Played to Death

by BV Lawson

  “What, you’ve got a photographic memory, too?”

  “Technically, eidetic. From learning all those long piano scores. Have you checked all of Nanette’s other clients? Some of those social worker cases get ugly.”

  The sheriff tapped a list of names on the desk. “We’re working on it. Halfway down the list, things don’t look promising. Nanette was good at what she did. Not an enemy in the world that we can find.”

  Drayco had yet to meet a person without enemies. Maybe not the murderous kind, but the type to take one word or one oversight, no matter how small, and sharpen it into a blade of ill will. “So you’re not ready to arrest someone.”

  “If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on Earl killing both of his neighbors. There’s the gun shop, the knife in the dumpster, his middle name Gerik—which Oakley made fun of, I found out—the development money, threats he made, and now the affair with Nanette. He was alone at his house yesterday when Nanette was murdered. Said he was taking a nap and didn’t hear a thing.”

  “That’s a nice laundry list of motives you have there for Earl.”

  Sailor frowned and said in clipped tones, “You’re not convinced.”

  “Laundry lists are too tidy.”

  “Nothing tidy about this shitty business. What exactly do you expect to come out of this dirty laundry, anyway?”

  What had Drayco told Seth, about the dirty little problems people at the end of their ropes use to hang themselves? “My instincts tell me it’s like those Russian matryoshka figures stacked inside each other. Secrets within secrets.” Drayco pulled himself up out of the chair. “I think I’d like to poke around some more.”

  Sailor dropped the poetry booklet in the box next to his desk. “Just try to keep your nose clean, if not your shirts.”

  “And I promise when I find all your missing socks along the way, I’ll page you.”

  Sailor snorted. “Nobody’s that good a detective. Where you off to next?”

  He didn’t blame the sheriff for wanting to keep tabs on him, but Drayco wasn’t the type who liked working under a magnifying glass. He’d left those days behind at the Bureau. Drayco flashed his best cryptic smile. “Me? I’m off to see some ghosts.”

  Chapter 16

  Drayco picked up a handful of the grainy white soil that choked out plants in the flower beds and formed small dunes like the backs of buried camels. The sand also had an unpleasant way of propagating itself inside shoes and on the floor of his car. Lies were a lot like that—surrounding you, clinging to you, and if you got in deep enough, making it impossible to dig yourself out.

  The forecast called for a possible nor’easter early next week, yet the winds were already gusting to twenty knots. Drayco turned up the collar of his jacket and stood under a stand of pine trees for shelter. He surveyed the small beach that wound its way around the front of the Keys’ lot toward the north. The house itself was dark and silent, a dispirited castaway.

  Drayco looked for anything to shed light on the importance of “G.” It was a long shot. Nothing else had turned up in Oakley’s background, but gum trees and greenbriers weren’t viable candidates.

  He walked to the beach over a carpet of pine needles, perfect stealth-material for a murderer. This was put to the test when Drayco felt, more than heard, a presence behind him. He swirled around to see a man in his fifties wearing an orange hunter’s vest over camouflage overalls. A man he now knew was Earl Yaegle after following him from the gun shop. Of average height and build, the most arresting thing about Yaegle was the rifle he was pointing at Drayco.

  “Who are you and what are you doing on my property?” he bellowed.

  Drayco countered him in a calm voice. “Scott Drayco.”

  Yaegle’s face registered his recognition of the name, but the gun held steady. “That answers the who. Now the why.”

  Drayco took a gamble. “Nanette Keys wanted to hire me before her death. I feel obligated to follow through.”

  Yaegle’s shoulders drooped at the mention of Nanette. “Hire you? Now why in the world would a classy lady like her want to hire some sleazy operator who snoops through people’s garbage cans?”

  Large blobs of rain pelted them both and Yaegle hesitated, then dropped the rifle to his side. “Don’t want to stand out here getting soaked. Why don’t you come inside my house. It’s a short ways up this beach path.”

