Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

“What did you find?” I leaned closer.

  “On the immigration front, Marya Young was a citizen of these great United States.”

  “So the illegal immigration thing is a false rumor.”

  “Not so fast,” he said, looking over his hipster glasses. “Immigration status is not something that’s all that easy to find. But it seems Marya Young was the subject of a recent Buffalo News photo, and they included her name in the caption.” He turned his laptop to face me, and there was Marya’s smiling face amid an eclectic group of all skin tones, many in their native dress. I squinted to read the tiny caption. “Citizenship swearing-in at the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site.”

  Drew grabbed hold of the corner of Miles’s laptop with slimy fingers. I lifted him back up. “Sorry about that.”

  Miles removed a cloth from his bag and wiped the drool away. “Par for the course when you work with babies or animals. No harm done.”

  “When was that article published?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Two weeks?” Two thoughts struck simultaneously. One, the idea that Irene and Lenora had about her marrying Ken to help in her bid for citizenship might have some validity. And two, it was truly sad that she’d worked and waited for so long, but was only able to enjoy her citizenship status for two weeks.

  “Yeah,” Miles said, catching my mood.

  “Any idea when she moved to the U.S.?”

  He tapped the counter. “That’s a little trickier. Nobody was taking pictures for the local paper when she arrived. And I haven’t found her name in connection with any crimes. Do you know her maiden name?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “Never mind. I can probably find it on their marriage license if I can narrow the county. Give me another day?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “And thanks!”

  * * *

  Miles’s favor deserved some reward, so I called in a take-out order for all of us and walked to Wallace’s to get it.

  The lunch crowd, as much as there is on a Monday, hadn’t hit yet, but as I stood at the counter I heard a familiar pair of voices.

  Dad and Mark Baker were seated at a booth, both leaning forward, deep in conversation. Neither man had seen me, nor did they look up as I approached them, so I sank into the adjacent booth, suddenly grateful that my father had never allowed me to go to concerts because my hearing was still fully intact.

  “It would be premature to say I was investigating anyone in particular,” Mark said. “Can we just leave it at that?”

  “As a professional courtesy, would you tell me if any investigation pointed in Ian Browning’s direction?”

  There was a brief pause. “I can consider your position. Tell you what. I will say that I am not currently investigating Ian Browning. How’s that?”

  “Slightly reassuring. You don’t like him for … whatever it is you’re investigating?”

  “Good fishing attempt. But no, I don’t like him for whatever it is I’m investigating. Nor do I like him period. Too oily and self-assured. Is that why you invited me to lunch?”

  “Not entirely. I need some advice. A little help on this investigation I’m working on.”

  “Read about that. That’s a whole can of worms. You investigating Young?”

  “Have to,” Dad said.

  “Think he did it?” Mark asked.

  Dad let out a long breath. “Things weren’t all that rosy in the Young house. He’d been checking up on her. I found evidence of that when we searched the place. He didn’t trust her.”

  “Checking how?”

  “Auditing her books, for one thing. He made no secret of that. But he’d also been keeping records of her spending, how much she had in her purse at any given time. How much she spent on clothing and groceries. Even kept a file on her whereabouts as if he had her under surveillance.”

  “Was he on to something or just whack-a-doodle paranoid about a pretty wife?”

  “Wish I knew,” Dad said. “He seemed like an okay guy, decent enough cop, but things changed when she came to town. Can’t say I saw him as much after that.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “I’d like if you could look over these financial records. See what you make of them. Maybe he was onto something.”

  “What does he say?”

  “He was helpful at first, but now he’s not saying much of anything. Except that he didn’t kill her. He has two sisters who came to town. Didn’t unpack before they hired him some big shot lawyer who told him to clam up. Meanwhile, I got a whole list of people who didn’t care for his wife, but nobody can think of one who hated her enough to want her dead. Maybe something in that paperwork her husband was keeping will spark an idea. We also got all their joint financial records, if that helps.”

  “I’d be glad to look them over for you,” Mark said, then paused as the waitress came to their table for refills and to drop off the check. She stopped by mine with a raised eyebrow, but I put a finger to my lips and shooed her on.

  “You may be the money guy, but I got this,” Dad said, and movement in the booth suggested he was reaching for his wallet.

  If I stayed where I was, I’d be discovered. I eased my way out of the booth, took a few steps back, then marched directly up to them. “Well, look at that. Great minds think alike!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly.

  “Liz,” Dad said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking up lunch for the crew at the toyshop,” I said. “You do remember the toyshop?”

  Dad stood. “I should ask if you remember the toyshop, blowing off a morning like that. Or did you not know that I’d hear about senior speed dating?”

  My jaw must have dropped.

