[Scott Drayco 01.0] Played to Death

by BV Lawson

  Sailor folded his arms across his chest. “You act more like a CI than a PI. Was the newspaper wrong? Not that it’d be the first time.”

  Drayco was surprised. “Newspaper?”

  “We do have those around here. And an out-of-town detective becoming the new owner of a historic building is big.”

  “Not a CI. Not exactly a PI. Call me a crime consultant. Or crime guru, like someone did once. I think it was an insult.” Drayco pointed to the victim’s jacket. “Strange for him to be wearing lightweight seersucker. It was only a degree or two above freezing last night.”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Oakley had money problems and wasn’t the GQ type.”

  “The wife didn’t report him missing until this morning?”

  “He was an odd bird. Been on the straight and narrow for a while, but had a history of drinking. And a few other indiscretions. This was old hat to Nanette, who, by the way, is a fine lady. Does a lot for this community.” He paused. “It’s unfortunate she doesn’t have an alibi.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me she was alone all last night.”

  Drayco chewed on that for a minute “Were Oakley’s ‘indiscretions’ arrest-worthy?”

  “Last I heard, extramarital affairs aren’t illegal.”

  An affair would increase the odds this was nothing more than a simple domestic dispute case. Drayco should be relieved by that. But he’d learned never to trust a coincidence—like having a would-be client murdered before he can talk to you.

  The sheriff’s voice cut through Drayco’s reverie. “Crime guru or no, my deputies and I have work to do. I’ve spotted you a half-dozen questions. More than I ordinarily would.” His tone of dismissal came through loud and clear. “I suppose you’ll be staying in town a while?”

  Drayco saw where this was headed and envisioned his last chance of a quick exit flying out the window. He thought briefly of the nonrefundable plane ticket to Cancun back at his townhouse. “The Opera House has me chained here, anyway. What’s a few more days?”

  “Plenty of time for the grand tour of Cape Unity. Come to think of it, that might only take a half-day.” Sailor’s expressions ranged the gamut from A to Blank. The man must be a good poker player, if he were the gambling type. Right now, Drayco hoped he was.

  Sailor added, “What the hell, if this thing has us stumped, maybe we’ll hire you. We’re down a deputy to the mumps. Keep you in town longer. Especially if you get the mumps.”

  “For you, Sheriff, I’ll waive expenses.” Drayco worked with law enforcement officials of all stripes, and it was always a crap shoot. At its worst, it degenerated into a competition. Egos, one; justice, zero. “Does this mean I have your blessing to leave now?”

  “As long as you don’t touch anything on your way out. But as a big-city professional crime consultant, that should be SOP for you, right?”

  With one last look at the remains of Oakley Keys, Drayco left the building and sat in his car with the engine off, staring at a jagged line of cracked bricks on the Opera House façade. One decaying and unwanted Opera House, one murdered potential client, one wary sheriff, and he’d been in town less than an hour.

  Opening up his car window to let in a blast of cold, salty air, Drayco watched the scud clouds swallow up the last traces of the sunrise. He fingered the remains of his breakfast, a PayDay candy bar wrapper. What did their old jingle say? “The nuttiest bar in town.” Why stop at just one town? Why not the whole damn universe?

  When the universe handed out karmas, Oakley Keys was standing in the wrong line. It was all so easy for people who explained every evil in the world as “God’s will,” or predestination or whatever credo they subscribed to, comfortable in the belief there is a purpose for everything. Even murder.

  He watched the ambulance pull up to the rear door of the Opera House, ready to ferry the newly deceased off to its autopsy. Too early to tell until results came back, but Keys was likely killed a few hours before Drayco arrived. A brutal ending for one in this town, and an uneasy beginning for another.

  He replayed the mental image of the body formerly known as Oakley Keys, waiting for his date with the medical examiner. Why did Keys want to hire Drayco? Why did he break into the Opera House, only to be shot and carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey? And why the devil was Keys wearing a red carnation?