  Drayco marveled at how close the two houses were. You couldn’t see one from the other, but only because the curvature of the shoreline and dense trees blocked sight lines. The Yaegle house was slightly bigger than the Keys’, although more expensively furnished, with signs of Yaegle-the-successful-businessman everywhere—satellite dish, a large LCD TV, and state-of-the-art entertainment system.

  Yaegle motioned Drayco toward a leather chair as he sat on the sofa opposite, his eyes like cat-slits assessing a snake in the grass. He remained silent for a minute, before grumbling, “The boys at the shop told me you stopped by asking questions. You think I killed them both, Nanette and Oakley. Everyone else does.”

  “I never assume anything.”

  “Only a matter of time before the law comes knocking on my door and marches me away in handcuffs.”

  He paused, but Drayco didn’t say anything. “So you’re not going to ask me why I murdered my neighbors? Or why I want to sell out to a big-city developer? Or alibi this or alibi that?”

  Drayco looked around the room before he turned his focus on Yaegle. “Is it true you had an affair with Nanette Keys?”

  Stunned at first, the man deflated into a lump of misery and put his head in his hands. He said in a soft voice Drayco strained to hear, “You must believe me when I say I loved my wife Tabitha. She was everything to me, and when she died of ovarian cancer ...”

  His fingers tightened around his temples. “I made some bad investments. Tabitha understood. But I didn’t want her to understand, I wanted her to hate me and tell me I was a miserable failure. It was a moment of weakness, on both our parts, mine and Nanette’s. It didn’t last long. A few months.”

  He straightened up and raked his fingers through his thick silver mane. “To this day I don’t know if Tabitha guessed. She was such a hard worker, my wife. Often clocked seven days a week at the bookstore. It was her favorite of my businesses. Not too strange since she had dreams of being a writer. Then we got married, and the kids came along. She gave up her dreams for me and that’s how I thanked her.”

  Yaegle paused, looking down at his damp camouflage-colored shoes, which he took off and turned upside down. “Does the sheriff know?”

  Drayco nodded. “But it’s hardly proof you murdered anyone. Some might say you have less of a reason to murder Nanette. Were you in love with her?”

  “I cared for Nanette, admired her, but I wasn’t in love with her. And I certainly didn’t kill her.”

  “If your wife Tabitha did have knowledge of the affair, you think she would have retaliated? An affair with Oakley?”

  Yaegle didn’t hesitate. “Odds are far greater I’d win the lottery—twice—than Tabitha having an affair. Especially with Oakley. She was old-fashioned that way. Besides, between all the hours she worked at the store, raising the kids, taking care of the home, she barely had time to breathe.”

  “Did Oakley know of your affair with his wife?”

  Yaegle shook his head slowly. “Our dispute didn’t start until well after. But I guess it would explain his determination not to sell his land. To get back at me.”

  “And he never said why he didn’t want to sell?”

  “Which is strange, don’t you think? Any ordinary person would try to change my mind, argue with me, to see his side. But when the developers approached him, he refused to sell. And when he learned I wanted to take their offer, he stopped talking to me.”

  A sizzling sound from the kitchen caught Yaegle’s ear. He hurried off to catch the pot of clam chowder he was heating on the stovetop, now boiling over and leaving a gooey mess dripping dow
n the stove. Some of it had dripped on a burner, filling the room with the smell of scalded milk.

  His absence left Drayco to study the carved black cherry table in front of the sofa, with a marquetry pattern and intertwined ivy branches. He traced the scrollwork on one of the legs as Yaegle returned with apologies for the interruption.

  Yaegle pointed to the table. “Oakley made that. See the ivy leaves? The symbol for friendship on British family crests. His initials OK are hidden underneath. He signed his pieces that way. A private joke.”

  “Oakley made this? It’s a stunning piece.”

  Yaegle sat down again with his legs stretched out. “And then you’ve got someone like Paddy Bakely who’s always fancied himself an expert carpenter, although his pieces can’t hold a candle to Oakley’s. I think it made Paddy jealous.”

  “That’s like the blind leading the blind, isn’t it? One unsuccessful person envying another unsuccessful person?”

  “When Oakley’s writing career sagged, he could have made a fortune selling his wood handiwork. He wasn’t practical. Might be why he didn’t want to sell his land. It’s as good an explanation as any.”

