by BV Lawson
Thursday 18 March
The small windows surrounded him in a circle of unblinking glass eyes. The pressure continued to increase; he could tell by his ears and skull. Not like flying at altitude, more like scuba diving. He was falling fast, with flotsam from shipwrecks floating by. Callie Cadden’s terrified face was plastered against a window as if adhered by a suction cup. Calvin Cadden soon followed at another window, his small hands scratching at the glass. A sound Drayco heard behind him added to the eerie symphony, and he turned to see Oakley Keys at a third window, a dripping red “G” on his chest, rapping insistently with his knuckles as Nanette joined him, her skin pale and blue.
With the reproachful faces around him, the knocking grew louder and more intense, until he awoke in a sweat. But the knocking continued and soon morphed into Maida’s concerned voice. “Scott? Are you all right? You said you’d be down at seven, and it’s eight.”
He was grateful she’d interrupted his latest nightmare, but he was sorely tempted to doze off until noon. He didn’t like taking pills and declined Maida’s offer last night of melatonin, hoping her alternate plan of warm milk and a turkey sandwich would do the trick. He couldn’t stomach any Maida Tonic right now.
Where was a bottle of Manhattan Special when you needed it? If he’d been home in D.C., he would have gotten up at four, called it quits on getting any more sleep and dug his fingers into a Prokofiev piano sonata, grateful he had an end unit, and his only neighbor was hard of hearing.
He rushed to get dressed, not wanting to miss the appointment he made after Maida gave him the news about Nanette. But first, he made a phone call to cancel his reservations for the Mexico trip.
Sheriff Sailor’s office was tucked inside a former fish processing plant bought by the town a decade ago and renovated for his staff and occupants of the jail cells. Drayco sat across from the sheriff’s desk with its color-coded trays stacked so straight Sailor must have used a plumb line. On the walls hung artifacts from the building’s previous incarnation—a mounted fish and a vintage scaler in a piscine shape.
The sheriff noticed Drayco’s scrutiny of the objects. “A few mementos from a bygone era. Took us months to get the smell out of the place. Took me a year to want to eat fish again. It was the Seafood Hut’s crab cakes that brought me back from the abyss.”
Sailor yawned three times in succession. “We were up late at the Keys’ house. I believe you said you had something to discuss. Please tell me you’ve solved everything and I can take a nap.”
Drayco sank back into the bucket seat of the swivel chair, grateful for the extra leg room. “Nanette Keys invited me to her house yesterday morning before the service. She wanted to hire me, too.”
The sheriff sat up straight. “Another dead client? Forgive me for being blunt, but wanting to hire you is the kiss of death. It’d explain the set of tire tracks in the driveway that didn’t match Nanette’s car or the car of the friend who found the body. We’ll take an impression from your tires. And I guess we’ll find your paw prints in the house.”
Drayco’s head filled with images of Nanette at her house yesterday, so hopeful, placing her trust in him. He welcomed the sheriff’s recriminations. He’d missed seeing something, and now she was dead.
He scanned mental maps of the layout of her house and thought back to every word Nanette had said, hoping to figure out why she’d been targeted only a few hours after he left. Was the killer hiding in the house all the time? Nanette did open a window, and if someone were lurking outside, that provided an opportunity to listen in. But was there anything they discussed that would lead to murder?
He grumbled, “Take all the casts you want. And no, potential clients don’t usually drop dead the minute they hire me.”
Sailor rubbed his eyes. “Any self-respecting lawman, including your former FBI buddies, would find this hard to ignore. Two clients, both murdered right after you set up a meeting with them?”
“You want me to back off.” That wasn’t a surprise. Drayco had seen it coming.
“Would make things easier in some ways. This is turning into one giant clusterfuck.” The sheriff picked up a pencil and rolled it around in his hand.
Neither man spoke for several moments. The closed door muffled any hallway noise, and humming from inside the guts of the computer and the coffee maker were like thunder in the stillness. Machine noises to Drayco were like nails on a blackboard to most people. Waves of mildew-green, or if he were lucky, sealskin-and-pewter bumps.