  Chapter 2

  Armed with tongue-scalding Ethiopian Sidamo brew from a place called the Novel Café, Drayco navigated Cape Unity’s appropriately named Main Street. There wasn’t a building younger than mid-twentieth century. Some were in good shape, but others were crumbling shells with roofs partially caved in. They were forgotten monuments with holes in the front like staring eyes. Eyes pleading for help. He tried not to think of Oakley Keys’ eyes, frozen wide open in rigor.

  Drayco continued past a virtual roll call of small-town Americana—courthouse, library, post office and church. Dogwood trees, stripped bare, surrounded the town square, with tufts of dormant fescue grass in the middle. The few planters were meant to showcase flowers but held only brown Mid-Atlantic dirt, like miniature graves.

  He parked in front of his target, the courthouse. If he was stuck in town for a few days, he might as well make good use of the time. Look up records, make copies of documents, whatever would help in selling the Opera House. This part of his trip, at least, should be trouble-free.

  The courthouse for Prince of Wales County shared some of the same construction as the Opera House, but grimmer and more institutional. Why did architects seem determined to make government buildings uncontroversial bland boxes? A misguided attempt to prove government wasn’t frivolous? The interior matched in tone—standard beige concrete walls, beige stone trim throughout, and a wooden reception window, also painted beige.

  It would be a relief to get this chore over with.

  A receptionist with a turquoise hummingbird tattoo on her neck reached for a form and asked his name. He’d barely replied “Scott Drayco,” when out of the corner of his eye he spied a figure lunging in his direction.

  Drayco jumped out of reach of his would-be attacker, a gaunt-faced man with a jagged white scar over one eyebrow and thin, scraggly hair draped over his shoulders—a living, breathing scarecrow. The man’s arms flailed, punctuating his rambling epithets like exclamation marks.

  “You goddamn uppity maggot. My daddy earned that building. Cared for it when nobody else gave a rat’s ass. Go back where you came from. Or better yet, you go straight to hell.”

  Drayco kept the man at arm’s length. But with the man’s face an apoplectic red, Drayco wasn’t as concerned the stranger might deck him, as keel over from a heart attack. Two bailiffs jumped on the writhing scarecrow-man, dragging him off into the bowels of the courthouse.

  As they manhandled him away, he yelled, “Keys deserved what he got, that maggot. Make sure it don’t happen to you.”

  Drayco debated whether to follow the bailiffs, but was halted by another man whose voice dripped with a surprisingly ugly caramel-colored drawl. “Won’t you come this way?” A hand pressed down on Drayco’s arm, pushing him toward an empty meeting room. Just big enough for an eight-person table, the space had the sweet chemical smell of fake-lemon polish.

  “I overheard your name, Mr. Drayco. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Councilman Randolph Squier. So terribly sorry about that little incident. Paddy Bakely is not one of our more exemplary citizens, tending heavy toward the drinking.”

  So that unfortunate scarecrow was the Opera House caretaker’s son. The sheriff’s comment about Seth Bakely made more sense. Drayco said, “I think I understand.”

  “In fact, Paddy is due in court on a charge of assault. I hope you won’t unfairly judge our town because of him.”

  Because of him alone? That was doubtful. Cape Unity was no Mayberry. “Every town has its lost souls.”

  Squier dipped his hands in the pockets of his cream-colored suit and rocked back on his feet. He’d be perfect as the S
outhern-dandy token in a board game of Stereotypical Politicians. “Lost soul is a good moniker for Paddy, Mr. Drayco. He and his father have been down on their luck most of their lives. Paddy’s mother died in childbirth. Seth was never the same, nor did he know what to do about his son.”

  “I met Seth Bakely earlier. Aloof, but sane.”

  “He’s tended the Opera House since he first came to Cape Unity. I’m not certain he intended on settling in town this long. But he married a local beauty, Angel Quillin. And then there was Paddy to take care of, so he’s become part of our community.”

  “Paddy feels Rockingham should have left the Opera House to the Bakelys?”

  “A faint dream of theirs, perhaps. But really, though they can do the odd job here and there, what would they know of running and restoring an Opera House?”

  Squier arched one eyebrow into an upside-down V. “You’re here with a purpose toward that end, perhaps?”

