Murder on the Toy Town Express

by Barbara Early

  By this time, the red pickup had parked. The driver climbed out and whipped off a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

  I drew closer to the uniformed officer for protection, keeping free of his holster and gun, in case it should come to that.

  But the officer just raised his hand and waved. “Tony, what’s up?”

  Tony? I blinked at pickup driver. Tony Calabrese? He was new on the force.

  “Wait,” I said, spinning to face the cop. “He was following me.” I turned back to Tony. “Why were you following me?”

  Tony shuffled a little, kicking the small stones of the parking lot around with his feet. “I was just supposed to keep an eye on you. Sorry to spook you.”

  Meanwhile, the owner of the pie booth, sporting a few small scrapes on his knees, visible through now-torn jeans, came over. More yelling ensued.

  Finally the cop whistled for silence. He beckoned to the pie vendor. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, but my pies!” he said.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.” The officer reached into the vehicle, shifted it out of gear, and turned it off. “Are you all right?” he asked Maxine.

  “Fine, I think.” She unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car, breathing heavily and with her hand on her chest. “Yeah, I’m fine.” She took a slack-jawed look at her car, covered in pie.

  The officer’s shoulders rose in a deep breath before he returned his attention to me.

  I gulped. “I thought I was being followed.”

  The officer glanced up at Tony.

  “It’s true, I’m afraid,” he said.

  “You were following her? In your private vehicle? Why?”

  Tony shrank back and bit his lower lip before responding. “The chief asked me to.”

  “Chief Young asked you to trail this woman? Is she wanted?”

  Tony blushed fiercely. “Not in that sense.”

  “In what sense, then?”

  “He just asked me to keep an eye on her. This”—he gestured in my direction—“is his woman.”

  # # #

  A couple of hours and a whole lot of paperwork later, I sat in Ken’s back seat as he drove Maxine home.

  His woman? Wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Guilty about leading him on? Flattered that he thought that of me? No, mostly irritated that he’d called in some favors and actually enlisted someone on his force to follow me, albeit unofficially. And those thoughts paled in comparison to the embarrassment I felt—and would feel again as soon as the next edition of the Advertiser came out, since one of their photographers just happened to be shopping at the flea market when we made our grand entrance.

  When Ken pulled into the lot of Maxine’s apartment complex, he put his car in park and turned off the motor. Show-off.

  “Um, if it’s okay, I’d like to walk you in to make sure things are as you left them,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to tell either of you, but when Craig’s next of kin arrived in town, they reported there had been a break-in at his house.”

  Maxine shook her head. “What is happening?”

  “I wish I knew.” Ken scratched his head. “If you want, I can go first.”

  Maxine dug in her purse and pulled out her keys.

  Ken took them. “I’ll wave you in when it’s safe. If you don’t hear from me in five minutes . . .”

  My irritation melted into worry as I watched him pat the hip where he kept his off-duty weapon and walk toward the apartment building.

  It felt like an eternity, but in actuality it was only four minutes later when Ken came into view, a black cat in his arms, and waved us in.

  Maxine’s apartment was on the ground floor of one of many in a series of identical brick boxes grouped tightly together and labeled with a quaint name, followed by the ubiquitous “Estates,” as if the developers were fooling anyone into thinking the rich and famous frolicked in the dilapidated swimming pool, now empty and surrounded by a rusted chain-linked fence.

  Her door—just past a run of dented mailboxes and threadbare steps leading to the upper apartments—opened directly into a surprisingly bright living room.

  “Careful of the cat,” she said.

  As soon as Ken put her down in the apartment, she took off at a dead run for freedom.

  I managed to close the door behind me just before she made her escape.

  “She can’t get outside because of the main building door,” Maxine said, picking up the small, sleek cat. “But that’s not for lack of trying. Meanwhile, I hate chasing her up and down the stairs.” She held the cat up and looked into her eyes. “Isn’t that right, naughty girl?”

  “The lock didn’t look tampered with, and nothing looks out of place,” Ken said, but when he caught my eye, he tipped his head to a nearby hallway.

  While Maxine took some comfort in her cat, I shrugged off my sweater and looked around. She had a sofa, chair, and small television in the living room, and a vast array of plant life in front of a sliding glass door that offered a bit more privacy than originally intended, since the seal between the double panes was broken and the condensation blurred the parking lot on the other side.

  Off the living room was a miniscule kitchen—neat as the proverbial pin, if said pin had been scrubbed, shined, and roped off with museum barriers—and an even smaller eating nook. There weren’t even any stray cat hairs wafting in the air or the smell of a litter box. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the cat was a holographic image or robot. I’d definitely need to get her secret.

  “What lovely plants,” I said, but instead of getting closer to them, I walked over to where Ken was standing, with a view down the hallway. “You certainly have a green thumb.”

  That got her distracted. As she hovered over her plants, pointing out various ones, I hazarded a longer glance down that hallway. Through the opening of the bedroom door, I could just make out a picture frame sitting on her nightstand. And if I wasn’t mistaken, it was a picture of Craig.

