Death of a Toy Soldier (5 page)

Othello had been the inspiration for another pet project of mine: missing game pieces. He loved disrupting games and chasing stray pieces so much I realized that other households with pets or small children must have the same problem. So during the summer, when I typically scavenged area garage sales for old toys and games, I bought board games regardless of their condition. Incomplete games could be combined to form one complete set and the rest sold for parts. Missing Scrabble tiles from almost all editions, assorted playing pieces, get-out-of-jail-free cards, and yes, the original marbles from Hungry Hungry Hippos were all available at the shop. Cataloging was a bit of a nightmare, but the venture had shown some profit. That is, if we ever got back into the shop.

Before I was off the floor, I heard a familiar voice, and Miles was heading toward the kitchen table, carrying his own coffee in an insulated Spot Coffee mug.

I stood up, then dislodged another dust bunny from my hair before putting the last game piece safely in the box.

“No classes?” Dad asked.

Miles slid his glasses lower down his nose and stared at Dad over the frames. I wasn’t sure if Miles was a full-out
hipster or not, but he looked the part: chunky glasses, casual unkempt hair that he occasionally ran his fingers through to keep out of his face, and clothing choices that looked like he wore the first thing that came to hand when he crawled out of bed. His attempt at a beard was a little pitiful, but perhaps that gave him extra hipster points.

He removed his latest device from his bag and fired it up. “I updated the website to let people know we’re closed, and I can run a twenty percent discount coupon to all our e-mail subscribers as soon as we open again.” He paused and looked up. “If that’s all right?”

“Twenty?” Dad scratched his chin.

“Any less than twenty and I’m not sure you’ll draw them in.”

Dad turned to me. “Will we lose any money on twenty percent off?”

I shrugged. “Maybe on some things.”

Miles smirked. “Then mark those up before you reopen. Twenty gets the customers back in the store. Some will come anyway. The gawkers. But that doesn’t mean they buy.”

“Exclude candy and new toys on the coupon?” I said.

Miles’s hands flew across his keyboard. “Done. Meanwhile, a couple of auctions have ended, and I’ll need to get in the shop so I can ship the merchandise. We don’t want to lose our customer rating.”

I threw up my hands. “Talk to Chief Young.”

“I was rather hoping you could do it.” Miles sent a cheesy grin in Dad’s direction.

Miles and Dad had a long history, apparently, and not one that I was privy to. Miles had grown up on the Cattaraugus Reservation, affectionately known as the res. His mother
moved to East Aurora when he was fourteen. He didn’t take the move well, getting into some trouble, I gather, while running with the wrong crowd in high school. Both Dad and Miles were pretty hush-hush about it. Now Miles was in college and doing quite well, even if he was taking too many classes and working too many jobs.

Dad tapped the table. “I might not be his favorite person right now.” He looked at me.

“Why am I his favorite all of a sudden?”

Dad started to open his mouth, but before he could make a sound, I said, “Fine, I’ll ask him.”

“Good,” Miles said. “Next order of business . . .” He clicked over to the picture of the toy I’d e-mailed him.

“Have you found anything out?” Dad asked.

“Not yet,” Miles said. “I didn’t know if I should keep trying. It’s rare, but that’s all I know for sure. Everyone I’ve approached has a different idea. Might be a prototype. Might even be a fake. Then they give me the name of someone they think might know. I didn’t know how much energy I should invest in the hunt. After all, if the guy who wanted to know the value is dead, is there a reason to keep pushing?”

“There’s a reason,” Dad said. “A man has died because of those toys.”

Every head at the table pivoted toward Dad so quickly, we might have been able to qualify for a group discount on a whiplash case from a friendly personal injury attorney.

“You think the toys had something to do with why that man is dead?” I asked. Was he admitting something or just making his own inferences?

“Think like a cop, Liz. A man goes into a toyshop carrying a box of toys. Days later, he dies in the same toyshop, and the toys are missing. I can’t prove it, but yes, I think his death has something to do with the toys.”

Miles saluted. “I’ll keep looking, Chief.”

