Played to Death

PART ONE-2

Drayco stepped back to allow him to pass. “Not robbery, then.”

“His wife said nothing was missing from the house. Except a mask of some kind.” Sailor picked up a wallet filled with money and a credit card. “And there’s this.”

Two deputies burst through the front of the hall and marched down the same aisle the sheriff had taken. With a tilt of the head from Sailor, they went straight to work. It got brighter, and Drayco scanned the stage. Where had he missed a light switch? One of the deputies wore a camera draped around his neck, had a sketchpad in hand, and an evidence kit and some brown-paper collection bags lay at his feet. Everyone must do triple duty in this department.

The triple-duty deputy knocked over an aluminum case, and Drayco winced at the jagged magenta spikes the sound set off in his head. He realized he must have identified them out loud when Sailor tilted his head and asked, “Jagged magenta spikes?”

Drayco started to wave off the question, but he didn’t want the sheriff to think he was losing his mind. Or a psychopath. He could see the newspaper headline now: Deranged Detective Swaps Sleuthing for Slicing.

He replied, “Chromesthesia. It’s a type of synesthesia where people hear sounds as colors, shapes, and textures.”

Sailor tilted his head. “Is that so?”

Drayco glanced at the deputy with the aluminum case, the man oblivious to the symphony of fireworks he’d set in motion. Sometimes Drayco envied people who only experienced the world in flat, 2D sound. “My attorney mentioned a caretaker. Is he here?”

The sheriff called out, “Tyler, find Seth Bakely for me. Closest house in back.”

The second deputy, a young woman, disappeared out the back stage door for a few minutes and returned with a man in denim coveralls, who lumbered onto the stage. With sepia hair, snowy eyebrows, and furrows of wrinkles, his age was hard to guess: anywhere from sixty to eighty.

Bakely stared at Drayco, who was between Seth and the body. “Who’s he?” he growled in a liquid sandpaper voice.

“This is Scott Drayco, Seth. The new owner.”

Seth Bakely didn’t shake Drayco’s outstretched hand. “Heard about you. Thought you’d be older.” He coughed. “Guess Mr. Rockingham’s heirs are glad he dumped this thing. Don’t think I saw the man twice. Don’t know why he paid me to stay.” Seth’s forehead crinkled into tighter rows. “Suppose you’ll be wanting to hire other people to take over.”

“Did you know that man over there?” Drayco moved aside so Seth could see the body.

Bakely blinked his eyes several times and stared at the corpse, then turned away to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. “In this town, you know everybody a bit. What happened? He dead?”

“Very.”

“You kill him?”

Funny that Seth voiced the question Drayco expected the sheriff to ask outright. “Do you have any idea how he got in, Seth?”

“Hain’t seen him in here. Don’t get visitors. Just mice and spiders. Must have come in the stage door. Lock’s temperamental. Don’t always work.” Seth kept shifting his feet in place. “Told you Rockingham never spent a dime on this place.”

“Any signs of someone else who didn’t belong? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Just you. And him.” Seth wiped his sweating face, which was a shade or two paler than when he arrived.

Sheriff Sailor, leaning on the piano and mostly silent, grabbed that moment to chime in. “What time did you leave the Opera House last night, Seth?”

“’Bout six. Went home and watched TV. With Paddy. Don’t start my morning rounds ’til nine.”

“And did you hear anything? A gunshot?”

“Ears don’t work like they used to. Was watching an old war movie. And there was some rain, pretty heavy. Almost sounded like hail.”

Sailor said, “All right. That’s it for now, Seth. And don’t clean in here until we give the okay.”

Bakely swayed on his feet, then righted himself and jerked his thumb at Drayco, “My house is on the street behind. If you need anything, holler.” He shambled down the hall and out of sight.

Drayco said, “Garrulous type, isn’t he?”

“Man of a thousand words. Just not in the same lifetime. Keeping his son Paddy out of jail doesn’t help his attitude.”

Surprisingly, the sheriff didn’t stop Drayco as he bent down to study Oakley’s skin, being careful not to touch the body. “Grayish, signs of advanced rigor in the upper body. With the cold temps in here, it’s harder to tell, but likely dead eight to twelve hours, give or take. Which means he arrived, and was killed, before midnight.”

He examined the wound on the forehead. “Irregular hole, some powder tattooing and lesions but no searing. An intermediate-range shot.”

Drayco did a quick three-sixty view. Lots of clear sight lines, with the wings of the stage and curtains perfect for a stealthy approach. “From the blood patterns, there may be an exit wound. Wonder if the bullet went through?”

The triple-duty deputy called out from the side. “It lodged in a post over here. Only one I’ve found.”

At least that was one tiny piece of good news. Drayco said, “No damage to the lands and grooves on that bullet, if we’re lucky. And it’ll be easier to remove a piece of post than a whole wall.” He got as close to the red carnation as possible without handling it. “I don’t see any blood on the pin, which means our carver didn’t handle it with his bloody hands or gloves. Keys wore it here.”

Sailor folded his arms across his chest. “You act more like a CI than a PI. Was the newspaper wrong? Not that it’d be the first time.”

Drayco was surprised. “Newspaper?”

