[Scott Drayco 01.0] Played to Death

by BV Lawson

  He said, “I’m not ready to pin the murders on Earl.”

  Darcie tilted her head. “Why not?”

  “You’re eager to brand him. Any reason?”

  “I’m not smart, but I can’t imagine why anyone else would want to do it. Oakley was too much like a child.”

  She glared at the framed hunt scene on the wall. “I’ve always hated that painting. Guns, guns, always guns.”

  She was silent for a moment, her hands clasped in front of her. “I wasn’t honest when I said I couldn’t imagine anyone else wanting to kill Oakley.”

  “Your husband?”

  She nodded. “I thought you already knew about that mask. And was goading me into pinning the murders on Randolph.”

  “You hid it well.”

  “My husband was furious when he found out about Oakley and me. Threatened to kill him. But when I allow myself to believe he went through with it ... I get terrified. It’s already unbearable around this dark cave as it is. Lonely, cold and soulless.”

  She reached out to take Drayco’s arm and led him toward a corner where she pointed up at an elaborate tapestry. “That’s called ‘Love at the Old Mill.’ It looked so romantic, I had Randolph buy it.”

  In her stiletto-heeled shoes once again, she was closer to Drayco’s height and easily reached her hand around his shoulder to maneuver him so his back was against the wall in the corner. “Aren’t the details exquisite? The couple is so full of life.”

  She drew closer until her face was inches from his. “The young man is kinda sexy. Like you, only you’re far more appealing.”

  If he succumbed to Darcie, who spun a web like a black widow spider around Oakley, would Drayco be consumed as the other man had? To his chagrin, at this particular moment, he wasn’t sure he cared. On some level, deep down, they were both vulnerable like Earl and Nanette, when they instigated their affair.

  Drayco was keenly aware of the smooth skin on Darcie’s hand as her fingers wrapped behind his neck, and of her rapid heartbeat as she pressed her chest against his. Her eyes sparkled with an emerald glint, and her full red lips were warm and soft as they teasingly brushed across his cheek and mouth. He envisioned Oakley, weak from his faded dreams and vanishing self-esteem, helpless before this tempting siren. His rule about married women was in imminent danger of being revoked.

  She asked, “You do find me attractive, don’t you?”

  “I think it would be difficult for any man not to.”

  She pressed her lips to his, kissing him gently at first. Her left hand slipped under his sweater, her fingers caressing his chest, slowly moving downward. As in the car behind the courthouse, he didn’t stop her, didn’t push her away, but returned the kiss, and wrapped one arm behind her shoulders, the other around her waist.

  He could argue with himself all day on the morals of having sex with a married woman, but he was afraid his arguments would ring hollow. He was tired, lonelier than he cared to admit, and his pulse picked up speed every time he was around her.

  The wails of mental sirens tried to drown out his desire. Ethics, Oakley’s murder, don’t surrender. Yet the thought of lying in Darcie’s arms was far more pleasant than dealing with the Opera House or fighting a convoluted case that might not be provable. He pulled her tighter against him, and Darcie deepened the kiss as her fingers moved again, farther south, sliding under his waistband.

  An image of Oakley in his bloodied pince-nez glasses and red carnation popped unbidden into Drayco’s mind. Reluctantly, he pulled his arms free and stopped Darcie from going any further. He held her left hand in his outstretched palm. She wasn’t wearing her rings.

  “Darcie, I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. There’s no one here except us. Who’s to know? If you’re worried about that fire-and-damnation thing, it’d be a sin to let a body like yours go to waste. Besides, I always get what I want.”

  It wasn’t easy to push her away. But he did.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Drayco said, picking up the mask and heading toward the door. He paused before turning the knob, looking back at her.

  No defiance, no artifice to be seen now. Her lower lip was trembling, and tears trickled down her face. She said softly, “But I think I’m falling in love with you.”

  It took everything he had not to run over and fold her into his arms, so he hurried out the door, picking his way across the granite cobblestone driveway to the Starfire. He started to slide into the driver’s seat, but a flash of white that wasn’t there before caught his eye.