A couple of days after he’d been hit on the head, I’d managed to coax Dad to the doctor.

He held the door open for me as we exited the medical complex. “That was a waste of time.”

“How could you call it a waste of time?” Multiple tests and hundreds of dollars in copays later, the verdict was a concussion, which could have triggered the memory loss—which Dad had finally come clean and admitted.

“Well, it’s not like they did anything about it, right? Just said take it easy, no driving, and avoid stress, and my memories might come back in time.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you had amnesia?”

“It’s hardly amnesia. It’s not like I’ve forgotten my name or how to dress myself or anything important. The hours around the accident are . . . just a little bit hazy, that’s all.”

“Not an accident. You were attacked!”

“I didn’t want to worry you. With everything going on, the last thing you needed to bother about was me.”

“You could have told Chief Young. Right now he must think you’re being uncooperative. It makes you look guilty.”

“And what? Claiming I can’t remember what happened makes me look more innocent?”

I brushed a thin coating of dusty snow from the windshield while Dad used his jacket sleeve to clear the passenger side. Suddenly I didn’t care that I was in the doghouse for nagging him to see the doctor. I was just glad that Dad was okay, reassured by every puff of breath that fogged in the cold air that he was warm and alive.

When we climbed in, his hand went right to the radio. “I want to see if there’s any news.” He tuned in the news station, but they were detailing an arson fire in Buffalo. The report finished without mentioning the murder.

I backed out of my parking spot. “If you were still chief, I’d bet you’d have identified the victim by now. I mean, even without fingerprints, I don’t understand what’s taking so long. Can’t he use DNA or dental records?”

Dad shook his head. “Not so easy sometimes, Lizzie. The problem with DNA and dental records is that you have to have something to match it to. I’m sure they’re canvassing the area with his picture. But if nobody has reported him missing . . .”

“How could anyone not miss a whole person?”

“Maybe they didn’t. Maybe he’s not from around here. Or doesn’t keep in touch with family. Maybe he has no family. Neighbors or landlords don’t always notice someone is missing, at least not right away. An employer might assume he quit without notice. They get ticked when someone doesn’t
show up for a shift, but they don’t often think to call police or report him missing.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“The only things we have to go on are what he looked like, what he was wearing, and that box of toys. And that business card. But if Carson Suffern recognized the dead guy, I think the news would be reporting his identity by now.”

“Another dead end,” I said. Then I realized Dad was craning his neck to scope out the toy museum as we passed.

“What are you looking for?”

“That woman’s car.”

“Peggy Trent? Dad, are you sure this is the right time to kindle a romance?” I was teasing him, of course. His feelings toward “that woman,” as he usually referred to her, were as clear as Wonder Woman’s invisible jet.

“I don’t think she’s there,” he said. “Car’s not, anyway.” Peggy Trent drove a boxy Kia that my dad considered the ugliest car in the world.

“So you don’t want to stop,” I said.

“No, I
do
want to stop. As long as you still have the picture of that toy on your cell phone.”

“That I do, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this. Are you suggesting I now chauffeur you around while you put yourself in danger carrying out your own investigation? Why can’t you be satisfied being a toy store owner?”

“Well, Lizzie.” I could feel his eyes on me. “Seems to me that in the past few days, it’s not been much safer in the toy store, has it?”

That man’s logic was infuriating. “And I’m supposed to wait in the car and hope for the best?”

“Actually, I was hoping you could come in with me. In fact, if that assistant curator is there, you could do the talking. I think I scare her.”

I circled the block while I debated the matter. Should I humor him and help him with his investigation? Or take him back to Parker and Cathy’s house, in which case he’d likely sneak out on his own at the first opportunity. At least this way, I could keep an eye on him. I found a spot on the street. I’m not the best parallel parker, but after a few embarrassing attempts, I managed to wedge the Civic between two cars and the curb.

Moments later, we walked into the small storefront that served as the town’s toy museum.

