“Where Sully . . .” She ran a fingernail along a scratch in the table.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “We’re still trying to make sense out of what happened.”
“I don’t know how I can help. I don’t even know why he was there.” She bit her lip. “Was he buying something for the kids? Because I don’t know if I could bear the thought that he died doing something for the children.”
“Earlier in the week, he brought in a box of old toys. Antiques. He came in asking for an estimate of their value. We later learned they belonged to his employer, Sy DuPont. Did your husband ever mention him?”
She sank back into her chair, then clasped the neckline of her robe a little closer. “He rarely talked about his clients. I did get the impression that Sully wasn’t enjoying his work much lately.”
“I’ve heard that Sy DuPont could be rather abrasive.”
“That could explain it. Whether clients were kind to him or not, Sully had a strong work ethic. If anything, he’d work harder to please them, and he certainly wouldn’t abscond with anything that belonged to his employer, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“No, I wasn’t going there at all. But it would help quite a bit if I could figure out what he was doing at the shop with those toys.”
“Perhaps Mr. DuPont wanted to sell them?”
“That’s where it gets a little tricky. He’s not around to give his side of the story. And your husband deliberately gave us a false name.”
“Sully wouldn’t lie.”
“He didn’t actually say his name. Just handed me a business card that belonged to someone else. He seemed nervous. Any idea why?”
She stared into space, somewhere in the direction of the butter dish on the table, then shook her head. “I have no idea what he might have been doing. If he was being deceptive at all, he would have been nervous. That wasn’t his nature.”
“And you don’t know what he might have been doing with the old toys?”
“Occasionally, if an employer didn’t have enough to pay his salary, Sully would barter. He’s come home with all kinds of old junk—broken-down furniture, dishes, once this really nice quilt.”
“I guess we can check to see whether your husband’s normal salary was being paid.”
“Sometimes people would give him things for doing odd jobs after work. Things that weren’t part of his job description, like cleaning out attics and basements. Painting and that sort of thing.”
“So perhaps Sy DuPont hired him for odd jobs and paid him with the toys?”
“Maybe.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
“Then why would he have been so nervous about it?”
“I don’t know.” She paused to brush a handful of crumbs from the table. “I’m guessing.”
“The other odd thing was that these particular toys were already promised to somebody else. DuPont had planned to donate them to the toy museum. Are you familiar with the place?”
“I’ve never been there. But Sully used to take the kids there on days when I needed a break. Well, he acted like he was giving me a break. I think Sully was looking for an excuse to go there himself. He’d go whenever he scrounged up a coupon. He loved that place.” Her brows pinched. “Could he have been taking the toys there?”
“Then why would he be meeting with my father in the middle of the night?”
“He met with your father?” Her head jerked up. “What does your father have to say about it?”
Apparently Chief Young didn’t share many details of O’Grady’s death with his widow. “Dad doesn’t remember.” When her jaw started to slack, I rushed to explain. “It’s a long story, but my father suffered a concussion. He’s still hazy about some of the details.”
She leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “So what you’re saying is that my husband had a secret middle-of-the-night meeting alone with your father, and you’re trying to figure out what happened?” Her tone had grown accusatory.
I closed my eyes, bit my tongue, counted to ten, and did whatever else I could to control my temper. “I . . .” Then I repeated the cycle and started over. “My father was chief of police for many years, served with honor, and was the kindest, most patient father a girl could have asked for. I don’t believe he could have killed your husband.”
“But you’re here because you’re not sure.”
“I’m here because I am sure, but I’m not so positive the current chief will accept my character witness. Until the real killer is caught, my father is under a cloud of suspicion.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if he did it?”
I swallowed. “Then the evidence will bear it out and justice will be done. I’m trying to find the truth.”
“Not just someone else to pin it on? Because that chief was here asking me a whole lot of questions, too. I know it doesn’t look good, with us separated and all.”
“I’m not trying to pin it on you. That is, unless you killed him.”
She leaned forward, her head bowed as if she was in deep thought or prayer. She remained there as several interminable minutes ticked by on her food-splattered kitchen clock. Finally, she looked up. “I think if you wanted to pin it on me, you wouldn’t be here. And if you really thought I did it, you probably wouldn’t be here alone with me in my kitchen. Am I right?”
Now it was my turn to sit back in my chair and think. This was unfortunate, because as soon as I did, I remembered the sticky spot on the chair back. “I haven’t taken my father off the suspect list. I couldn’t take you off, either.”
“But what you want is the truth?” She studied my face, as if the answer were scrawled on my forehead. “I hope in this case, the truth sets all of us free. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Were you or your husband acquainted with anyone in the Wallace family? Or anyone else in the DuPont family?”
“Wallace, like the restaurant?” She shrugged. “We got wings there once for some out-of-town guests. But we can’t afford to eat out much.”
“What about teenagers? Well, they’d be a little older now. Young men in their late teens, early twenties perhaps. That’s an awfully vague question, I’m afraid.” How does one ask someone if they’re acquainted with a gang?
She leaned forward. “I can answer it, though. We only have contact with the kids from the church youth group. Much to their dismay, the group is one hundred percent girls.”
