Death of a Toy Soldier (7 page)

I was taken aback by her question, which came out a little like a demand. Well, more than a little. Irene and Lenora were forces to be reckoned with. “I . . .” Then it hit me. I still didn’t know what had become of the toys. “I don’t know,” I finally said.

But they weren’t going to let that pass unexplained. They stared at me expectantly.

“A man brought it and some others into our shop to get an estimate of their value,” I finally said.

“Sy?” Lenora asked.

Irene shook her head. “Sy never went anywhere at the end. People came to him.”

“The man I met was much younger,” I said.

“How young?” Irene asked.

“Forties maybe?” I said, then informed them about the suntan, pockmarks, and scrubs. When I got to the scrubs, Lenora got animated.

“The aide dude!” she shouted.

“Aide
dude
?” I asked, a little more quietly. Our conversation was garnering a few disapproving scowls. I leaned closer, but I wasn’t sure these two had a mute button.

“The last fellow Sy fired,” Lenora said. “At least I think he was fired. Some of Sy’s health care aides got fired and some of them quit, but none of them lasted long, not with his sunny disposition.” She stopped, looking like she’d just remembered where she was. She did a brief sign of the cross before continuing. “I heard Sy yelling one day last week. Then that fellow stopped coming and that young woman took over. Real ditz. My, was she bossy! Moved right in, for all the good it did. Sy died a couple days later.”

“You must have seen a lot of Sy. When did he tell you all of this?”

Irene waved off my question as if it were absurd. “Oh, we never
talked
to Sy.”

“Not since the seventies,” Lenora said. “I think that’s what the nice policeman suggested.” She pointed back toward my father.

“Then how did you know what was happening?” I asked.

“Well,” Lenora said, “you might say that neighbors watch out for each other.” She leaned back primly in the settee, then allowed her gaze to rest on her sister.

“You watch the house?” I asked.

“No more than Sy used to watch us,” Irene said, although she squirmed a little when admitting it.

“So you think the man I met, the man with the toy, was Sy’s health aide?” That explained the scrubs. I couldn’t recall if he was still wearing them when he was lying dead in the store. I tried to replay the image, but Dad had warned me that human memory didn’t work like a video recorder. If a witness didn’t remember something the first time he was asked, he wasn’t likely to remember it later. In fact, Dad insisted, witnesses would manufacture information at that later point, their subconscious mind supplying details the investigators wanted to hear.

I snapped to attention. I found it weird to think of myself as a witness. When I cast a glance in Dad’s direction, he was staring at me, as if he were a part of my conversation as well.
Keep going
, I could almost hear him say.

“Did you know his name?” I asked the sisters. “The aide, I mean.”

“Well, we never actually talked to him either, you see,” Lenora said.

“Oh, I did,” Irene said.

“Know his name?” I asked. I hated to admit it, but beating Dad to a clue was getting fun, like making a good move
in a strategy game and seeing things fall into place. I tried to dampen my own excitement. This wasn’t a game. We were talking about a man who had died in our shop.

“Oh, no. I didn’t know his name,” Irene said. “But I did talk to him. Once. He returned our recycling box. They’d gotten mixed up at the curb or something. He was very nice about it.” Her countenance fell when she said that last part. “Too nice.”

“Here we go again,” Lenora said, rolling her eyes. “You’ll see, it’s a great conspiracy.”

“I never said it was a conspiracy,” Irene said. “Just an observation.” She silenced her sister with a dismissive wave and redirected the conversation toward me. “As you get older you’ll notice. Some people have no patience at all with old folks. We’re just a time drain and a burden. But not everyone’s like that.” She waved her finger at me. “But those who do bother with old folks, that doesn’t mean they’re naturally nice either.”

I nodded. “Con men, for instance.”

“Right,” Irene said. “Like the guy who wanted us to pay him three thousand dollars for a thousand-dollar roof repair. We get them all the time, and they always act like they’re there to help us, to keep our house from falling down around us. As if they’re doing us a favor when they take our money. Then there are the do-gooders.”

“The do-gooders?” I asked. “What do they do?”

Lenora rolled her eyes. “Good. They do
good
. I’ve never understood the problem.”

Irene wagged a finger again. “It’s
why
they do good. Some of them, they’ll shovel your walk or rake your leaves if you
take their pamphlet. Fine. I get them. Then there’s the kind that act all bubbly and interested, as if they’ve just met the Queen of England. But a little patronizing. Almost like talking to children.”

I nodded again. Somehow I felt a little less guilty for letting my attention wander when an older patron came into the store and told a long story. “So the man . . .”

“Seemed overly enthusiastic about working with old people,” Irene said. “I figured working with Sy would beat that right out of him.”

