Elegy in Scarlet

by BV Lawson

Drayco eyed the pomegranate tea in his hand. Maybe later, when he could savor it. “Mr. Big swears neither he nor his sister killed Jerold.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “The question is, do I want to?”

  Sarg picked up one of the pill baggies on his car. “These might be ordinary, genuine pills.”

  “Nothing would make me happier.”

  Sarg added the baggies to his growing pocket collection. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Any way to put a stat order on it? Like, maybe, today?”

  “I got some techs at a lab working with OCI who owe me a favor. A big favor. What’s next for you?”

  “I’m going to a funeral at five.”

  “Jerold’s? Were you invited?”

  “No.”

  Sarg grinned. “Sticking your head into the lion’s den. Sounds like fun. If I didn’t have a shitload of paperwork, I’d go with you.”

  “You think it would be gauche if I texted you details during the service?”

  “Better yet, take some photos with a flash. And some selfies. And hold up your phone to video the whole damn thing. You’ll fit right in.”

  Chapter 34

  Edwin Zamorra was right when he said there wouldn’t be enough mourners to fill Westminster Abbey. Drayco estimated the three ranks of pews could seat close to five hundred people, and the place was only half full. He saw a familiar face and slid into the pew next to her in the back.

  Rena Quentin looked up in surprise. She whispered, “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Ditto.”

  “We outcasts should stick together.”

  “I didn’t know Jerold was a Unitarian Universalist.”

  “He comes from a long line of lapsed Baptists, and his wife Ophelia came from a long line of lapsed Catholics. I guess the Unitarians are the only ones who’d have them.”

  Churches were like foreign countries to Drayco. Maura was a devout Presbyterian when she married Brock. When she left him, he’d left her religion—in fact, all religion—behind, and so did his son.

  Drayco took in the church’s architecture and decor, a modern-traditional hybrid of stained glass and Bauhaus looking like a Puritan woman wearing makeup. The piano upfront was a seven-foot grand—maybe someone would play it during the service so he could hear what it sounded like. Thus far, the only music was from a small electronic organ. He shuddered.

  Edwin Zamorra sat in front with two elderly people Drayco assumed were Edwin’s—and Jerold’s—parents. Ashley Zamorra was seated in a different area next to Gogo Cheng. Drayco was fairly certain none of them would be happy to see him here, a suspicion confirmed when Lauralee Fremont walked in. She looked directly at him and Rena, frowned, then proceeded to ignore them, taking a seat behind Gogo and Ashley.

  Drayco caught the eye of another man seated in the back. Iago Pryce, keeping watch on the proceedings and on Drayco.

  No one looked comfortable, despite the unusually soft seat cushions in the pews. Discomfort was what you’d expect from a funeral, ordinarily. Just not the way people were avoiding looking at each other, along with their tense shoulders and awkward whispers. Because it was a murder, perhaps? Or due to the undercurrent of ill will, jealousy, and all the other myriad problems Jerold had with the “mourners”?

  Rena said, “Jerold and I actually had a good relationship until his behavior changed at the end. Professional, but friendly. We had our minor disagreements like his annoying habit of humming in meetings. I got back at him by bringing in my favorite Clibo candy.”

  As Drayco looked at her in confusion, she explained, “I’m addicted to caramel and came across Clibo when I visited Japan. Jerold was one of those ‘Made in America only’ zealots. Even candy. Wouldn’t even touch Belgian chocolate.”

  “I see,” Drayco replied, as he adjusted his legs so his knees didn’t bang into the pew in front of him. “Are many of his former TSA co-workers here?”

  “Several. I’m sorry Barney Schleissman can’t be here. Probably Jerold’s best friend at the TSA, but he developed dementia. I hear he’s in an assisted-living home somewhere.”

  Sarg had also uncovered and passed along that tidbit to Drayco earlier. Of all the people at the TSA, Schleissman would be most likely to know if Jerold were knee-deep in gambling or fraud.

  Since the TSA had heaped multiple commendations on Jerold, it didn’t seem likely his other co-workers knew about Jerold’s secret life. Bless Sarg’s heart, he’d already contacted many of them using his FBI creds, enough to cross them off the list.

