Death of a Toy Soldier

by Barbara Early

  “Dad, maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “Buck up, Lizzie,” he said. “All part of the job.”

  I was about to remind him that my job was managing a toy store, but he was already half up the driveway. The front porch caught my attention. It was new and made of brick, while most of the others on the street were concrete with rusted railings. It was, however, untouched by a snow shovel, so we made our way to the more traveled side entry, and Dad rapped on the aluminum storm door. No way anyone could miss that racket.

  By the time I caught up with him, a woman wearing a T-shirt, a stained, oversized cardigan, and yoga pants—and holding a howling toddler in her arms—answered the door. Her eyes were red and puffy. Apparently the police had recently given her the bad news.

  “If you’re selling doughnuts,” she said, “I don’t have the money right now.”

  “No, Mrs. O’Grady,” Dad said. “I know this isn’t a good time, but we’re working with the police on the investigation. I was wondering if you had a few minutes to talk. Even if you don’t, the doughnuts are for you.”

  The toddler unburied his head. Apparently he was familiar with the term “doughnuts.” He lunged for the door handle.

  Mrs. O’Grady wrestled the chubby wrist away from the door, then said, “Fine, come on in.”

  Dad ducked under a strand of low-hanging tinsel garland and followed her to a small landing, covered in shoes and boots. A handful of stairs led directly into the kitchen, where a few wet puddles, salt crystals, and dried footprints gave testimony to the fact that recent visitors hadn’t removed their boots, so neither did we, although I did my best to dry mine on the sopping entry rug.

  Mrs. O’Grady seated the child at a small table, where a slightly older girl sat coloring a picture of a reindeer. Soon both had doughnut halves in hand and the toddler was sucking down juice from a sippy cup.

  Mrs. O’Grady gestured to the kitchen table, loaded with stacks of papers and riddled with scratches and dings, a few of which were filled in with dried food. Dishes overflowed the sink. The walls were decorated with crayon scrawls and food splatters, and the refrigerator was covered in magnets and artwork, featuring a green construction paper Christmas tree, its branches formed from traced child-sized handprints.

  “Forgive the house,” she said, then coughed into her sleeve. “We’ve been sick.”

  Meanwhile, the toddler left the table and was back at his mother’s side, smearing a snotty face against her yoga pants before she picked him up and placed him on her lap. He rubbed one eye with his whole fist before leaning into his mother’s chest. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Mrs. O’Grady said.

  “I gather you were separated,” Dad started.

  That got the waterworks going. I found a box of tissues on a nearby table and slid them to her. She mouthed her thanks and grabbed a few. It took several minutes for her to regain her composure.

  “Not because I didn’t love Sully,” she said. “He was a good dad. How am I going to . . . ?” She stopped talking while her breaths came quick and shallow.

  Dad grabbed her arm. “Breathe slow and deep. It’s okay.”

  When her breathing neared normal, Dad fetched her a glass of water from the sink.

  She took several sips. “I told him I couldn’t live like that anymore. I didn’t think the separation would last forever. Sully’s my soul mate. Was.” She hiccupped and drank more water. “How am I going to do this without him?”

  “Do this?” Dad said.

  “Raise these kids. Alone.” Her eyes widened, then she hugged the toddler even more frantically. “Sully always said he wanted a large family. I was an only child and lonely, so it sounded good to me. We got pregnant on our honeymoon, and that seemed to suit him fine.”

  “With your daughter?” I pointed to the girl still coloring silently at the table.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Our son. Most of the kids are on a field trip with their home school group.”

  “Most of?” I said. “How many kids do you have?”

  “Eight,” she said. “I told him eight was my limit.” She looked around the messy kitchen. “I should have put my foot down and stopped at six, but Sully could be so persuasive. Which is fine, but he wasn’t carrying them for nine months, going through labor, and breastfeeding them while making sure the older ones kept up on their schoolwork. He was always at church or on mission trips, and he’d work long hours on that job of his. His clients were dying and needed him, he said. But sometimes we needed him here. Right?”

