Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  “Don’t play games. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Ken said. “And if you think I’m going to allow you to start pulling the same …”

  Right about the time the expletives started flying on the other side of the wall, a hand grasped my upper arm. I whirled around to see Cathy. Somehow I managed to stifle a gasp.

  She brushed her index finger in the universal sign of “shame on you,” but I let out a quiet breath of relief that Cathy—and not Dad—had caught me eavesdropping.

  I followed her back to the main part of the shop. “What in the world?” she said.

  I put my hands up, still holding the action figure. “Not something I’d intended to do. I went to get Darth and I heard them arguing.”

  “Who?” This is why I was glad Cathy had caught me. Any scorn she might have felt for my nosiness would soon be buried under her own curiosity.

  “Ken and Marya.”

  Cathy worried her lip but didn’t reply.

  “I thought you’d be curious,” I said.

  Her brow crinkled. “A little curious, but mostly concerned.”

  “Yeah, they were really going at it.”

  “No, hun.” She took a step closer. “Concerned about you.”

  “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “I know that. Just not sure that you know that. Do you think you can be an adult and work with Marya?”

  “I can be an adult,” I said, but I practically had to push my lower lip back into alignment.

  “Liz, it’s not healthy for you to keep pining over what might have been.”

  “You think I’m pining?” I repeated. “That ship has sailed.”

  “Glad to hear it. But maybe it’s time to put the binoculars away and leave the docks.” Her eyes widened, as if she surprised herself. “That’s a good metaphor. I need to write that down. Someone in my writing group said I was getting too literal. Let’s see them try to write anything figurative on three hours of sleep. I’m lucky I remember my alphabet.” She sighed. “Then again, I now sing it about twenty times a day.”

  “I thought Drew was sleeping better.” I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping she wouldn’t notice the subject change.

  “Oh, he does good most nights,” she said. “But he’s been fussing a little. The pediatrician thinks he might be teething.”

  “Already?”

  “It’s a little early but not unheard of at four months.”

  With that topic off the table, we finished out the rest of the day easy enough. It wasn’t until I’d made my way upstairs and weaved around the boxes of comic books stacked in our apartment that I thought again about what I had overheard.

  Cathy had been right to caution me. Ken was no longer my boyfriend. But from what I’d just heard, his marriage with Marya wasn’t likely to survive much longer. Had it been a sham from the beginning? And if they did break up, would I want him back?

  I pushed the thought from my mind. It was way too early to consider that question. And, truly, whatever they were arguing about was none of my business.

  With Dad spending the evening with Parker and Cathy, I had the apartment to myself, which meant grabbing a bowl of cereal for dinner, turning on a Hallmark Christmas movie, and herding literal cats, who seemed to think having boxes of comic books stacked from floor to ceiling in the apartment was incredible fun. They treated it as their own private jungle gym.

  I put Ken and Marya out of my mind until about eleven at night when the colored flashes from the police lights started reflecting against the glittered popcorn on my bedroom ceiling. I rushed to the window and peered outside to see a couple of patrol cars, an ambulance, and just about all of East Aurora’s finest in front of the barber shop. And I’d bet two bits they weren’t there for a shave and a haircut.

  Chapter 4

  Dad beat me to the stairs, but only by a couple of steps. He’d already dressed, although I suspected he’d just climbed out of bed and thrown on the closest thing. He was unshaven and wrinkled, and I stopped him long enough to spit-tame an errant lock of his hair that made him resemble Alfalfa from the old Our Gang shorts.

  I didn’t want to know what I looked like. I’d thrown a robe over my Scooby-Doo pajamas and slipped on my Tribble slippers, a birthday gift from Parker.

  We cut through the shop and went out the front door to the sidewalk. Lights flashed and reflected from storefront windows, ice, and slushy puddles, creating a light show of red, amber, and blue. A barrier of crime scene tape was being erected around the barber shop, and Ken and his chief detective, Howard Reynolds, were having a healthy debate as Reynolds escorted Ken to the outside of the barrier.

