph. “Why did Konstantina wear a red carnation in that picture?”
“People gave her those in bouquets after concerts instead of roses. It was her favorite flower.”
Oakley’s research into his mother’s past was thorough. A mental snapshot of Oakley’s body on the Opera House stage came to Drayco’s mind, and the sad carnation in his lapel. In a way, it was more fitting than any of the flowers that would be heaped on Oakley’s grave.
“Have you lived in the States long, Mr. Ainscough?”
“I moved to New York around 1960. I retired here a few years ago to be near my daughter, the main reason I’m here now.”
“Do you have a middle name, sir?”
Ainscough looked confused. “It’s Horatio.”
How Shakespearean. H-A-H, the monogram of Harmon Horatio Ainscough. Drayco took pity on the old man who looked even older than when he’d arrived. “As you say, it’s ancient history, isn’t it?”
Drayco rose to leave. “You do have a nice home here, cozy and peaceful. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Winston, but you’ll give him my regards, won’t you?”
The old man nodded, and once Drayco was outside, he saw through the window that Ainscough was once again asleep.
Drayco made a quick call to Maida. “Everything good there? Is the power still on?”
Maida reassured him. “Everyone and everything is hunky-dory. To prove how optimistic I am, I’ve got the makings of a Smith Island ten-layer cake in the oven. Major had to run errands and said he won’t be back soon. He was cagey and said he wanted to surprise me, but it was something he had to take care of. You’ll be here for dinner?”
“I wouldn’t miss it—your smiling face or the cake. I’m going to check out the Opera House first, but I should be back by meal time, sooner if I can manage it. You can count on me.”
Chapter 46
The Opera House was still standing, although Drayco had to dodge flying debris and ice pellets as he ducked inside. Seth still followed Horatio Rockingham’s mandate, the furnace turned down to sixty degrees. Drayco pulled his coat tighter around him. He’d waited until after five when Seth would be through with his rounds, and watched the door to make sure Seth left. Drayco wanted to be alone for this.
He turned on one bank of Fresnel lights on the downstage lighting pipe, enough to illuminate the stage. Then, he opened his briefcase and pulled out the blueprints from Reece.
Konstantina was virtually alone in an unfamiliar country, not knowing anyone except her agent, whom she’d come to distrust. She knew when she returned to England, Filip would get the manuscript by any means possible. Confused, tired from the tour, the stress of the war’s aftermath and her husband’s death, she must have made the decision to hide the manuscript in Cape Unity. That would explain why it hadn’t turned up at some auction house before now.
Since she didn’t have much time alone—two hours by Harmon Ainscough’s reckoning—the only place in town she knew was the Opera House. Drayco didn’t believe the manuscript made it back to England. Certainly the murderer didn’t think so.
Ainscough’s injury gave Konstantina an opportunity she hadn’t considered. For the first time in months, she was free from the double threat of her agent and her stepson. It was impossible to determine whether she was trying to find a way to hide the manuscript during her entire tour or whether she seized the moment.
Where would she have spent the most time in the Opera House? Drayco studied the blueprints. There was the wide-open stage and the public lobby. Neither a good hiding place.
The greenroom was a possibility, but nothing in the blueprints indicated a potential cache site, unless Konstantina stuffed it inside furniture, long gone. That would be ironic. A valuable manuscript inside a faded fifty-year-old armchair, lying in someone’s basement among the broken stereos and unused stationery bikes.
But what was it Reece said? A pipe burst in the greenroom right before Konstantina’s concert. Drayco walked to the back of the stage and looked up at the curved staircases. One of those side rooms at the top could serve as a temporary greenroom.
He flipped through the blueprints for a detail of the catwalk and headed up the old stairs for the second time since he arrived in Cape Unity, hoping they were climb-worthy. He celebrated when he made it to the top unscathed.
The larger room on the left of the landing looked more promising. After flipping on the one dim light in the room, Drayco carried the blueprints inside. A faded rug with burn marks in the center was the only object in the room, moved from the office long ago after an incident with a cigar.
He examined the walls and thumped around in various places, but the walls were solid. The blueprints indicated a straightforward architecture, four walls, no attic or closets. Except ... there was once a crawlspace under the wooden plank floor, an overflow area for storing props.
A crawlspace would make a perfect hiding place. But would a woman even as desperate as Konstantina entrust an irreplaceable manuscript to a dark hole where someone could find it?
Konstantina’s recital was one of the last at the Opera House before Rockingham closed it down. And Konstantina, as she had explicitly mentioned to Reece Wable’s mother after that 1955 concert, made plans to return to the States as soon as possible.
Drayco tried to place himself in Konstantina’s mindset. Filip Gozdowski’s relentless and threatening bullying, the loss of Edmund, the horrors of the war and uncertainties of postwar Europe. Did it generate so much fear and confusion she decided she’d rather lose the manuscript altogether than have it fall into Filip’s hands?
Perhaps she believed it would be invisible among the other props stashed in the crowded space. If someone did find it, she could still lay claim.
All hypothetical. But as he researched Konstantina’s life, he formed an emotional, int
uitive bond with her. They shared a mutual passion for music, for the piano, a shared feeling of pain and loss.
He believed she didn’t want to lose the manuscript, but her instincts about her stepson were correct. Filip would have found a way to take the manuscript from her in London. Better lost forever, than in the hands of a cold-hearted demon with no respect for life or art.
Drayco scanned the flooring. If the crawlspace was in use at the time of her concert, there must be an access point, but the floorboards looked seamless. He walked off the footage indicated in the blueprints to where the edge of the crawlspace should be, and rolled back the rug.
The wooden floor pattern looked typical, some boards tight-fitting and others sporting slight cracks between. Taking out his Leatherman knife, he poked around the edges of the nailed boards, but they wouldn’t budge. Please don’t less this be a dead end. He had no way of knowing when the crawlspace had stopped being used, possibly sealed off long before Konstantina arrived.
He decided to try the area that would have marked the other end of the crawlspace. This time, the faint outline of a circular indentation looked promising. An old liquid stain? Or the site of a former pull ring?
He tried jiggling the board with the ring outline. This time, the plank moved a fraction of an inch.
Buoyed by that success, Drayco slipped the knife deeper into the crack and jiggled the board harder until one edge moved a fraction. He worked on adjacent boards, and an entire section of the floor flipped up and fell over with a loud “thunk.” The opening was barely big enough for his arm and shoulder.
Whipping out a flashlight from his coat pocket, he peered into the dark aperture. He grinned as props appeared like vampires in their coffins, each illuminated in turn—a wig, swords, crowns.
He reached the flashlight farther into the hole where the light hit an object the size of a coffee table book, covered in black leather with handles. He lay on his stomach, reaching as far as he could until his fingers clasped around the piece, and maneuvered it out of its coffin.
