by BV Lawson
“You told me you hadn’t spoken with Oakley for some time, Reece. You lied.”
Reece shuffled his feet. “You may be one of those macho types who looks death in the face and laughs, but I’m a coward. Genetic. A man once besmirched my sainted mother’s honor at a bar, and Poppy crawled away with his tail between his legs. Wable spines are notoriously spindly.”
“You were afraid you’d be a suspect early on? Because of that manslaughter charge?”
Reece sighed. “STS. Just takes a rumor to convict someone these days.”
“About that manslaughter thing, Reece. The family of the passenger in your car said you killed him intentionally over a manuscript.”
“We both coveted it. Me for my archives. He wanted to sell it for a profit. But he’s the one who forced his way into my car that night.”
Drayco stared into Reece’s good eye. “So what is it you’re not telling me?”
Reece swallowed several times. When he replied, his voice was a monotone. “I wanted to teach him a lesson. Scare him. I drove him home, very fast, pretending I was going to run into things. He was scared all right. Begged me to stop.”
Drayco prompted, “And then you hit something for real.”
“A deer ran across the road. I swerved to avoid it, and we ended up wrapped around a tree. It was my fault he died, I admit that, and I’ve had to live with that knowledge every day since. But his family was wrong. I didn’t mean to do it. Afterward, I didn’t even pursue the damned manuscript. I have no idea where it wound up.”
Drayco let that pass. It should be easy to prove or disprove. Instead, he pointed at the book in Reece’s hand. “Paddy’s great American novel?”
“A book of his poetry. You read any of his work?”
“From the looks of it, that same volume.”
“What did you think?”
“His writing is everything you’d expect from Paddy, except darker and more incoherent.”
“Since he’s a local writer—of sorts—I’ll find a place in the archives for it.”
“I can understand him giving it to you, a touch of ego, but why the cane? It doesn’t fit his behavior pattern. Unless the cane’s purpose is to sweeten the deal so you’ll take the book.”
Reece shrugged and looked at his watch. “Five bells. It’s so-called happy hour at the Fiddler’s Green Tavern. Been to that illustrious establishment yet?”
“The other day, to pick up some wine for Chef Maida. Ran into Paddy as a matter of fact.”
“Oh, now there’s a surprise. Anyway, they have several regional microbrews half-price at this time of day. Care to join me? Or are you afraid of being seen in the company of a degenerate?”
“A degenerate with a reading monocle? What’s up with the whole monocle thing, anyway, Reece?”
“I only need one lens, so why pay for another I don’t need?”
“Because of the glass eye?”
Reece tipped the cane in salute. “Most people don’t notice. Guess you are a detective after all.” He pointed to his left eye. “This one’s glass. Got it after a bout with cancer as a tot. One eye, one lens. You want to come along and get plastered?”
“Why not?” The tavern had a unique charm, the kind that didn’t come out of corporate test markets. Pulling into the parking lot, Drayco saw several more cars than on his other trip. Reece explained that for Cape Unity, this was a crowd.
Fortunately, Reece snagged an open table, and they studied the daily specials written in pastel colors on a small chalkboard. Reece said, “The Beach Lite Beer is malty but good. It’s from the Tidewater area.”
“Is beer good for your rheumatiz?”
“I don’t care. Although I should get my doctor to prescribe it. It’s easier to swallow than glucosamine horse pills.”
Drayco chose the Cacao Espresso Stout. “Coffee, dark chocolate, and beer. Three vices in one. Could it be I’ve found a new addiction to replace Manhattan Special?”
Reece rolled the golden liquid of his Beach Lite Beer around on his tongue with a happy gurgle. “I would say this helps me unwind at the end of a stressful day. But I toiled solo in my private cave of history without a single visitor. Can’t blame them, since I’m now persona non grata.”
“Is attendance better in summer?”
“Somewhat. Much as I hate to think of those dreadful rows of shanties Gallinger has planned, it might mean more patrons for Ye Olde Historical Society. We barely break even. I’d hoped one of Earl Yaegle’s charities could come through for us, but if he winds up in jail ...”
