Death of a Toy Soldier

by Barbara Early

  “Frequently,” he admitted, rubbing his stomach. I suspected dinner might be messing with it tonight. My stomach was also a little queasy. Or maybe just empty. Would anyone notice if I sneaked out for a pizza?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Cathy said.

  I’d been considering whether I wanted the added calories of pepperoni, but I just said, “Oh, yeah?”

  “It’s what I’ve been thinking, too,” she said. “It has to be one of those Wallaces.” She folded her arms and sat back in her chair.

  “Come to think of it, I had been thinking about the Wallaces,” I said. Jack Wallace made the best pizza in town. “What brought them to your mind?”

  “From what you told me about that whole wake, they thought they would have the most to gain from killing the old man, especially since they didn’t know about Kimmie,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  Dad leaned forward. “But why would they kill Sullivan O’Grady?”

  “Maybe,” she said, her eyes flashing, “they needed to kill him because he was too protective of the old man, and getting him out of the house was the only way to get close enough. Or what if he was on to their plot, and they killed him to keep him quiet?”

  “Still no connection to the toys,” Parker said.

  “What if they poisoned the toys?” she said. “You know, booby-trapped them so that they delivered a pinprick of curare or a cloud of toxic cyanide gas or something? Maybe he was bringing them to the shop because he suspected they were tampered with.”

  Dad stared at her.

  Cathy took his shocked expression as proof that she’d offered up a profound theory. But when her back was turned to load the dishwasher, Dad shook the idea out of his ears like swimmers shake out pool water.

  I got up and made a pot of coffee, then dug in the cupboard for a package of Oreos.

  While the dishwasher was humming, we all recaffeinated and Parker hunted for his box of Apples to Apples for some evening fun. I tapped Dad on the arm. “You know, we need to think about that attempted break-in.” I pointed to his suspect list. “Those kids who wanted to get into that house—why did they pick that morning? And what were they looking for?”

  “Got it,” he said, but he made no new additions to his papers. Rather, he stared up toward the ceiling again. Why did I have the feeling that he still wasn’t sharing everything with me?

  “Why don’t we play in the family room?” Parker called.

  “Coming!” When I stood up, a glob of tuna surprise squished its way through my sock. Othello hadn’t eaten any of it.

  ###

  My feet were frozen in place, and I could only watch the gigantic mechanism carry out its deadly dance. Gears meshed with gears, and a huge boot swung out in the darkness. A large silver ball, gleaming in what little light was in the room, started rolling and gained terrifying momentum. Suddenly I was trapped under a giant net with a horde of scurrying mice.

  Then someone grabbed my foot.

  I woke up screaming, or would have if not for the hand over my mouth.

  “It’s me,” Dad said. “Shhh . . .”

  As I fully gained consciousness, his face came into focus in the light from the hallway. I pushed myself up against the sofa back, pulled up my knees, and let my heart rate come back to normal.

  Dad squeezed into the spot on the sofa vacated by my feet and put a comforting hand on my knee. “Sorry, Lizzie. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Already the elements of my nightmare were beginning to fade, but I’d never see the game Mouse Trap the same way again. “What time is it?”

  “Just before three in the morning. Sorry to wake you. I needed to talk.”

  Othello must have heard our voices because he hopped down from the oversized recliner and jumped up on the couch next to me. I put my feet on the floor, and he settled into my lap.

  Despite Dad’s professed need to talk, he was in no hurry. “I . . . remembered something,” he said finally.

  “About the man who died?”

  He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I woke up, and I could see his face. He was standing outside the shop. The lights were off, but I could see his face from the streetlights. He was waiting at the door. And he was smiling at me, like nothing was wrong. I knew him, Liz. It’s like I’d been expecting him. The next thing, I was opening the back door.”

  “And?”

  “And then it fades again, as soon as I open the door. I remember, as I’m walking to the door, thinking that the alarm wasn’t going to go off. It’s something I knew.”