  Rena leaned over to be heard above the music. “I loathe funerals. People pretending to care about each other, saying and doing things the deceased would despise. That’s why I have a Living Will. The details of my funeral and graveside service are planned down to the second, including the type of flowers.”

  “Practical,” he said while thinking to himself, a Martha Stewart clone or OCD?

  Drayco took stock of each guest, their various heads floating above an ocean of black and navy, with smatterings of browns and grays. One woman wearing a white pantsuit stood out like a great white shark in the dark sea.

  He wasn’t learning as much as he’d hoped from this gathering of siblings, supporters, and suspects. The remarks were unremarkable, the eulogies unedifying. Drayco’s ear perked up when Edwin walked to the podium.

  With the photo of Jerold on an easel sitting atop the casket, it was easy to compare the two brothers. Jerold, five years younger than his brother, had kept most of his dark hair, while Edwin was balding, grayer. Other superficial bits, eye color, nose, mouth, were the same, but it was the weak jawline they shared that fascinated Drayco.

  He’d once had a long discussion with a forensic artist on how the cut of someone’s jaw told more about their personality than almost anything else, second only to the eyes. As the artist had noted, weak of jaw, weak of character.

  Edwin got to an anecdote about the brothers as boys when the woman in the white-shark pantsuit stood up and keeled over. Her companions rushed to her aid as one woman who was fanning the victim said so loudly people in the back could hear, “I told her she shouldn’t come to a murderer’s funeral.”

  Edwin paused, uncertainty written all over his face, and the congregation alternated between hushed exchanges and silence. It was Ashley who rose to her feet and helped the woman, now recovering from her faint, out of the sanctuary and through a doorway down front.

  Rena whispered to Drayco, “See what I mean?” She started fanning herself, something Drayco understood thanks to the heat turned up higher than the moderate weather warranted.

  But when he turned toward her, her face was pale. Thinking he might have another fainter on his hands, he leaned over and whispered, “Need some air?”

  When she nodded, he grabbed her elbow and guided her out of the not-quite-sanctuary into the moonlit sky and cooler temps outside. She drank in some of the fresh air, then fished around in her purse for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “I haven’t been to a funeral in a long time. There was my grandmother’s, but she was old, and it was expected. A blessing, really. Before that, it was my mother’s. Worst day of my life.”

  The mother she’d said was murdered, just like Ashley’s mother, Ophelia. Had Rena noticed the parallels? Had she tried to reach out to Ashley but was rebuffed as her father’s former co-worker? On the other hand, Ashley might have cheered Rena on for filing the claim against him, effectively forcing him into early retirement.

  Rena tucked the soggy tissue in her coat pocket. “I doubt I’ll go to my father’s funeral, whenever that day arrives. He can rot in jail, for all I care.”

  That thought seemed to cheer her up, and she smiled at him. “Why did you come today? To study the wild animals in their native habitat?”

  “Something like that,” he said as he walked her to her car.

  “Still tilting at windmills? Trying to prove your mother’s innocence?”

  “Or end up proving her guilt. Th
at’s beginning to appear equally likely.”

  Then she surprised him further by reaching up to kiss him on the cheek. “My hero.”

  “Glad someone thinks so.” As he watched her drive away, he caught a glimpse of Iago Pryce framed in the doorway of the church, staring at Drayco. Since they were becoming such bosom buddies now, Drayco gave Iago a big bow as he left Jerold’s piranha party behind.

  § § §

  Iago stood back to admire the gleaming white surface of the Gulfstream III, then walked around it for a better look. A nice jet, all in all. Pretty good range, too. Forty-two hundred nautical miles and a service ceiling of forty-five thousand feet.

  Fortunately, the drive from the funeral had only taken an hour in post-rush traffic. When he tried to drive west on I-66 most other times, it was a parking lot. Too bad he didn’t have a flying car to soar above it all.

