by BV Lawson
Joel countered, “You should listen to him, Earl. You might find yourself in deep slag.”
“I can take care of myself.” Earl hoped that those weren’t just words. That he would feel them, mean them, as much as he wanted to. And soon.
Joel scowled. “Whatever you say, man. It’s your neck.”
Chapter 4
Drayco made another quick stop at the Novel Café. He needed to buy a thermos while he was in town, or else spend all his time looking for coffee shops. The clerk refilled his cup for free, rare back in D.C. He took a sip and wrinkled his nose. Good, but a bit sour. Spying a salt shaker near the counter, he sprinkled grains into the coffee. Much better.
The clerk suggested he talk with Reece Wable, president of the Cape Unity Historical Society, which had documents on everything—and perhaps everyone—in town. Hopefully, more than the “we don’t have much” Squier hinted about the courthouse archives. If Drayco were lucky, the society’s documents might help him decide how to proceed with his Opera Leviathan.
He entered a Victorian house with blue siding, noting the lavish care on pristine displays in velvet-lined glass cases. But an air of the bizarre permeated the place. Loud ticking like a time bomb from a lighthouse-shaped grandfather clock. And a dinosaur skull grinned at him.
“Calhoun is a traitor. Calhoun is a traitor.” Drayco followed the source of the voice, which had an unusual pattern to Drayco’s ears, a greenish cloud with star-like borders. He spied the culprit in a small cage on a stand, a bird with charcoal feathers and a maroon tail.
“That’s an African Gray parrot. Name’s Andrew Jackson,” a human voice said from behind Drayco’s back, before coming around to face Drayco. “The parrot’s, not mine. President Jackson hated Vice-President John Calhoun. Called him a traitor. Unlike his namesake, this Andrew Jackson likes Moroccan olives and the NASCAR channel.”
“I’m more a fan of Sicilian olives.” Drayco stuck out his hand. “And my name is Scott Drayco.”
Reece Wable was not what Drayco expected. Most historians wore bland, Smithsonian-friendly suits. Wable could have popped out of a vintage clothing store in his gold paisley vest and black swallowtail coat.
Apparently, they had mutual assumptions. “You’re that investigator fellow. Guess I thought you’d be wearing a trench coat and fedora, not an aviator jacket. Younger than I expected, too. Longer hair, no buzz cut.” Wable leaned in closer, “Are those purple eyes?”
“In certain light, maybe.” Presumably from his mother’s side, or at least the one picture of her indicated as much. Wable, on the other hand, had a gaze most unsettling. His left eye didn’t move in tandem with the right, with subtle color differences between the two. A glass eye.
Wable’s good eye inspected Drayco. “The only detective type I ever met was a horrid man who smelled of cheap grape cigars and five-day-old sweat. And he almost got me arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. In short, a jackass.”
“I’m not fond of cigars, and I showered last night. What crime were you charged with?”
“All a misunderstanding.” Reece waved his hand in the air. “So you’re the new owner of the Opera House. We have materials dating back to the founding. It has a more interesting history than people realize.”
“Is that a fact?” Drayco tried not to sound skeptical.
“Famous musicians performed in its heyday, which ended mid-20th century around the war. God knows it’s a Podunk town now. Back then, genteel resorts in these parts drew folks during summer months. That is, when the railroad still carried passengers down from New York. They wanted culture with their sea oats, and the Opera House was born. Violinist Ivan Ostremsky played here, Ginnie Geddie sang here. And there was poor Konstantina Klucze. You familiar with her?”
“The Polish pianist who fled the Nazis?”
“The same. The last stop on her American tour was right here in Cape Unity. As it turned out, it was also her last concert. Ever. And the last concert in the Opera House before Rockingham closed it down. She died young, after she returned to Britain. Oakley Keys started to do some research for us on the subject, but pickings are scarce—there’s only one biography—and Oakley and I haven’t spoken in a while.”
“Oakley worked here?”
“Oakley volunteered here. We had a disagreement and, well, I shouldn’t discuss it. Especially with recent developments. But I guess you’ve heard since he was murdered in your building.”