  “He couldn’t expect you to raise eight kids all by yourself,” I said. Could he?

  She sniffled twice, then blew her nose. “He didn’t believe in divorce, either. I thought if he moved out for a little while, he’d see my point. But he wasn’t moving back in until he realized that I wasn’t going to have another baby.

  “And now what am I going to do? Eight kids and all alone.” Her breathing was becoming irregular again, so Dad coached her on how to calm down.

  “Mrs. O’Grady,” Dad said, “I have to ask. Was money an issue?”

  She furrowed her brows. “As you can see, we don’t live high off the hog, but we were never lacking for anything.”

  “It must have been difficult to support a family of eight children on what he earned as a home health aide. Food. Clothing. This house. Transportation.” Since Mrs. O’Grady didn’t answer, Dad rambled on. “I can see where it might be a temptation for some men to . . . supplement their income. Especially when maybe someone’s not going to need money much longer . . . It makes sense, after all, to care for the living.”

  An entirely new expression overtook Mrs. O’Grady’s face as she realized what my Dad was getting at.

  “If you’re saying my Sully stole anything, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Her voice had risen, but when the toddler started stirring in her arms, she modulated her tone. “My husband was a very spiritual and moral man. If the Good Book was against it, Sully was against it, too. We might have been going through a rough stretch, but he would never steal from anyone, let alone a client who trusted him.”

  Dad was clearly now in the doghouse. Maybe it was time for some good cop/bad cop.

  I gave Dad a disapproving stare and held it until I knew Mrs. O’Grady had seen it. Then I turned back to her. “I’m sure you’re right. After all, there are other ways to make a budget balance.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Sully didn’t believe in debt. He saved all the money for this house before we bought it. We got a good deal in a short sale and paid cash. Someone had totally trashed the place on the inside. We’ve been fixing it up little by little, using his military pension.” She looked a little sheepish at the state of her house, then coughed into her sleeve, as if to remind us—or maybe herself—that she’d been sick.

  “Did he, uh, build the front porch, by any chance?” I turned to Dad. “The brick porch?”

  “Yeah, just before he left for his last mission trip. He was supposed to help lay the brick for a new clinic, and he said he wanted to practice. I wasn’t about to complain. He did a beautiful job.”

  I nodded and sent Dad a look, just in case he was keeping score. This explained the bricklayer who wore scrubs. Just not who would want to kill him. I turned back to Mrs. O’Grady. “So he didn’t leave you with a mortgage.”

  “Exactly. We didn’t go out to eat, I clip more than my share of coupons, and yes, we believe in secondhand and hand-me-downs. But we were doing fine financially, so if you think he was tempted . . .”

  I shook my head, as if that had been the last thought on my mind. Dad lowered his head to show suitable penance.

  If Mrs. O’Grady had harbored any anger, it melted into reverie. “He could have had a better job, you know. He was smart. He was a combat medic in the army, and he could do just about anything the doctors could do. You should have seen the commendations he got. But Sully felt like it was his calling, working with folks who were about to . . . pass over.” Her brow furrowe
d. “I guess those folks would be more vulnerable to theft, but not from Sully.” Color rose in her cheeks. “They were blessed to have him there, I’m sure.”

  She closed her eyes. “Just more of a sacrifice than I was willing to make, him being gone those long hours and me here alone. There was never time for me. Or enough quality time for us. Sully had been talking about a date night, just the two of us. He hated that we were living apart. But I thought he was trying to talk me into more kids, so I stalled him. Now I feel selfish.”

  “No,” I murmured. “I can see you have your hands full. And now with him gone . . . At least the house is paid for.”

  She sighed. “Sully made sure I would be taken care of. Financially, at least. We have a healthy bank account, money set aside for college and retirement. And I know he had decent life insurance in addition to the military survivor benefits.” She blew out a breath. “I guess I need to call our lawyer and finance guy and start the ball rolling on all that.” She forced a smile and brushed streaming tears away with the palm of her hand. “Sully always teased me that if something happened to him, I’d be a rich widow.”

