Murder on the Toy Town Express

by Barbara Early

  “Oh, that’s a local self-publisher!” Cathy said. “They charge way too much for chapbooks, though. And you have to buy like a bazillion copies. One woman in my poetry group checked.”

  I glanced at the clock. They’d be open now, but I wasn’t sure my dad would sneak off there first thing.

  “I’ll look up the address for you,” Cathy said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you sure your father’s the only one who has trouble sneaking off and playing detective?” Maxine asked.

  I ignored the question. It was easier than coming to terms with the answer. “Anywhere else?”

  “They mentioned the comic book shop, but I don’t think anyone would be there right now. The new owner was talking about coming back during the weekend when her son wasn’t in school.”

  “That will be easy enough to check.”

  Cathy handed me the address of the publisher. “Shouldn’t you call Ken and tell him what you’re up to?”

  “Let me see what I find out first,” I said. I picked up the Magic 8 Ball I’d dropped earlier, shook it, and flipped it over.

  “Outlook not so good,” it said. Good thing I’m a skeptic.

  ###

  I took a slow walk past the comic book store first. The door was locked, and I peeked in through the window. They’d made a little progress cleaning up. The comics were all off the floor and put into boxes and bins, at least. Since the store wasn’t very deep, I could see all the way to the back wall. Those photographs of Craig and all those kids had been taken down.

  It didn’t make sense to drive to the hospital if the police already had the camera footage. But if the police already had the camera footage . . .

  I took off at a brisk walk toward the police station. Even as I opened the door, I could hear Dad’s jovial tones as he joked around with the guys. When one of them walked out with a half-eaten peanut stick, I knew exactly where my father had been this whole time.

  “Hey, Liz!” Dad waved me back. By now the clerk knew me well enough to buzz me in as soon as my hand hit the doorknob.

  “I see you got my note,” he said.

  “Following a lead? That could have meant you were anywhere.”

  “And go off investigating by myself without letting Ken know?” he said, wearing his most cherubic expression. “Since I couldn’t sleep, I picked up some doughnuts for the guys and came down here to see how it was going with the footage from the hospital.”

  “And?”

  Dad poked Ken in the arm. “Told you she’d be interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” I said. “I almost walked in on the murder.”

  Dad’s expression sobered.

  Ken gestured toward the back of the station. “How about we take this discussion to my office?”

  Ken’s office now had several large boxes bearing the Clean Queen label stacked up against one wall.

  “Shouldn’t that be in evidence?” I asked.

  Ken rolled his eyes. “I haven’t got a clue what to do with it. I can’t return it. It’s contraband. I can’t dump it in the creek. It’s like fifty proof—all the fish would end up pickled. And I can’t put it into evidence unless I want to call it a crime. Hank, do you think I have a career in this town if I arrest the mayor’s wife on an old moonshining charge?”

  Dad started laughing. “I’d pay good money to see you try.”

  Ken perched on the side of his desk and shook his head. “It’ll still be sitting here fifty years from now—”

  “Well-aged,” Dad added.

  Ken didn’t answer but tried to massage the tension from his neck.

  “I have a suggestion,” I said. I took a quick accounting of the boxes. “And it’d probably only take you a couple of years to dispose of all of it.”

  Ken looked up.

  “It is a decent cleaner,” I said. “Nontoxic. Well, mostly. Organic.”

  Dad sent me an admiring look. “Also saves money on the cleaning budget,” he offered.

  “I couldn’t,” he said. “Could I?”

  “Lock it up in the cleaning closet,” Dad said. “See what happens. Better than keeping several cases of hooch in your office for the next few years.”

  “I’ll do that.” Ken grabbed a box.

  Dad stood in his way. “Maybe when there are fewer people around to see it, though.”

  “Good idea.” I watched Ken thank my father. Apparently they’d already forgotten whose idea it was.

  “So what did you find?” I asked.