“You never saw him with Sy’s toy?” I said.

Irene wagged her finger at me again, and Lenora sat up agitatedly.

“Oh, no,” Irene said, “we never saw him with the toy. If we had, there’d have been a lot more feuding going on.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because,” Lenora said. “Sy didn’t have any right to donate it to the museum or give it to that young man. The toy didn’t belong to Sy. He must have taken it, that scoundrel.”

Irene dipped her chin in agreement. “Fred and Ginger belong to us.”

Irene’s claim added a whole new wrinkle to the situation. Clearly she and Lenora had motive—that is, if
Sy
were the victim. I glanced up to see Mrs. Wallace discretely shoving the family silver into her pocket. The heirs apparent were falling over themselves in their attempts to acquire their share of Sy’s possessions. They, too, might have had a motive to speed dear Uncle Sy’s departure, but what reason might they have had to off their uncle’s health care aide?

There was a tapping at the door, and before anyone could answer it, Ken Young pushed his way in. He was in casual uniform, a brief layer of snow clinging to the fur lining his coat and dusting the tops of his boots. He didn’t bother to remove them or stamp off the snow. He put his hands on his hips and scanned the room. “Who’s in charge here?”

Mrs. Wallace ran to the door to meet him, as did Meredith and a couple of other contenders. This was going to be an epic battle.

But Ken wasn’t going to referee it. He looked from face to face, and then addressed them as a group, loudly, so everybody
could hear. “I wanted to let you know,” he said, “that I chased away a gang of young hoodlums casing the place this morning while y’all were at the funeral. I scared them off before they managed to break in, but let me know if you notice anything missing or out of the ordinary.”

“Imagine that,” Irene said, “happening under our very noses.”

“But we were at the funeral,” Lenora added.

“Oh, that’s right,” Irene said. “I don’t like what’s happening to the neighborhood.”

By this time Ken had spotted my father and made his way over to him. Several family members watched as the chief’s snow-covered boots also made the trip. Eventually a few of the relatives compromised enough to locate paper towels and clean up the puddles.

Ken took off his hat and shook my father’s hand. “Well, well. We seem to be running into each other quite a bit. Did you know Sy well?”

“Been called to the house before.” Dad folded his arms across his chest. “I imagine you’ve been here before as well,” he said coyly.

I excused myself from the two sisters and went to join Dad. “How’s the investigation coming?” I asked Ken.

“Which one?” Ken replied. “The investigation into the attempted break-in is pretty cut and dried. I’ve got a good idea who might be up to their old tricks.”

“The other one,” Dad said. “Have you been able to identify the murder victim yet?”

Ken shook his head.

“I might have something,” I said.

“Remember something new?” Ken asked. “Because if you would like to amend your statement, we can meet at the station.”

“It’s not something I forgot,” I said, not liking his officious tone. “It’s something I learned here.”

Dad took my elbow. “Liz, are you sure we should bring this up?”

I didn’t know what Dad was concerned about, but this was information Ken needed to know. “I think the victim worked in this house. As Sy’s health aide.”

Ken cursed under his breath. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

“It means I might have helped you figure out who the victim was. I would think you’d be grateful.”

Dad let out a sigh. Apparently I was missing something that these two experienced lawmen had already figured out.

Dad leaned closer. “You see, Lizzie, this creates another problem. By tying the dead man to this house, it also puts into question how Sy died.”

Mrs. Wallace shuffled over. Despite our muted tones, apparently the family had been listening. “But Uncle Sy died of a heart attack.”

“Probably,” Ken said.

“Probably?” Mrs. Wallace repeated, and a titter of comments buzzed through the room.

Ken hung his head. “If there’s any question that his death might be part of another investigation, we really ought to have the medical examiner reopen the file.”

Mrs. Wallace looked fit to be tied, and it might’ve been safer for Ken if she had been—and gagged as well. Her lips quivered, but no sound came out, until finally she said, “But we just got that blasted man buried!”

When the family rushed him in protest, Ken put his hands up. “I’m not saying we’re going to dig him up. And I’m not saying his death is suspicious.” He glared at me. “What I am saying is that now Sy’s death might be connected to another open investigation. We will keep the family informed.”

I tugged on my dad’s sleeve. “Is he saying that Sy might’ve been murdered?”

“He’s saying he has to consider it. Which means the body most likely will be exhumed and more closely examined for cause of death. Tox screens and all that.”

Mrs. Wallace stamped her foot. “You’ve got another think coming if you expect any of us to pay to put him back in the ground.”

Ken looked like he’d be gladly willing to sink into the ground and take Sy’s place. “Listen, if we have to exhume Sy’s body, we will make sure he is . . . replaced. At the village’s expense.”

