Death of a Toy Soldier (11 page)

“Oh, Liz,” she said. “I was just thinking about you. I’m assuming game night is canceled tonight. Too bad, because I was looking forward to a nice Pandemic.” She was, of course, referring to the strategy game and not a global disease outbreak.

I walked with her to the exit. “Sorry, I should have called the regulars. I’ve learned we’ll have our shop back tomorrow, so after that, the normal schedule resumes.”

“If you’d like, I’ll call everyone and let them know.”

“That’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” I said. Lori’s tendency to gossip might end up costing us more than her kind offer would help.

“I guess they’re releasing the name of that poor man who died in your shop,” she said. Was that a dig, or was she probing for information? But since I wanted information from her . . .

“You know, I could go for a cup of coffee. Would you care to join me?”

“Coffee shop or cupcake place?” Her emphasis was definitely on the second. After mild protests on both sides (which we quickly overcame, especially when Lori discovered she had a coupon), we were sitting in the little cupcakery. She was working on a blueberry lemon concoction, while I gave in and finally tried the maple pancake and bacon cupcake. One bite and I wondered why I’d waited so long. Of course, when it came to flavors, this was now tied with seven others as my favorite.

“So you were coming from the police department.” Lori rubbed a fork along her empty wrapper to nab the last bit of frosting. “Anything new in the investigation?”

“Just that they’ve identified the victim, as you said. Sullivan O’Grady.” I looked up to catch her reaction. “Hey, didn’t he work for your family?”

“Briefly,” she said, as if to separate herself from him as much as possible.

“I’ve heard his patients were generally pleased with his assistance,” I said. “I gather he was well-liked and trusted.”

She pushed her plate aside and leaned in closer across the little table. “Actual results do vary. He was dedicated, I’ll give him that much.”

“But you weren’t pleased.”

“My father-in-law wasn’t pleased. See, he always had a raucous sense of humor. A tad inappropriate at times.”

“Sullivan O’Grady?”

“Oh, no! Dad. He liked the occasional bawdy joke. He was never one you invited to the better parties. Not that it
bothered him. He’d rather sit in the basement, drink his beer, and smoke that foul pipe of his. Sullivan O’Grady didn’t quite fit into Dad’s world. And Dad wasn’t ready to listen to any preaching about the world to come, either.”

Something fell into place, like the right piece of the jigsaw puzzle when you’ve been trying to force the wrong one in for twenty minutes. “Sullivan O’Grady liked to talk to his patients about the hereafter.”

“Like he had discount tickets,” Lori said. “I don’t think Dad ever talked about Jesus since he was confirmed—unless you count swearing. One afternoon of them alone together and Dad was ready to spit nails. The service replaced him with a nice older woman who was either partly deaf or pretended to be, because she wasn’t offended at all by Dad’s escapades.”

“So O’Grady was a devout family man,” I said. “Not the type who usually end up murdered.”

Lori shrugged. “I don’t know. They killed Jesus.”

I drained the rest of my coffee. Lori’s last statement may have been an attempt at humor, but it made me focus on the idea that Sullivan O’Grady wasn’t killed because he was doing something bad, but perhaps because somebody didn’t like how he did good.

###

My secret errands done, I headed out to the wildlife center to relieve Parker. Besides, I wanted to tell Dad the good news that we were getting our shop back. When I reached the end of the narrow drive, Miles’s little Toyota was sitting in the parking lot.

I opened the gate as quietly as I could and just made out voices near the back cages. The wildlife center wasn’t open to the public, at least not all the time. They were mainly in the business of caring for and rehabilitating injured wildlife, especially the area’s plentiful hawk population. Usually animals stayed only until they’d healed and were then successfully released to the wild. Others survived their injuries but had lost the ability to defend themselves against predators and other dangers of the wilderness. These became permanent residents of the facility, along with a menagerie confiscated from illegal home zoos or surrendered by well-meaning animal lovers who could no longer care for them. These couldn’t be sold or returned to the wild, so they lived out their days at the center, where visiting school and community groups could learn about them.

I crept toward the voices. Dad and Miles were in the middle of a quiet conversation, while Parker was working inside an empty cage. I ducked back behind a fence.

“So what about . . . ?” my dad asked.