  And by escort, I don’t mean he held up a suave arm like a nervous prom date escorting his girlfriend to the dance floor. A lot more physicality was involved as Reynolds first guided, then pulled Ken toward the barrier.

  “I should be in there!” Ken said, once he was able to summon words of more than four letters.

  “There’s nothing you can do in there that I or my men can’t.” Reynolds grasped Ken by the shoulders.

  Ken looked pale, even in the dim light of the street. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but then looked to the edge of the barrier where a few more people had arrived, some spilling out of local bars and some, as indicated by their rumpled sleepwear, out of their beds. He raked a hand through his hair and turned back to Reynolds. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Let’s get you off the street at least.” Reynolds beckoned my father over.

  Ken cast a final glance toward the barber shop, as if he might dart inside as soon as Reynolds let go of his arm.

  “Can you get him out of here for a little while?” Reynolds asked my dad. “Let him warm up, but keep him away from the barber shop and reporters.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Dad said, then grabbed Ken’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  Only then did Reynolds let go.

  I sprinted over to Detective Reynolds—if one could truly sprint while clutching a bathrobe and wearing Tribble slippers. “What happened?”

  He looked at me for a moment and I pulled my robe tighter, maybe because of the cold or perhaps to shield Scooby from news I suspected would be catastrophic.

  “It’s Marya Young,” Reynolds finally said. “She was found dead in the barber shop.”

  “Dead? Marya?” She’d been the picture of health just the other night. What could have happened? The truth hit like a punch in the gut. “Murdered?” The word caught in my throat.

  Reynolds gritted his teeth and gave a curt nod.

  * * *

  There was no sign of Dad or of Ken in our shop. Dad had probably hustled him upstairs. I locked the front door and then glanced over to the comic book area where I’d overheard that argument through the shared wall just hours earlier.

  Murdered. The word seemed to echo through the empty shop.

  Marya Young.

  No, I hadn’t liked her much, and that might be an understatement. But that had more to do with the fact that a Mrs. Young existed and Ken had neglected to tell me about her.

  I mentally recounted everything I knew about her. She had come from Russia when she was very young. She never talked about her childhood. And thanks to my own petty resentfulness, I’d never asked.

  I suspected that was the case with much of the town. I’d found out later that not only Dad but also half of East Aurora had been hoping Ken and I would end up doing the whole orange blossoms and picket fence thing. I think someone in the chamber of commerce even set up a secret pool as to when he’d pop the question.

  Marya’s existence had sent a shockwave through the gossip network, and every old biddy in town sent me consoling looks whenever I walked down the street for about a month after her arrival. Her continued presence was met with a cold ambivalence that I’d taken some guilty pleasure in.

  My face grew warm at the memory. It was horribly unfair to her.

  And now
she was dead. Not only dead, but someone had killed her.

  A lump grew in my throat and I struggled to swallow. I’d heard Ken argue with Marya just that afternoon. That news would come out at some point. Ken would be a suspect, and there was no getting around that.

  I returned to the new comic area, cursing Darth Vader for making me a witness to something that could cast more suspicion on Ken. I sat down at the table where Kohl had been drawing and pressed cool fingers against my warm face and eyes.

  Ken would be a suspect even if I said nothing of what I’d overheard. As the husband of the victim, he’d be the first suspect the police considered. One didn’t have to be the daughter of a cop to know that.

  That their relationship was strained was public knowledge.

  The fact that Reynolds had removed him from the scene was also telling. It had been good police work, of course. Even if the man is your boss, you can’t give the prime suspect in a murder investigation more access to the crime scene.

  He was innocent, of course. Although I rolled my shoulder as I thought it.

  Did I know for sure he was innocent? How?

  Marya was a newcomer. Small towns are like that—it takes years to lose that title, even if the deck isn’t stacked against you. She didn’t have close friends here or strong ties. One would think she hadn’t made too many enemies, at least not that I’d heard of. And I probably would have heard if she had.