I loved the old place, once a tailor’s shop. Instead of tile floor like our shop had, all the layers of flooring had been removed until the original plank subfloor was revealed. Stained and full of holes, it screamed, “I’m historic!” The museum was jammed from front to back with display cases, all bought secondhand so none of them matched. In each of these were old toys, many manufactured in the area. Dad and I had an annual membership, so we didn’t have to pay an admission fee. And Dad was like a kid in a, well, toyshop.

He stopped to examine a tin Lone Ranger figure. The masked crime fighter was mounted on a rearing Silver, and his lasso was complete and in the air. “This is nice,” Dad said, practically on top of the display case.

“Isn’t it?”

I jumped at the unexpected voice but fortunately didn’t knock anything over in the process. I whirled around to face the assistant curator, my heart thumping. Not that she was in
any way scary. Jillian Hatley was one of the least scary people around. She had straight blonde hair, a meek expression, and a voice that couldn’t be heard above the average toaster. Seriously, when she did a tour, you needed to be right next to her in order to hear. I’m convinced people in the back just nodded and then went to their doctors for a hearing test.

I tapped Jillian’s forearm. “You scared me.”

“I didn’t mean to.” A few seconds later, she smiled. Jillian didn’t lack a sense of humor, but she was the one at the movie theater laughing five minutes after the joke. “Have you come in to see the newest items in our collection? I’m afraid there are only a few recent additions.” She cast a nervous glance over at my father.

Maybe there was some truth in Dad’s impression that he scared her. He walked farther back into the museum.

“I hope you might help me with something.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Did you hear about the man who died in our shop?”

A few seconds passed. “Was that your shop? The radio said one of the shops on Main. I thought maybe it was that new tattoo parlor.” She wrinkled her nose. Whether it was over the death or the thought of tattoos was anyone’s guess. “Dreadful. Was it somebody you knew?”

“No. I’d met him earlier in the week, but he gave me a fake name. He wanted an appraisal on some toys. I took a picture of one of them. It seems it’s rare, and Dad couldn’t find it in any of the books.”

“Perhaps Peggy . . .” she began.

“Well, maybe,” I said. “Is she here today?” I felt a pang of guilt for asking a question I was pretty sure I already knew the
answer to. And if Jillian couldn’t give us any leads on the toy, perhaps we’d have to try Peggy. Or
I
would have to try Peggy. I think Dad was considering a restraining order.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jillian looked overly penitent. “It’s her day off.”

I flipped through my pictures—I had taken a couple of new pictures of Othello and a cute one of him staring at Bonnie and Clyde through the glass patio door—until I got to the one of the toy.

She leaned in to study it. “I have seen this before. I’m pretty sure.”

“Are you positive?” Which was a lame question, because she’d already said she was pretty sure. Conversations with Jillian tended to go this way.

She nodded. “It’s part of a collection bequeathed to the museum.”

“You mean it belongs here? Was it stolen?”

She shook her head. “The owner was planning to leave it to the museum in his will.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “But he hasn’t died yet. Which is a good thing.”

“Have you seen this man?”

She nodded again. “Once. Since he’s technically a donor, he can visit the museum for free, but I gather he didn’t get out much.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “Do you think he might be the man who died in your shop?”

“Was he very tan with a pockmarked face?”

Jillian must have thought about this question for a full minute. I wouldn’t call her stupid, just slow to respond. As if the whole world had high-speed Internet, and she still had dial-up and was waiting for the modem to connect. I half
expected the next words out of her mouth to be, “You’ve got mail.” She tilted her head and gave it a brief shake. “I don’t think so. But I do have the donor’s name and address on file, if that helps.”

Moments later Dad and I headed to the address Jillian had printed out from her files, after apologizing when she had to reload the paper and then the toner on the printer.

“Quit apologizing,” Dad had insisted.

“Sorry,” she’d said.

But we’d gotten what we had come for, and without running into Peggy Trent once.

When we drove past Well Played, with the yellow crime scene tape barring the door, Dad merely cleared his throat and I forced my eyes back on the road.

The name Jillian had given us was Syril DuPont, and the address was in a once tony part of town, where grand, old painted-lady Victorians, in various states of disrepair and restoration, were draped with snow, looking like so many gingerbread houses made by a baker a little too generous with the butter cream.