  “But you don’t remember his name.”

  “Well, I know it now.” His voice was growing agitated.

  I took his hand. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Could you have been trying to help him?”

  “That’s just it. I have no clue.”

  I leaned my head back to think and absent-mindedly began stroking Othello’s fur. He responded with a contented and calming purr.

  When I looked up, Dad’s gaze had never left me. “When you see O’Grady at the door, what are you feeling? Are you happy? Scared? Angry? Do you remember that?”

  Dad used his fingers to rake his hair back, then he closed his eyes and concentrated. “Nervous? Apprehensive?” Both were questions.

  “Were you nervous because you were worried about what O’Grady might do?” What if O’Grady had attacked my dad, and Dad killed him in self-defense? But why would the apparently dedicated health aide and father of eight want to attack my father?

  Dad grabbed the hair on both sides of his head as if he wanted to yank it out. “I. Don’t. Know.”

  “Shh. Relax.” I put my arm around him. “You’ll remember. And if not, we’ll figure out what happened.”

  “That’s just it,” he said. “I remember letting him in the shop. Just him and me alone in the shop, and that’s exactly how you found us.”

  “Anything could have happened at that point. I refuse to believe you killed that man.”

  “On what evidence?” he said.

  I took a finger and poked him in the chest. “On this evidence. You. I’ve known you all my life, and you may be a lot of things. Like everybody I know, a mix of good and bad, but you are not a killer.”

  He remained silent for perhaps a minute, then smiled sheepishly. He shook his head. “The judge would throw that out in a heartbeat.”

  “It won’t come to that,” I said, but we both knew I had nothing to back that up with.

  “Hate to say it, Lizzie, but we’re going to have to pencil my name in on that suspect list.” He squeezed my hand. “Right at the top. Because if I was chief, I think I’d be in jail already.”

  Chapter 10

  About four AM, a warm front blew through, and the wind shook the old house, sending creaks and groans through the infrastructure. About five AM, Bonnie and Clyde were making a racket on the back deck. And about six AM, Parker was humming in the shower. I know because I was awake for all of it.

  When Cathy padded into the kitchen to make coffee, I was already on my third cup.

  She collapsed into the oversized recliner and pulled her feet underneath her. After several sips, she croaked, “Good morning. You look like a wreck.”

  “Didn’t sleep well.” I resisted the urge to comment on her own early-morning appearance. Her hair was a study in static.

  Moments later Parker joined us, appearing fresh and well rested, already dressed in his khakis and polo for work. The gang was all here. All but Dad, that is, whose measured snores gave us the assurance that at least someone could sleep.

  “I hoped to ask another favor,” I said. I hated imposing further on Parker and Cathy. We were already living in their home and eating their food. Not to mention, Othello was shedding all over their furniture, had knocked half the ornaments from their tree, and without his scratching post, I worried that he’d picked out a discreet portion of their sofa to dig his claws into.

  “Sure,” Cathy said, but at the same time, Park
er said, “What is it?”

  I wagged my eyebrows at him. “You’re no fool.” I took another sip of my coffee to fortify my nerves. “I’d like to swing by the police station this morning and talk to the chief, see how the investigation is going, and try to feel out if they have any suspects or new leads.”

  “Dad will love that,” Cathy said. “He enjoys popping by the station.”

  I shook my head. “Here’s the thing. I want to find out if they really consider Dad a suspect. They’re not likely to tell me much anyway. Even less if he’s around.”

  “He’ll flip if he knows you’re going behind his back,” Parker said.

  “Exactly. Which is why I was wondering if either of you could maybe distract Dad so he doesn’t know what I’m doing.”

  “I was going to run some errands,” Cathy said.

  Parker shook his head. “Dad can come down to the center. We’re having a school group in, and I could use the extra help with crowd control. He’s good with the kids.”

  “Good with them?” I asked. “Or does he scare the living daylights out of them?”