  “Huh?” Ken said.

  “On the surveillance camera,” Dad said. “Not a thing.”

  “We looked for all our persons of interest, and we didn’t see any of them going into that hospital. It’s hard to cover all the entrances perfectly, though. The camera is pretty low resolution, and there are times when someone could have slipped in with the crowd that was coming and going. Lots of traffic in and out.”

  “Dead end,” I said.

  “We can still send it out and have someone run some of that new facial recognition software on it. They might come up with something that none of my men saw.”

  “But now that you’re here, how about you come with me and track down another loose end?” Dad said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The publishing house that was going to publish Craig’s comic series. I thought maybe you and I could do a little harmless undercover work.”

  “They’ve not been cooperating,” Ken said. “Not that they have to. We have nothing to connect them to anything criminal. We just asked if they’d answer a few questions, and they clammed up tight.”

  “Sounds suspicious,” I said.

  “What do you say, kiddo?” Dad asked. “Think you could play the part of an aspiring writer desperate to share her words with the world?”

  “Why, I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I picked up a pencil.” I batted my eyelashes at him.

  “Honey, I was there the first time you picked up a pencil. You stuck it up your brother’s nose. Your mother was so mad, I had to smuggle you dinner.”

  “Everyone’s a critic.”

  Chapter 19

  Dad and I checked in at the shop, ready to apologize for being AWOL, but Cathy and Maxine seemed to be managing just fine without us. Better than fine. The shop was cleaner than normal. I changed into my glasses because I thought they might make me look just a little bit more literary, and I borrowed Cathy’s notebook with her most recent poems.

  “Don’t you want the novel?” she asked.

  I thought for a moment. She’d read portions to me during quiet mornings in the shop. I’d started having misgivings when I—or rather a character inspired by me—had heard a noise and went to investigate while wearing a sheer harem costume, complete with castanets. It did not get better from there. No way I was taking that. The way things were going lately, they’d end up publishing the thing.

  “No, the poems are great,” I said. “Just in case they want to see a sample.”

  “Well, if they do, you’ll tell me what they say, right? It’s really hard to get honest feedback.”

  I promised, and soon Dad and I were off to the offices of Buffalo Chips Press.

  “So what exactly are we going to ask them?” I asked.

  “Let’s not go in there with a script,” Dad said. “It’s too easy to get caught that way. Always sounds phony. We play it by ear. Not too many questions, and let the natural conversation drive the interview.”

  “Got it.”

  Dad opened the door to Buffalo Chips Press, and we walked into what looked like an old newspaper office. Older than the Superman movies. Older than Kolchak: The Nightstalker, even. We were in His Girl Friday territory, complete with the odor of old printer’s ink. Now if only Cary Grant would saunter through the door from the back room and step up to the counter. But with my luck, Lou Grant would be more likely.

  Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be Lexi Wolf. Minus the whip, the swagger, th
e fishnet stockings, and the curls. In their place was a short, messy bob.

  And khakis. Lexi Wolf—or rather Tippi Hillman—wore khakis. She sure looked a lot different from her action figure. Even different from the time she went undercover as a school teacher to penetrate the defenses of the Kohara faction. I’d underestimated Craig when I’d assumed he’d hired an imposter.

  It took great effort not to squeal and go all fangirl.

  “May I help you?” she asked. Also sans that awesome Aussie accent.

  Dad spoke first. I’m not sure he recognized Tippi without her costume, even though he’d suffered through more than one episode, always complaining of plot holes.

  “Yes,” Dad said. “My daughter is a poet, you see.”

  I held up the notebook but was too starstruck to answer.

  “And she heard in one of her writing groups that you publish poems. Since she has a birthday coming up, I thought it’d be nice to surprise her.” He put his arm around me. “You can tell she’s a little nervous.”

  “Aren’t you sweet.”

  Lexi Wolf called me sweet!

