Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

  Cathy put her hands up. “We can leave as soon as we accomplish our mission. We ‘accidentally’ ”—she added air quotes to the word—“run into Ian Browning, casually mention the doll rehab program, and ask if we can pitch it to him formally. Why, we could be out of there by eight fifteen if everything goes well.”

  I eyed her skeptically.

  “We are talking about the upper crust here. It depends on how fashionably late everybody arrives.”

  I winced.

  “And remember, we both have tomorrow off,” she said. “Miles and Amanda are opening so we all can celebrate Parker’s birthday. The games won’t begin until after lunch. Even if tonight’s festivities do go late, you can always sleep in.”

  My shoulders slumped, whether in fatigue or defeat, I wasn’t sure.

  “And look,” she continued. “How about I cover for you here? You can go out and get the horse feed, and there’s probably enough time to catch a nap before you have to dress for the gala.”

  “A nap?” I’d found the one bright spot in her plan. “I just have to get horse feed and then I can take a nap?” It sounded heavenly. I gathered my coat and purse and made it halfway to the door murmuring “horse feed and then nap” almost as a mantra, when I turned around and tilted my head. “What do horses eat, anyway?”

  * * *

  What does one wear to a fundraising gala held in a drafty barn in the middle of winter? I decided on a sparkly red tunic with a festive Christmas scarf over heavy wool pants and my best boots.

  When Cathy arrived to pick me up, she stepped back, eyed me head to toe, raised one eyebrow, and headed straight to my closet.

  “Gala, Liz,” she said, working her way through my wardrobe. Occasionally she pulled out a garment, eyed it, and tossed it on one of two piles on the bed. Othello rose from sleeping on my pillow, stretched, and watched her lazily. “What were you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking cold barn in the middle of winter.”

  She squinted at an asymmetrical blouse, adjusted it on the hanger, then frowned and tossed it onto the larger of the two piles.

  “That looks quite nice on,” I said.

  She shook her head and juggled three garments, holding them up against me. She threw the other two down and handed me the black cocktail dress she’d bought me last Christmas. It still had the tags on.

  “It’s too short and a little snug.”

  “It’s supposed to fit like that.”

  “And it doesn’t go with my boots.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re wearing heels.”

  I pointed down to her sparkly flats.

  “I’m an old married lady.”

  “But we’re just going there to try to meet Ian Browning.”

  She held the dress up to me and focused my attention to the mirror. “And with you in this dress,” she said, “I’d say our odds of meeting Ian Browning go up about eighty percent.” She winked.

  * * *

  The most difficult part of the evening proved to be walking from the car to the barn. The rough stone drive wasn’t very friendly to heels, especially while I clutched the thin wrap that Cathy had allowed me to take. A brisk December gust seemed determined to steal it away from me, and I struggled to keep the wind from whipping up the skirt and exposing my other assets.

  I was grateful when we made it inside. Not only was the barn warmer, but some brilliant event planner had installed a portable dance floor in the whole structure. They’d pulled out all the stops. Glittering chandeliers hung from rough beams, and twinkle lights illuminated humongous festive flower arrangements and dazzling ice sculptures.

  Dad had once asked why I let Cathy dress me for special occasions, as if I were one of her fashion dolls. Truth was, while her own wardrobe choices tended to be somewhat Bohemian, she could pull together a nice ensemble, even from the meager offerings of my closet. Much better than I could, at least. My choice would have left me seriously underdressed.

  I leaned toward her. “Thanks for the wardrobe consult. You were right.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s fun.”

  “Like dressing a Barbie?” I teased.

  “Better,” she said, leaning into me for a hug. “Your elbows bend and all.”

  “And my hips and knees work, too,” I said, doing a little shimmy to illustrate.

  Cathy laughed and swatted me on the arm. “Then again, I can’t pop your head off if the neck opening is too small.”

  A very masculine throat-clearing sounded behind me. “I hope there’s a band so I can see that move again.”