  Drayco didn’t for a minute believe Oakley was immune to the value of money and what it could mean for himself and Nanette, especially with a pending adoption. Oakley had some compelling reason that overrode his capitalistic sense, a reason forceful enough to end a friendship.

  “Have you lived on this property all your life?”

  Earl pointed to a framed photo on the wall of a European-looking city—cobblestone streets and neat rows of buildings with flower boxes and terracotta-tiled roofs. “I was born in Weimar. My father beat me and my stepmother hated me. When I turned eighteen, I stowed away aboard a freighter headed for Canada. I was discovered, fled across the border and wound up in Maryland, where I met Tabitha. Long story short, we got married, I got my green card and was naturalized. Sounds like I married her because I didn’t have legal status, but I did fall head over heels. If the citizenship thing hadn’t worked out, I was going to ask her to move back to Germany.”

  “Did you start the gun shop right after you settled in Cape Unity?”

  “It wasn’t my first business. I worked as a fisherman, saved up to buy my own boat, then another boat, then I got a few employees of my own. It kept branching out from there. People like to hunt around here, so guns made good business sense.”

  “Did Oakley go fishing with you?”

  “He loathed everything fish. Wasn’t a big fan of the water, either. I tried to get him to give the Anglers Club a try, but he wouldn’t budge. We argued over that.”

  “Did any of your disputes with Oakley come to blows? Especially over the development?”

  Instead of taking offense, Yaegle grinned. “You mean was I angry enough to blow his brains out? Nah. And I never hit him.”

  Yaegle apparently wanted to set the record straight, even if it was to an outsider. “You might not believe this, but I’m sorry he’s dead. We were friends and neighbors for many years. Certainly more good times than bad. He and Nanette were godparents to my kids.”

  Yaegle pointed to a family photo. “I remember birthday parties, fishing trips, the days at the beach when Oakley and Nanette joined Tabitha and me and the boys. It’s for my children I want to sell. I was born into a family with no spoons, let alone silver ones. I want to leave my kids enough money to buy fancy platinum spoons if they want.”

  He was on his way to doing just that, with the land sale. A couple million greenbacks, to be precise. “G” again. The letter popped up everywhere. Drayco asked, “Your middle name is Gerik, isn’t it?”

  “How the hell you know that? My wife researched it. It’s Polish. Means ‘spear ruler.’ Appropriate for someone in my line of business. Oakley kidded me all the time.”

  The burned-soup smell now permeated the room, making Drayco want to sneeze. “Did Oakley mention a city embezzlement scandal?”

  “Embezzlement?” Earl paused. “Not a word.”

  So Oakley didn’t mention the ranting accusations in his literary opus to his neighbor. More fuel for Nelia’s hypothesis that Oakley hoped to discredit Squier, keeping the manuscript a secret until he got it published. Nelia and he were on the same wavelength, it seemed.

  Drayco asked, “Did the letter ‘G’ have any special meaning for Oakley?”

  Yaegle didn’t register any emotion at the question. “I can’t think of anything.” Then he sighed. “‘G’ for ghost, as in Oakley was a ghost of his former self. I used to have Oakley over for drinks. When it became apparent he was turning into an alcoholic, I stopped. I didn’t want to be a pusher.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Alcoholics are their own pushers.” And worse, when their morals got swallowed along with the gin. “Since we’re being honest about affairs, were you aware of Oakley’s extramarital pursuits?”

  “Hard not to know. Nanette tried to ignore it. They got worse after he started drinking, but I recall a few before. Not long after the Keys moved here. Some fellows can’t be faithful to one woman. Myself included.”

  Yaegle rubbed his hand over his eyes. “You act like a cop. You sure you aren’t a cop?”

  “Former FBI.”

  Yaegle’s jaw dropped, and he jumped up. “Good God, I don’t want to get tangled up with the FBI. The sheriff’s bad enough. Knew I shouldn’t talk to you. Before I say anything else, I want my lawyer present.”

  “I’m not here on a witch hunt, Earl. I only want the truth.”