  “Why don’t we step over here, and I’ll tell you the kind of things we publish here. Let’s see what we can do to make those dreams come true.”

  We followed her over to a pitted conference table where we sat while she pulled several paperbacks from a nearby bookshelf. My pulse quickened when I realized that one of them was her autobiography, Hungry Like the Wolf, about being a normal-sized woman pressured to lose weight during filming.

  She started reviewing various options—matte versus glossy covers, different kinds of paper, various trim sizes for the books—when she stopped cold. She slammed the book down and stared straight at me.

  “Yes, I am Lexi Wolf. You can stop drooling now.” She slouched in her chair. “Do you even write poetry?”

  “I . . . have a notebook.”

  Dad burst out laughing. “You got us. She has a few poems in the notebook, but we borrowed them from a friend. We saw you at the train and toy show, and my daughter is such a big fan. We just wanted to talk.”

  “When I was in college I wanted to be you,” I said.

  “Well, being Lexi Wolf wasn’t as glamorous as it appeared, but it was probably more fun than calculus.” She pulled out a business card. “Here. Tuck that in the notebook in case your friend the poet is interested. What would you like to know?”

  All of a sudden, my vocal cords loosened, and I peppered her with questions about shooting locations, props, and costumes, while carefully avoiding the supposed plot holes that critics liked to point out. I think we were both pretty at ease when Dad started asking questions.

  “So what brought you to Western New York? And to the train and toy show in particular?”

  “Well, it wasn’t the weather, although I do like to ski so I’m okay with a little snow. But it’s the tale as old as time. There was a really nice guy. He was from Buffalo and wanted to move back, so I ended up here. Did a little local theater. Shakespeare in Delaware Park, in one of their all-female productions. That was a lot of fun, but it wasn’t a career anymore. I’ve always been a reader, even majored in English in college before I landed the part of Lexi. This seemed like a good fit.”

  “The guy from Buffalo. It wasn’t Craig McFadden, was it?” Dad asked.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve made some mistakes in my life, but he wasn’t one of them. No, Steve and I are still together and very happy. And since I agreed to move to Buffalo with him, he financed this thriving venture.” She gestured around the dilapidated office. “My cleaning staff is on vacation.”

  “You knew Craig, though,” I said.

  She nodded. “He came to me with an idea for a comic book series. I told him I’d never done comics before. Mostly this place was just inserts for local newspapers—sale ads, that kind of thing—before I added trade paperbacks. I told him I’d have to hire people to do the layouts. He didn’t seem fazed, so I quoted him a super high price, kind of hoping he’d just go away. He recognized me right off the bat. I think he just wanted to thank Lexi Wolf in the acknowledgments. Next thing I know, he’s forking over the deposit. Said the rest of the money would be in soon.”

  “What happens to that series now?” I asked.

  She folded her hands in front of her and studied my face. “Why are you asking?”

  I looked to Dad, who did a good job of not appearing flustered.

  “We heard about the series, and it sounded interesting. Just wondering if it was still going forward. Might even make for a good investment.”

  “You want to invest in Mr. Inferno?”

  “Why not?” Dad said. “You must think it has potential, if you were willing to publish it.”

  “I was willing to print it,” Tippi said. “There’s a difference.”

  “So with Craig dead, does the project go forward?” I asked. “The circumstances created a bit of a sensation, and I’m sure that kind of thing could be spun into decent publicity.”

  “That depends,” she said. “Craig signed over a bunch of rights in the initial contract.”

  “Is that typical?” I asked.

  “No, but in Craig’s case, I insisted on it. Adding comics required new equipment and personnel. It protects our investment. We put time and energy and money into it. And I know how easy it is for writers to get cold feet. Or run to another publisher and leave us holding the bag. Legally, we can go forward. Just not sure it makes sense yet.”

  “What would tip the scales?” Dad asked.