Right about then, I ran out of questions to ask, which was good, because the toddler grew more demanding of her attention. When I vacated the O’Grady house, I left with a spot of a syrup-like substance clinging to the back of my sweater, a new appreciation for Mrs. O’Grady, and a five-by-seven portrait of her husband from happier days.
When I climbed back into my Civic, I set the photo on the passenger seat. “Who are you, Sullivan O’Grady? And what was it about you that made someone kill you?”
I started up the car, checked my mirror, and pulled away from the curb.
If I were going to retrace Sullivan O’Grady’s steps, the toy museum would be a stop I wanted to make. Jillian Hatley, the assistant curator, was the person who had sent us to Sy DuPont’s house in the first place. What would happen if I showed her the picture of Sully?
A new feeling of unease started growing in my gut. There was yet another connection involving toys. I didn’t want this murder to be about the toys. I wanted it to be about greedy relatives and ghost hunters, not something that would turn the focus one-eighty back onto the shop. Or perhaps on the biggest toy expert in East Aurora, Hank McCall.
There were plenty of open parking spots by the toy museum, and I learned why when I tried the door. Locked. I considered stopping at the bakery for a muffin to absorb some of the acid sloshing around my nervous stomach when Jillian rushed up to the door.
She pushed it open a couple of inches, waited her usual few seconds, then said, “Good morning, Liz. I’m sorry you had to wait.” Then she pushed open the door for me to ente
r.
“You don’t have to open up on my account,” I said. “I see I’m here before the official hours.”
Her head bobbed a little, as if she was listening to some translator over an earpiece. “No, that’s fine. I’m here anyway. You might as well come in, too.”
I followed her inside, resisting the urge to apologize.
She walked back to a vacuum cleaner parked in the middle of the room, unplugged it, and began coiling the cord. “Are you here to see something in particular?”
“Actually, I have another question. When you recognized the toy I showed you, it helped us and the police to identify the man who was killed in our shop. I’d like to show you a picture of that man. I believe he’s been to the museum, and I was wondering if you or Peggy might remember anything unusual about him or his visits here.”
She scrunched up her nose, just a little, and her eyebrows drew closer. “All right. If I have to, I will.”
I wondered at her reaction until I slid the photograph out of my purse and handed it to her. She placed one hand flat against her chest and closed her eyes.
“Jillian, what’s wrong?”
“He’s still alive.”
“I’m afraid to say this man is very much dead.” Did he have a doppelgänger? That would add a whole new dimension to this mystery.
“No, I mean in the photograph. I thought you were showing me a picture of the dead man, after he was killed.”
“Sorry to scare you. No wonder you didn’t want to see it. You were very brave.”
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to appear unhelpful.”
I let it go; otherwise, we’d be apologizing to each other all day.
She took the photograph and studied it. “I remember this man. He came in with a lot of kids. That’s pretty unusual.”
“People don’t bring their kids here?”
She tilted her head, as if I’d asked a particularly difficult question. “I guess kids like the new children’s museum, where they can touch things.” She gestured to the museum’s sealed displays. “Kids get bored just looking at toys locked away in glass cases. I asked Peggy if she could talk with the board about expanding, finding a bigger place where we could add a room where kids can play. I thought we could put some of the less valuable toys in there. So many of our donations end up in storage now because we don’t have the space to display them. But Peggy was against the plan. Said real estate was too expensive and that going through all the old toys would be too much work.”
“There’s probably something to that. They’d have to be tested for lead paint. So many children’s toys of the past wouldn’t be considered safe by today’s standards.” Like lawn darts.
“I suppose you’re right. It seems such a shame to see children leave here unhappy.”
I bet Jillian apologized to all their parents.
She tapped O’Grady’s picture. “His kids were well-behaved. As I recall, he showed them some toys that belonged to people he’d worked for. He’d taken some of our cards. He said he knew a few people who might have old toys to donate.” She tipped her head, then remained frozen that way for what seemed like forever.
“What are you thinking?” I finally asked.
“He was a bit agitated the last time he was here. He asked about a toy that someone had recently donated, and it wasn’t on display.”
“Not yet?”
“We don’t have room for every toy. Most of them are archived. Peggy picks out the best toys to display. Many don’t make the cut, I’m afraid.”
“By donated, do you mean bequeathed? Was Sully . . . this man . . . looking for a toy donated to the museum after its owner died?”
She nodded. “That’s how we get many of our donations.”
A few things suddenly fell into place with a satisfying snap. Sullivan O’Grady worked for terminally ill patients. He liked the museum. He took cards, probably using them to help convince some of his patients to donate their toys to the museum. Perhaps he’d convinced Sy DuPont to do the same. But Sully was apparently upset about the museum’s archival policies that last time he’d come. Was that what he was doing with the toys? Did he want an evaluation of them to determine if Sy’s toys should make the cut and be displayed in the museum?
“If I give you a list of names of donors, do you keep information on the toys they donated?”
“Of course,” Jillian said. “On the computer.” She pointed toward the back room.
“You going to be here a while?”
