Death of a Toy Soldier (12 page)

“So what exactly did you remember?” Ken had opened his notebook and held his pen at the ready.

“Relax, Dad.” I put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Dad closed his eyes as he began talking, probably to help his concentration. “I was down working in the shop when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the voice on the other end said, ‘Hello, this is Sullivan O’Grady.’”

“When was this?” Ken asked. “How did you respond?”

“I don’t remember,” Dad said.

“Had you ever talked to him before?” Ken asked.

“I don’t think so,” Dad said.

Ken scribbled that down. “You don’t know when this was?”

Dad shook his head, then looked at me. “I answered the phone quickly because I didn’t want to wake up Betsy. I mean Liz.” Dad leaned aside to Ken. “She hates the name Betsy.”

“So probably during the night,” Ken said.

“I’m not much of a napper,” I said, “so you can pretty much bank on it being during the night.” If Dad’s slip of that nickname was meant as a diversionary tactic, it wasn’t going to work. I pressed him further. “Do you remember why you didn’t want to wake me? Was there something you didn’t want me to see or know about?”

Dad thought about this for a second, then shook his head. “I think it’s just because you get grumpy when you wake up in the middle of the night. Always have.” He turned to Ken. “Once she stomped around for days . . .” He trailed off when Ken didn’t smile.

“This was the night he was killed?” Ken asked. “Did you ask him to come to the shop?”

Dad shrugged.

Ken stared down at his notebook. “Well, I can recheck the phone records from the shop. Nothing stood out the first time, but now that we know O’Grady phoned here, maybe we can identify the number he was calling from.” He closed his notebook. “Might be something to go on.”

###

The rest of the day brought just a handful of customers and even fewer sales. The coupon would run in the evening paper and hopefully draw a few bargain hunters out. At the end
of the day, instead of kicking my feet up to spend time with Dad and Othello, a nice bowl of popcorn, and our well-worn DVD of
The Muppet Christmas Carol
, I was getting ready for an unnecessary cooking lesson with my ex and his mother, a woman who thought of me the same way a chicken farmer might regard a bird flu epidemic.

In fact, when I got there, Mrs. Wallace had taken a supervisory position on a stool at the kitchen island with a stack of magazines next to her. She nodded and said, “Hello, Elizabeth.” She then proceeded to ignore me. That, I could handle. In fact, I preferred it to conversation.

Jack tied an apron around his waist and then tossed me one. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted to learn to cook, so I thought I’d start with something I knew you liked to eat. Cheese ravioli,” he said, in his luscious food porn voice.

My stomach gurgled and my heart started racing. “Ooooh.”

His mother sighed and flipped the page of her magazine.

I’d cooked a passable cheese ravioli at home before, opting for premade pasta and a sauce I whipped up in a slow cooker. But that wasn’t what Jack had in mind as he made a well in a pile of semolina for fresh eggs and we made our own pasta. If real life were a Hallmark movie, I’d have fumbled trying to roll the dough, and Jack would have come up behind me and put his arms around me to help roll it out perfectly. Then we’d kiss and both end up covered in flour. He must have seen the movie too, because that’s exactly what happened. All except the kiss. And
that
might have happened if Jack’s mother hadn’t been sighing and slamming magazine pages.

The cooking lesson was interesting, though, from the zigzag pasta cutter and the sauce made from fresh tomatoes and herbs. Hours passed before we—all three of us—sat down to sample our creation, but the ravioli was scrumptious. I couldn’t get enough of the sauce, heaping it on my pasta and dipping my bread into it.

I think we were halfway through dinner before I realized that none of us was talking. I glanced up from my clean plate and Jack was smiling. I set my fork down. “This is wonderful.”

“You were the cook tonight,” he said. “So all compliments go to you.”

“No, it’s this recipe and those ingredients. I’ve never cooked anything like this in my life.”

“With a little more practice,” Mrs. Wallace said, “you’ll learn not to overwork your pasta.”

And right then I knew two reasons why a long-term relationship with Jack would be impossible. The first was, of course, his mother. The second was that I was sure to get incredibly fat. The first was the deal-breaker. I was willing to risk the second.

“I was surprised to see you at Uncle Sy’s wake, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Wallace said. “How did you say you knew him again?”

“It was really Dad who had wanted to go,” I said.

Mrs. Wallace pushed her half-eaten plate of food away. Her loss. She folded her hands in front of her. “And how did your father know him?”