“We do have those around here. And an out-of-town detective becoming the new owner of a historic building is big.”

“Not a CI. Not exactly a PI. Call me a crime consultant. Or crime guru, like someone did once. I think it was an insult.” Drayco pointed to the victim’s jacket. “Strange for him to be wearing lightweight seersucker. It was only a degree or two above freezing last night.”

The sheriff shrugged. “Oakley had money problems and wasn’t the GQ type.”

“The wife didn’t report him missing until this morning?”

“He was an odd bird. Been on the straight and narrow for a while, but had a history of drinking. And a few other indiscretions. This was old hat to Nanette, who, by the way, is a fine lady. Does a lot for this community.” He paused. “It’s unfortunate she doesn’t have an alibi.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me she was alone all last night.”

Drayco chewed on that for a minute “Were Oakley’s ‘indiscretions’ arrest-worthy?”

“Last I heard, extramarital affairs aren’t illegal.”

An affair would increase the odds this was nothing more than a simple domestic dispute case. Drayco should be relieved by that. But he’d learned never to trust a coincidence—like having a would-be client murdered before he can talk to you.

The sheriff’s voice cut through Drayco’s reverie. “Crime guru or no, my deputies and I have work to do. I’ve spotted you a half-dozen questions. More than I ordinarily would.” His tone of dismissal came through loud and clear. “I suppose you’ll be staying in town a while?”

Drayco saw where this was headed and envisioned his last chance of a quick exit flying out the window. He thought briefly of the nonrefundable plane ticket to Cancun back at his townhouse. “The Opera House has me chained here, anyway. What’s a few more days?”

“Plenty of time for the grand tour of Cape Unity. Come to think of it, that might only take a half-day.” Sailor’s expressions ranged the gamut from A to Blank. The man must be a good poker player, if he were the gambling type. Right now, Drayco hoped he was.

Sailor added, “What the hell, if this thing has us stumped, maybe we’ll hire you. We’re down a deputy to the mumps. Keep you in town longer. Especially if you get the mumps.”

“For you, Sheriff, I’ll waive expenses.” Drayco worked with law enforcement officials of all stripes, and it was always a crap shoot. At its worst, it degenerated into a competition. Egos, one; justice, zero. “Does this mean I have your blessing to leave now?”

“As long as you don’t touch anything on your way out. But as a big-city professional crime consultant, that should be SOP for you, right?”

With one last look at the remains of Oakley Keys, Drayco left the building and sat in his car with the engine off, staring at a jagged line of cracked bricks on the Opera House façade. One decaying and unwanted Opera House, one murdered potential client, one wary sheriff, and he’d been in town less than an hour.

Opening up his car window to let in a blast of cold, salty air, Drayco watched the scud clouds swallow up the last traces of the sunrise. He fingered the remains of his breakfast, a PayDay candy bar wrapper. What did their old jingle say? “The nuttiest bar in town.” Why stop at just one town? Why not the whole damn universe?

When the universe handed out karmas, Oakley Keys was standing in the wrong line. It was all so easy for people who explained every evil in the world as “God’s will,” or predestination or whatever credo they subscribed to, comfortable in the belief there is a purpose for everything. Even murder.

He watched the ambulance pull up to the rear door of the Opera House, ready to ferry the newly deceased off to its autopsy. Too early to tell until results came back, but Keys was likely killed a few hours before Drayco arrived. A brutal ending for one in this town, and an uneasy beginning for another.

He replayed the mental image of the body formerly known as Oakley Keys, waiting for his date with the medical examiner. Why did Keys want to hire Drayco? Why did he break into the Opera House, only to be shot and carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey? And why the devil was Keys wearing a red carnation?

Chapter 2Armed with tongue-scalding Ethiopian Sidamo brew from a place called the Novel Café, Drayco navigated Cape Unity’s appropriately named Main Street. There wasn’t a building younger than mid-twentieth century. Some were in good shape, but others were crumbling shells with roofs partially caved in. They were forgotten monuments with holes in the front like staring eyes. Eyes pleading for help. He tried not to think of Oakley Keys’ eyes, frozen wide open in rigor.

Drayco continued past a virtual roll call of small-town Americana—courthouse, library, post office, and church. Dogwood trees stripped bare surrounded the town square, with tufts of dormant fescue grass in the middle. The few planters were meant to showcase flowers but held only brown Mid-Atlantic dirt, like miniature graves.

He parked in front of his target, the courthouse. If he was stuck in town for a few days, he might as well make good use of the time. Look up records, make copies of documents, whatever would help in selling the Opera House. This part of his trip, at least, should be trouble-free.

The courthouse for Prince of Wales County shared some of the same construction as the Opera House, but grimmer and more institutional. Why did architects seem determined to make government buildings uncontroversial bland boxes? A misguided attempt to prove government wasn’t frivolous? The interior matched in tone—standard beige concrete walls, beige stone trim throughout, and a wooden reception window, also painted beige.

It would be a relief to get this chore over with.

A receptionist with a turquoise hummingbird tattoo on her neck reached for a form and asked his name. He’d barely replied “Scott Drayco,” when out of the corner of his eye, he spied a figure lunging in his direction.