Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

  Grace continued to nod as if on autopilot.

  I stood up. “If I’m intruding, perhaps I should go.”

  Ken stood up too, but nobody said the obligatory, “Oh, you’re not intruding.” I’d never even removed my coat.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Ken said, shooting a warning look at his sisters.

  I waited by the door while he shoved his bare feet into slippers.

  “A bit stuffy in there,” Ken said, pulling the door shut behind us. “Sorry about that. I’m afraid they’re not going to be very pleasant to you. They know I was seeing you before Marya came. To them …”

  “I was a potential home wrecker.”

  “I told them that you didn’t even know about her, but I’m not sure they believe me. I’m afraid Marya had them bamboozled into thinking she was the love of my life. I never saw the need to enlighten them into the reasons for our separation. Maybe that was my mistake, one of them, anyhow. I’m sure they were just trying to help.”

  “I’ll do my best to stay out of their way. I was worried about how you were doing, and I baked cookies.”

  “Appreciated.” He took my hand and held it. “Thanks so much. And if you do hear anything about the investigation that might help, will you tell me? I’m being smothered alive here.”

  “How about I text you?” I pulled my hand back. “They still allow you to use the telephone and all, right?”

  “As long as it’s before nine.” He rolled his eyes.

  “You poor thing. But at least you have someone to look after you.”

  He glanced back at the house, where Nancy had pulled back the drapes and was watching us. “If I survive it.”

  Chapter 9

  When I climbed out of bed Monday morning, I found Dad’s damp towel in the hamper and his empty coffee cup in the sink. They were the only evidence that he had been there at all, and I doubted it would hold up in court.

  So when it was time to open up the shop, I headed down to make sure Cathy had arrived and could handle everything.

  She came out of the doll room with wide eyes and a scary, plastic smile.

  “If the next words out of your mouth,” I said, “have anything to do with that creepy Russian doll turning around on her own again, please don’t say them.”

  She ran an imaginary zipper across her lips, and a chill shot up my back. Toys were supposed to be fun, cute, innocuous. Somehow our shop had become a magnet for the spooky ones.

  I did my best to shrug it off then went back to the apartment to bake orange-cranberry muffins. I had two goals for this baking spree. First, Dad needed to eat, and second, it gave me an excuse to go to the station to see what I could pick up from the investigation.

  But the walk to the station took me past Lionel Kelley’s office, and when his pulled shades fluttered again, I went straight to the front door.

  Not sure what I expected to see inside. An office perhaps? But only if that office belonged to Q, James Bond’s gadget man, not the omniscient alien from Star Trek: The Next Generation. While I took in the scenery, Lionel made a valiant effort to conceal something behind his back.

  “Who are you watching, Lionel?” My words were more demanding than usual, but they seemed to do the trick.

  “Not you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” I said.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty—”

  “Don’t play that card with me,” I said. “Marya Young is dead, and if your surveillance has anything to do with—”

  “It doesn’t.” He sucked in his upper lip. “At least, I don’t think it does.”

  I inched forward, until I could partially see what he had behind his back—a video camera.

  “What have you got there?” I then went to his window to see where that camera might have been focused, and found myself looking at the toyshop and barber shop.

  “How long have you been recording?”

  “Off and on, about a week.”

  “A week? Lionel! You could have something on there that might help the police. You need to tell them.”

  “They’d take it from me.” He sat back on the corner of his desk. “It’s hard enough to make a go of it in this town without the police confiscating all your work. Liz, if I lose this client …”

  “It looks like you’re doing okay.” I gestured around the office. “Look at all this cool gadgetry.” I picked up a small camera with a flexible tube. “Do it yourself colonoscopy?”

  “That’s great for seeing into small spaces and going around corners and stuff.” His trademark smirk faded. “I haven’t actually used it yet. Mom thought …” He hung his head. “Go ahead. Laugh at me. My mother bought it. She bought most of this stuff.”

  “I’m not going to laugh at you,” I said.

  “But please don’t tell your father about the footage.”

  “Look, I think you should take it to him and let him worry about whether it contains any useful evidence.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but I silenced him. “If you’re worried about losing it, make a copy first.”

  “If I need it for a trial, not sure they’re going to accept a copy.”

  “Trial? What are you working on?”

  Kelley ran an imaginary zipper across his lips.

  I paced his office then spun back to face him. “Would you make me a copy? Because, you know, I could tell my father you have it, and he could get a search warrant and take it.”

  Kelley crossed his arms in front of him. “Not sure he’d have the grounds.”

  I wetted my lips. “And then there’s the matter of that 2007 Pinkie Pie I found for you.”

  I let that sink in. Few people outside the shop knew that Kelley was a closeted brony, an adult male fan of My Little Pony. There was nothing wrong with this, of course, but since he’d gone to great lengths to keep it hidden thus far, it was leverage.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I quirked an eyebrow. “A copy?”

  He stared down at the stylish blue-and-gray carpet tiles that I suspected his mother also had picked out, then looked up. “Do something for me first? A trade?”

  “What is it?”