Drayco said, “I wonder if two murders will affect sales of those shanties?”
“Good point. Wonder if Gallinger considered that. Hell, it might increase sales. People are fascinated with notoriety and scandal after all. As long as it doesn’t affect them personally, then they’re all for it.”
Drayco sensed his companion wanted a break from conversation. The three B’s, his father always called it. Beer, bumming, and brooding. Drayco surveyed the tavern, cataloging the faces of his fellow imbibers. In its long history, the Fiddler’s Green must have seen its share of notorious customers. One local tale told of a sailor in the early 1900s who wandered into town. He killed a matronly fishwife, chopped her body into pieces and packed them in a steamer trunk to dump at sea. Reece was right about scandal. The mad sailor story was one of the town’s most cherished legends.
He studied Reece across the table. “Notoriety can hit close to home. Take you, for instance. The Keys’ murders affected you personally.”
Reece grabbed some of the pretzels in a bowl on the table, rolled them around in his hand, then threw all but one back. “You ever think about Kismet?”
Drayco relaxed into his chair, enjoying the tang of the stout. “Are you getting fatalistic on me?”
Reece started chewing on the pretzel, then coughed up a piece of it, with an apologetic look. “Bear with me. I mean, here we are, strangers until a few days ago, sitting in this particular bar connected by the deaths of two people who were friends of mine. I ask myself—is it possible you’ve been sent here by some twist of Kismet to solve their murders? That you’re the only one who can? Then you have the Keys themselves. If they hadn’t moved here, they never would have bought that land and wouldn’t have died because of it. And Nanette—if she married me, she’d be alive today. Instead, she married a man who didn’t appreciate her.”
“Not to be rude, Reece, but are you sure that’s your first beer today?”
“Putting on my armchair philosopher’s hat.”
“Your historian hat fits you better. Makes you less depressed.”
Reece’s eyes were bright and direct. “If you want to make me a happy human, you’ll find who killed Nanette. If there is eternal fire and damnation for the wicked, he’ll head straight there. Do not pass Go.”
If-only scenarios made for good research papers, but in real life they were diseases nibbling away at emotional cells, leaving only skeletons of grief and guilt behind. Still, Drayco couldn’t blame Reece. Nanette was a woman with a great capacity for love and devotion.
That set him thinking about Konstantina Klucze. If he’d been her peer, he’d be captivated the way Reece was with Nanette. Following Reece’s line of thought, would Konstantina also be alive today if she married someone else? He was bemused by his own fixation with a woman long dead. Must be something they put in the beer. Depressing thoughts make people want to drink more, hence more profits.
Reece seemed happy to be depressed, at least until he drained his mug. He asked, “What brought you to this place?”
“You did, not more than thirty minutes ago.”
“I mean, how did you get started in the biz? Maida filled me in on your prodigy youth. Someone steal your piano?”
“My car.” He’d stopped at a station to gas up his Mustang on that frosty night fifteen years ago. Such a simple thing, to stop at a station, fill up your car, pay the attendant.
Reece pointed at Drayco’s expo
sed right forearm where his sleeve had slipped when Drayco raised his glass. “I’m guessing that’s a souvenir?”
Drayco glanced at the line of pink scars branching off into a tree as they faded into his palm. “A carjacking. The gunman slammed the door on my arm. Dragged me several feet.”
Reece said, “Got mangled nicely. Good plastic surgeon.”
“Although I swear the physical therapist had a sadistic streak.”
“That makes two pianist careers silenced by assault. It was luck of the draw your life didn’t end that night like Konstantina’s. Or else I’m right about our friend Kismet. Kismet, the universe’s dick.”
Drayco took another sip of the beer. If there was a silver lining from the whole carjacking mess, it was when he realized he could help more people directly via a law enforcement career. Provide a little justice, maybe help prevent tragedies like the carjacker—only seventeen when sentenced, he died not long afterward in a prison riot. Ars longa, vita brevis.