Sailor laid the pencil back on the desk. “Why did Nanette need your help?”
“Nanette said she wanted closure.” Drayco gingerly pulled the plastic bag from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. “This is the crux of it.”
The sheriff scrutinized the fragment, the size of a large index card. “Looks like a document. Charred around the edges. A letter? A bill?”
“A letter sent to Oakley Keys not long after he and Nanette moved here. According to Nanette, it made Oakley so angry, he threw it in the fire. His behavioral changes started afterward.”
“What changes? Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?”
“Oakley began drinking heavily and became withdrawn. Nanette was afraid the letter and his secretive business trips meant he was hiding a double life.”
“In light of Oakley’s other affairs, I see why.”
“Yet I don’t think she believed it deep down.”
“She wanted you to investigate his double life?”
“Not directly. Just this.” Drayco pointed to the letter fragment. “That’s where all their troubles began. She hoped if I solved the letter mystery, it would explain both his character one-eighty and why he wanted to hire me.”
Sheriff Sailor squinted at the fragment on the desk. “Not much to go on.”
“That’s what I told her. Since it might be evidence, I don’t think I should keep it.”
“Glad you brought it by.” The sheriff scanned Drayco’s face. With a knowing look, he added, “I guess you want a copy?”
Sailor had managed to surprise him a third time. And Drayco nodded his thanks. “I don’t know if it will be possible, fragile as it is.”
“We’re a small department. Prince of Wales County only has ten thousand residents after all. We don’t have one of those elaborate movie crime labs. Our new CI, the only other one besides Jake, has some training in document forensics. I’ll have her take a look at it first. If need be, we’ll send it off to a state lab. But between the blood, ballistics, and corpses I’ve sent them this week, I think they’re tired of hearing from me.”
The sheriff peered out the wired-glass window on his office door and immediately popped up out of his seat. After motioning in a woman from the hallway, he said, “This is the investigator I was telling you about, Nelia Tyler. Tyler, this is Scott Drayco, a D.C. consultant.”
Nelia shook Drayco’s hand. “I saw you at the crime scene. You’re the infamous new owner of the Opera House.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Nelia grinned. “Better not use that word around here. You might find yourself in the lockup quicker than you can say Paddy Bakely.”
“I understand I have you to thank for keeping the Opera House piano out of harm’s way.”
“It’s a handsome instrument. I’d love to hear it played.” She was 30ish, five-ten, the same height as the sheriff, with her blond hair tied back in a braid. Not what you’d call drop-dead gorgeous, but not plain, either. And her mocha brown eyes were clear and bright with a hint of mischief. She was the only female deputy he’d seen around Cape Unity, but there must be others. Sailor didn’t seem the sexist type.
The sheriff handed her Nanette’s letter fragment. “Think you can make something out of this?”
She took the bag by the corners and peered inside. “I’ve seen worse. Is this related to Nanette Keys’ murder?”
Drayco spoke up. “It’s a long shot. But I like long shots.”
She poked a stray hair behind her ear. “And I love a challeng
e.”
Drayco pulled a thick envelope out of the briefcase at his feet and placed it on the sheriff’s desk. “Here’s more reading material, Oakley’s manuscript for his new book. He had an entire chapter on Cape Unity, blaming Randolph Squier for destroying local architecture. He also wrote that Squier was going to buy the Opera House and tear it down for restaurants and shops to provide more revenue for his secret embezzlement habit. I have a feeling Oakley’s editor would have removed those incendiary bombs to keep from getting sued.”
Sailor idly riffled the corners of a stack of papers on his desk. “I remember reading that some city clerk leveled embezzlement charges years ago. Didn’t name any names. Later recanted his story.”
Nelia chimed in. “How old is this manuscript?”
Drayco smiled—he’d asked Nanette the same thing. “Oakley started it five years ago.”
Nelia added, “That would coincide with Oakley’s affair with Darcie Squier. Oakley could have written the chapter to discredit Squier. Or to frame him and get him out of the way. If it’s true and Squier knew about the document, might be another reason for Squier to want Oakley dead.”