Oh, great. So much for me trawling for information. Instead I was going to get the third degree. “I gather Dad had answered a number of calls at Sy’s address throughout the years.”

“Of course,” she said, then shook her head. “Uncle Sy always did have an active imagination. Sometimes he called the police. Sometimes he called the family, and we’d have to go walk around the whole house to make sure nobody was trying to break in, then hold his hand until he got his wits about him. The old coot. It became insufferable near the end.”

“Is that why you hired a home health aide?” I asked.

She put her hand on her chest. “
I
didn’t hire him. Sy did that on his own.”

Jack shifted a piece of ravioli around on his plate. I had a feeling I had hit upon a sore subject. He looked up. “Actually, we hadn’t seen Uncle Sy in quite some time.”

“How long is some time?” I asked.

“I don’t see why that should matter,” Mrs. Wallace said. “We’re a family, and all families have difficult members, right? No need to go airing our dirty laundry to just anybody.”

Jack sat up straighter. “I’d hardly call Liz just anybody.”

“I didn’t mean to pry,” I said. “Only I have to admit I’m curious about your uncle and his relationship to Sullivan O’Grady.” I dipped the serving spoon back onto the plate and chose two plump raviolis.

“Oh, so now they’re supposed to have had a
relationship
?” she said, raising her volume.

“I didn’t mean to suggest . . .”

Jack pushed back from the table. “Not fair, Mother.”

She glared back at him for several moments, and I worried I was about to witness something akin to Godzilla and Mothra doing battle over Tokyo. I’d be playing the part of Tokyo. Finally, her shoulders slumped. “Guess I’m still burnt
up over that whole situation. When I think of what we did for that man over the years. And then . . .”

And then what? I was afraid to ask it aloud, for fear of being accused of more prying. So I dug into my ravioli instead.

“I spent the better part of my life at that man’s beck and call,” she said. “Shovel his walk? Call Gladys. Need someone to drive him for his colonoscopy and endure his flatulence in the car all the way home? Why not call Gladys?”

Gladys? So that was her first name.

“Mother, you haven’t shoveled in years,” Jack said, “and I hardly think Liz expects an explanation.”

“No.” She put up her hand. “I won’t have anybody questioning what happened between us and Uncle Sy. Let’s get it
all
into the open.”

“Mrs. Wallace, you really don’t need to . . .” I purposefully trailed off. I felt guilty for my little deception, because I did want her to go on.

“I suppose you think we’re all a bunch of greedy relatives, poised to jump on whatever we can get out of his death.” She turned again to me. “If that’s what it looks like, there’s no one to blame except Sy. I remember the first time I shoveled his walk. I must have been ten years old. I would have been happy for a quarter. But what does dear
Uncly Sy
do? He winks at me and says, ‘I’ll remember that, sweetheart. And when this old man is dead and gone, you’ll know how much I appreciated it.’ It’s like he was conditioning us—all of us—to take care of him, with promises of something nice when he kicked off.”

“He couldn’t have been that old when you were ten,” Jack said.

His mother’s face froze. “That geezer was always old.”

“I’m sorry you had so much difficulty.” I tried to keep my voice suitably meek. “I didn’t mean to make you rehash any of this. I’m more interested in the aide.”

“I’m getting there,” she said. “Eventually his pleasant personality had whittled the group down to just a couple of us he could still count on to run errands. Then the phone call came. Two
AM
, mind you. Could I come right over? He heard a noise. Well, that old house has been groaning, popping, and settling for decades. I hadn’t been sleeping well, and I’d just had a procedure of my own.” She leaned closer to me and whispered, “A female thing.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t about to leave my nice, warm house, clean a foot of snow off my car, and drive over to Sy’s. So I did what I should have done years ago. I told him no.” She shook her head. “He told me I’d be sorry, and that’s the last I heard from him. He didn’t call me or answer my calls, or anybody’s from the entire family.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Almost a year ago,” she said. “Apparently that’s when he hired the aides. I gather there’s been more than one. Which makes sense.” An unaccustomed smile tickled the corner of her lips. “No stranger is going to put up with Uncle Sy for a whole year.”

“So there’s nothing you can tell me about the aide who died,” I said.

“Only what I read in the papers,” she said. “That he died in your shop. What was he doing there? Was he trying to sell something? Something of Sy’s?”

I glanced around the room. Unfortunately the answer to this question wasn’t woven into the drapes or spelled out on their popcorn ceiling. Finally, I met her gaze. “I wish I knew.”