Drayco looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Only six hours since he’d left the Opera House. He was amazed how news of tragedy spread in a small town, like crabgrass in a neglected yard. Such misfortunes in D.C. barely registered a blip on a more jaded populace. Hardly surprising, when every newscast led off with violence. The Eastern Shore might only be eighty miles from Washington, but in some ways, it was a world apart.
Drayco didn’t let on that he’d seen the body. “Word gets around fast.”
“STS—Small Town Syndrome. The murder doesn’t surprise me. Oakley hasn’t made many friends lately.”
What had the sheriff said? David versus a developer Goliath? “Because of the condos, you mean.”
Reece shuddered. “Ghastly isn’t it? We don’t have a single national chain store in Cape Unity. But when those condos go up, in come the chains and out go the Mom-and-Pops. Oakley and I did agree on that issue. It’s all Councilman Squier’s doing, spearheading the development thing. Made it part of his reelection platform. Got a lot riding on its success.”
Reece hunched over and lowered his voice. “Oakley drank. And those affairs, too, including that notorious one with Councilman Squier’s wife, Darcie.”
So that explained the councilman’s cavalier attitude toward Oakley’s death. And Darcie’s flirtatious behavior. Reasons to cancel his dinner with the Squiers? Drayco wasn’t sure he liked that notion or not. “I heard rumors of affairs. No names.”
Reece rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t take much stock in rumors. Rumors will fly that you’re a murderer, and I’ll bat those away, too. I could have forgiven Oakley his philandering, but theft—that’s beyond the pale.”
Andrew Jackson flapped his wings and squawked. Drayco said, “Your feathered sidekick agrees with you. But theft? You have proof?”
“Oakley denied it. But when the mantle clock went missing, I knew it was him. We were the only two with keys to the building. No one had broken in. Who else would it be? Some say that clock belonged to President James Monroe. I’ve searched several auction houses, and it’s never turned up. An item like it went for sixty grand at Sotheby’s.”
Reece’s arms were stiff at his side, his hands gripping the hem of the swallowtail coat. Injustice, large and small, was like sour, moldy bread. Consumed often enough, it brought on hunger for the meat of revenge. But murder over a clock stolen years ago? That was one ravenous grudge.
The more people Drayco talked to, the stronger his curiosity about Oakley Keys grew, despite his best efforts to stifle it. But it was documents he’d come here seeking. “You mentioned historic materials?”
Reece nodded. “Oakley organized our Opera House files. One of his pet projects. In addition to being an unsuccessful writer, he was a history buff.”
“Did his wife Nanette also volunteer here?”
“I wish, but no.” Reece rubbed his chin. “Sadly, I never got to know Nanette as intimately as I’d like. Maybe I’ll pay her a call.”
Reece led Drayco to a reading room and lugged in a box filled with a stack of Opera House pamphlets, letters, and clippings. “Here you are. Oakley had more he was going to add. I have no idea what happened to it all. A shame.”
Drayco settled down with the documents, trying not to sneeze from the dust particles the papers released, the freed spores of history. As he flipped through the pages, his mind wandered until he recognized why. He was looking more for nodes of connection between Oakley and the Opera House than the building’s past.
He forced his attention back to his original resea
rch mission and stopped to read a society column. It detailed lavish parties in Konstantina Klucze’s honor at the homes of prominent townspeople. Among them, Maxwell Chambliss, former town councilman. And Marshall Rockingham, father of Drayco’s deceased client, who owned the Opera House before his son.
Reece was right. The Opera House, with its rich musical history, shared a unique synergy with the community. If Drayco sold it, it might be torn down for more condos. But maybe no one cared about history or culture anymore. Perhaps people were content to spend all their free time watching pet videos on YouTube. The Opera House lay unused for all this time, so would it really be missed?
After spending another hour immersed in reading, he found more reasons not in favor of selling the Opera House than for it. Unable to get the stolen clock off his mind, he hunted down Wable. “If Oakley was behind the theft, what was his motive?”
Reece wrinkled his forehead and pursed his lips, forming puffs of air as if making smoke rings. “His writing career was running on empty. And he had a high bar tab.”