Miles hushed him. “Just a minute. I want to see the hawk. That’s the one I brought in.” He raised his voice. “How’s he doing?”

“The last X-rays on the wing looked pretty good,” Parker said, “but he doesn’t seem all that interested in flying.” As if to argue the point, the hawk took off and fluttered a few feet, then started walking. “We’ll keep working with him.”

“Do you think he can ever go back to the res?” Miles asked.

“Not until we know he can fly,” Parker said. “Too dangerous for him otherwise.”

The hawk gave a few half-hearted hops across the pen.

Miles shook his head. “He’s not going to get away from a bear that way.”

“And he’d have difficulty hunting,” Parker explained. “Or mating.”

“Aw, man,” Miles said. “You never said my boy lost . . . anything crucial.”

Parker laughed. “His
crucial
parts are all there, as far as we can tell. I just meant that the female will choose the strongest, healthiest male.” He tipped his head to where the hawk was still making his way across the floor. “I’m afraid Hopalong Cassidy here would be the wallflower at all the best bird dances.”

While Parker gathered the hawk and went to take him wherever rehabilitating hawks spend the night, Dad elbowed Miles. “So what did you find out?”

“They were just being stupid,” Miles said.

“That I knew,” Dad said.

“Hey, I don’t hang with those guys anymore, so they’re not going to spill to me.”

“Since when?”

“Since someone set me on the straight and narrow. As soon as they knew I was cooperating with you and then working for you and going to college, they dropped me like the proverbial sweltering spud.”

“Sweltering spud?” Dad repeated.

“Hey, I’m a college boy now. Gotta exercise that vocabulary. From what I gather, they were probably back to their old tricks. They must have read the obituary in the paper and decided to hit the house. They were too dumb to realize that the new chief apparently had heard of that trick, too.”

“Keep digging, if you can,” Dad said.

“I don’t think they know anything about the murder.”

“Maybe they saw something at the house. You never know.”

Miles saluted. “Sure, boss. I’ll continue my association with known felons if it will help
you
out,” he said with exaggerated sweetness. “After all, if not for you, I’d probably be getting my first jail tat.”

Dad laughed. “Okay. Anything on the toy?”

“I keep getting shuffled from collector to collector. A few have offered to buy it, should it ever cross our hands again, but nobody seems to know exactly what it is or what it’s worth. Last guy gave me the name of a specialty collector, but he’s off on his honeymoon in Hawaii and apparently didn’t leave his number with anyone, the slacker. I left my number with the nice lady taking care of his shih tzu, and she promised to give him my messages.”

“Keep on it.”

So apparently I wasn’t the only one carrying out secret interviews. I backed up a few steps and approached them again, allowing my footsteps to crunch on the rocks. “Dad, are you back here?” When I rounded the corner, I said, “Oh, hi, Miles. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Hey, Lizzie,” Dad said. “Did you catch up on your sleep?”

“It wasn’t happening,” I said, “so I decided to drive out and see what you were up to.”

Miles seemed a little antsy, like he was ready to bolt. “I came to check on a hawk. It’s from the reservation, and we have to look out for our own.” He checked his phone. “But I should get to class.” He started walking away. “Nice talking to you!”

“See you, Miles,” I called after him, then squinted at my father. “He couldn’t get out of here fast enough. He didn’t come out here to check on a hawk, did he?”

Dad narrowed his eyes. “This is what I get for teaching you half my tricks. You’re becoming too perceptive.”

“Only half your tricks?”

“Hey, an old man’s gotta protect himself.”

I raised an eyebrow and continued to stare.

“Fine,” he said. “I asked Miles to come out here. The young men who broke into Sy’s house—or rather tried to? Miles used to hang with that gang.”

“Oh, boy,” I said. “So that’s another connection that involves the toyshop. Do you think it’s a coincidence that they picked that particular funeral from the obituary notices?”

“You were eavesdropping on me.”

“Well,
you
were holding out on me.” I poked my finger to his chest. “I thought I was your partner in this little investigation.”

“You are, but Miles . . . I don’t want too many people around the shop to know of his past. He’s a good kid.”

“So you hid your meeting with him from me. See, that’s important. You also didn’t tell me about the appointment you had with Sullivan O’Grady.”

“That had nothing to do with Miles. There is no way he can be on the suspect list.”