###

The heated conversation seemed to clear the air, at least between Mrs. Wallace and me. She went to bed, leaving her son unprotected from my supposed feminine wiles. As Jack and I cleaned up and did the dishes, he was pensive.

Finally, as he slapped a cloth against the counter, I could no longer pretend not to notice.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He stared down at the soapy rag and shook his head. “I’m fine.” Then he turned to face me. “It’s
us
who’s not fine. Maybe I’m wrong, but you and your sister-in-law come into my place, and you in that . . . outfit. Suddenly you need cooking lessons. I assumed you were coming on to me. I thought maybe you wanted to rekindle something.”

“I . . .” What could I say? Was I still interested in Jack?

“You came for something else,” he said. “Evidence. Clues. You think that my family might have something to do with this murder. And instead of talking with me, instead of coming right out and asking me, you put on some elaborate hoax to wrangle an invitation.”

Not since Patty Wriggly and I cut class in middle school and sneaked into an R-rated movie had I been caught quite as red-handed and given such a severe dressing down. That time it had been by my mother, who had wandered into the theater waiting for her afternoon buzz to wear off. You never forget
being dragged by the ear out of a public place by a woman too drunk to stand and too angry to sit.

“I’m sorry,” I said. It was the only response left. I swallowed hard. “It’s my dad, you see. I’m worried about him. I don’t like that he can’t remember what happened. I don’t know what the chief believes or what the town will decide happened if he can never remember.”

“So you’re looking for someone else to blame? Well, you can cross my name off your list. Cross Mom’s off, too, while you’re at it. We won’t be your scapegoats. Do you have any idea what’s going on in this family? They’ve exhumed Uncle Sy. Everybody’s whispering.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Let me get your coat.”

“I don’t blame you. I’m going.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t understand.” He put his hands in his pockets. “I
get
family. You’re worried for your dad. I don’t like what’s going on with my own family. But if you really want to find the killer, I’ve got a good suspect in mind.” He pulled his keys from his pocket, tossed them into the air, and caught them again. “And I’m going to help.”

I shivered, then used my glove to clear a circle in the fogged-up passenger window of Jack’s pickup. We were parked outside his Uncle Sy’s house and no hanky-panky was going on, not that I hadn’t given it a stray thought.

“I don’t understand what we’re doing here,” I said. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Nothing yet, but I know that woman has to be involved somehow.”

“Oh, you’re talking about
Aunt
Kimmie.” I thought the conversation needed a little comic relief.

But he was all drama tonight. “Think about it,” he said. “Who is this woman? Uncle Sy never went anywhere. Where did she meet him? Why would he marry her? And why would she marry him?”

“I think the term ‘gold digger’ was bandied about a little.”

“Liz, look at the place.” He gestured in the general direction of the house, then switched on the engine and the defroster. “It needs a new roof. Hasn’t been painted in years. The lawn’s a mess. It has the curb appeal of a junkyard. And
despite Uncle Sy’s promises to his relatives, I’m pretty sure that house was his only asset. No competent gold digger would mess with him.”

I held my cold fingers over the vents. “Maybe he convinced her that he had more money than he did.”

“I’m not sure I buy that.”

“So what’s your idea?” I asked.

“My idea is to watch her and try to figure out what she’s up to.”

I cleared a little more fog from the window, using a fingernail to scratch off a bit that had frozen. I stared up at the house. One pale light shone through the living room window, but nothing moved. “Is she even home?”

We sat watching for another half an hour, idling the engine on occasion. Then Jack drove to the Tim Hortons around the corner, where we both used the facilities and bought large coffees to warm our hands and stomachs. Ten minutes later, we were sitting in the same place watching the same silent house.

I couldn’t argue with Jack’s logic. Why would such a young woman basically elope with a guy four times her age just days before he died?

“What motive would Kimmie have to kill O’Grady?” I asked.

“Maybe he knew what she was up to and threatened to stop it.”

“Makes sense. I was talking to Chief Young, and he said the marriage license was legit. Is your family going to do anything to fight her claim to the estate?”

“Maybe,” he said. “It depends on a couple of things. First, we want to know what the estate is worth, to see if it even
makes sense to fight it. Yeah, houses around here, even in disrepair, aren’t cheap. But there’s rumors he’d taken out a reverse mortgage on it. Once the value has been determined, we’ll decide if it’s even worth pursuing.”