Dad studied the printout as we neared our destination, at least according to the GPS. He tapped the page. “There’s something familiar about this address.”

When I parked in front of the building, he whistled. “I was right. Betsy, I’ve been here before.”

“Been here before
recently
?”

He shook his head. “It’s been a while, but I answered a bunch of calls to this address. Nuisance stuff, mainly.”

“What kind of nuisance stuff?”

Dad scratched his bristly cheek. “I can’t remember.”

I momentarily stopped breathing. The doctor hadn’t said anything about problems with Dad’s long-term memory.

“Don’t panic, Lizzie.” He grabbed my hand and laughed. “I don’t think I forgot anything. I just don’t think that the calls ever amounted to anything that my brain thought important enough to remember. Like calls saying they heard someone prowling about the place, but there was no evidence. Fresh snow and no footprints, that sort of thing. Just some guy with an overactive imagination living in an old house that made odd noises.”

I stared up at the house and understood how someone’s imagination might run away from him. Against the bleak, gray winter sky, the house did look foreboding, almost Hitchcockian. Cue the
Psycho
soundtrack.

While I sat there pondering the house, a car pulled up behind me and parked. The passengers didn’t linger in the vehicle; they hopped right out, slammed car doors, and headed to the house carrying casserole dishes and trays of food.

“Someone’s having a party.” Dad smirked.

“Should we come back later?” I asked, noticing another packed car working its way into one of only a few empty spaces left on the block.

Dad gave me an impish wink. “Nah, I think we ought to crash it.”

Before I could say another word, he was out of the car and hobbling to the front door behind the group of new arrivals. I hustled to get out of the car but then had to jump a pile of slush that had accumulated at the head of the driveway. By the time I made it to the door, Dad had already followed the others inside. I stood, staring at the doorknob. Dad was a lot
bolder than I was, but I couldn’t leave him in this stranger’s house alone. I took a deep breath and tried to open the door. Only the knob wouldn’t budge.

“Here, let me get that,” said a familiar, masculine voice from behind me. Jack Wallace handed me a covered tray of cookies. He gave the knob a forceful turn while pushing on the door. “It sticks sometimes.” Then whoosh, it opened, and he held the door so I could enter.

The house smelled like old people. I wasn’t quite sure how else to describe it. There was a mix of that cloying fragrance they add to chemical ointments along with the chemical odors too strong to mask, stale cooking odors, a touch of mildew, and a pinch of urine. I hoped a pet was involved in the equation.

Earlier arrivals had kicked off their boots in the cramped entryway, and I did the same, stepping over the puddles left by melting snow. I missed avoiding one and felt the cold bite through my sock. Jack took my coat and whisked it away. I turned to face the gathering crowd.

I didn’t know a blessed person in the room, save for Jack’s mother. If she had a first name, I’d never been privy to it. She was always just Mrs. Wallace. Any more familiarity would have been met with an icy stare.

I’d gotten on Mrs. Wallace’s no-fly list way back in high school, when I’d supposedly dumped her son. Jack always claimed he filled her in on the true story, but she’d taken his side anyway. Despite the fact that Jack had stood me up for the prom—yes, the prom, leaving me with credit card charges for a manicure, a pedicure, hair and makeup, an unreturnable altered dress, and shoes dyed to match—I came out the
villain, at least in her eyes. Not that I was bitter or anything. Even now I sensed my jaw tightening in her presence.

I scanned the rest of the room. Dark woodwork with cracked varnish and dated green wallpaper that puckered at the seams made the overstuffed room feel gloomy and neglected. Water stains dotted the ceiling and ran down one wall. The rug was stained and bare in spots, as was the furniture. The place was cluttered with piles of newspaper, boxes stacked upon boxes, and curio shelves crammed with dusty relics.

People milled around, some in closed-off groups, sharing hushed conversation. Others filled disposable plates from the platters of food laid out on the dining room table. Two elderly women sat primly on what could only be described as a settee.