  “I need someone to do a little undercover work. Just one assignment.”

  “Me? Work for you? Is it dangerous? Dark alleys, shady characters?”

  He laughed off my question. “Not. At. All. But it will take you into no-man’s-land.”

  I squinted at him. “Tell me about this undercover assignment.”

  * * *

  Dad wasn’t in the station when I dropped off the muffins. And his men were noticeably tight-lipped during my brief visit. Did they not want to involve me because Ken was a suspect? Or because I was?

  I was almost out the door when Howard Reynolds rounded the corner. “Good morning, Miss McCall. You have a minute?”

  “What’s up?”

  “How about we go someplace quiet?” He gestured toward the conference/interrogation room.

  “Am I a suspect?” I asked, as soon as he closed the door. If the location was meant to intimidate me, Reynolds failed. Dad used to send me into the empty room to do my homework ever since grade school, so I was in familiar territory. “Does my father know you’re talking to me?”

  “He’s the one who suggested it.” Instead of taking the seat opposite of me, Reynolds perched on the corner of the table. I suspect the move was meant to come across as casual, friendly even, while giving him a height advantage. Interrogation feng shui. “You must have figured out that we’d need a statement from you.”

  “I thought my father might …”

  He shook his head. “Not appropriate considering your relationship. And please understand I’m probably as uncomfortable with this as you are.” I could see the investigation was already taking a toll on him. His smile, when he remembered to don it, was practiced and didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were glassy and heavy-lidded from lack of sleep.

  “Fine,” I said. �
�I’d be glad to answer any questions you have.” I looked at his empty hands. “Do you need to take notes?”

  “Nah,” he said, gesturing toward the corner of the room. “We have the video camera.”

  There were no surprise questions. Did I have an alibi? No. What was my relationship to Marya, and to Ken? That was fun to answer, but it was nothing the whole town didn’t already know. Did I have any conflict with Marya? I could truthfully answer no.

  And did I know if Ken had any conflict with Marya? That’s where I was compelled to relate the argument that I’d overheard through the walls. Could I think of anyone else who might have had motive to kill Marya?

  “Sorry, I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with something. I don’t think I knew her well enough to answer that.”

  “That seems to be everyone’s answer to that question,” he said. “Thanks for coming. Just be available if we have any more questions.”

  I assured him I would, and as I shrugged on my coat, I let that sink in. That last question was designed to generate more leads, more suspects than Ken—or me. And right now they had none.

  When I stepped out of the station, I filled my lungs with invigorating, frigid air. The stakes were never higher and I needed to focus. After all, I had a new mission of my own. I was going undercover.

  A couple of hours later I felt substantially less James Bondish as I mounted the library steps.

  By no-man’s-land, Kelley had meant that no men attended this particular event, so he needed a woman. What he’d failed to tell me, and what became painfully obvious as I poked my head into the small meeting room just off the lobby, was that no woman under the age of sixty attended this event, either.

  The room was full of elderly women. Blue-hairs, some folks call them. A few were already seated at tables around the room, others still standing, some with the help of canes and walkers. Usually this was an age group I got along with pretty well. But these women started whispering amongst themselves the moment they saw me.

  “What’s she doing here?”

  “She can’t stay, can she?”

  “What do the rules say?”

  When the hard-of-hearing start whispering, what they’re talking about seldom remains a secret for long.

  I stood up straighter. Lionel Kelley had said he didn’t exactly know what this group did, only that they met here at this particular time every Monday morning at ten. Might be one of the least friendly book clubs around.

  “Am I welcome?” I finally asked, flashing my best innocuous smile.

  A woman who’d been paging through a folder flipped it shut and tossed it on a table. “Nothing in the rules against it.” But she sounded as if the rules committee would be holding an emergency meeting PDQ.

  “It’s not fair,” another woman complained. “Hard enough as it is without someone sending in a ringer.”

  I wondered about the frigid response when the folder lady told everyone to take their places. I got stuck behind a woman with a walker, but within moments all the women staked out their spots, each at a separate small table. With some misgivings, I did the same.

  When everyone was seated, Folder Lady went to the corner of the room and unlatched a dividing wall. The motorized wall retracted to reveal maybe a dozen or so geriatric men standing on the opposite side.

  “Good morning,” Folder Lady said. “And welcome to senior speed dating!”

  She hadn’t finished her sentence when a round man with two tufts of dark hair over each ear—separated by a dome so shiny I could do my makeup in it—pulled out the other chair at my table, then leaned in so close I could smell the Bengay. “Hi, cookie. I’m Lance.”

  I plastered on a grin. “Hi, Lance.”

  I managed to maintain that smile until refreshment time. And Lionel would be pleased. Not only did I discover the mysterious purpose of this meeting, but I could deliver the names and phone numbers of every single man present in the room.

  But I barely had time to swallow my snickerdoodle when Lance and a few others headed in my direction. I managed to elude them—mainly because I might have been the only attendee without arthritis or gout—and ducked into the ladies room.

  Two of the senior ladies followed me in.