“Was his wife aware of your suspicions?”
“I’d never do anything to hurt Nanette. That includes letting her know her husband was a cad. His death may be a blessing.”
Drayco filed away Reece’s worship of Nanette for future reference. “Anything else go AWOL from the Historical Society while Oakley volunteered?”
“Only that. But when I accused him, he stopped coming.”
Oakley Keys was no choirboy, but why steal a clock? The sheriff alluded to Oakley’s financial problems, and this might be a one-time event—if it happened at all. It was Reece’s word alone since Oakley wasn’t around to defend himself. If Reece wanted to poison Oakley’s reputation postmortem, that said more about Reece than Oakley.
Drayco said, “It’s hard to believe Oakley didn’t miss the friendships he lost, one feud at a time. Like yours.”
Reece stood still, his good eye glazing over, then cleared his throat. “Everyone has regrets when a former friend bites the bullet. Even a bastard like Oakley. Don’t they?”
Finding it difficult to separate the murdered Oakley Keys from the Opera House, the impotent failings of the man’s life enveloped Drayco in a cloak of gloom. Another statistic for the records, like the yellowed, crumbling clippings in Reece’s files. As Drayco was leaving, he heard Andrew Jackson squawking in the background, “Oakley is a madman. Oakley is a madman. Bye-bye.”
Chapter 5
Time to unload his one suitcase, plus he needed to check with his answering service from a landline. Cellphone service on the rural Eastern Shore was spotty. Not wanting to stay at a personality-free hotel, Drayco had made reservations at a place not far from the center of town. He followed the directions from a travel brochure until he drew in front of the Lazy Crab. Or more accurately, the Lazy Cab, the “R” having fallen off the sign. The only other vehicle in sight was a red motor scooter.
The sightline through the front window went all the way back to the kitchen where a woman with Creamsicle-colored hair fanned her face with what looked like a blueprint-paper accordion. Steam geysers wafted upward from a Dutch oven she was barely tall enough to see over. The faint strains of Led Zeppelin danced through the air, and the woman picked up two wooden spoons and tapped a rhythm on the counter. He hated to disturb her by ringing the doorbell.
The woman greeted him with one spoon in hand. “May I help you? I’m one of the proprietors. Name’s Maida. Maida Jepson.”
“I’m Scott Drayco and—”
Maida interrupted, “We were expecting you late last night.”
“Sorry about that. Nasty accident on the Bay Bridge.”
She sighed. “Not again. Then we’re glad you made it safely. Mister Scott Drayco, you’re a celebrity. When you made the reservation, we didn’t realize you’re the new owner of the Opera House. And call me Maida. I can be Mrs. Jepson when I’m ninety.”
He followed her through the doorway. The foyer opened onto a hall with steep circular stairs, a den visible around the corner. The few pieces of artwork were stereotypical beach scenes and the furniture a touch faded. But vases of daylilies adorned a side table with fancy scrollwork and the seat of an antique hall tree.
It was like his great-aunt’s house where he was dumped in the summer, spending mornings rescuing stranded starfish, throwing them out to sea. His first taste of the vagaries of life and death. Finding more creatures, often the same ones, beached again the next day, dead and desiccated.
Dead and desiccated. That could describe the Opera House, too. A few other words came to mind. Money-trap. Time-waster. Boondoggle. “You must have read the newspaper article about the Opera House, Maida.”
“The whole town’s buzzing. Everybody’s hoping for great things to jump-start the downtown and bring back tourists.”
Drayco hesitated. “There may be structural problems. And it will need repairs.” After a glimpse of Maida’s hopeful expression, he didn’t have the heart to tell her his plans for a quick sale. Perhaps people did care about the fate of the Opera House after all. Or at least, one person. Was anyone else in town casting him as an urban-renewal savior?
She plunged ahead, undeterred. “Victorians are being turned into art galleries on Atlantic Street. And the Fairmont Hotel’s been restored to its former glory. We won’t have to refer to our town as Cape Extremity anymore. Of course, there’s that condo battle.” She grimaced.
Maida’s rapid-fire delivery was difficult for him to follow. Being sleep-deprived made it worse. “Cape Extremity?”