  Who else would have motive to kill her?

  I drew closer to the wall to see if I could overhear anything taking place in the shop, but except for the indistinguishable low rumbles of voices, I gathered nothing.

  I shivered and considered going upstairs. Upstairs to where my former boyfriend was now grieving the loss of his wife.

  I closed my eyes. Why did she ever have to come here? Life would be so different, so much easier if she’d never shown up. Or never existed.

  My eyes flew open. Who else had motive to kill her? I did.

  Nobody had said anything yet, but if this stretched out, no way would the investigation conclude without me being considered a suspect. From all outward appearances, she’d destroyed my budding relationship with Ken. They’d consider that as motive.

  And whose shop stood just next door to the crime scene? I’d been home alone most of the evening; not even Dad could provide an alibi for me. They’d look on that as opportunity.

  As to means? I couldn’t answer that yet, since I had no idea how she had died. But perhaps those answers were sitting upstairs.

  * * *

  The smell of fresh coffee greeted me when I reached the landing. Ken was already seated at the kitchen table warning his hands around an oversized mug of Dad’s high-test. If they’d been talking, they stopped when I came in, but I’m not sure I missed anything. An experienced interrogator, Dad would take his time to make sure Ken felt comfortable and at ease. Well, as “at ease” as one could be in this situation.

  I poured myself a cup, added sugar and a healthy dose of milk, and joined them at the table. “I locked up.”

  Dad nodded but never looked up. As he sipped his coffee, his gaze swept over Ken’s face, and mine followed it. Ken stared, unblinking, at our kitchen clock. I wasn’t sure if he was replaying something in his mind or was in some kind of shock.

  I glanced back up at Dad, who took my hand and squeezed it.

  Ken seemed to come to. He blinked hard then scrubbed his face with his hands.

  “What exactly happened, son?” Dad said, before Ken could get lost staring into his coffee.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who found her?” Dad asked.

  Ken startled and looked up. “I did. She hadn’t come home. She didn’t answer her cell. I figured she was just mad at me.” He glanced over at me. “We’d argued earlier. But it was getting late, so I went looking for her in just about every bar in town. The barber shop was the last place I thought to try. She must have never left work.”

  “Was she alive when you found her?” Dad asked.

  “I … I don’t think so.” He swallowed hard then drained the last of his coffee. “She was slumped in one of the styling chairs with her back to the door. The lights were on. The door was unlocked. I thought maybe she had passed out in the chair. Only when I rounded the corner, she had a hair dryer cord wrapped around her neck.”

  I fought to keep that mental picture out of my head. So much for not having the means. Everyone did. The weapon was already there.

  “What did you do then?” Dad said.

  Ken rose to refill his cup. When he’d returned to the table, he looked a little more awake and aware. “I acted like a complete idiot. I thought maybe she could still be alive, so I unwrapped the cord from her neck, laid her on the floor, and tried to resuscitate her.” He mouthed a few more words, but I could tell he was quietly cursing his own stupidity. “It was pointless. She was cold. I should have known that. Instead, I contaminated all the evidence.”

  He looked up at Dad. “Who? Who would do this?”

  Chapter 5

  Dad left Ken’s question unanswered, but after maybe ten minutes of silence, he leaned his forearms on the table and reflected it back at him. “Who do you think might have killed her?”

  Ken scratched his cheek. “She didn’t have a whole lot of friends in town, but she had been going out more lately.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “It’s going to come out. I thought there may have been someone else. Or that maybe she was back to her old—”

  A loud banging downstairs interrupted him.

  “Liz, could you?” Dad said.

  I nodded and went to see what the commotion was. With the shop lights on, I could see someone pounding on our front door, but I couldn’t identify the two figures, lit only by the streetlights and flashing of the emergency response vehicles. As I drew closer, their faces came into dim focus. Reynolds paused to tent his eyes and peer inside the shop. The mayor stood next to him.