While the relatives continued to pepper him with questions, Dad pulled me aside. “I’m afraid this doesn’t bode well for us, Lizzie.” I started to protest, but he went on. “I shouldn’t have dragged us here. Think about it. What does the man’s death in the shop have in common with Sy’s death?”

I struggled to figure out what he was implying. Both deaths had taken place in Ken’s jurisdiction of East Aurora. Within a
week of each other. And, of course, both men had apparently been in possession of the same toy, now fondly renamed Fred and Ginger. I still wasn’t sure what Dad was hinting at.

“You and me,” he said. “Specifically, me. If a second autopsy suggests that some kind of foul play led to Sy’s death, I’ve now been placed at both scenes.”

“You told me you haven’t been here for years.”

“That’s true. But you gotta figure the good chief’s alarm bells started ringing on overload the second he walked into the room and saw me here.”

After about fifteen minutes of questioning Chief Young about what would happen next, the mourners at Sy’s wake started to settle down, much to the chagrin of Irene and Lenora, who seemed to be enjoying the show immensely. Family members covered leftovers with plastic wrap and aluminum foil, and one by one, the lights in the house were switched on, not because the sun had set, but because the gray snow clouds obscured what little light came in through the wavy glass windows.

I scored one more clue for the evening when I flipped on the lamp above a small secretary desk. On the top of a pile of mail was a bill from a local health care service, the same one Parker and I had used to help us take care of Dad for those first few weeks after he was released from the hospital.

Dad had sunk into a chair and was rubbing his knee. It was time to get him home, or at least back to Cathy and Parker’s, where he could elevate and ice it. I had gained Jack’s attention and asked for our coats when the door flung open and
a young woman walked in. She was in her late teens or early twenties at most, maybe even a student based on the bulging backpack slung over one shoulder. She wore yoga pants and a heavy sweatshirt but was still woefully underdressed for the weather. She stopped in the entryway, her jaw agape as she stared from face to face.

Irene elbowed Lenora. “It’s the ditz!” she said.

Mrs. Wallace walked over to greet the latecomer. Ken watched with interest, as did my father, as if they expected trouble to materialize. I tried to recall what the two sisters had said about a ditz coming to replace the aide who had died. Was this young woman Sy’s last health care aide? Had the old man died under her care?

And did she have motive to kill either of the men? I supposed she could have killed the aide to replace him. Although as a motive, it seemed sketchy. Home health care jobs always seemed to be in abundance and didn’t sound all that appealing. Sponge baths and bedpans and such. I wasn’t sure if they paid enough to overcome the indignities of the job, much less to make them enticing enough to kill for. But what if the former aide had to be eliminated to allow this woman access to kill Sy? Along with the rest of the guests, I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the girl.

“I think I saw you at the funeral,” Mrs. Wallace said, “but we’re about to close up here.” She started guiding the newcomer to the door.

The young woman planted her feet, put her hands on her hips, and stood her ground. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll thank you all to clear out, and take your mess with you.”

Mrs. Wallace grew nearly apoplectic. Her face paled to white, then her cheeks flamed red. Her fists tensed, and she vibrated in place. She resembled one of those rockets in Florida, when the engines have fired up, moments before they leave the ground. “Excuse me?” she said. “And who exactly do you think you are?”

A rumble of conversation went up among the relatives. I was glad Ken and Dad were there, because the Wallace tribe was getting worked up. Lenora and Irene craned their necks for a better view of what was transpiring.

The young woman didn’t seem alarmed. She lowered her backpack to the floor, unzipped it, and rummaged through the notebooks and papers inside. Finally, she tugged out a sheet of paper and held it in her teeth while she rezipped her pack. She smoothed a few wrinkles from it by rubbing it across her thigh. Then she held up what appeared to be some kind of official document.

“My name is Kimmie Kaminski. Well, Kimmie Kaminski DuPont. And as of five days ago, Sy’s wife.”

For five solid seconds, time stood still.

Then everyone started talking at once. Some rushed forward, others stepped back in shock, and almost all the residents of the room collided with one another, jostling like bumper cars.

Ken pushed forward to examine the document. Once he did, he whistled for silence.

“That can’t be genuine,” Mrs. Wallace said. Her complexion had cycled back to ashen.

“I’ll check it out with the courthouse and make sure it’s been filed properly,” Ken said, “but it looks real to me.”

Kimmie Kaminski DuPont stood straighter, strutting all five feet four inches of herself over to the coat rack, where she removed an armload of coats and started slinging them randomly to the crowd. “Now, Chief, if you could ask everyone to leave. I’m tired, and I didn’t invite any of these trespassers inside
my
house.”