I stuck my hands into my coat pockets, then looked up at Dad. “How can you know that for sure? You’ve forgotten what that meeting was about. Can you be certain it wasn’t about Miles? One hundred percent?”

Dad swallowed, his Adam’s apple taking its good old time to bob in his throat. Then he sank down on a nearby bench and shook his head.

When he finally raised his eyes, they were watery. “I think I’d rather it be me.”

I couldn’t quite make out the smell emanating from Cathy’s oven, but when she went to the cupboard to pull out plates, she only grabbed two.

“This is for the boys,” she said. “You and I are going out. See, I’ve been thinking.”

“Sounds scary already,” I said.

She hit me with a potholder, which I probably deserved. “I’ve been thinking about the murder and about everything you told us went on at that wake. I’ve decided the murder must have something to do with that Wallace family.”

“And this merits a girls’ night out?”

She wagged her finger at me. “Jack Wallace is the key.”

“The key to . . . ?”

“To you getting closer to the family so you can figure out what is going on.”

“So you and I are going to Jack’s place to hang out and eat pizza and hope that something he says implicates his cousin George or his aunt Edna.” It sounded ludicrous but more
promising than whatever mystery was baking in the oven at three fifty. “Fine, I’m in.”

###

Just after our pizza arrived, Jack made his first appearance.

“Sharon told me I had friends in the dining room . . .” he started to say. Then he apparently noticed the getup and extra makeup that Cathy had insisted I wear, because his voice cracked and his jaw dropped.

“Hi, Jack.” I gave him a little wave.

“We were just having a girls’ night,” Cathy said, fooling no one. At least I think that’s what she said, because Jack was gazing into my eyes, and I was staring into his, and she could have been reciting the Gettysburg Address backward and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Finally, he broke eye contact. “I . . . probably shouldn’t keep you from your dinner.”

“Join us if you can,” Cathy said.

“Well, I am due for a break.” Jack pulled up another chair and helped himself to a slice of pizza. “The pizza’s on me tonight, especially if I’m going to help you eat it.”

“Why do you think we invited you?” Cathy quipped, then winked at me.

I took one bite of pizza and melted.

“That’s the reaction I like to see,” he said. He went on to illuminate us on aging the yeast dough to produce bubbles, then cooking it at the right temperature to achieve a “char” without burning anything. The right kind of tomatoes imported from Italy. Fresh mozzarella. Virgin olive oil. And
the basil was grown in the basement under special lights he bought at a police auction.

Delivered by someone else, it might have been a boring lecture. From Jack, who spoke with such magnetism, the food became even more alluring. Even sexy. Like the audition tape he’d sent into one of the food networks last year, where he’d cooked another Buffalo favorite: beef on weck. The video, which they showed one night at the public library, was surreptitiously renamed
Fifty Shades of Gravy
.

After we’d talked food for almost twenty minutes, Cathy kicked me in the shin, not that it helped. I had no idea how to change the topic of conversation to his family.

“Hey, do you know what would be fun?” she said to Jack. “You should give Liz a cooking lesson. You’re both so enthusiastic. You’d have all kinds of fun.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed momentarily, then he quirked his head, as if studying me. “I’d be game.”

“Uh, yeah. I’m sure we could do that. Sometime.”

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” he said. “Unless you’re busy.”

“That’s perfect!” Cathy said.

“Good,” Jack said. “Speaking of cooking, I should get back to the kitchen. Six o’clock? You remember where the house is, right?”

“The house?” Here I discovered the fatal flaw in Cathy’s plan, even before Jack’s next words left his lips.

“I’ll let my mother know you’re coming.”

As Jack made his way back to the kitchen, Cathy smiled smugly. “See, just like I planned. Tomorrow you’ll spend more time with Jack and his family. It couldn’t have worked out more perfectly.”

I glared at her. “You’ve never had dinner with Jack’s mother. The only thing she hates more than me is the idea of Jack and me together.”

###

The next morning, Dad was chipper and raring to go. I don’t know what he was more excited about, getting the shop back or that I said I’d make breakfast for him when we got home.