  He grasped one corner of the piece of cardboard to study this latest note though it didn’t take long. A simple design—one large red “G,” circled with a slash. He whipped around but didn’t see anyone. Cypress Manor was isolated in its own mini-forest, providing an abundance of hiding places. And the only sound was the wind whistling through the evergreens.

  He examined the note again. The sheriff would agree Drayco’s stalker was more specific this time. What would the murderer carve on Drayco’s chest—another “G”? Maybe “D”? Or a simple “X.”

  Chapter 37

  Drayco drove downtown and parked. He needed to walk, to think. About the case and especially about Darcie. Had he done the right thing? Even if he knew the answer deep down, he was surprised at how close he’d come to throwing aside his scruples. What did that say about his judgment these days?

  Despite the darkness of the cloudy, moonless evening, he could see the architecture on Main Street dated back to the town’s early days. No steel or mirrored glass anywhere. Reece said it wasn’t a spirit of preservation so much as a lack of developers wanting to build in a “blighted area.”

  The sidewalks rolled up at six, but he wasn’t alone on his tour. A Hispanic woman holding the hand of a small child singing the nursery rhyme “Baa Baa Black Sheep” passed him. Mother and daughter hadn’t gone much farther when a car driving alongside slowed to a crawl, and someone yelled out a window, “Go back to El Salvador! You don’t belong here.”

  The woman and child hurried off down an alley, and Drayco watched them until they vanished safely into a building in back. Wasn’t that what Paddy yelled at him, that Drayco didn’t belong here?

  He walked on, hands in pockets, as he nodded absently at the elderly owner of an antiques store, who was closing up shop. Lost in thought on the conflicting pleasures and puzzles of small-town Americana, he headed back to the Starfire, preparing to cross a side street that was dark, thanks to a burned-out street light.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a low flash and heard the unmistakable roar of an accelerating car engine. Just in time, he twisted his body away from the car as it passed within mere inches. Losing his balance, he fell hard onto the asphalt, gritting his teeth at the pain shooting through the same leg the wolf-coyote had bitten.

  The car, its lights off, continued to speed down the street into an empty lot where it paused with the engine gunning. Then it peeled around and hurtled back down the street with the screaming engine at full throttle, straight toward Drayco.

  The antiques store owner rushed over to help, but on the rain-slicked streets, he slipped and fell. Drayco realized with horror that if the car hit Drayco, the old man would be mowed down, too. Drayco rolled onto the curb, managing to grab the older man by the arms and hoist him up, using Drayco’s body to shield his, his back to the car. The car passed so close, the edge of the side mirror brushed against the hem of his coat, almost dragging him along with it. The tires emitted one last high-pitched squeal as the car vanished into the night.

  “Damn fool driver,” the store owner grumbled. “One of the local high school boys. They don’t have enough to keep them busy, so they go hotrodding. Thanks for the help. Thought I was a goner. You okay, young man?”

  Drayco brushed some of the wet grit off his coat. “Still in one piece. You?”

  “As right as rain. Sorry I didn’t get any details from the hotrod. You get a plate?”

  “None, other
than the car was a dark color.” Drayco gave the man a visual check, then shook his hand. “You should get some place warm and dry. The forecast calls for mid-thirties tonight, weather not fit for man nor beast.”

  “I think we had a little of both.” The man waved and headed off into the night.

  Drayco slowly folded his long-legged frame into the car to avoid hitting his various new bruises, and made his way back to the Lazy Crab, keeping an eye out for other “hotrodders.” The brush with death-by-car dredged up more emotional pain than physical, thrusting him back in time in a way his conversation with Reece hadn’t.

  His return to the Lazy Crab was a welcoming beacon drawing him back to its cottage utopia. He must really be tired. Fatigue invariably brought on Beethoven references, this time from the Ode to Joy, Himmlische, dein Heiligtum. Heavenly sanctuary, yes sir.

  Maida greeted him as he came in, her welcoming smile changing to alarm. “What happened to you? Your hair is wet, you’ve got dirt all over you, and there’s a cut near your temple.”