“You sound pretty sure it won’t be.”

Jack shook his head. “It’s not news Mom wants to hear, after falling for his promises all her life. But old Uncle Sy was nothing more than a hoarder of cheap junk and a con man. And not even a very pleasant con man.” He raised his cup in a toast. “To family.”

I tapped my cup to his and took a sip. “You know, this is a lot different from how we use to park in high school, down by the creek.” I rubbed a spot on the fogged-up window again so I could see out. “The steamy windows are pretty much the same though.”

“Like that time your father caught us and I pretended to have car trouble.”

“And he insisted that you try to start it.”

“Started right up that time,” he said. “That old clunker used to stall out at every traffic light. When your Dad was right there, it worked like a charm.”

“He always did have a way with cars.” I leaned back against the headrest. “What ever happened to us?”

“I should have told you.” Jack tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs, then let out a frosty breath. “I chickened out.”

“You chickened out of our relationship? Or you chickened out of telling me?”

He looked up, his features just visible in the light from the streetlamps and his eyes glistening. “I was wrong to just not show up. I thought I could. Then suddenly, I just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Liz, we’d been dating ever since our sophomore year. Back then, much as I imagine it is now, when you’re dating that long, people expect a relationship to take a certain . . . direction.”

“If you think I was expecting a commitment, you’re off your rocker. We were too young to think of, well, marriage or any of that stuff.”

He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “But there are often other expectations, specifically prom.”

I stared up at the windshield. “I think the expectations are that I bought a dress and you rented a tux. Flowers are optional, as is a limo.”

He blew out a frosty breath. “You know.
After
the prom. What did you think was going to happen?”

Suddenly my lips went dry. “Oh,
those
expectations.” I glanced up at him. “You were nervous?”

He flung his head back into the seat. “You’re still not getting it. We had already registered at different colleges, with separate futures mapped out.”

I studied what I could see of his face in the glow of the streetlights.

“I knew that if you and I crossed that line . . .” He reached up and gently pulled a strand of hair from my face. “There’d be no going back. See, I thought we were always more than childhood sweethearts. If I was going to spend my life with a home and family, I kind of pictured you there. Liz . . .” He cupped his hand around my cheek and drew me closer.

I closed my eyes.

Then someone knocked on the car window.

I opened my eyes, as did Jack, the spell broken.

“Does your father still do that?” Jack said.

I rolled down my window. But it wasn’t Dad standing in the snow. It was Irene. Or was it Lenora? No, I was pretty sure it was Irene. “Why, hello!” I said.

“I’m sorry to bug you,” she said. “I didn’t see that you were making out until I got close to the car. I thought you were here to spy on that Kimmie woman.”

I was speechless. Jack shrugged and said, “Maybe we were.”

“In that case,” Irene said, “you two might want to come to our house. You can see Squiggy’s house pretty good, and it’s a lot warmer.”

I turned to Jack. He looked at me. Moments later we followed Irene up the walk to her house, next door to Uncle Sy’s old place.

Lenora met us at the door. “Oh, thank heavens,” she said. “It’s freezing out there. Wouldn’t want to find two popsicles in the morning. Come on in and warm up.”

The blast of hot air hit as soon as I crossed the threshold. Their place was as warm and humid as a hospital. The little entry foyer led into a proverbial parlor, with high-backed chairs in muted and feminine pastels. A miniature evergreen tree with tiny decorations sat on the table between them. Bing Crosby crooned softly from their old-fashioned console stereo. And there were crocheted doilies everywhere.

“They were watching Sy’s house,” Irene explained.

“Oh, tsk,” said Lenora. “That ditz isn’t even home to be watched. Come in and wait awhile. You’ll know when she pulls in.”

Irene pointed to the front window. “When anyone turns into that driveway, the headlights shine right into the parlor. So have a seat and visit with us while you wait.”

Lenora clasped her hands together. “How about I put on the teakettle. We have cookies.” She stopped. “Sorry for getting so excited, but we rarely have visitors these days. Have a seat, and we’ll be right back.”

As they hustled off to the kitchen, Jack and I found seats in the wingback chairs with a good view of the road.

I smiled at Jack as Irene’s and Lenora’s happy voices filtered from the kitchen.

He shook his head and then leaned closer and whispered, “If they offer you elderberry wine, don’t drink it.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Should we open the window seat?”

He shook his head. “I think there’s been enough bodies, don’t you?”