  I raised my eyebrows and looked at Ken, who shrugged. Why would Maxine have a picture of her employer on her nightstand? Unless he was more than her employer. But what? A secret crush? Her lover? A good friend? Maybe she was just grateful for the job.

  I supposed her affection for Craig could be innocent enough, especially if she were lonely and most of her other social interaction was spent talking to plants and one very hygienic cat.

  If Maxine held a grudge for what I did to her car—the garage said she could have it back by Tuesday—she didn’t show it. And in the end, I left with more questions about her relationship with Craig and a spider plantlet that, knowing me, would be lucky to make it through the night.

  # # #

  “Do you think that the picture of Craig on Maxine’s nightstand is suspicious?” I asked Ken, then downed half my Coke as we waited for the rest of our order.

  Ken looked at the people around the counter and proposed we delay that conversation until after we sat down. He’d first suggested we eat at Wallace’s, and normally I would’ve jumped at the chance. But given the last bit of conversation Jack and I had experienced, I wanted an opportunity to clear the air before we ran into each other in an awkward social situation. And arriving for a nice late lunch/early dinner with Ken would probably be pretty awkward for all of us.

  We’d settled on a local hot dog joint just off Main. And since I hadn’t eaten since this morning, except for a dollop of pumpkin pie filling that had landed on my hand, I’d pigged out a little and ordered two hot dogs, a side of onion rings, and a dark chocolate and peanut butter shake, and then added the Coke because I was thirsty. I considered making it a diet, but I didn’t want the nice lady in the orange apron to laugh at me.

  While Ken got the rest of our food, I gathered napkins and ketchup packets and picked a table away from prying ears.

  When he set the tray down, I practically dove in. There’s nothing like that first bite of an onion ring right out of the fryer.

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven f
or having you followed?”

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I’m working on it. I’d like to know why.”

  “The case was getting too dangerous. Craig, dead. The comic booth and the store, ransacked. I hadn’t even heard about his house being broken into. And you were driving around with Maxine. I worried that her closeness to Craig would make the two of you some kind of target.”

  “I worried the same thing. I thought the pickup driver might have been one of those mob guys. I half expected them to shoot my tires out with an Uzi.”

  Ken looked down. “Sorry. You should have called, though.”

  “You should have told me.”

  He crumpled up his empty hot dog tray. “Other than that—and not putting the car in park—you probably did the right thing.”

  “I’m not sure I could have called while driving.” I tilted my head and sent him a flirty smile. “Besides, isn’t that illegal in this state?”

  “But preferable to taking out half of the flea market.”

  “One stand. I hit one stand. Nobody was hurt. And technically, I wasn’t even in the car.”

  Ken hid his face behind his hands with a sigh but ended up laughing. “Only you, Liz. Only you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Instead of answering, he bit into his second hot dog, and the next few minutes were filled with appreciative food grunts that can only be understood by those who’ve experienced a Sahlen’s hot dog. To everyone else, they might have resembled the soundtrack to a cheap porn flick.

  It was only when he wiped the mustard from his hands that he answered. “About Maxine. I don’t know what to make of the picture. You’re a woman. You’ve spent more time with her than I have. What do you think it could mean? I mean, do you have any pictures of men on your nightstand?”

  The question gave me butterflies. “Just my father’s,” I said. “And Parker’s. It’s a family picture.”

  “So not necessarily romantic love,” he said, “but some kind of affection.”

  “Hers could be romantic, I suppose,” I said. “Maxine seemed awfully devoted to him and terribly stunned by his death.”

  “More than just the possibility of unemployment?”

  “She won’t be unemployed for long. If Craig’s heir decides to let her go, I’m calling dibs.”

  “So you’re going to see her again, then,” Ken said.

  “Yes, and maybe I can figure out what exactly her relationship was with Craig.” I tossed my napkin onto my plate, hiding a small piece of the second hot dog that I just didn’t quite have room to finish. “Speaking of relationships, I—”

  But a buzz from Ken’s cell commandeered his attention. “Sorry.” He glanced at his phone, then read whatever text he’d received again.

  “Just got some toxicology results on Craig.”

  “Isn’t that awfully fast?” I asked.

  “Usually takes weeks. This is from the blood work the hospital did when they were trying to figure out how to treat him. Apparently nobody informed the lab that he was dead, which this time worked in our favor.” He continued to stare at the phone.

  “So what did they find?” I asked.

  “Something called scopolamine,” he said.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Neither have I. Reading the rest of the report now.”

  While he was doing that, I pulled out my phone to see what the good folks at Google had to say. The first site I found talked about scopolamine’s use in preventing motion sickness. But just a few lines down, they talked about the drug in connection with crime in Colombia.

  “Organized crime,” I said.

  “On another continent,” he said. And we both kept reading. Just two typical thirtysomethings, out on an apparent date, each buried in our own phones.

  It seemed scopolamine wasn’t a recreational drug at all, but one administered to hapless victims, rendering them susceptible to suggestion. According to one article, these victims were often then raped, kidnapped, or ordered to empty their ATM accounts. And they complied without putting up a struggle.