###
I swung by the toyshop and picked up Dad, promising him lunch if he’d help me with one small errand. As we parked in front of the health care agency again, he said, “That’s not exactly a small favor. It probably violates all kinds of company policies. Maybe even laws.”
I just smirked at him and he unbuckled his seat belt. “Fine,” he said, “but this is going to cost you dessert as well.” When I didn’t move, he stopped. “Aren’t you coming?”
“From the way that receptionist looked at you last time, I think you have a better chance if you go in alone.”
“You mean?” His eyes grew wide in what I suspected was feigned surprise. To prove it, he batted his eyelashes.
I socked him in the arm. “I don’t understand it, but yes.”
Dad reached for the door handle. “My fault for being such a chick magnet, I guess.”
“At least among the AARP set.”
He felt his chest. “My ego is crushed.”
“I wouldn’t want to see you give up your day job to become a gigolo or something. Now go work that charm of yours for a good cause.”
He saluted, climbed out of the car, and leaned back in. “If I have to take my shirt off, it’s going to cost you extra.” He winked and then headed to the front door, his limp nearly invisible. I bit my lip as I considered the implications. Dad found police work invigorating. There was no arguing the light in his eyes or the animation in his face. It was like a tonic to him. A deadly medicine.
I waited in the car for about half an hour, wondering exactly what Dad had to do to get the information, but he came out with a slip of paper and a silly grin.
“Oh, brother,” I said when he got back into the car.
“What, it was your idea.” He reached for his seat belt. “And it’s going to cost you. Big time.”
“You don’t mean you had to take off your shirt?”
“No.” He sent me a pleading look. “I have a dinner date for Friday night.”
I pulled away from the curb. “I’ll make sure you have a freshly ironed shirt.”
Chapter 20
Jillian was busy with visitors when I dropped off the list of names of Sully’s former clients, and the kids in her tour group did indeed look bored. She promised to fax something over later that afternoon. After a leisurely and expensive lunch, Dad and I went back to the shop and tried to figure out, among our huge pile of outdated office equipment, if we had anything that would receive a fax.
“Yes, you do,” Cathy said. “The old printer. I had to fax a poem to a contest, and I remember hooking it up. Not that it was worth the effort.”
“Didn’t win?” Dad asked.
She folded her arms in front of her. “I won, all right. The poem was published in their anthology, but they didn’t pay me anything for it, and the book cost me forty-five bucks.”
I winced.
“But I am a published poet. One of the better ones in the book, if I say so myself. I had been considering submitting another one this year, but it seems the attorney general shut them down.”
Dad spun away so she couldn’t see his face. “What a pity.”
I dusted off the old printer and found it a place on the counter within reach of our landline—which took a bit of finagling, since this thing was a behemoth of old technology. I figured out how to send a fax from my laptop, and it printed out, so we were in business.
Then we waited. And waited. By late afternoon, Dad was yawning and stretc
hing, so I sent him up for a nap. Othello followed him, as if he was seconding my suggestion. By five, Cathy was ready to head home to make dinner for Parker and then out to another of her writing groups.
“Are you sure you don’t need me?” She wrapped her scarf around her neck. “I can swing back after dinner . . .” Her hesitant expression indicated she’d be making an extreme sacrifice.
I gestured toward the empty shop. “I think I can keep the hordes at bay.” With no game tournaments bringing customers in and no tourists in town, especially after dark, I’d likely have the shop to myself tonight. Which would work out well, if Jillian ever managed to send that fax.
I stared out the window after Cathy left. At five, the sun had already been down for about twenty minutes, making it seem later than the hour. The days were short and still getting shorter. One could almost imagine the darkness growing stronger, plotting and scheming to obliterate the day entirely in one long night of darkness, cold, and snow.
I threw that thought aside as the Christmas lights along Main Street started popping on. I flipped the switch for our own Christmas display in the window, and it lit up as well. No, the darkness would not win. Not tonight, anyway.
For good measure, I found a radio station playing holiday music and piped it through the store. I wondered how many of the items on our shelves had once been encased in holiday wrapping paper and opened by bright-eyed, excited children on Christmas morning.
I leaned against the counter and continued staring. Despite their collectability now, the items in our shop were probably not the cherished items from the tops of letters to Santa. Those had been ripped open first and played to death. The action figures still in their cases and the games still in their shrink-wrap, most prized by collectors today, were the items kids unwrapped and said “thank you” for (at least if they were taught manners) before they were shoved aside in favor of a more desired toy. Maybe this shop was really an island of misfit toys.
“Who needs therapy?” I’d just figured out why I felt so at home in this place.
A couple of holiday shoppers did venture in from the cold. One walked the store slowly, smiling over objects she recognized. After letting her know I was there to help if she needed anything, I left her to her reminiscences. While she was still making her circle through the store, another gentleman entered and picked up a few things to check price tags. He grimaced and left. A disappointed bargain hunter. But the woman purchased a couple of unopened blister packs of now-vintage Barbie clothes and an older sixties version of the board game Acquire—a highly collectable version since the newer ones are cardboard. Of course, any time we can get our hands on a 1999 version, with its molded hotels, it’s snatched up online almost as soon as Miles can put it on eBay.
Death of a Toy Soldier Page 20