Lenora bustled in with a tray of bright red-and-green iced cookies. “You might need to let them defrost for a few minutes so you don’t chip a tooth,” she said. “We always start our holiday baking early and put our cookies in the freezer.”

Jack leaned forward. “You don’t find it odd that we were outside watching the house?”

“Odd?” she said. “Of course not. We’ve been watching it for years. As far as houses go, it’s an interesting one to watch. Not that we have anything to compare it to. We’ve lived here all our lives, just as your Uncle Sy has. Had. Oh, dear, I hate referring to people we know in the past tense.”

Irene shuffled in with an old-fashioned tea service. A definite antique and probably worth a pretty penny. After closer inspection, I realized that this was a well-loved collection and
used regularly, as evidenced by the hairline cracks, occasional chips, and dull or even missing finish. I suspected they’d gotten much joy from it through the years.

The tea was hot and good.

“So you used to watch Uncle Sy, too?” Jack said.

“Oh, yes. No more than neighbors should, though,” Irene amended. Then she winked. “Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.”

“Not to worry,” Lenora said. “Apparently we were too old for him anyway.”

Irene laughed at her sister’s joke.

“So when did this Kimmie character start hanging around?” I asked.

“She was a fairly recent development,” Irene said. “Started coming around a couple months ago. She and those odd friends of hers, having orgies in the house.”

“Orgies?” Jack coughed on his cookie. “With Uncle Sy?”

Lenora threw her hands up. “I know. It sounds absurd, but we know what we saw.”

I leaned forward. “What exactly
did
you see?”

“Well, it would always be late at night,” Lenora said.

“Ten or eleven. What kind of time is that to start a decent party?” Irene said.

“Then a whole bunch of cars would drive up, people laughing and talking and heading into the house,” Lenora said.

“Young people mostly,” Irene said, “with a few older ones mixed in. Men
and
women.” She nodded knowingly.

“And then the house,” Lenora said, “which was lit up like a Christmas tree, started going dark. They’d pull all the shades
and switch off
all
the lights until it was pitch black. What else could it be but one of those orgies you read about?”

“What indeed?” Irene said.

“Is Kimmie still having these . . . orgies?” Jack asked.

“Oh, yes,” Irene said. “She’s had at least two of them since Sy died.”

“Not very discreet, that one,” Lenora said.

I turned to Jack. “Could she have wanted to get your Uncle Sy out of the way so she could have a permanent . . .”

“Party pad?” Irene said brightly.

“See,” Jack said, “I told you she was up to something.”

“Then there are the boxes,” Lenora said. “FedEx and UPS have been doing double duty beating a path to her door.”

“Delivering what?” Jack asked.

The sisters shared a conspiratorial glance, then Irene leaned in closer. “We were wondering if they were some of those sex toys.”

A cookie stuck in Jack’s throat again.

“Just guessing,” Lenora said. “She could be redecorating, but that’s not nearly as exciting, is it?”

“We’ve seen boxes going out, too,” Irene said pointedly at Jack.

“She’s liquidating Sy’s assets before the will is even read,” he said.

“That’s supposition,” I said. But Jack was up and pacing. Sore subject.

I turned back to the sisters. “Any idea where these boxes came from? Like, maybe you got a peek at a return address?”

“I never thought of that.” Lenora’s shoulders sank, as if she was disappointed with herself. Then her eyes lit up. “But there’s some on her porch right now.”

“I’m going to check it out,” Jack said, already heading toward the hook where his coat was hanging.

“What if she comes home?” I stood up and met him at the door.

“She won’t be home until after eleven tonight,” Irene said.

I checked the time on my cell phone. It was only a little after ten
PM
.

Jack paused at the door. “You coming?”

I didn’t answer but caught my coat when he tossed it.

“Do let us know if you find anything interesting,” Irene said as she and her sister waited inside the door.

I followed Jack down the sisters’ walk, but my feet balked as he headed up Sy’s driveway. I remained on the sidewalk. “Is this tampering with the mail? That might be a federal offence.”

But Jack was already at the door, darting from box to box. “Some of this is AV equipment. Cameras. Recorders.” He picked up one box and tried to shine a light from his cell phone on the address. “It’s too dark. I can’t make it out.” He jogged it out to where I was standing, under the streetlight. “Can you make out the return address?”

That’s when the police car, sirens blaring, pulled out from a spot in the darkness with the high-powered headlights focused on us.