  ###

  “A rich widow?” Cathy repeated with such excitement, she almost dropped her fork. We’d recounted the day’s goings-on to Cathy and Parker over dinner. Or rather I did. Dad pretended to enjoy his meal.

  Cathy had outdone herself in making dinner, and not in a good way. In the past, her meals had at least borne a resemblance to familiar foods. I was more likely to figure out who killed Sullivan O’Grady than to identify what she’d been aiming for when she’d assembled these ingredients in her casserole dish. At least the refrigerator biscuits were edible, if you peeled off the bottom layer of charcoal and skipped the doughy middles.

  Cathy leaned both elbows on the table, sending her plethora of bracelets jingling as they slid down her arm. “Do you think she might have killed her husband? For the life insurance?”

  “We asked where she was the night her husband was murdered,” I said. “She claimed she was home with the kids.”

  “Unless she sneaked out and followed her husband,” Cathy said, warming up. “Maybe she thought he was cheating on her.” Cathy has a very active imagination.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Othello get up from under the Christmas tree where he’d been lounging. He stretched, yawned, then stopped to sniff the air. We didn’t give him a whole lot of table scraps, but if he came closer, tonight he was welcome to anything on my plate.

  “She didn’t say anything about an affair,” Dad said.

  “Well, he was a guy, right?” Cathy carried her empty plate to the sink.

  “Hey,” Parker objected. “Not all guys cheat.”

  Cathy came up behind him, putting her arms around him and doing her best sultry Marilyn Monroe impression. “Not even if the other woman is young and pretty and oh so interested in you?” She tapped his nose.

  Parker froze for a moment, then said, “That depends. Can she cook?”

  Dad shook with quiet laughter while Cathy snapped a dish towel at her husband. The skirmish ended when Parker managed to pull Cathy onto his lap.

  I used the diversion to take a large forkful from my plate and drop it on the floor. Moments later, I was rewarded when Othello brushed up next to me on his way to the morsel I’d left him.

  “But would she leave the kids home alone?” Dad asked, waving his butter knife in the air as he made his point. He was never that easy to sidetrack.

  “How old is the oldest one?” Cathy asked.

  I took a large sip of water. “Maybe twelve, but that’s a guess from the picture tacked up on the fridge. Not old enough to watch over that brood.”

  “The oldest kids in large families tend to be very responsible,” Cathy said, pushing herself back to her feet. “Like on that reality show with that big family.”

  “With legal problems of their own.” Dad nudged his plate back as if he were full. “I don’t think you’d be able to prove her alibi. If all the kids were sleeping, she could have sneaked out. I don’t think you can name her as a suspect, though, unless you could place her nearer the scene. For instance, did anyone see her car out that night? Was she or her car captured on any of the security cameras on Main Street?”

  “But she has a definite motive,” Cathy said.

  Dad rubbed the back of his neck. “He didn’t force her into having all those kids. At one point, she felt the same way about it as he did. It might have been an issue that broke them up, but given time, who knows? Maybe they’d have worked through it.”

  “I also don’t think she was following him,” I said. “In all our talk, there was never the mention of another woman. So it’s not like she was hoping to catch him in the act with some bimbo. What’s the point in trailing him?”

  “Unless she planned on killing him,” Parker said.

  “I don’t think anyone was planning on killing him that night,” I said.

  Dad squinted at me but waited for me to supply the reason.

  “Someone who had planned on killing Sullivan O’Grady would have brought a weapon, not hoped that those lawn darts were sharp enough and strong enough to do the job.”

  As my words sank in, Dad’s smile grew broader, and I basked in the glow of his approval.

  The moment was short lived. Cathy brought out dessert, a monstrosity of a gelatin salad. “I’ve been experimenting with vintage recipes,” she said. “Not sure I’m going to make the tuna surprise again, but can you go wrong with Jell-O?”

