Death of a Toy Soldier

by Barbara Early

“I wish I knew.” Although that wasn’t entirely true. I actually wished I could crawl back into my own bed, fall asleep, and wake up discovering everything that had happened was a dream. But that wasn’t an option. “Chief Young seems like he’s pretty good, but something’s off with Dad. That’s going to hamper the investigation. You know as well as I do that these early hours are so important.”

  Parker stared down into his cup. It went without saying that whenever something big happened in East Aurora when Dad had been the chief of police, days often passed before we saw him. That’s usually when Mom took to the bottle. Somehow, Parker managed the laundry, I learned how to cook, and he and I became best friends.

  I rubbed the sleep out of my eye. “Dad says he didn’t know the dead guy, but I’m sure I’ve heard the name before.”

  “The police haven’t released the name. Who was he?”

  “Carson Suffern.” I sipped my cooling coffee. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  “Carson . . .” Parker started to shake in silent laughter.

  “I fail to see what’s so funny.”

  “You. Carson Suffern? As in, ‘Don’t suffer with stopped-up drains. Call Carson Suffern!’ and ‘Sticky septic issues? Don’t suffer; call Suffern!’”

  “Oooohhh. The self-anointed kingpin of plumbing.” All those corny radio commercials came back, with the same announcer screaming at the top of his lungs. I caught myself smiling, but then the corners of my mouth drooped. “What was the kingpin of plumbing doing dead in our shop?”

  ###

  The next great tragedy in our lives came when Cathy insisted on making egg salad for lunch. She overcooked the eggs, leading Dad on a merry chase through every Seussian and green-egg pun he could think of. When Cathy got tired of hearing that Sam-I-Am wouldn’t eat them extra large or on a barge or from a moat or in a coat or in a lump or while taking a . . . she turned on the radio.

  Cathy pranced around the kitchen to the end of “Jingle Bell Rock.” When the news came on, she reached to switch the station, but Dad stopped her.

  The report was vague. “An unidentified man was found dead in an East Aurora shop after hours. Police are investigating and will release a statement later.”

  After a weather report (cold with a chance of snow—big surprise there), the station aired, ironically, an ad for Suffern Plumbing.

  I winced but immediately glanced at Dad. If he knew Carson Suffern, his face sure didn’t betray that fact.

  “Dad, have you ever met Carson Suffern?”

  “Who?”

  “The commercial that was just on. The kingpin of plumbing?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Hmm . . .” I repeated my personal mantra. Dad would never lie to me.

  We barely had time to dispose of our lunch when Cathy answered a tap at the door and ushered Ken back into the kitchen.

  “Would you like some egg salad?” Cathy asked.

  I wasn’t sure if he caught a glimpse of the bowl or if he just wasn’t hungry. “No thanks.” He took a seat at the table opposite Dad.

  Dad half rose and shook Ken’s hand. “I see you’re still not releasing the name of the deceased,” he said. “I take it you haven’t been able to notify the family.”

  “Well, we started to,” Ken said, also waving off a cup of coffee. “Only when we got there, the man we thought was in the morgue was actually sitting at his kitchen table. Whomever we found in the shop is clearly not Carson Suffern.”

  Dad cast me a quick glance, and I could feel my face begin to blush. He’d caught me fishing for information.

  “I suppose those dreadful commercials will continue then.” Cathy sighed as she pulled up the remaining chair at the table. “It’s a pity.”

  “I wonder why he gave me Carson Suffern’s card,” I said.

  “Maybe he mistakenly handed you the wrong one,” Cathy said.

  I shook my head. “Nope. He looked right at it before he handed it to me. Do you think he was deliberately hiding his identity?”

  “Sounds like it.” Ken leaned his elbows onto the table. Already he had dark circles under his eyes and a scruffy bit of beard started on his chin. The perils of being a small-town police chief in the middle of a murder investigation.

  “So I’m assuming you ran his prints in the FBI database,” Dad said.

  Ken rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Well, funny thing about that . . .”

  “No record?” Dad asked.

  “Actually, no prints.”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “The victim had no fingerprints?”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “Do you think he tampered with his own prints like some of those old-time gangsters?” Who was this victim, and what was he up to that he’d go to such extremes to conceal his identity?

  Ken shrugged. “That’s one theory. Although the good folks at the FBI suggested other possibilities. Apparently certain occupations can damage the fingerprints over time. Bricklaying, for one, or handling paper or cash money regularly. Even industrial accidents with fire or acid have been known to strip prints. So I came over here to see if either of you recalled anything more about the man.”

  Dad closed his eyes. His face was unreadable.

  “Scrubs,” I said. “He was wearing scrubs the first time I saw him. And he was very tan. Bricklayers would be tan.”

  “But they wouldn’t wear scrubs,” Ken said.

  “So he could be a medical worker who frequents tanning salons or a bricklayer who finds scrubs comfortable. Or maybe the scrubs were a ruse to make us think he was a health care worker.”

  Ken squinted at me.

  “If he’d gone to such lengths as to conceal his name and obliterate his fingerprints, why not wear a disguise?” When I said it out loud, it sounded more outlandish.

  Ken jostled his head from side to side as if contemplating my logic. “I guess it can’t hurt to check with the local unions. See if anyone recognizes him. Anything else?”

  I thought for a moment. “I honestly have nothing. But I did want to ask if you’d removed any toys from the shop. As evidence, I mean.”

  “Miss McCall, we wouldn’t take any of your toys.”

  “No, these were very old toys that the victim had brought to us to be evaluated. The last I saw them they were on the kitchen table upstairs, but they weren’t there when you and I . . . talked.”

  “So you’re saying you think someone broke in and took them?” His voice bore a hint of skepticism.

  I chose my next few words carefully. “I’m saying I don’t know where they are.”

  “I guess I can keep my eyes open for them,” Ken said. “Is there a list or something so I know what I’m looking for?”

  “On the kitchen table in the apartment. Just make me a copy,” Dad said, then his eyes widened. “Carson Suffern.”

  Ken sat up in his chair. “What about him?”

  “The vic had Carson Suffern’s card in his pocket?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Then he had to get the card somehow. Maybe Carson Suffern can identify him. Take a picture over there and see if he can cough up the name of our John Doe.” Dad was back in chief mode.

  If Ken resented this, he didn’t show it. He practically saluted on his way out. I kept an eye on Dad all that afternoon. His suggestion to Ken had sounded like an order, and the last thing we needed was Dad inserting himself into an investigation in which he was also a suspect.

  Fortunately, a nice board game marathon brought him back to his kindly toy store persona, even if he did almost kick my butt in Catan. Just before Dad scored enough points to win, however, Othello darted across the table, sending hexagons and playing pieces skittering in all directions. I took to my hands and knees to salvage the ones that had fallen to the floor—all except the one my cat happily batted under the refrigerator. He’d been lying on his side, poking with his paws, trying to retrieve his prize. Before long, I was doing a reasonable impersonation, trying to sweep the missi
ng piece out with a butter knife. I finally connected and sent it spinning toward me, amid a collection of cheerios, apparent possum fur, and a dust bunny the size of Texas. Othello started sniffing the possum fur, making that disgusted face cats make when they focus on a new smell.

  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.”

  Chapter 6

  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 th
is 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.