  “I was an inch shy of getting run over by a car.”

  “Did the driver stop?”

  “I think he hoped I’d be the one to stop—or more precisely, drop—dead.”

  Maida nudged him back toward the kitchen. “A hot toddy first. Then details.” She rummaged around in the kitchen and brought him a cup.

  He took a sip of her latest concoction and coughed several times. “What’s in this?”

  “Tea, honey, cloves and several shots of dark rum and cognac. Better than aspirin.”

  “Another family recipe?”

  “My grandmother’s favorite. Although as a child I never understood why.” After she sat him down near the kitchen hearth with his hands cupped around the tea, she joined him in one of the high-backed cane chairs. “I’ll give you a first aid kit for that cut.” She turned his face to one side and examined it closer. “Nothing scar-worthy. Anything bruised or sprained?”

  “Nothing serious, Nurse Maida.”

  Maida gripped his shoulder. “An accident or intentional?”

  “The car had its lights out and waited to accelerate until I stepped onto the street. An older gentleman, who almost got hit himself, said it could be a local teen on a joy ride.”

  “The kids around here do their racing on Old Harbor Road, where there’s a long straight stretch.” Maida chewed on her lip. “I was afraid the note in your room might lead to nastiness.”

  She left long enough to get some more cognac to top off his cup. “Let’s assume for a moment this demon car incident is related to the murders. Who did you talk to today? Was anybody particularly upset?”

  “I don’t think any of my conversations today was inspiration for an automotive rampage.” Drayco paused to drink more of the peculiar grog. An acquired taste.

  “We should call the sheriff.” She dialed the first few numbers when Drayco stopped her.

  “Let’s wait until tomorrow. I doubt there’s much the sheriff could do tonight, anyway. The man’s exhausted and needs his sleep.”

  Maida tsk-tsk’ed a few times, but acquiesced. She looked at him like a bloodhound with a bone being dangled in front of it. “But it must be tied to the investigation. Who are the chief suspects? Maybe we can track down the driver that way.”

  Drayco grinned at the “we.” She took his Deputy Maida comment to heart. “The sheriff has a nice list of suspects in Oakley’s murder. The Squiers, Bakelys, Yaegle, Reece and a few other exotic animals in the suspect zoo.”

  Maida patted him on the shoulder. “Having run a B&B, I know about being a zookeeper. Does the sheriff have a chief animal in mind?”

  Drayco leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Reece mentioned Occam’s Razor.”

  “You mean to think horses, not zebras?”

  “Ordinarily, but in this case, I’ve thrown Appaloosas out the window and started looking at zebras because of Nanette’s letter fragment.”

  He observed the wooden beams in the ceiling and their support structure. Simple linear posts running parallel to one another and not touching. But nature hated straight lines. If the beams were off by the slightest degree from true, they’d eventually intersect. Same with humans. Divergent paths connecting people in ways they didn’t expect.

  He yawned. Maida’s brew was doing the trick again. “To be honest, right now my brain is as foggy as the air outside. A hot shower and sleep are all I need.”

  Maida whirled into action. “Only if you let me send you up with a bite to eat first.”

  Drayco agreed, surprised at how ravenous he was, as he made short work of Maida’s stew. “This is an unusual recipe. One of your creations?”

  “It’s from a Cape Unity cookbook from the forties. I checked it out from the library and copied a few interesting recipes. This is one of our favorites—Polish borscht. Of course, it helps to like beets.”

  She reached for a ring binder and opened it to the page. “The part with the contributor is cut off. At least you can rest assured it’s a local creation.”

  “Knowing you, it’s better than the original.” He caught a glimpse through the window of the rain gauge Major emptied this morning. It was half-full.

  “Maida, do you know of anyone who uses capsules of cayenne pepper for cooking or anything else?”

  “Cayenne is one of my favorites. But you wouldn’t use capsules for cooking. The cooking kind comes powdered in bottles. The capsule kind is used in folk medicine for inflammation and digestive problems. A few years ago, Major took some for his arthritis.”