  Running and restoring wasn’t quite what Drayco had in mind, but he’d play along. “Whatever may help.”

  “I considered purchasing the Opera House myself at one time. I concluded it was not a wise business investment.”

  Drayco almost said, “Tell me about it,” but held his tongue. “You weren’t surprised when Paddy mentioned the murder of Oakley Keys.”

  “Paddy likely heard it from one of the bailiffs. The sheriff informed the mayor who in turn called the councilmen. It’s been the talk of the courthouse this morning. We pride ourselves in Cape Unity on our low crime rate, so such incidents get the tongues wagging. It may make the Washington papers.”

  Squier seemed gleeful at the idea. Or he subscribed to the philosophy there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Murder drew cold-blooded sharks to whatever profitable chum they found, be they ambulance chasers, authors of tell-all books—or someone wanting a marketing gimmick to use in a Cape Unity travel brochure.

  Squier added, “People will try to pin this on Oakley’s neighbor, Earl Yaegle. He’s one of our finer citizens, who owns several businesses in town. Plenty of old-timers might rush to judgment. I fear a symbolic lynching.”

  The councilman angled his head forward. Drayco thought at first he was bowing. “Is there a way we can make your visit smoother, Mr. Drayco?”

  “Access to any Opera House files the courthouse has.”

  “We don’t have much, I fear. But I will get my secretary to make copies for you. And to make up for this unpleasantness, you must join me for dinner at my home.”

  Drayco hesitated a moment before accepting. Making the rounds of the Cape Unity social set was apparently another burden of his immediate job description. No neckties. He’d intentionally not brought any.

  As they re-entered the lobby, a female voice startled him with a “Hello, darling.” Drayco swung around, his mouth open, then realized the woman was looking at Squier.

  Squier beamed. “I invited Mr. Drayco to dinner with us. Mr. Scott Drayco, this is my wife, Darcie.”

  For a brief moment, Drayco’s heartbeat was loud in his ears, and the walls around him faded into a blurred time warp. Except for being a decade older, Darcie was the twin of Drayco’s former fiancée, Tatiana. Darcie wasn’t airbrushed perfect, but not for lack of trying. Her plump ruby lips surrounded snow-white teeth that hinted of veneers.

  He forced himself to focus on her ring finger.

  Darcie grabbed his hand and held onto it for a few seconds longer than necessary, rubbing her thumb over his palm as she pulled her hand away. “How nice,” she said. “We haven’t had a dinner party in—I don’t remember the last time. I hope you said yes, Mr. Drayco. Ugh. That’s too formal. Can I call you Scott?”

  “I ... of course.” Drayco got a whiff of her perfume, a hint of something familiar. He also didn’t miss Squier’s lurch closer to Darcie and the brief clenching and unclenching of his jaw. It would appear that the councilman’s dinner invitation just got a lot more complicated.

  Squier draped his arm around his wife, corralling her back toward his office in much the same way he had with Drayco. Before Darcie disappeared from view, she turned to give Drayco one last megawatt smile.

  Realizing he was still staring at the spot where the councilman’s wife stood, Drayco switched his focus to a circular Scales of Justice mosaic on the floor. The choice of red and green tile made it look like more like a tacky Christmas ornament. A waste of good tile.

  Speaking of a waste—what had he gained from his visit to the courthouse? Nada. And apparently, he’d gotten on the bad side of two more townspeople, Paddy Bakely and Councilman Squier. It was a shame Squier didn’t go through with his plan to buy the Opera House. If Rockingham had sold the building a few years ago, it would be easier for everyone involved. Except the Bakelys.

  Paddy Bakely’s anti-Oakley diatribe, now that was intriguing. Drayco frowned at the thought, trying again to nip his investigative curiosity in the bud. He had plenty to keep him busy, preparing to sell the Opera House. Until the time he was cleared as a suspect—assuming he was cleared as a suspect—he doubted the sheriff would want him kicking up grass on his home turf.

  Besides, Drayco needed to refocus on his own practice, no more turning away clients like the last two. He wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to meet Oakley when he wasn’t ready to take on another case so soon. Had it only been three weeks since the little Cadden twins were buried?

