Played to Death

My heart is heavy, my eyes full of sorrow,Darkness creeps over me. I can no longer sing of tomorrow, For I am dumb with grief and weeping. —From the song “I want what I have not,” poem by Bohdan Zaleski, music by Frédéric Chopin Chapter 1Monday 15 March It was a helluva welcome to a town. More a raw wound on the landscape than a sign—with large red letters weeping down the front of muddy plywood: Cape Unity, Home of Real Americans! Developers and Other Devils Turn Back Now! Scott Drayco hoped to take in some sights near the waters of the Chesapeake Bay, but this wasn’t what he had in mind. The overlook next to the sign was deserted except for Drayco in his vintage Oldsmobile Starfire, its indigo paint coordinating like bruised skin with the amber sky. He climbed out and looked toward the Bay. The Atlantic Ocean on the opposite side of the Peninsula lay hidden from view by barrier islands, but it wasn’t hard to imagine long-ago European immigrants in fragile ships catching sight of these shores. Perhaps he shared more in common with those exhausted pilgrims than he cared to admit. The cold wind blew stinging sprays of saltwater into his eyes, but it felt good. One way to know he was no longer hemmed in by an urban metropolis. Not to mention that unmistakable shore aroma, Eau de Seaweed with a pinch of fish market. He had to keep pushing wind-swept hair out of his eyes, his fingers pulling away dark strands. His barber said mid-thirties was a bit early to go bald, just lay off the stress and “you’ll be fine.” Maybe next lifetime. Looking at his watch, Drayco heaved a deep sigh and slid back into the driver’s seat. The rumble of the engine’s eight cylinders probably sounded like a sea monster to the native wildlife. He followed the scribbled instructions on the piece of paper on his passenger seat and finally pulled in front of his destination. Snippets of Beethoven’s “Pathétique” sonata flashed through his mind—dark, moody, rueful—as he stared at the Opera House in front of him. He was in unfamiliar territory, in more ways than one. Drayco climbed out of the car to get a better look at the Opera House building, a fading snapshot of better days as it loomed in the flash of morning twilight. He studied the façade, a true stylistic schizophrenic. Patterned shingles and weathered copper rosettes flanked the gables above. The orange brick walls sported contrasting white stone highlights. Dingy windows remained intact, but cracks crept along the front steps, and peeling paint resembled a pox, fallout from the sea air he could almost taste. A gust of the unsettled March winds startled him. He jumped back when a piece of cornice blew off the Opera House roof line, landing at his feet. An omen? Drayco squinted up at what remained of the cornice, hoping it held together. He had two reasons for being here and hadn’t asked for either. One of those reasons, the potential client he’d agreed to meet here, was nowhere in sight. Was this all just a huge joke at Drayco’s expense? If so, the mystery client was a great actor, his voice on the phone agitated, insistent. No, likely just late. Deciding to take a look inside and using the key his attorney gave him, Drayco paced down the hallway over the faded carpet. Once likely a brilliant-red color, it was now more a salmon pink. Two shuttered box office windows stood as mute sentinels questioning who dared disturb their musical mausoleum. As he approached the auditorium, Drayco stopped short, listening. The building hadn’t been used in years, yet it was as if he heard faint strains of piano music and applause. He reached out to open the door, but his feet felt glued to the carpet. He’d moved past all that, hadn’t he? What’s done was done? Standing up straight, he pushed into the pitch-black hall, his flashlight revealing row after row of ghostly seats and the faint silhouette of the piano on the stage. He picked his way down the aisle to the front and fumbled around for a light switch. When his fingers landed on one next to the stage, he flipped it on. The lone bulb cast a dim, amber glow, but it was enough for him to see something there that didn’t belong. With a knot forming in his stomach, Drayco was grateful for his long legs as he hoisted himself over the apron’s footlights, strode to center stage, and stopped. If this was the mystery man he was supposed to meet, the man wasn’t just late for his appointment. The body lying on the stage had a gunshot wound to the head and a pattern carved on the chest where the shirt was cut away. A wilting red carnation was pinned to the lapel of the man’s coat, the blood and carnation forming a grotesque collage. But it was the man’s wide-open eyes that were the most disturbing. Eyes frozen in surprise? Terror? From the dried condition of the blood, he was murdered a few hours ago. Just in case, Drayco listened for sounds the killer was lurking nearby. Not hearing anything, he dialed 9-1-1 on his cellphone, the unfortunate dead man and the piano his only company. As Drayco waited, his breathing formed vapor tempests in the cold and silent space, the swirling breath-clouds echoing back to him. He resisted an overwhelming urge to touch the piano, to play it before the spotless keyboard got covered in black fingerprint powder. Instead, he blew on his hands, trying to warm them up. If only he could reach down and close the dead man’s staring eyes. Drayco knew anyone else would balk at arranging a meeting with a stranger at a dilapidated Opera House at seven in the morning. But in his line of work that passed for normal. So did the unsmiling face of the man in a sheriff’s uniform who strode down the aisle only eight minutes after Drayco’s call. “You’re Drayco,” the sheriff stated, tilting his head up. The quarter-moon paunch and balding pate of this particular sheriff didn’t make the man appear