  “I guess microbes don’t stand a chance against that firepower. Are red carnations used like that?”

  “I don’t think so, though you can make a tea out of dandelions. And red carnations? Folks in the South wear them to church on Mother’s Day as a sign your mother is living. You wear a white carnation if she’s deceased. Morbid, but that’s tradition for you.”

  She picked up some papers from a sideboard near the table that she handed over. “I almost forgot. These were faxed today.”

  Drayco read the cover sheet. “The immigration records I wanted from the National Archives. My good friend in D.C. is efficient.”

  “You got records for Oakley, then?”

  “For several people.” He flipped through the pages, getting the highlights. He stopped on one page, reading the dates more closely. “Huh. January 1955.”

  Maida regarded him with curiosity. “Something helpful?”

  “Possibly. Or a huge coincidence.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  Maida ushered him off to his room for some rest. “You know what the Bible says. God makes the sun rise on the evil and the good and sends rain on the just and the unjust. And tomorrow you can continue your pursuit of the unjust.”

  PART FOUR

  Sometimes I look to heaven, imploring,

  And the howling storm hears my grief.

  The rain is cold, and its roar is loud.

  “Sing,” cries my heart, “for we shall soon be leaving.”

  —From the song “I want what I have not,” poem by Bohdan Zaleski,

  music by Frédéric Chopin

  Chapter 38

  Tuesday 23 March

  Following another night of only a few hours’ sleep, Drayco was relieved to get a call from the sheriff to meet him at the office for a stakeout. Might be dangerous, he’d said. But adrenaline sure beat a keg of caffeine, anytime. After a brief consultation, they headed off in a squad car toward the southern end of town that gave way to a sparsely populated stretch, dotted with an endless quilt of switchgrass and the pervasive pale, sandy soil.

  They parked and headed toward a skeleton-of-a-shack hidden among a thicket of wax myrtles. Drayco kept a wary eye on the dead trees around as a few of the rotted husks swayed and threatened to fall. The sheriff had to hold onto his hat with both hands to keep it from becoming airborne.

  As they got closer, Sailor gave up on the hat and drew his gun, ready to flip open the crumbling doo
r of the one-room shanty with his foot. Drayco headed around to the back door, and they converged on the interior at the same time. Empty, save for an orb-weaver spider in a corner.

  “You sure he’ll show up?” Drayco asked.

  “If he takes the bait. My informant gave me the code they use to set up meetings.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. The crunch of approaching footsteps in the gravel outside alerted them to the man’s approach. A figure in familiar camouflage overalls flung open the door with a confidence denoting his regular visits to the site, as he bellowed, “Paddy, I thought I said—”

  He’d barely set his foot in the room before he spun around and took off, running toward the woods. Drayco was closer and gave chase, dodging pools of mud as thick as wet cement. Clearing first one fallen tree trunk and then another, he was like a track-meet hurdler, just grateful the incident with the car hadn’t reinjured his leg.

  He grabbed a fistful of coveralls then pulled his prey against a tree into a modified carotid restraint. “Earl, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The other man, breathing hard, managed to say, “I figured you were Gus Revell.”

  The sheriff caught up to them. “Paddy’s so-called friend and cohort?”

  “I was supposed to meet one or both as usual. But when I saw a gun, I thought they’d turned on me.”

  Drayco looked over at Sailor, who holstered his weapon. Catching a nod from the sheriff, Drayco released Earl. The trio walked back to the shack in silence and headed inside.

  Earl collapsed into the lone chair which looked to be on its proverbial last legs. “You know why I’m here, then?”

  The sheriff leaned against the wall before a loud creaking changed his mind. “We learned you come here to feed your ice cream habit. We just don’t know which flavor.”

  “None of the hard shit. I’m not sure Paddy has that junk to offer.”

  “Why do you do it, Earl?”

  Earl jumped up to pace. “I hurt my back when I fell off a ladder. I hoped the pain would go away in time, but it didn’t. Kept getting worse. I went to several doctors, but after surgery and painkillers, more nonstop misery.”