  Parker stared at the wriggling mass. “Are those turnips?”

  Dad stopped her from scooping out a portion for him. “No thanks. I lived through the sixties. I think there’s a law that says I don’t have to do this again.”

  While the rest of us picked through our desserts, eating the Jell-O and leaving the odd contents on our plates, Dad gathered a pile of scratch paper and a mechanical pencil from the junk drawer.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I think it’s time to make a suspect list.”

  “Is Mrs. O’Grady going on it?” Cathy asked.

  Dad bobbed his head from left to right a few times. “For now. I did have another thought today when we were talking with her.” He turned to me. “Did you catch it?”

  “Another suspect?” I racked my brain trying to recall anything that Mrs. O’Grady might have said that pointed to anyone else. “She said she’s the beneficiary of the life insurance. I don’t recall her mentioning anyone else who would have profited from her husband’s death.”

  Dad rapped his fingers on the table. “Not profited, exactly. But she said something a little odd. Her husband considered it his calling to help those who were about to cross over.”

  “Cross over what?” Parker said. “The River Styx? Death?”

  “Wrong context,” Dad said. “Crossing over Jordan, would be my guess. Still a metaphor for death. Crossing over Jordan into the Promised Land. One might question how much help he provided.”

  “I assume she meant that he helped make that transition as comfortable as possible,” I said. “Not that he gave them a little push.”

  Dad shook his head gravely. “Never assume.”

  “Ooh,” Cathy said. “A possible angel of death.” I could tell she found this prospect even more titillating than a run-of-the-mill affair.

  “So who would have had motive if that were the case?” Parker asked.

  “His most recent client,” I said. “Sy DuPont, if he felt his life was in danger. But why not just call the police?”

  “You’ve messed up the timeline,” Dad said. “By the time O’Grady was killed, Sy DuPont was already dead.”

  “He died when, exactly?” Cathy asked.

  “We’d have to check the obit, but figure three days before the funeral, usually.”

  “A former client, then?” Cathy said. But when we all laughed, she amended it. “Okay, the family of a former client. Out of revenge or justice.”

 
; “Why at that moment and why with a lawn dart?” I asked.

  “I still think the angel-of-death angle might be a good theory to share with Chief Young,” Parker said. “It is his investigation. Make him chase it down.”

  I peered at Dad. “I guess we can do that. Just suggest the possibility to him. And we should make sure he knows about the bricklaying, so he doesn’t waste too much time trying to figure out a more heinous reason for O’Grady’s lack of fingerprints.”

  Dad pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, as if mentally weighing the idea. “Maybe after they do the autopsy on the old man.”

  “But Sullivan O’Grady would have been fired before Sy’s death,” Cathy said, using her fingers to make adjustments on an invisible timeline in front of her. “Hard to imagine him going back into the house, especially with Kimmie moved in and the snoop sisters watching the place.”

  “Let’s not jump too far ahead of ourselves,” Dad said. “First they need to figure out exactly how the old man died, but there are ways to kill someone that aren’t instantaneous. So yes, it’s possible that Sullivan O’Grady put some kind of plan in motion to kill Sy—poison, for example—before he got the boot.”

  “And before someone murdered him,” I said.

  Cathy pulled out a sheet of scrap paper for herself and jotted a few sentences down.

  “Making your own suspect list?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, “but there’s a mystery writer in my Thursday writers group. I thought the idea of someone killing the person who had already secretly poisoned them would be a great plot bunny for her.”

  Parker silently mouthed the words “Plot bunny?”

  “But didn’t we just prove that’s not how it happened?” I asked.

  Cathy finished her note with a flourish and folded the page. “That is why they call it fiction, dear.”

  After a brief silence, Dad stared up at the ceiling and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I still feel that there should be a connection to the toys.”

  “Something you remember?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Just a gut feeling.”

  “Is your gut ever wrong?” Cathy asked.