  I whipped around to spot Mark Baker, and my face erupted into what I suspected was a fierce blush. I’d met Mark Baker, forensic accountant with the FBI, the previous year, when an investigation he was working on intersected with a train and toy show—and the unfortunate demise of a drugged-out comic book dealer who thought the cape he wore meant he could fly. Since then I’d run into Mark occasionally at community events, and he’d come to a few game nights recently at the shop.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” he said. “Frankly, you might be the only one here having fun.”

  “Really?” I survey the room. The crowd was decidedly older, well-dressed, and rather staid, and many happened to be surveying me at the very same moment. Some quickly turned their heads in a failed attempt to hide furtive smiles.

  Cathy rolled her eyes. “I can dress her up, but …”

  I covered my face with my hands and peeked out through my fingers. “How badly did I embarrass myself?”

  Cathy pulled my hands down and whispered. “I’ll let you know when you stop.”

  Mark laughed, a full baritone laugh that filled the room and diverted attention. “You girls are the bright spot of the whole evening. I, for one, am glad you came.”

  “What brings you here, Mark?” I asked. “Not working, I hope.”

  He gave no direct answer but a slight twitch of the shoulder.

  My skin tingled. “Something’s happening here? Tonight?”

  He ushered Cathy and me over to the wall where he’d be less likely to be overheard. “Nothing serious or definite,” he said. “And nothing dangerous. There are just a few people here that I’d like to keep an eye on.”

  “Criminals?” Cathy asked, her eyes dancing at the prospect. “How exciting!”

  Mark shrugged. “Most of what I deal with is white-collar stuff. Businessmen who lack a certain ethical balance. This is the kind of event where some of those things come to light, when they’re relaxed and a little happy.”

  “Meaning there’s a bar,” Cathy said.

  Mark dipped his head. “And that makes them a little less careful. I just came to be the fly on the wall.”

  “These are stables, so you might not be the only fly,” I said, gesturing to the elaborately decorated barn. In doing so I managed to jostle the tray of a server who juggled it deftly and kept it from the floor.

  “Bravo!” Mark said to the black-tied server. “You passed the test with flying colors. If I have anything to say about it, you might see a little extra in your check. Good work.” Mark rescued two crushed hors d’oeuvres with a napkin and popped one into his mouth.

  The server sent him a sideways glance and moved on with his tray.

  “Is this a private tête-à-tête?” Lori Briggs sidled into our group, then gave Mark a once-over—an embarrassingly long once-over—before she sent him that flirty smile of hers. “Hi, I’m Lori.” She shuffled her drink and appetizer into one hand and held the other out to him.

  “Lori, this is Mark Baker,” I said. “Mark’s an accountant,” I added, not so sure he wanted it to get out that he worked for the FBI. “And Mark, this is Lori Briggs, our mayor’s wife.”

  I could have sworn she flashed me a dirty look, even without letting that smile dim.

  “How exciting,” she said. Now I knew she was up to something. Not many people in this world find accounting very exciting, and that includes most accountants that I’ve met.r />
  “Is your husband here, Lori?” Cathy asked.

  “Yes,” she waved her hand toward the center of the room. “He’s over there talking with the Brownings.”

  I turned and searched for the mayor’s portly figure. “Ian Browning?” I asked.

  “Don’t I wish,” Lori said. “That would make it a party.” She put her hand on my arm. “Have you met him? He is”—she looked around, then leaned closer—“hot. But no, last I saw, hubby was glad-handing the senior set.” She let out an exaggerated sigh then adopted a dour expression. “Very important people.”

  Cathy laughed and tapped the rim of Lori’s glass. “How many of these have you had?”

  “Almost enough to get through this stuffy party,” she said, taking another swig. “Why, you want one?” She turned to look for a server.

  “None for me,” Cathy said. “Nursing mother.”

  “Liz, Liz, Lizzie, try one,” Lori said, then snatched one off a nearby tray and stuck it into my hand before I could respond.