  “Good evening, Miss McCall,” Mayor Briggs said as I cracked opened the door. Then he glanced at his watch. “Or rather morning. May we come in?”

  I pulled the door open a little wider.

  Reynolds looked around. “Is Ken still here?”

  “He’s upstairs with Dad.”

  “Can we see him, please?” Reynolds said.

  “Sure. Right this way.” I couldn’t recall if Mayor Briggs had set foot in our store. At least not since the grand opening where he’d wished Dad and me the best of luck in all our endeavors. It struck me as a cold and rather generic speech, considering how long and hard Dad had served “at the pleasure of the mayor.”

  The balding, slightly portly man was considerably older than Lori, or at least appeared to be. He had only three years on her, but without the benefit of Lori’s spa maintenance and pricy makeup, his age was much more apparent in the deep lines around his eyes and the wattle of his neck.

  I cleared my throat when I reached the top of the stairs, lest the mayor and the department’s senior detective catch Ken saying something incriminating. Not that I thought he was guilty.

  The coffeepot gurgled again and Dad was poised to get the first cup when I pulled open the door. He glanced up at me, then at Reynolds and the mayor as they cleared the threshold.

  “Howard. Mayor,” Dad said as he nodded to them.

  “Hank.” Mayor Briggs surveyed our small apartment, made even smaller by the piles of cardboard boxes.

  Of course the day the mayor comes to call is when we look ready to appear on an episode of Hoarders. I straightened the chairs at the table, as if that made a difference. “Would you care to sit? Coffee?”

  Mayor Briggs waved me off. “We won’t be but a moment,” he said, his attention on Dad. “I suppose you heard what happened.”

  “I got the gist of it,” Dad said.

  “We just learned the news crews are on their way. We’re going to have to make a statement.”

  Ken pushed himself out of his chair. “Give me a moment to clea
n up.”

  But the mayor shook his head vehemently. “I don’t want you anywhere near a camera. In fact …” He paused and drew a long breath.

  “You’re firing me?” Ken said.

  The mayor laid a calming hand on Ken’s arm. “Let’s call it a temporary paid suspension, pending the results of a thorough, impartial investigation.”

  Ken’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t raise an argument. Finally, he clapped Reynolds on the shoulder. “Howard’s a good man. He’ll get the job done.”

  “Not me.” Reynolds put up his hands. “They don’t pay me enough to touch this one. I’m not going to lead an investigation that could end up …”

  Ken quirked an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, boss,” Reynolds said.

  “Don’t apologize for loyalty, son,” Dad said before turning back to the mayor. “So, what are you going to do?”

  The mayor grinned at Dad, the first smile since the men had entered the room. “Hank?”

  The meaning of that smile washed over me instantaneously. “No!” I said.

  The mayor ignored me and kept his gaze on Dad. My stomach was performing rhythmic gymnastics in anticipation of the words I knew would follow.

  “Would you consider serving as interim chief of police? Just until we can clear this mess up?”

  Dad didn’t respond immediately. He studied the mayor’s pudgy face before redirecting his gaze toward Reynolds. Then he looked at Ken’s blank expression. Finally, Dad sent a brief apologetic glance to me. “My daughter may kill me.” He shook the mayor’s hand. “Yes, I’ll serve as interim.”

  “You can be impartial?” the mayor asked.

  Dad took a long breath. “Always.”

  * * *

  While Dad, Reynolds, and Mayor Briggs turned our kitchen into a war room, strategizing how best to confront the media, I was elected to drive Ken home.

  “My truck is here,” Ken said, pulling out his keys.

  Dad made a grab for them. “You’re in no condition. I’ll get someone to drive it home for you. Uh, permission to search the vehicle?”

  Ken had stared, or perhaps glared, for a moment. I held my breath wondering if he’d make Dad try for a search warrant. He’d probably not get one. What might he be looking for in the truck? If Marya was strangled with an object close to hand, there would be no missing weapon, no gun, smoking or otherwise. But there might be evidence of the couple’s recent marital disputes.