  “Both.” Parker smiled. “Our father does have quite the multiple personalities. He can put the fear of God in any delinquent just with a glare.”

  “But he’s such a teddy bear,” Cathy said.

  “That’s because you’ve never been on the wrong side of the law,” Parker said.

  “Or broken curfew on a school night,” I added, still smarting from the memory of a particular instance. Dad’s temper had mellowed with the years. Or perhaps my formative years were spent with a parent working a stressful job and trying to compensate for an alcoholic wife. There had been occasional blowups at home. Nothing physically violent, but emotionally trying nonetheless. These were always followed by tearful apologies, hugs, and reconciliations. I knew my dad loved me. After the death of my mother and then later Dad’s retirement, his temper had all but disappeared. His greatest frustration now was unsticking rusted gears on old toys and finding Barbie shoes that matched.

  By the time we’d drained the coffee pot, we agreed that Cathy would drop Dad off at the wildlife center when she went out to run her errands, leaving me free to run mine. I was to continue to look tired—no problem—so Dad would assume I was home catching up on my sleep.

  It worked like a charm. Dad might have been a tad suspicious, but he went with Cathy nonetheless. I leaned in the doorway and yawned as they backed out of the driveway, then I hit the showers, put heavy concealing makeup on my dark circles, then grabbed my coat and was out the door.

  The combined police department for East Aurora and the neighboring town of Aurora was housed in the village’s municipal building, a stone’s throw from our shop on Main Street. The white-shuttered brick building had seen its share of history. The village’s historian had also made the move, bringing the collection of murals that now filled up wall space in every hallway, making the offices a tourist attraction in their own right.

  When I got to the police wing of the building, I spotted more than a few familiar faces, and officers waved or nodded to me as they milled around the area. I stopped at the front desk to explain why I was there, but the officer just pointed me to the door. I could hear it unlock as I approached. Apparently I hadn’t worn out my welcome—at least not yet.

  “I’m here to see Chief Young,” I said to the officer, and she waved me to a group of chairs for the department’s more welcome visitors, those not needing to be handcuffed to a bench, not that there was all that much of that in a town of our size.

  I could already tell that the department was not operating at business-as-usual status. Trash cans overflowed with takeout bags, and stacks of cups dotted each desk, testifying that many here were working long hours. It didn’t seem to be going well. Shoulders were hunched, chins unshaven, and a tinge of body odor permeated the air.

  Even after the officer at the desk announced my arrival, nothing seemed to happen. When I’d visited the station when my dad was chief, generally only a minute or two passed before the door would open and he’d head out of his office smiling at me. But he was no longer behind that door, which now seemed impenetrable, and remained that way for the better part of an hour.

  I got up to pace and stretch my back several times before sitting down again. When I was close to falling asleep in the chair, someone cleared his throat. I opened my eyes. Ken Young stood in front of me, either smiling or smirking. I didn’t know him well enough to know which one.

  “You wanted to see me?” He still sported a stubbly beard, and I began to wonder if the department had made the decision not to shave until the case was solved, like hockey players who grow their beards when they start the play-offs. By the crumpled condition of his uniform and the amount of red in his eyes, I decided he just hadn’t been home to sleep or shave.

  I followed him back to his office and took an offered seat while he perched on the corner of his desk.

  If I expected a greeting or pleasantries, I was going to be disappointed. “Shoot,” he said.

  “I came for a couple of reasons . . .” I stammered and stopped, a little taken aback. That was a mistake.

  He gave me a shrug and a wry look, as if saying, “What am I supposed to do with that?” Or maybe that fabled line of Joe Friday, which Dad swears he never said: “Just the facts, ma’am.”

  I rallied. “First, I wanted to check if you’d gotten the autopsy results back for Sy DuPont.”

  Ken folded his arms in front of him and said, “Nope. I asked if we could hurry it up, and the medical examiner looked at me as if I was speaking Swahili.” His guard was up. Where was the flirty guy who asked me to call him Ken? Seemed like this man had more than one personality, and I’d need the easygoing one if I was going to be able to pump him for information.