  Yaegle snorted. “Whose truth? Tends to vary, depending upon your point of view, doesn’t it? Truth is worse than a moving target because it changes shapes.” Yaegle pointed toward the door. “I think you should leave now.”

  Drayco let himself out and retraced his steps through the trees to the Starfire. He looked back long enough to see Yaegle staring out his window in the direction of the Keys’ house. Earl stood there for a full minute, as if hypnotized, before drawing the curtains and vanishing into his cottage of exile.

  Chapter 17

  An empty concert hall was eerily like a tomb. Drayco had certainly been inside plenty of both. There was an air about this place, this Opera House—a sense of tragedy going beyond Oakley’s death, which settled around the stage like a twisted curtain. After his conversation with Earl and the man’s parting tirade, Drayco felt compelled to come here. He wasn’t sure why.

  He wandered from room to room, noting wires dangling from holes, patches of missing wallpaper and warped floorboards. At the end of a long hallway, he discovered what likely served as the main office, complete with a massive partners desk made of oak, leather, and brass, and some floor-to-ceiling mahogany cabinets.

  A ladder partially hidden between one cabinet and wall beckoned to him. Drayco pulled it out and put his full weight on the first step. It groaned, but he judged it sturdy enough. He started on the top cabinets and worked his way down, checking for anything left behind. Just when he thought it was a waste of time, he discovered a section filled with yellowed programs and receipts.

  The programs confirmed the roster of artists the Opera House lined up when well-heeled gentry still made the pilgrimage to Cape Unity. That was long before winds and storm surge from the 1933 hurricane caused many of the resorts to close down.

  Big-name headliners tapered off after that time, and Drayco only found a few, including one program from Konstantina Klucze’s concert in 1955. An item even Reece Wable didn’t have.

  Drayco flipped to the biographical page. It included the same photo of a young woman with upswept golden hair and fierce eyes from one of Reece’s articles. The accompanying blurb detailed Konstantina’s promising career, curtailed in her twenties due to the Nazi invasion of her native country. Drayco had a growing connection to the exiled pianist whose music dreams were cut short by violence.

  Chafing at how long it was taking for the book he’d ordered on Konstantina to arrive, he’d made a call to a musicologist friend who filled him in on Konsta
ntina’s early career and acclaim. Despite the postwar chaos, her unsolved murder sent shockwaves rippling through the music world at the time. Several names were bandied around as suspects. The musicologist would probably ignore his calls in the future after the way Drayco grilled him about each possible culprit.

  He left the documents on the desk and continued his tour through the bowels of the building, stopping by the main greenroom for performers. The vanity area, a counter lined with makeup mirrors and drawers, waited forlornly for artists who never came any more. Indentations on the floor hinted at heavy sofas that once stood there. Gold anaglyptic wallpaper would have seemed regal contrasting against the burgundy carpeting, now faded to the familiar salmon.

  He tried opening one of the vanity’s drawers, but it stuck. After maneuvering it back and forth, and using the knife from his Leatherman tool, he was able to pry it open. As if on cue, an object rolled nonchalantly toward him. Drayco held it up to the light. The detailed etching on the ivory-colored article looked for all the world like one of Randolph Squier’s scrimshaw artifacts. Except this was larger and more detailed, with a fleet of tiny ships on one side and various marine creatures on the other—a humpback whale, a pod of dolphins.

  It was hard to believe the scrimshaw piece went overlooked for fifty years. And what was it doing here in the first place? A forgotten gift left behind, or a performer’s good luck charm? He carried the scrimshaw and programs back to the stage, where he set them down next to the piano.

  The Steinway dated from the early to mid-twentieth century, a product of the company’s Hamburg factory in Germany. A rare find in these parts. If you want to start a fistfight among pianists, ask which is better, the New York Steinway with its mellow timbre and growling bass? Or the Hamburg Steinway, with a wider range of dynamics and sweeter treble? Either way, you were looking at over twelve thousand parts in one of these babies. Each instrument took a year to craft, and that didn’t count the long seasoning process for the wood before the first parts were assembled.