  “Thanks,” I said with a practiced smile. Had Lori been sober, she’d have remembered that I’m an ardent teetotaler. Not quite ready to march for prohibition, and not that I wanted to rain on anybody else’s parade (an expression I preferred to “pooping” at their parties), but being brought up in a home with one alcoholic parent had influenced my feelings toward drinking. During my few experiments in college, I didn’t find the loss of self-control and good judgment fun, nor did I find the slurred speech or slow wit of my less sober classmates charming, which made keeping up a cheerful countenance at this kind of party even harder. Maybe I was the proverbial pooper.

  I stared down at the drink in my hand. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d like to check out the buffet.”

  As soon as I was out of their sight, I deserted the drink on a side table and headed toward the food. Now I was in more familiar territory, and they’d laid out quite a spread. I picked up a plate and started loading it with fruit, cheese, and a couple of meatballs. Okay, six meatballs. But there were three kinds, so just a couple of each. And I was only halfway through the line.

  I licked a bit of sauce from my thumb and turned to the gentleman behind me in line. “Open bar and this kind of buffet? How are they going to raise any kind of money with people just bringing one bag of feed?”

  He chuckled at my remark and pointed at the door prize table. “Did you put your name in for a prize?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “If you do, they hit you up for another donation. And, of course, the speeches are designed to pull at the heartstrings and open the wallets, too.”

  “Speeches?” I yawned just at the prospect. “I don’t know if I can stay awake for any long-winded speeches.”

  Then I turned and truly took in my new companion for the first time. The first word that sprang to mind was dapper, but then again, I watch a lot of old movies. He wore a tux, and it wasn’t one of those rental numbers, either, where they mostly fit. This had been tailored to his trim figure. I wouldn’t call his face handsome—he was no Cary Grant—but his features were pleasing enough. His hair was a bit on the disheveled, sandy side, and his nose a tad crooked, but he carried both with that self-assured way that said he was comfortable with himself, and that made him attractive.

  “I’ll see what I can do about that,” he said.

  Seconds later, the lights flickered, and a few ting-a-lings on glasses focused all attention on a small podium. I took my plate and ducked through the gathering crowd to find Cathy and wait out the speeches. She sidled up to me and snagged one of my meatballs.

  After a brief comment—okay, ten minutes, but for our mayor, that’s brief—he introduced Ian Browning, chairman of the Browning Foundation.

  And yes, it was my tuxedoed friend from the buffet. I tried to replay our conversation in my head to see how badly I’d embarrassed myself.

  He took the mic and opened with, “I’ve been encouraged to keep the speeches short tonight.” He winked at me and I could feel my cheeks flare. “But I do want to say a few words.”

  He went on to talk about the kinds of kids the stables would serve, offering therapy to the disabled and mentally challenged, and how horses help some kids open up and deal with ugly realities. I’m not sure if it was his personal charisma, the artfulness of the speech, or the worthiness of the cause, but you could almost hear purse strings loosen by the time he wrapped up only five minutes later.

  “And I’ve been told that no, we can’t be making any money holding this kind of party for only horse feed.”

  He paused while a few people chuckled.

  “So, my friends, tonight eat, drink, and be merry, but please consider what you can do for this place”—he gestured around the barn—“but especially those kids. Thank you.”

  Speech done, he made his way directly toward me. “I clocked it at five minutes. Short enough?” But he said it with a wink.

  “I’m so sorry.” I closed my eyes. “I didn’t realize.” I squinted one eye open. “I feel like an idiot.”

  He laughed. “I appreciate your candor. I don’t get enough of it.” He held out his hand. “As you may have guessed, I’m Ian Browning. Call me Ian.”

  I shook his offered hand. “Liz. Liz McCall.” Then I somehow had the presence of mind to introduce Cathy and Mark.

  Ian pumped Mark’s hand. “You look familiar.”

  “I get out to a few of these things,” Mark said.

  “What do you do?” Ian asked him.

  “I’m an accountant,” Mark said vaguely.

  “Ah,” Ian said, “good place to drum up business.” He leaned closer. “Lots of these folks are loaded.”