threatening, until one noted the piercing brown eyes and hulking shoulders worthy of an offensive lineman. Drayco nodded down at the officer and looked at his nametag, “Sheriff Sailor.” No deputies, just the head guy himself. The scale of everything was different in a small town. Sailor took one look at the body and uttered, “Jeez,” then joined Drayco in studying the deceased. A pair of pince-nez eyeglasses like those favored by Teddy Roosevelt lay beside the body. The glasses were intact but smeared with blood from the bullet hole in the man’s forehead, the likely cause of death despite the pattern slashed into the flesh. Drayco said, “I doubt the victim carved up his own body before he shot himself. And no gun or knife in sight.” “Or did you hide them?” Sailor wasn’t joking, watching Drayco’s reactions closely. Rather than take offense, tendrils of sympathy wrapped around Drayco’s brain. He’d walked in the other man’s shoes far too many times. He replied, “As I said, murder by a person or persons unknown, not suicide.” The sheriff said, “The victim’s wife, Nanette, would agree with you about suicide. Fifteen minutes before you called, she phoned to say her husband was missing. Didn’t leave a note, suicidal or otherwise.” “Would that be Mrs. Nanette Keys? Assuming our victim over there is Oakley Keys.” “That’s him. You never met him before?” “I’d never heard of him until he called yesterday and said he wanted to hire me.” “So you know of absolutely no reason he’d want to hire a detective right before he’s found murdered—on said detective’s own property?” Drayco sucked in his breath and chose his words carefully. “Keys arranged a meeting early this morning but wouldn’t give details. I’d planned on coming to town soon, anyway.” It was supposed to be so easy. Quick trip over to the Eastern Shore, quick trip out, just long enough to decide what to do with the Opera House. Drayco’s Opera House. He would never get used to the sound of that. It had to be a world record for unusual bequests by grateful clients. When his attorney called to say Horatio Rockingham had left Drayco the place in his Will, he’d looked at the calendar to make sure it wasn’t April 1st. “How did you know I’m the new owner?” “It’s my business to know. Little surprised to see you in person. Kinda expected a realtor to handle everything. The boys and I laid wagers as to how fast a ‘For Sale’ sign would go up.” “Are you that sure I’m going to sell?” “You’d be insane if you didn’t.” Sailor looked over at the body again. “Only half past seven. Yet it looks like Keys has been on the floor for some time. Doesn’t make sense he’d schedule a meeting with you then sneak in hours beforehand.” Sailor examined the blood spatter. “But he wasn’t dragged here from somewhere else. He died here.” Drayco pointed to the victim’s chest. “What’s with the carving? Resembles a letter of the alphabet. ‘G,’ I think. There are even serifs.” “‘G’ for gruesome. Strangest damn thing I’ve seen. Maybe the M.E. in the state’s Norfolk Office will pin down more. Along with an approximate time of death.” The sheriff locked eyes with Drayco again. “Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night and this morning?” “Fellow drivers held prisoner on the Bay Bridge, thanks to a chain-reaction crash. I left the District at eight last night but didn’t arrive here until fifteen minutes ago. Spent the night in my car on the bridge.” “Any corroboration?” “The emergency crews working the crash didn’t take down license info if that’s what you’re asking.” “Where were you before eight last night?” “At home alone, but my nosy neighbor and unofficial biographer can give you a detailed account of everything I did.” For a microsecond, Drayco thought he saw a flicker of amusement on the sheriff’s face. If so, it was gone as quickly as it came. Drayco weighed his options. As the sheriff guessed, he’d secretly hoped for a quick Opera House sale before heading off on his first real vacation in five years. Although if he were honest with himself, it wasn’t so much a vacation as an escape, a chance to banish the nightmares from his last case. Nightmares that left him wondering if it was time to retire from investigative work altogether. Instead, here he was, trapped in the middle of a legal minefield. At home, his answer would be to dig into a Bach fugue, sinking into the composer’s complex counterpoint for inspiration. Investigations were Drayco’s counterpoint, and once a “theme” like Oakley Keys’ murder appeared, Drayco’s analysis gears kicked in, looking for motifs, patterns, layers. He eyed Oakley’s mutilated body. The congealed, dried blood spread out on the stage like a demonic child’s fingerpainting. Why couldn’t the man wait until the time they agreed to meet? And how had he gotten in? “Are you willing to spot a suspect a few questions, Sheriff?” Sailor strolled over to the piano, a position that placed him at equal distances from Drayco and the corpse. “Depends on what you ask.” “For starters, have there been similar mutilations?” “Makes it sound like we’ve got aliens removing cows’ lips.” Sailor flicked a piece of imaginary lint off his hat before depositing the hat on top of the piano. “But the answer is no. Although this is my first murder case.” He quickly added, “In this town.” “So what would make Oakley Keys a target?” “Possibly a land dispute. He was David versus a development company Goliath that wants to build condos. No specific threats.” Drayco read about that in the Washington Post. A brief article about Eastern Shore development, buried on an inside page. No direct mentions of controversy, but some hints about pollution in estuaries. The awkward, eternal dance between progress and entropy, waltzing onto the shores of Cape Unity. “Was Oakley Keys wealthy?” “Not yet.” The sheriff pulled plastic gloves out of his pocket and walked over to the body.