Sailor said, “Could be. Doesn’t explain Nanette’s murder.”
Drayco handed over the envelope. “And if Oakley was murdered because he didn’t want to sell the land, why would she be murdered because she did? Unless she figured out who killed her husband.”
“If she did, wish she’d let us in on the secret.” Sailor looked over at his deputy. “Since I’m handing out reading assignments today, I’ll give you custody of the manuscript, Tyler. Check out that embezzlement angle, too. Get Jake Giles to help you.”
The sheriff waited until she was out of earshot. “Damned fine credentials. And before you make any wisecracks, I mean that literally. We’re lucky to have her since we almost lost her to law school. Plus, the job forces her to have a commuter marriage.”
“She’s married? I didn’t see a ring.”
“Tyler’s husband is an attorney up in Baltimore. He’s got MS, the primary progressive kind. He’s able to get around on crutches for now. Tyler doesn’t discuss it, but I can tell it’s hard on her.”
Sailor reached around and pulled out a photograph. “Found this on a table at the Keys’ house.”
Drayco gave it a look. “That’s Bendek.”
“Bendek?”
“A child from Poland the Keys were going to adopt. Which makes him another victim, in a way. Guess he’s going to stay an orphan.”
Sailor stared at the child’s chubby-cheeked face in the photo. “The wife and I considered adopting once.” He looked at the photo again and laid it carefully back on the desk.
“Did you find anything else at Nanette’s house, Sheriff?”
“Nothing’s changed since Oakley’s murder, with one exception.” The sheriff looked like he’d taken a gulp of milk a month after its expiration date.
Drayco said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”
“There was a cardboard file box, yay big,” the sheriff indicated the size with his hands, similar to a shoe box. “It was there last time, and now it’s not. Considering how it was labeled, we checked through it after Oakley’s murder. But it was only historical documents.”
“How it was labeled” could only mean one thing. “It was about the Opera House.”
“Yep. Big black letters in magic marker. You didn’t see it there?”
Drayco shook his head. “Nanette was unaware of it?”
“It lay on top of a file cabinet for years, but she never looked inside. Assumed it was a writing project he was working on.”
“A valuable or incriminating item in that box could be a motive for her murder. Either because the murderer believed she knew something, or she was an innocent bystander who got in the way of theft.”
Sailor said, “Possible innocent bystander.”
“Either way, all roads lead back to the Opera House.” Drayco stood up and went to examine the mounted spotted flounder on the wall. With its mouth hanging open, it was ready to bite down on a hook. Drayco gingerly fingered the piranha-like teeth. “Have you completely ruled out a random killer, Sheriff? I drove by a brawl your deputies were working last night. Townies-versus-foreigners, with a pinch of juvenile testosterone.”
“A transient wouldn’t make sense. One murder, Oakley or Nanette, but not both, and not a few days apart. Plus, their house is off the beaten path and hard to find. The murderer or murderers knew how to avoid being seen or leave tracks.”
Drayco said, “Someone who knows his way around the out-of-doors, like a hunter?”
“Squier? Yeah, I thought of that.”
Drayco tried not to match Sailor’s continuous yawns. But he did feel obligated to pass along one more tidbit. “My dinner with the Squier duo Tuesday night was enlightening.”
Sailor tilted his head. “I’m impressed as hell you escaped unscathed from Cypress Manor. Although the good councilman keeps a tight leash on Darcie these days.”
“Not enough to keep her from spitting out gossip. She says Nanette Keys and Earl Yaegle were having an affair.”
Sailor’s wide eyes matched those of the mounted fish on the wall. “Huh.” He scratched his head. “In a place where secrets are scarce, I’m embarrassed to admit I hadn’t heard that.”
“Even Squier looked surprised.”
“Would add to Yaegle’s motives, but since the M.O.s aren’t the same, it’s possible we’re talking two motives, two killers.”
“Different gun?”
“No gun at all. Nanette was strangled.”
“Manual or ligature?”
“Mugging, it looks like.”