  A man dressed in a pilot’s uniform walked up to him. “If you’re looking for a charter flight, we don’t do those. Privately owned.” He didn’t say by whom, but in these parts, you didn’t ask. Government, military, business, they all used something like this baby to avoid the pitfalls of commercial travel. And the Manassas hangers were full of them.

  Iago replied, “No charters. Just here to check up on that,” he nodded over at the Gulfstream 650 on the other end of the hangar. “My plane.”

  The pilot whistled. “She’s a beauty, all right. Been trying to find a gig flying one of those. Don’t suppose you’re hiring?”

  “Not right now. You got a card?” The man handed one over, and Iago thrust it into his pocket. Didn’t hurt to keep it, but Alistair was pretty picky about his pilots. With a nod at the other man, Iago headed to the 650 and entered the cabin.

  The G3 was nice, all right, but the 650 was better. Not just its range of seven thousand nautical miles that meant it could get to most global cities on a single tank of gas. It had an interior nicer than some hotels—bedroom, convection oven, shower, handcrafted leather recliners, wireless internet, satellite phones. But then, sixty-five million should buy you something nice.

  Iago only had to duck an inch or two to walk through the cabin, another plus. He’d only partly lied to the pilot since it was Alistair’s jet, not Iago’s. It was part of Iago’s duties to keep an eye on it, keep it stocked and ready to go on a moment’s notice. He checked the food staples, toiletries, first aid supplies, and of course, the bar.

  Finally, he flipped open a drawer in the stateroom next to the bed, lifted out the socks and boxers, and eased his hands along the base of the drawer until he fingers found the little switch. After pulling out the false bottom, he pulled out a stack of passports and IDs.

  He flipped open one of them, with his photo and the name Jonathan Adams. Quite an impressive list of ports of call ole Jonathan had been to. After making sure “everyone” was accounted for, he replaced the passports and drawer.

  When he spied the little red telephone call box toy they’d picked up on their last trip to the UK, he chuckled and laid it next to the small stuffed camel from Dubai. They could keep each other company while he was gone. With one last look around the cockpit to make sure everything seemed copacetic, he headed toward the exit.

  After all, he couldn’t afford to stay away from tailing Scott Drayco too long. He smiled at that. The kid was good at what he did—if you could call a thirty-six-year old man a kid. But then, what would you expect from Maura’s son?

  Chapter 35

  Saturday, February 23

  There was nothing quite like flying over the Chesapeake Bay as the sun rose, its crimson and orange light reflecting off the water like stained glass. Drayco managed to rent a Cessna at the last minute—thankfully, demand for planes at his usual FBO weren’t as high in the winter. The plane handled a lot better in the cooler temps though. It certainly climbed faster. And the lack of thermals meant the air was almost as smooth as the bay below.

  He didn’t need to travel this particular weekend to see how the renovations on his opera house were progressing. He bit back a groan, knowing he’d never get used to being the owner of such a place. Still, he’d made the decision not to sell it after it was bequeathed to him, so renovate it he must.

  He wasn’t fooling anybody with his excuse about the reason for his trip, let alone himself. He needed to talk to someone, and it wasn’t the woman whose house he was standing in front of right now. He probably shouldn’t be here, but word would get out he’d been on the shore. With a sigh, he knocked on the door and juggled the vase of fresh-from-the-florist red roses, purple lavender and something called Stargazer lilies.

  Darcie wore a lot more than a bow this time, dressed in her more customary designer duds from Calvin-Donatella-Armani-Prada. She and Lauralee would probably get along beautifully. Darcie broke into a seductive smile when she saw him, grabbed the flowers and put them on a table next to the door.

  Then she grabbed his coat and yanked him into the house. “Just can’t stay away from me, can you?”

  Well, yes, he could. Or should. Or what the hell, he wasn’t sure. “It’s only the weekend. One night.”

  “Then we’ll have to make that one night count.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, I’m staying at the Lazy Crab, actually. Haven’t seen the Jepsons in a while.”

  Her smile morphed into a pout. “They can’t give you what I have to offer.”

  “Not exactly, no. But I’m overdue, and I owe them a lot.”