Reece signaled for a second mug. “You asked me to look up Angel Quillen. Her entire life can be summed up in a paragraph. Nothing on her childhood. Married Seth when she was eighteen. He was ten years older, by the way. Had Paddy when she was twenty. Her parents originally moved here to work in the crab industry, and up and left after her death.”
Reece pulled some papers out of his jacket pocket and thrust them across the table. “I’ve got a newspaper clipping that mentions her. And since you asked about Oakley’s early life, I included an article on him.”
Drayco examined the photo on the first clipping. “That’s Paddy’s mother, Angel Quillen?”
“She was a beauty, wasn’t she? Pale skin, red hair. Striking.”
“Are you positive that’s Paddy’s mother?”
“Look at the caption, if you don’t believe me.”
“Her appearance doesn’t match what I had in mind.”
“If you’re thinking Paddy doesn’t resemble her and is adopted, think again. She died in childbirth after all—his. Must be a genetic mutation somewhere. She was apparently as much a saint as her name suggests, and Seth has kept his nose clean. Makes you wonder why Paddy couldn’t be more of a chip off the old blocks.”
Drayco flipped to the next piece of paper, the article about Oakley. Drayco took a closer look at Oakley’s photo. He sported a dead ringer for the seersucker jacket he had on the night he was murdered. “Reece, you remember this jacket?”
Reece grabbed the clipping. “Seersucker. Not a fan. Looks too cheap, like those polyester leisure suits popular then. I don’t remember him wearing it, but when I showed this photo to Oakley once, he was not amused.”
“Did he say why?”
“He mumbled that picture was taken on the worst day of his life. And how the righteous shall rejoice when they see vengeance. Or something Bible-ish.”
The worst day of his life? Drayco had his suspicions about that day. The same date Nanette told Drayco that Oakley came home, read the life-altering letter, and threw it into the fireplace.
Reece pointed to the last document in the pile. “Go ahead, look at that one.”
Drayco unfolded it. “Blueprints?”
“Am I a good historian or what? A copy of the original Opera House drawings from the Library of Virginia archives.”
“This is above and beyond the call, Reece. Did you keep a copy for the burgled drawer?”
“It’s in my wall safe. Don’t want to take any chances with Senor Sticky Fingers.”
“Thanks, Reece. This is better than I’d hoped for.”
Drayco stood up, signaling to Reece he was ready to leave. “And Kismet notwithstanding, someone made a conscious decision to kill Oakley and Nanette. A decision the murderer will live to regret once locked away. You can bet on it.”
Reece said, “Those are shaky odds. How can you be so sure?”
Drayco gathered up the blueprints and other documents and folded some money on the table for a tip. “Because I never give up.”
Chapter 36
Cypress Manor looked even more the drama queen, framed against an evening mist that hovered around it like a theatrical scrim. Drayco noticed a brocade drapery pulled aside a few inches. Someone was following his progress up the long driveway.
Darcie greeted him like a picture of sultry bewitchery in a tight black dress as she beckoned him into the drawing room toward the settee. She placed her hand on his shoulder, pressing him down into the seat, then positioned herself mere inches away.
Drayco coughed. “Is the councilman going to join us?”
Her hand pressed down harder. “He’s been called away on business.”
“That’s a shame. He was a fine host.” At least, a fine actor. In retrospect, it was clear the dinner party was more an excuse to feel Drayco out rather than any welcoming gesture on Squier’s part.
Darcie scooted close, their thighs touching. Drayco allowed himself a brief moment to enjoy the contact before he forced himself to refocus on the conversation. “Do you entertain often? The layout of this house is tailor-made for it.”
“Not as much as I’d like. Other than you, the last people we had to dinner were some of those boring Councilmen. And the Yaegles before his wife passed away. If it were up to me, we’d have parties every week. There are times I think I’ll be the first case of death-by-boredom. But I doubt you have that problem.”
“Oh, my life is more boring than you think.”
He extracted himself from her grasp and got up to inspect one of the cases he noted on his first visit, the one with the Native American crafts, which had a new addition. “This collection of your husband’s is most definitely not boring.”