“I assume you mean as in holding her neck in the bend of the elbow?”
“Yeah, but again, no forced entry, no signs of struggle, no prints. And more importantly, no mutilation this time. No ‘G’ or anything else. Oh, and the M.E. is fairly sure Oakley was alive when his chest was carved up. Maybe not conscious, but then again, maybe so.”
Drayco had truly hoped Oakley was dead at that point. But since he wasn’t, this meant the killer not only wanted to mark his victim but inflict pain and terror before he died. The psychopath angle again. He tried not to think of Nanette’s own moment of terror as she was strangled, struggling for every last breath. But he did, and his own chest tightened for a moment.
He slid back into the chair and stared at dirt on the floor that must have shaken loose from the soles of his shoes. “There’s a billboard on the west side of town, an ad for Gallinger.”
“With the red circle and slash over the ‘G’?”
“Has it been there long?”
“The billboard, yep. The circle, we’re not sure. One of my deputies spotted it after Oakley was killed, not before. Might be the work of the same guy.”
“Or Oakley’s ‘G’ may be the work of a copycat or accomplice.”
“I thought of that. No one claims responsibility for the billboard, big surprise.”
“In D.C., graffiti artists sign their work, often a symbol or nickname.”
“Nothing here.” The dark circles under Sailor’s eyes were far too deep to have accumulated from one night’s missed sleep. Next time, Drayco would bring some espresso with extra shots.
Drayco realized he was drumming his fingers on the sheriff’s desk when Sailor pointed. “You do that a lot. Old habits die hard?”
“I guess. Music plays in my head constantly. An earworm parade.”
“So what’s playing now?”
“Dies Irae. It translates as day of wrath.” Drayco tried to remember the last time he had an upbeat piece as mental background music. Nothing came to mind unless he counted the seduction aria from Carmen when he first laid eyes on Darcie Squier. And he really didn’t want to count that.
Drayco asked, “Besides Earl Yaegle, any other suspects top your list for both murders?”
“Depending upon which murder and which motive, we’ve got a few for each. Possib
ly Seth or Paddy Bakely. Nanette was a social worker and one of her co-workers—that same one who encouraged her to buy the gun—brought over a box of personal effects this morning from Nanette’s desk. There were a couple of items Seth gave her after she helped him out with Paddy. The co-worker said clients often get crushes on staff and wondered if Seth or Paddy had one on Nanette. Seth and Paddy have provided alibis for each other. Again.”
“Anything else helpful in that box of effects?”
“There’s a book of Paddy Bakely’s poetry.”
“Can I see it?”
The sheriff reached around behind him and lifted the cover off a box. “Take a look, but I’ll have to keep it.”
Drayco opened the small chapbook and read through the poems. They were rambling, as you might expect from Paddy, with violent and disturbing imagery. He thumbed to a poem in the middle of the book and reread a few lines aloud. “Black Angels strangle the innocents and leave their babies homeless in the cold. We all cry, we all die, to know what could have been.”
Sailor said, “Nice, huh? Gimme Robert Frost.”
“Black Angels? Like the Velvet Underground song?”
The sheriff pursed his lips. “Never would have guessed you’re a closet rock-and-roller.”
“I have my moments. Although I draw the line at body piercings.” Drayco flipped through a few more pages. Paddy’s poems were fodder for a psychologist’s wet dreams.
Down the hallway, someone blew on a police whistle, followed by sounds of laughter. Drayco looked up, with a frown and shake of his head.
“So,” Sailor nodded toward the door. “What’s it like? That chromesthesia thing you got going on. It must be—”
“Overwhelming?”
“I looked it up. Only one percent of the population has it. It’s gotta be weird.”
“Several composers had it. Liszt, Rimsky-Korsakov, Scriabin, Amy Beach. It’s not weird if it’s the only existence you’ve ever known. Doesn’t make me some kind of super detective. In fact, I have to work hard to keep from being prejudiced for or against someone because of the colors and textures of their voice.”
Drayco handed the booklet back to the sheriff who asked, “You don’t want to take notes?”