She motioned for him to enter the kitchen. “If you look at the entire Delmarva Peninsula turned on its side, it looks like a loggerhead sea turtle. We’re on the tail, one of the softer parts of the turtle and not terribly interesting. Unless you’re another turtle or a predator. I’ll have to cook you up some turtle gumbo.”
Drayco smiled, but she only held half his attention. The fireplace was too inviting. Ordinarily, he wasn’t bothered by cold weather except for his arm, which was starting to ache. Yet his physical therapist was adamant weather wouldn’t have any effect on his injury whatsoever. It was a good thing he didn’t play baseball for a living—the only thing worse would be a pianist. He forced himself to relax the fingernails digging into his palm. “Those condos you mentioned. They’re a hot topic.”
“Oh, they are. But I’ll wager you’re more interested in a hot toddy to stave off the chill.”
Maida ushered him to a wooden armchair that looked like it was carved from a ship’s mast, then headed to the stove where she ladled a red liquid out of a steaming pot into a mug. After adding shots from a couple of unlabeled glass bottles, she handed over the mug with the unidentifiable concoction. Was that cranberry and nutmeg?
“I’m famous for these,” Maida said, taking a bow. “Secret family recipe. Although the main ingredient didn’t come from a still in the backyard like Cousin Harvey’s. Every bit as potent.”
“Do you have other guests? There’s a scooter in front.”
“You’re our one and only. The scooter is mine. Perfect for short hops to the store and I can cut corners.”
Drayco settled into an agreeable inertia when an alarming warmth crept up his foot. As he looked down, it was impossible to miss the orange-blue flames of a newspaper on fire. He jumped up and stamped out the sparks with his shoe, trying to keep the shoe from catching fire. It didn’t, but his foot tingled, and he inhaled a whiff of burned rubber. He barely made out the charred headline on the newspaper, “Manuscript Theft from Library a Mystery.”
Maida double-checked the danger was over, looking embarrassed at the lapse.
“Don’t worry, Maida, it’s nothing major.”
“Funny you should say that. My husband’s name is Major.”
Drayco found himself blinking in a fog again. Must be the drink. “Major?”
“He was in the military but that’s not where he got the name. It’s just Major, though folks around here call him the Major. He ha
d to go out, but hopefully you’ll meet him soon. At the very least, at breakfast tomorrow. He’s always ready at nine for tea and scones following his morning errands, come hell or high water.”
“Sounds like an ex-Brit.”
“He was born on this side of the Pond, but his adopted parents were originally from Torquay. He’ll be dying to ask you about your life in the FBI. I’ve warned him not to pester you.”
So the newspaper article mentioned that, too. What else had it put in there? His favorite color? Boxers or briefs? The reason he left the FBI?
Maida grabbed his mug from him to see if he needed a refill. Adding more of the brew, she said, “It seems odd for Mr. Rockingham to bequeath you the Opera House. Do all your clients do things like that?”
“The occasional golf course, villa or yacht.” Drayco took a sip and swallowed too fast, scalding his throat.
It was Maida’s turn to look confused. “Golf course?”
“A lame attempt at humor.”
“Poor Cape Unity will be a come down from D.C.”
“If you’ll pardon the sailing term, it’s more of a come-about.” Maida’s potent concoction was doing the trick. You should need a prescription for that stuff. Take two cc’s of Maida Tonic before bedtime and call me in the morning.
A man poked his head around the doorway, enough for Drayco to see he was Maida’s age. He had shocks of gray hair streaked in clumps through the black strands. Less salt-and-pepper, more akin to a skunk pelt. He sported a matching beard long enough to have a white rubber band dividing it in half.
Maida motioned for him to come in. “You won’t have to wait for breakfast, after all. This is my husband, Major. And this is Scott Drayco, dear.”
The Major pressed Drayco right away. “The paper called you a crime consultant. Tried for the police force, myself, but they didn’t want people with bad backs. Old war injury. Still, a crime consultant—sounds detectivy. Might consider that. Catch bad guys, do you? Do you get to use handcuffs?”