Lying on a far right shelf toward the back was a rounded wooden object, half-hidden under a folded Navajo crystal rug. Drayco had cast a wide surveillance net around the room as soon as he entered, looking for an item like this. The right shape and size for what he envisioned Oakley’s mask would be. He picked up the object with the sides of his hands, studying the intricately-carved feathers of an owl’s face. At the bottom was inscribed Diabel. He flipped it over and saw the initials OK.
“This is unusual. One of a kind.”
She twirled her hair with her fingers as she avoided looking at him. “We got that from a local artist. I don’t know who.”
Drayco lay the mask on the coffee table, then cupped his hand around Darcie’s chin to force her to look at him. “Nanette Keys said Oakley crafted a similar mask. A mask that went missing at the time he was murdered. The same mask I asked you about at the Novel Café when you denied knowing anything.”
Darcie froze, and her artfully rouged cheeks paled. “I didn’t know it was linked to Oakley’s murder, honest I didn’t. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Surely you’ve seen the initials where it’s signed OK?”
Drayco released his grip, and Darcie resumed twirling her hair around her fingers. “When Randolph brought it home, I saw the initials and guessed it was Oakley’s. It was after the murder, and I was surprised Randolph bought it. Thought he’d forget about it, and I could sell it myself. Art goes up in value when the artist dies, doesn’t it?”
Drayco didn’t say anything, so Darcie continued, with a nervous laugh. “My dear husband gives me an allowance. I have to beg him for money. So I hoped to make some on my own. After all, what does he spend his fortune on?”
She pointed toward the collections. “Those nasty old tusks and ridiculous guns. For what? We could be traveling, or meeting interesting people in Washington, or catching designer fashion shows in New York. What good are a bunch of old relics? They don’t help you live in the present, do they?”
She must not show this side of herself to her husband. Perhaps she did, and he wasn’t the understanding sort. Perhaps she was afraid to—that he might turn violent. Or that she’d lose Mr. Moneybags. But seeing her sitting there, holding back tears, that characterization didn’t seem fair. For the first time since he met her, she looked lost in unchart
ed waters. He fought the urge to close the distance between them.
She kicked the table hard enough to make the mask slide a few inches. “You keep that nasty thing. I don’t want it the house.”
“Did your husband say where he bought it?”
Darcie shook her head so violently, Drayco thought it might snap off. “I’ve learned not to ask Randolph where he gets things. It’s better that way. As if he’d tell me.”
She turned away from him. “I wish you’d stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Accusing. Your eyes are so intense sometimes. Look into them too long, and you’ll get sucked in.”
She jumped up and walked over to the massive fireplace and rested an arm on the mantle, holding out the other hand to feel the warmth from the glowing coals. “Have you made friends here?” she asked unexpectedly.
“Why?”
“My husband doesn’t want me to have friends. He wants his property all to himself. Sometimes I feel I’m going to suffocate.”
“Does he get physical, violent?”
“Has he hit me? Of course not. Too much a gentleman for that.” She spat out the word gentleman as if it were a bitter pill.
“Not violent toward you, perhaps.”
She looked away. “If my husband did decide to hurt someone, I’m sure it would be neat and efficient like he does everything else. Believe me, he’s not the physical type. I won’t pretend our relationship hasn’t had rocky moments. Whose hasn’t? Oakley’s wife had an affair with Earl Yaegle. Yet Earl and Tabitha Yaegle stayed together until she died.”
Darcie reached up to twist her hair again, then caught herself and stopped. “How’s the investigation? Why hasn’t the sheriff arrested Earl?”
“Because the murderer may not be Earl.”
“Of course it’s Earl Yaegle. He and Oakley were enemies. You think it’s him, don’t you?”
Drayco joined her in front of the fireplace. He was again amazed at its size, large enough to park a Cooper Mini inside. The marble was a dark gray with streaks of black forming patterns like Rorschach inkblot tests. One pattern resembled two devils dancing.