  “This can’t be real,” I said, immediately searching for scopolamine on Snopes. At first I was rewarded. An e-mail talking about victims becoming human zombies by simply touching a scopolamine-laced business card was proved false. But underneath that was more information. News stories from Colombia. State Department warnings. If these reports could be believed, scopolamine, also known as burundanga from the tree on which it grows, was a very real problem, at least in Colombia.

  “What’s it doing up here?” I asked.

  Ken shook his head, his eyes still glued to his cell.

  “So this isn’t recreational drug use,” I said. “And I doubt someone was trying to date-rape Craig. So what then? Rob him? Get him to do something he wouldn’t do?”

  “Like jump from the catwalks?” Ken said.

  “If he was under the influence of this scopolamine, someone could’ve made him hand over those pricy comic books and then told him to take a flying leap.”

  Ken stroked his chin. “So the death that hundreds of witnesses in a crowded convention center see as an accidental fall could be murder after all.”

  “I knew he wasn’t the type to kill himself.”

  “But who would have drugged him?” Ken said. “And remember, it’s only supposition that it has anything to do with those missing comics.”

  I folded my hands over my mouth. He was right, of course. Dad had warned me not to try to force any pieces to fit. “It has to be someone who’d have access to scopolamine and access to Craig’s drink. Assuming it was in his coffee. Do we know that yet?”

  “Tests on the cup will take a while.”

  “So we know someone drugged Craig. We know someone walked off with a bunch of pricy comics. Comics that Craig had cheated a local resident out of. We also know that someone is still looking for something, either comic books or information. And they want it desperately enough to break into a convention center, a Main Street storefront, and Craig’s house. So we can assume they haven’t found what they wanted yet.”

  “What a mess,” Ken said. “And I’m not even technically on the case anymore.”

  This time my phone beeped. “A text from Dad.” I looked up with a smile. “He wants us to come back to the show. He said it took a while, but he knows who ransacked the comic booth.”

  Chapter 12

  The security office had become the strategy room. Dad still sat in his squeaky chair. And since Ken had decided he’d better opt out if he was going to maintain any illusion of being off the case, Detective Reynolds was leaning against the wall next to a couple of uniformed officers. Not sure how I rated an invite, but I wasn’t about to leave.

  Dad queued up the video to point out the two men. They’d managed to avoid being caught by the camera that had been focused on the comic booth. Apparently they’d spotted it and managed to change the aim so that it only caught images of the ceiling. So while we couldn’t actually see them vandalizing the booth, other cameras had caught them as they pulled open a back door to the center. They were no longer dressed in a Batman tee or bolo tie, opting instead for plain dark clothes. But they were definitely the same two Dad had pointed out to me at the show, suspected of mafia ties.

  “So, what? We got them on breaking and entering?” Reynolds asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Or do we even have that? Why isn’t that door locked?”

  “I wondered the same thing,” Dad said. “I know it was locked when I left. I locked and double-checked everything personally. So I ran the tape back.” Dad rewound the tape and told us to pay attention. Most of the time it just showed a closed door, but eventually it caught what looked like a man bursting through the door and sprinting backward toward the parking lot. Dad stopped the tape and ran it forward at normal speed. A very familiar figure of a man entered the frame, using a key to unlock the door.

  “Who’s that?” Reynolds squinted at the screen as Dad paused the pictur
e.

  “Lionel Kelley?” I said, guessing based on the man’s slim build and posture, which was impeccable.

  “Kelley?” Reynolds said. “That twerp? What’s he doing with a key? And why’s he letting them in?”

  “Now,” Dad said, “don’t jump to conclusions. Until very recently, Kelley was head of security here.”

  “And he should’ve relinquished his keys. And he definitely should not be opening doors for known felons,” Reynolds said.

  “All true,” Dad said. “But I don’t think he opened the door for those guys. I have a feeling they were hanging around for a while, saw him go in, and took advantage of the open door. Yes, Kelley should’ve turned in his keys, but I suspect his plans were a little less nefarious. In fact, I can prove it.”

  “You have him on other cameras?” I asked.

  “Yes, and never near the comic books.”

  “Well, let’s see it,” Reynolds said.

  Dad looked uncomfortable. “I don’t suppose you’d take my word for it?”

  “Roll film,” Reynolds said, folding his arms in front of his chest.

  Dad faced the monitor with a resigned sigh and called up footage that showed Kelley walking around the conference floor.

  “Didn’t he know he’d be caught on camera?” I asked.

  “I think he was counting on nobody watching the footage,” Dad said. “Which is what happens 99.9 percent of the time when there’s not a problem. It’s also why I don’t think he let in those two men. He wouldn’t want anybody to watch this.”

  Kelley made his way over to our toy booth and lifted the table cover. I squinted at the grainy screen. “What’s he . . . ?” And then I remembered what Cathy had said about Parker leaving money on the table. The serious, stalwart ex-security guard and former officer pulled out his wallet, carefully counted out cash, and put the amount on the table. He then picked up a My Little Pony headband and stroked his fingers through its rainbow mane as if he were petting a prized stallion. He placed the headband on his head, adjusted the plush ears, and shook his head to toss the mane around, like a sultry, long-haired model in a shampoo commercial. And then he picked up the matching rainbow tail.