  “I have to apologize,” I said. “I didn’t know what that meeting was all about. I thought it might be some kind of book club.”

  “Book club meets on Thursday,” one of them said. I’d heard another woman address her as Betty.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Sorry for intruding.”

  “So you’re not interested in Lance?” the second one said. “He’s a hottie.” She leaned in closer. “And he’s loaded, you know.”

  “Really?” Betty asked.

  But I put up my hands. “All yours.”

  “Good, because you know what I’d like to do with Lance?” The second woman proceeded to tell us, in somewhat pornographic detail, and in a whisper so loud that I hoped her words weren’t bouncing around the lobby outside.

  Betty laughed. “Look at her!” she said pointing at me. “You’ll have to forgive Joan. She wrote one of those kinky books and put it on Amazon and now she thinks she’s E L James.”

  “I’ll have you know my book has twelve five-star reviews,” Joan said.

  “Oh, you’re a writer! You might know my sister-in-law, Cathy McCall?” I said, happily changing the subject.

  “Cathy?” Joan said. “We were in a critique group together. I love her work.” She thought for a moment, then wagged a finger at me. “Then you’re the one in the harem costume!”

  I put my hands up. “Never happened. That part was totally made up!” So much for changing the subject.

  “Where do you think she got the idea?” Joan winked. “But, for someone who can pull off the Dance of the Seven Veils in the same scene where she finds a body? That deserves a prize.”

  “Like I said, never happened. Except for finding the body.”

  But Joan rummaged through her purse and pulled out a book and a pen. She hastily scrawled her signature on the title page before handing the book to me.

  I glanced at the cover: a scantily clad female clasped close to a bare-chested Asian man, and both were standing behind a table containing a bowl of soup and one fortune cookie. “Won Ton Desire?” I read the title.

  “A steamy tale of love and desire set against the backdrop of a Chinese restaurant,” Joan said. “Which may or may not have been inspired by real-life situations.”

  Betty rolled her eyes. “Lo mein in all kinds of inappropriate places.” She shuddered. “Really killed my taste for Chinese food.”

  “I couldn’t take your book,” I said, trying to play hot potato with it.

  Joan put her hands up. “It’s my pleasure. Besides, I already inscribed it to you.”

  I opened the cover. Just above her signature it said, “To harem girl.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wishing I’d brought a larger purse with me. “So, you do this every week? The senior speed dating, I mean?”

  “Almost every week,” Joan said, turning to eye herself in the mirror. She adjusted a lock of hair, then leaned in for a closer look, clucking in disapproval at what she saw. “I was due for a color and perm.”

  “I know,” Betty said, eyeing her own locks. “But I hear they closed the whole place down. Crime scene tape and everything. Not sure when they’re going to reopen.”

  “You talking about Marya?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Betty said. “Said in the paper this morning that someone killed her.”

  “You both knew Marya?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

  “Oh, yes,” Joan said. “She showed up one day just to hand out coupons. The senior discount. Fifty percent off! She cut almost everybody’s hair here. Hair here. That’s hard to say.”

  “Or in Lance’s case, hair not here,” Betty teased. “But he’s still hot.”

  Chapter 10

  Before checking in with Lionel Kelley, I returned to the sh
op to ditch the racy book and put on my manager’s hat and make sure everything was running smoothly. I also wanted to discuss Cathy’s fiction endeavors with her—and make a plea for her to stop including me in them.

  But when I walked in, Miles was also there, bent over his laptop at the counter.

  “You’re not on the schedule today,” I said.

  “I called him in.” Cathy rushed from the doll room. “With Dad not around, I figured you’d be working the case too, and I needed help.”

  “But Dad doesn’t want me working the case, remember?” I set my stuff on the counter, pulled Drew from his stalled swing, and took him into my arms.

  “What’s this?” Miles picked up the book.

  “Better not,” I warned. “I don’t think you’re old enough.”

  Cathy moved closer and caught a glimpse of the cover. “Seriously, don’t open that one.” Cathy squinted at me. “What are you doing with it?”

  I explained all about senior speed dating and running into the author.

  Cathy cocked her head. “I wonder why Kelley sent you there.”

  “I don’t know. He’s being very cagey about this whole investigation, but he was convinced something sinister was going on at this meeting. Not sure it’s a coincidence, but Marya Young had been there, too, a few weeks back, handing out coupons.”

  “If it involves that book”—she pointed, but then pulled back her hand as if were covered in toxic slime—“if any part of that is real life, you should probably tell Dad. Or at least the health department.” Her face blanched slightly. “Whatever you do, don’t read the chapter about the duck sauce. You may never eat Chinese food again.”

  While we were talking, the bell over the door sounded, and a mother and young daughter came in and wandered into the doll room.

  “Duty calls.” Cathy went off to see if she could offer help.

  I cuddled Drew close and blew a few playful raspberries into his chubby cheek, but remained next to Miles at the counter.

  “I suppose,” he said, “that you’re interested in whether I came up with anything about Marya Young.”

  “Spot on.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Did you have any doubts?”