  He sank down on a bench in a corner and watched people passing through the courthouse door, wondering what brought those people here today—property tax disputes? Birth Certificates? Marriage? Divorce? Death certificates? The paper-cycle of life.

  His thoughts roamed back to the murder scene, the body, the blood spatter, the “G” carved into Oakley’s chest. This was no Opera House special-effect dreamed up by a props coordinator, with the actor bounding up from the floor after the curtain came down. Drayco felt like an audience member watching a drama by an anonymous playwright or librettist. He just hoped the murderer wasn’t working on a second act.

  Chapter 3

  Earl Yaegle ducked into a back entrance next to the dumpster. He’d hoped to avoid dealing with his businesses for a few days, but this new manager was greener than the others and prone to what Earl called “flailure.” He wondered what earth-shattering crisis it was this time. It better be good enough to leave his refuge, the one place he didn’t feel stares burning holes in his head. It had only been half a day since the news of Oakley’s death, but word had spread like a pneumonic plague. People had been calling him all morning.

  “Earl! So glad to see you,” Randy said. As usual, he was red-faced and sweating, even in the middle of March. A little weight loss wouldn’t hurt, but Randy was addicted to cheeseburgers and fried oyster sandwiches and wasn’t about to give them up.

  “Our supplier for the Winchester 12-gauges lost our latest shipment and said they haven’t received our payment. I know I paid them, Earl. Squier’s been bugging me about it for the past two days, wanting to get his hands on his new shotgun. If you call the supplier, I know they’ll listen to you.”

  “I’ll call them.” It was partly Earl’s fault, after all. He’d bragged on those guns to the hunt club, and Squier had salivated all over himself at the thought. They weren’t cheap, over a thousand dollars, but Squier didn’t care.

  Randy genuflected in Earl’s direction. “Thank you, fearless leader.” Then his expression changed to one of concern, eyes big and dewy. He was definitely a heart-on-your-sleeve kind of guy. “How are you holding up, Earl? You know that any talk about you having something to do with Oakley’s murder is nonsense, right? It’ll blow away. You’ll see. Soon as people find some other flavor of the month to gossip about.”

  Earl looked around for Joel but didn’t see signs of the lanky employee until a voice piped up over his shoulder. “But those words you said the other day, Earl. What about that?” Joel’s eyes were narrowed, accusing.

  Earl promoted Randy over Joel, and Joel hadn’t forgiven him. Joel added, “
Didn’t I hear you say you wished Oakley Keys would disappear? That Oakley needed someone to teach him a good lesson?”

  Earl remembered. He was angry with Oakley, sure, but he’d also gotten angry that same day with a truck driver who made a wrong delivery, a utility crew that cut off power to the shop, and a customer who accused him of lying about an order. And none of them was dead. He said, “Words, Joel. Just words.”

  Randy pointed his finger at Joel. “Maybe you’re jealous because you aren’t sitting on a property gold mine like Earl is.”

  Joel threw up a hand dismissively. “Bah. Like it matters. The whole town’s going to be overrun soon by artsy-fartsy types. Drive up fuckin’ property values so none of us working stiffs can afford so much as a pine shack. That is if the illegals don’t bring the values back down. Ride the land roller-coaster while you can before the price of admission is too steep, I say.”

  Earl had hoped to do just that. It all seemed so easy. But that was before Oakley went berserk and dug in his heels. Now he was dead, and Nanette would likely sell, so the deal would go through after all. Blood money, that’s what they’d call it. And Earl had it all over his hands whether he liked it or not.

  Randy looked determined to be cheerful. “Things aren’t all bad. You’ve got your health, your businesses. Say—did you read in the paper about the new owner of the Opera House? Said he’s a detective. Maybe you should hire him. The sheriff’s a nice enough guy, but this is big-city stuff.”

  “No detectives. I don’t need one.” No matter how desperate things might seem, Earl wasn’t about to trust some dog-jowled sleazy operator who profited off the misfortunes of others for a living, taking pictures of wayward housewives or snooping through people’s dirty laundry. Although Oakley would be prime fodder for that, he had to admit.