  “I sent a digital galley over to a freelance comic book editor, and he said it has potential. But that doesn’t mean it will find an audience and magically catch on. I popped a preliminary cover image up on Amazon to see if it generates many presales. We’ll see.”

  “If it does take off, and with Craig gone, who’d get the royalties?” Dad asked.

  “Not sure I want to answer that,” she said. “Let’s just say I have a very good intellectual property attorney.”

  “And Craig didn’t,” I said.

  She shrugged. “He signed the contract. Now, do you want to keep grilling me, or can I get back to work?”

  “One more question,” I said. “Can I get a signed copy of Hungry Like the Wolf?”

  # # #

  I scored more than a free book. Heading south out of the city, we happened across a Lloyd Taco Truck. I didn’t have to twist Dad’s arm to convince him to stop for an early lunch, especially since Jack’s place would likely be off limits for some time. At least until I got up the nerve to see him again without bursting into tears.

  But as we were leaning against my Civic eating our tacos—I got the pulled pork while Dad opted for braised beef—I realized that he’d left the toyshop before Cathy had a chance to tell him the good news. The circle of people who knew about the newest McCall in town was growing, yet Dad hadn’t yet learned he was going to be a grandpa. I needed to get him there quick so he could hear it from Parker or Cathy and not through the grapevine.

  “What’s next, kiddo?” Dad asked.

  “Back to the shop. We owe it to Cathy and Maxine to at least put in an appearance.”

  He looked reluctant, but when we headed down Main Street, he rubbernecked the comic book store where a woman and a teenage boy were standing in front shoving a key in the lock.

  “I thought they weren’t coming back until the weekend,” I said. “That’s when Maxine said she was going to help with inventory.”

  Dad smiled at me. “How about we introduce ourselves to the new neighbors?”

  A parking spot magically opened up right in front of the store, but even while I centered my car between the lines, I prepared Dad for news. “There’s something you need to know before we go in there.” I told him what I had learned about Maxine being Craig’s mother—and the teen’s grandmother. “Although he doesn’t know it.”

  “That’s why Maxine was so upset over Craig’s death,” he said. “Such a shame she never got to tell
Craig before he died. Especially after spending all those months getting to know him.”

  “I doubt the kid is carrying the same kind of emotional baggage Craig did. So there’s still hope she’ll be able to build some bridges with her grandson.”

  Dad took my hand. “Family. We take it for granted.”

  This touching Hallmark moment delayed us just long enough that by the time we arrived at the front door, the woman and her son had gone inside and locked it behind them. Dad knocked, and we stood smiling on the doorstep while the mother inspected us through the glass.

  “If this is how the Jehovah’s Witnesses feel every time they knock on a door, remind me to be kinder next time,” Dad said out of the corner of his mouth.

  We must have passed muster, because the woman opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Dad said, turning on his charm. He introduced both of us and managed to shoehorn in that he was the former chief of police. To gain her trust? Must have worked. She invited us in.

  The air in the shop was stagnant, probably the time spent baking in the sun with the awning rolled up and the AC not running. It was dim, since the overhead lights were off. There’s something a little spooky about a commercial building with the lights off.

  “Amanda Cooper,” she said by way of introduction. “And my son, Kohl.”

  “Hi, Kohl,” I said.

  Kohl looked up when his name was mentioned, but he didn’t say anything and never quite made eye contact. Instead, he flipped the page of his comic book, ran his hand along the paper, and went back to reading, his head bobbing ever so slightly in a comforting rock.

  “Sorry,” Amanda whispered. “He’s a little uncomfortable in new situations and around new people.” I didn’t need that explanation to guess that Kohl was somewhere on the autism spectrum. When he did finally look in my direction, I smiled at him. He quickly broke eye contact again, but I noticed that when he looked down at his comic book, he was smiling too.

  Maxine apparently hadn’t picked up on the child’s challenges yet, since she’d only said that the boy was quiet. I doubted it would make much difference once she learned, though. Grandmas are like that.