  “Well, then. She unbuttoned his coat and pushed it off his shoulders. “We’ll have to make what time we do have count.” She clutched his hand in hers and pulled him upstairs after her toward the bedroom.

  “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

  “Takes one to know one.” She unwrapped him almost as fast as she had that bow, and after a few hours of not-so-unpleasant-time together, he got dressed and made his excuses and his escape.

  First, he made a brief stop by the opera house and peeked into the auditorium. The old chairs were gone, at least temporarily, dispatched to a restoration warehouse. The ripped-up carpet was nowhere in sight, and the curtains from the stage had vanished. He kept tabs on all the work being done via the contractor, but it was still a bit of a shock to see the old girl looking denuded and stark.

  He couldn’t play the Steinway this time because he’d forgotten it was in its temporary new home being refitted. That is if he could even bring himself to play. He’d hoped the different setting might make it easier for him to try to ease into playing again, but even that opportunity was thwarted.

  After turning the lights off, he finally made his way to the Lazy Crab, where the always-bubbly Maida Jepson welcomed him in a much more matronly way. “Scott, we were thrilled to hear you were coming. Wish it were longer, but we’ll take what we can get.”

  “Still hoping to make it over for a week or two soon. But work, life, the usual.”

  She studied his face. “You sounded a bit off on the phone. And now that I see you in person, you look a bit off, too.” She nodded at the kitchen. “You know what’s waiting for you, don’t you?”

  “The Major?”

  “Well, him, yes. I was thinking more along the lines of something hot and eighty proof, give or take.”

  He wasn’t about to turn down a should-be-world-famous Maida hot toddy, but as he sat in the kitchen sipping on her latest creation, it didn’t feel as satisfying as usual. She must have noticed he was only taking the occasional sip. “Either I’m losing my touch or you really are in a funk. Do I have to sic my better half on you?”

  A man’s grumbled voice preceded its owner down the hall. “What’s all the racket, Maida? Not time for lunch, is it?”

  Major Jepson’s ponytail and braided beard seemed whiter than the last time, but his eyes were as piercing as ever. He ambled into the kitchen. “Scott, my boy. Forgot you were coming today. You don’t look well, son. Got a touch of the flu?”

  Drayco relaxed into the chair. He’d only known the Jepsons for
a little under a year, and yet they seemed like his idea of what good parents were like. Or would be, if they had children. Maybe being an unofficial “adopted” pseudo-son wasn’t such a bad thing.

  As he sat there, sipping the toddy, with the two pairs of concerned eyes turned on him, he realized why he’d really come. Brock and Maura felt very far away, in more ways than one.

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing, Major. Your voice sounds different. Have you got a cold?”

  “Never felt better. Must be early season pollen clouding your ears.”

  Drayco frowned. He could have sworn the man had a cold. The usual electric-blue wool cotton threads in his tones had morphed into gray steel wool. Major was probably right—just an artifact of the early pollen season.

  After Drayco filled them in on the basics of his mother’s reappearance and murder case, Maida dropped into the chair beside him with a shake of her head. “I’d have thought Nelia Tyler might have mentioned this. It’s been, what, ten days now since it all came to pass?”

  Ten days. She was right. Felt a lot longer. Felt eons longer. “Deputy Tyler and Sheriff Sailor had to work a shooting that happened late last night.” He’d called Nelia before he arrived, not sure if he should or not. Calling her at the Sheriff’s Office seemed safer, although he was disappointed she couldn’t join them at the Lazy Crab for dinner.

  Maida clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, Scott. Truly sorry this bombshell landed on you from out of the blue. You don’t deserve it. Any of it. Now I can understand why you never mentioned your mother before. I admit I was curious—”

  “You were downright nosy,” Major piped up. “About ready to do a little private eye-ing on your own.”

  “Now, Major.” She frowned at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  Her husband snorted, then got up to grab a plate of something bready with nuts and chocolate and placed it on the table. “What would make a mother do that to her own children, I wonder? And you say even now she won’t discuss why she left, where she’s been, or why she’s back.”