  “You don’t say,” Mark said, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

  “You two don’t mind if I steal Liz for a moment, do you?” Without waiting for an answer, Ian took my arm and started leading me across the room.

  “What’s this about?” I asked.

  He put a hand up, then opened a door that led outside to a dressage area. “Private tour.”

  We strolled a path to a nearby corral where the horses were apparently waiting to be allowed to return to their borrowed digs. He leaned against the fence. “Aren’t they something?”

  I looked at the horses. Their sleek hair caught reflections from the moon, even as their breath frosted in the chill night air. “You sold me. It sounds like such a great program. There’s something calming, just being out here with them.” I unconsciously rubbed my bare arms against the cold.

  Moments later, Ian tucked his tuxedo jacket around my shoulders. “Sorry. I thought you might enjoy a little equine therapy of your own. I didn’t notice that you weren’t dressed for the cold.”

  “If it had been up to me, I’d be wearing boots and a heavy sweater. Fortunately, Cathy set me straight.”

  “If Cathy put you in that dress, I’ll have to thank her. So what brings you to our stuffy little party?”

  “I didn’t call it stuffy.”

  “But you thought it, and you’re not alone. And you’re a first-timer. I thought I’d met most of the girls in town. Have you lived here long?”

  “Most of my life,” I said. “Although I did move away briefly after college, but I came back when my father retired.”

  “McCall.” He snapped his fingers. “With the police?”

  “He was. I guess now he is again, but temporarily.”

  “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What brought you to our stuffy little party?”

  “I never called it—”

  He shot me a warning look that broke into a throaty chuckle.

  “Fine, since you like candor, I’ll tell you. Cathy and I mainly came here to try to meet you.”

  “Hmm.” He leaned against the fence. “To meet me as the suave, man-about-town bachelor that I am? Or as head of the Browning Foundation?”

  I winced
. “As head of the Browning Foundation, if you want me to be completely honest.”

  “I take it you have some charitable cause that needs funding.”

  I opened my mouth to start the pitch Cathy made me memorize, but Ian put a silencing finger on my lips.

  “Please,” he said, “not in front of the horses. It would be a terrible waste of moonlight. And if you’ll allow me to borrow a corny line from the old crooners, moonlight becomes you.”

  My earlier chill subsided, but I wasn’t sure if I was blushing from the compliment or from some developing attraction to Ian. Or perhaps it was merely his physical closeness that caused the apparent spike in the mercury level. “Now, Mr. Browning,” I pushed him back. “I’ve been warned that you have a certain reputation as a playboy.”

  “Totally undeserved.” He drew back and put up his hands. “It’s true that I’ve dated a lot, but it’s because I haven’t found the right woman yet. It seems my family’s money, if you want me to be completely honest, has made me a magnet for that species known as the aurum fossarious domesticus, otherwise known as the common gold digger. Came this close to marrying one once.” He shuddered. “We let her keep the china she’d picked out. Some of the species are particularly good at camouflage.” He squinted at me. “It’s why I prize candor.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll go out with me.”

  “What?”

  “Go out with me. On a date. It can’t be an uncommon request. You’re not married or engaged or something.”

  “No.”

  “Then go out with me. No strings. If we hit it off, we’ll call it a date. If we don’t, you can pitch your charitable idea, and I promise I’ll listen without prejudice. Deal?” He held out his hand, and I stared at it for a moment.

  Ian Browning wasn’t like any of the men I’d ever been attracted to. To put it bluntly, he was way out of my league, and I suspected he’d realize that soon enough. But then I’d get to pitch our idea to him, anyway. And Cathy would kill me if I’d turned down such an opportunity.

  I pumped his hand once. “Deal.”

  Chapter 7

  When I finally dragged myself out of bed the next morning, Dad was already gone. He’d left half a pot of coffee and a plate of cold bacon on the counter covered with a paper towel. Or at least, that’s what I think he’d been going for. In reality, I found a shredded paper towel on the floor and some ragged looking partial strips of bacon still on the plate, mingled with a few telltale black cat hairs.