Despite my apparent desperate need for cooking lessons from Jack Wallace, I was a fair hand in the kitchen. Nothing fancy, but I conquered the basics and could read a recipe. I could make eggs that were neither rubbery nor slimy nor brown, a skill that had eluded Cathy. Nor did I go on health food benders, suddenly making everything with black beans, beet greens, or tofu. Don’t even get me started on the Thanksgiving fiasco of 2015: kale done nine ways.

We avoided the front of the shop at first by parking in the back alley. The alarm was off. Apparently having a long string of cops and forensic people traipsing through the building at all hours was deemed protection enough.

The upstairs apartment felt weird. While Dad and I put away the groceries that Cathy had sent home with us, Othello inched out of his carrier to sniff the air. This was our home, the place where I could walk around in my pajamas with my hair messed up, put my bare feet on the coffee table, and drink too much coffee. A place where I’d been free to be myself. Only it didn’t feel free. It felt scary and tense, like all that hominess had been sucked out of the building.

Othello went to check out any changes. He circumnavigated the entire apartment, sniffing, then swiped his cheek
against corners and odd surfaces he found important. I wished reclaiming my life could be as easy.

In truth, the murder in our shop, followed by Dad’s subsequent amnesia, cast strong doubt on whether our lives would ever be the same.

As I busied myself scrambling eggs, the worries kept scrambling my brain. Was Dad’s memory loss a harbinger of more problems to come? How long would he be able to keep working? Would we need to find alternate living arrangements for him? I couldn’t even think the words.
Nursing home
. There, I thought it. But tears threatened to tumble out, and my throat felt as if I was trying to swallow a llama.

Still, I forced a smile as I set two plates of sunny yellow eggs on the table for Dad and me. We had this moment. We were together right now, and I was going to enjoy every bit of it.

“Keep your
sunny side up
, Lizzie,” Dad said, as he dug into his eggs. “Things will work out yet. Come out of your
shell
and be
eggs
-cited about the possibilities.”

“I guess the
yolk’s
on me,” I said.

“
Omelet
you get away with that one.” He picked up the newspaper.

“What is it with you and the papers lately? You were practically buried in a stack of them at Parker’s house.”

He folded the paper and set it back on the table. “I’m going to wager that you won’t buy that I was catching up on the funny pages.”

“At another time, maybe.”

“Too bad, because I did catch up on the funnies. I also reread the news stories about the murder. The newspapers are
woefully behind what we know from our little investigation. But . . .”

“But?”

“A bit of an anomaly kept cropping up when I thought about the wake. It’s why I wanted to talk to Miles about the attempted break-in and why I’m not ready to let that go as coincidence.”

“Why’s that?”

“See, when you get to be my age, sometimes you find yourself reading the obituaries. I hadn’t recalled seeing Sy DuPont’s. So I went back and checked. Good thing Parker had all the old issues in his recycle bin. But Sy’s obituary wasn’t in the
Advertiser
or in the
Buffalo News
.”

“Could it have been in some other paper?” I asked.

He shrugged. “If it was, I can’t find it.”

“So the guys who tried to break in learned the old man had died and that the house would be empty, but not from the newspapers,” I said. “Funeral parlor? Online notices?”

“They told Miles they had read it in the obituaries.” Dad scratched his cheek. “It’s why I want Miles to find out a bit more. There might be nothing there, but . . .”

I got up to clear Dad’s plate but stopped to press my finger into his stomach like he was the Pillsbury Doughboy. “I know. You feel it in your gut.”

By the time Cathy arrived for her shift at the shop, we’d made all the yellow tape disappear, although Dad had insisted on rolling it up and keeping it, saying it might make for a great Halloween display next year. I put his macabre souvenir into the cupboard while mouthing a prayer that next October would find us all here, still in business.

Someone had already mopped up the pool of blood where Sullivan O’Grady had died, but I thought I could still make out a sticky residue between the tiles. After I’d mopped over the same area seven or eight times, Cathy came up behind me.

“I don’t think you can wash away what happened with a mop,” she said.

“Does the shop feel different to you? It’s like something changed. A stain I can’t get out.”

“Maybe Sully’s still here,” she said. “That would be cool.”

“Cool?” I couldn’t hide the disdain in my voice.

“Not that he died here. But think about it. Every other business on this block is haunted. Strange footsteps. Shadows. Some say Millard Fillmore still goes to the office every day and his door swings open. Visitors to Jack’s place say they’ve heard children playing and laughing when nobody is there.”