  I tilted my head and hazarded a smile. “Dad and I were talking yesterday . . .”

  “Did he reveal more about the incident?”

  “Well, no. I mean, yes. But what I wanted to talk about was a few ideas we had. Like I said, Dad and I were talking, and we thought that maybe one of Sullivan O’Grady’s former patients, or rather one of their family members, might have killed him. Perhaps because he was helping to usher them into the afterlife a little sooner than fate would have, if you get my point. Then there’s Mrs. O’Grady. She had motive, and maybe if she was out driving when she said she was home with the kids—like if she was caught on a security camera . . . And then there’s the matter of the missing toys, because they weren’t in the apartment . . .” I trailed off, because if looks could kill, my body would be added to the medical examiner’s backlog.

  “Miss McCall,” he said, then stopped. Something in his eyes told me he was counting to ten. “Miss McCall,” he said again, then scratched his upper lip. “I appreciate you coming down here to supply more theories. However . . .” His head bobbed a couple of times. Counting again? “I have a whole department of active officers, all of whom are pretty good at coming up with theories.” His voice was pleasant, but in a completely nonconvincing way. “Now, why don’t you tell me about what your father said.”

  “I . . . maybe Dad should tell you.” I was suddenly hesitant to share my dad’s memory of letting the victim into the store.

  “Fine,” he said, putting his hand on the receiver of his desk telephone. “I can have him brought in.”

  “What is wrong with you?” I flew out of my seat. “Have him brought in?”

  He walked to the open door and pushed it closed. Without saying a word, he resumed his perch at his desk.

  My face was hot, and the words felt like they were still out there in the air, incriminating me, especially since he didn’t answer. “Fine,” I said. “He remembers letting O’Grady into the shop that night.”

  “And?”

  “And he thinks he might have pulled the breakers, because he was sure the alarm wasn’t going to sound.”

  “And?”

  “That was it.”

  He sigh
ed. “That we pretty much already knew.”

  “Look, the doctor thinks Dad may have some temporary memory. A concussion from that bump on the head.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets.

  I sat up straighter. “Your turn.”

  “Fair enough. Here’s what we have. One Sullivan O’Grady shows up at the doorstep of your shop. Your father lets him in. A short time later, O’Grady is found dead in your shop. Your father is alone with the body. Yet somehow, he has no recollection of anything that happened. Just for that time in between.” He uncrossed his arms and began a thorough examination of his cuticles. “It’s too convenient.”

  “Too convenient?” The words drew the air out of my lungs and left me weak and limp, like I was about to slide off the chair and onto the floor like a melting ice cream cone—or a Dalí painting. “He can’t pick and choose what he remembers.” I was able to hold back the tears stinging my eyes, but my voice had grown husky.

  Ken scratched his cheek. “I don’t know what to tell you. Until he’s more forthcoming, that’s what we have to go on. Yes, we’re doing our homework. We’re checking the cameras up and down Main Street. Most are focused inside of the stores, but a few of them do provide some glimpses of the street. And yes, we’re investigating Sy DuPont’s death. Even though the family is less than thrilled with me.”

  “What about the woman who showed up? That Kimmie whatever.”

  “That might be the only entertaining facet of this case. That marriage license she was waving around appears legit.”

  “So this chick starts hanging around the house. Then the old man’s health aide gets fired. Then she marries the old dude. Then both men die. How’s that for a chronology?”

  “And the motive would be . . . ?”

  “She’s an obvious gold digger. We learned from Mrs. O’Grady that Sullivan was very close to his clients. Maybe he was too protective and had to be disposed of.”

  “First, I’m not sure there was any real gold to be had.”

  “Then what were all those people shoving into their pockets?”

  “Not the Hope Diamond, I can tell you that. This is real life, not Antiques Roadshow. We’re talking a few bucks here and there for most of the small stuff.”