“Not this again,” I said. When it came to hauntings, I was happy to be labeled a skeptic. None of the businesses had been haunted until ghost hunting became popular on the cable channels.

“I know,” Cathy said, apparently not getting my meaning. “Why don’t any of those kids ever come over here? You’d think they’d want to play with all the toys. Like maybe we’d come in sometime to find the old rocking horse moving, at least. Something.”

“Some people have all the luck.” I checked the aisles again to make sure everything was ready for the hopefully paying public. More than once, I felt edgy, as if I were being watched. When I spun around, nothing was there. Nothing except that infernal monkey with the cymbals.

We flipped the “closed” sign to “open” three minutes before our normal opening time of ten
AM
. Then we waited.

Dad headed back upstairs to tinker with some recent acquisitions, which the police had accepted from the UPS man and left just inside the door. Perhaps he was psychic, because the first time the bell sounded, Peggy Trent walked in, carrying a basket.

I was tempted to sic her on my father, but he’d been through enough these past few days, so I explained that Dad wasn’t working this morning and left it at that.

“But he is doing okay?” she asked. “I heard he blanked out the night that poor man died.”

“Concussion, the doctor said. His memory is starting to come back, little by little.”

“One can only hope,” she said. “I wanted you to know that the town is here for you. For you both. If you need anything, please let me know.”

“I’ll do that.” I took the basket she held out. Somehow she’d transported a gorgeous batch of blueberry muffins halfway across town while they were still warm. Despite not liking Peggy, I would admit that the woman could cook. “And thanks for the muffins.”

“You’re welcome.” She paused at the door. “I will need the basket back. Maybe you and your father could return it, and then stay for dinner, when he’s feeling better.”

“I can ask if he’s up to it. And I’ll make sure you get your basket back. Thanks.”

And the persistence award goes to Peggy Trent.

Shortly after she left, a couple of customers wandered into the shop. Out-of-towners, I think. They’d
ooh
ed and
aah
ed and
got their fingerprints all over a bunch of our most expensive merchandise, sniffed all the Strawberry Shortcake paraphernalia, and then purchased a vintage Lite-Brite for twenty bucks.

The next time the door opened, Ken walked in. He removed his hat and looked around, then came to the counter. I’d been so bored, I was going through our candy display, checking expiration dates. It’s a tough job, but I considered it my duty to dispose of any expired candy appropriately. So far I’d consumed two giant Pixy Stix and three packets of Pop Rocks and could barely stand still.

“Everything okay this morning?” he asked.

“Just ducky,” I said. “We’ve been swamped, can’t you tell?” I waved my hand around the empty shop.

“Folks will come back when they’re ready. You’ll probably see a few lookie loos, too. Some are morbid that way. Don’t let them get to you.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.”

“Now that he’s back home, has your father remembered anything?”

“You mean, did he walk into the place and have a eureka moment, suddenly recalling whodunit? Oh, absolutely. But we didn’t want to bother you with the details.” I rolled my eyes. “I would have called you if he had.”

“I deserved that. You’ve given me no reason to believe you’ve been anything but candid with me. But I did want to check in. It’s not always easy to return to what has become a crime scene.”

“I admit,” I said, “the place feels weird. Like some wax museum exhibit of what was once home. Everything looks the same, but it feels like a cold, lifeless copy.”

“Give it time,” he said.

I bit my lip and nodded. “In the spirit of full disclosure, I should say that Dad’s come up with something. Not a memory. It’s another theory, and I know you said . . .” I paused, wondering if I could verbalize Dad’s idea about the missing obituary without implicating Miles.

Ken exhaled loudly. Or was that a sigh? “Listen, I’m sorry about that, too. I was tired and the investigation wasn’t going well. I should have been more patient yesterday. So, yes, I would be interested in your father’s little theory.”

His
little
theory? I ignored the suggested slight and told him about Dad’s discovery about there being no obituary. I almost had Ken out of the door when Dad came hobbling down the stairs, shouting, “I remember!” His face blanched when he rounded the corner and saw the new chief listening intently.

A few minutes later, the three of us were gathered around the kitchen table while Cathy watched the shop. Not that we had many customers to watch for.