  Dad wagged a finger at me. “And I don’t care if Lance is older than dirt, if he’s going to date my daughter, I want to meet him first.” At that, he walked off, but not before he burst into raucous laughter that turned the heads of the bartender and every waitress in the place and amused the lunch crowd that had just begun to queue up at the hostess station.

  I collapsed into the booth opposite Mark and stared down at Dad’s plate.

  “I take it there’s a story there,” he said.

  I ran one of Dad’s leftover fries through the ketchup while I waited for my face to cool down. “Maybe not one I’m ready to tell.”

  “Those are the stories worth waiting for.” He sipped his Coke, then sat up straighter. “I was going to text you. You want to meet at the theater tonight, or should I pick you up?”

  “It’s just down the street. How about I meet you out front?”

  “Question,” he said. “Is this a date, or are we going as friends? Because I’m cool either way.”

  “Are you buying the popcorn?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then it’s a date.”

  When I stood up, I kissed him on the cheek, and now it was his turn for his face to flare.

  Chapter 11

  After lunch, I got up the nerve to see Lionel Kelley. Except he wasn’t there, or at least didn’t answer his door when I knocked. So I ended up back at the shop where I unpacked a couple of boxes of newly arrived inventory, including a rather nice edition of the Hardy Boys Mystery Game. Cleaned and priced, it was the star of our shelves. Joe was clearly the focus of the cover, looking straight ahead, but quieter Frank had always been my favorite.

  Dad never returned home for dinner, so I kept it simple with grilled cheese and canned tomato soup, then dressed for my date with Mark. Without Cathy’s help, I managed to pull together a rather cute outfit. At least I hoped I did. Green sweater, cheery holly scarf, jeans, and I even wore my nutcracker socks and snowman earrings.

  And the nice thing about a movie date is that even if I didn’t quite pass muster with the fashion police, the theater would be dark.

  I pulled on a red wool coat and walked the block to the theater. The sun had set early, of course, but the shimmering Christmas decorations on every telephone pole and th
e steady light streaming from the businesses gave a luster of midday to Main Street. The oversized figure sitting on the roof of the five-and-dime was already decked out in his Santa hat. I could see why the town had been chosen to play host to a couple of holiday movies, even if we’d had a heat wave when they were filming and they’d had to borrow snowmaking equipment from a local ski resort.

  A group of Dickens carolers were performing near the theater, and Mark didn’t see me come up next to him. I tapped his arm with my mittened hand.

  “Hi,” he whispered.

  I turned to listen to the rest of the song, which turned into a delightfully harmonic and upbeat medley, finishing up with a rather impolite and urgent demand for figgy pudding. Instead they received hearty applause and the clanking of coins into their bucket, including from Mark who pulled some bills from his wallet before he took my arm.

  Conversation was a little awkward as we waited in line for our popcorn. First dates can be like that, at least any that I’ve ever been on. Anything witty that could have been said evacuated my nervous brain.

  That’s the other nice thing about movie dates: after the theater darkens and the screen lights up, you don’t have to keep up a conversation.

  Mark laughed heartily at the film, which featured a love-struck teenaged Shirley Temple crushing on Cary Grant, wreaking havoc with the budding relationship between Cary and Myrna Loy. Mark’s laughter was infectious, and soon the whole theater was giggling at the comic situations and pratfalls. And any unease I felt at the first date vanished.

  “I take it you’ve not seen this movie before,” I said as we rose to leave.

  “I haven’t, but I think it’s going in my top ten,” he said. “It brings up something I did want to talk about, though. How about we find a nice place for a good cup of hot chocolate?” He glanced at his watch. “Who’s still open?”

  “I know a place not far from here with great hot chocolate.”

  “Lead on, then.”

  He didn’t figure it out until we arrived at the toyshop. Miles had closed it up tight and set the alarm, so I entered the code before I popped on the lights.

  “I do make a mean hot chocolate, and if you wanted a quiet place to talk …”

  He wandered through the aisles a little before poking his head into the addition. “This is new.”

  “Dad’s comic book room,” I said.

  “This must be right behind the barber shop.”

  I sighed. “Their old storage room.”

  “You can’t see anything of the crime scene from here, can you?” he asked, getting down on one knee near a roughed-in electrical outlet where a glimmer of light was visible.

  “No,” he answered his own question then pushed himself up and brushed drywall dust from his pant legs.

  “Are you working the investigation?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the apartment.

  He didn’t answer until we reached the top. “Just assisting where I can. Looking into some financial records.”

  I opened the door and draped my coat on a kitchen chair while I gathered my ingredients: milk, sugar, pinch of salt, half-and-half, and cocoa from the Amish stand at the farmer’s market. I doubted the Amish actually grew the cocoa locally, but it was still the best I’d had.

  “It will just be a minute,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Your dad home?”

  “I somehow doubt it.” I glanced down the hallway to his open door. If he’d come home and was sleeping, the door would be shut. “Probably out working the case. We never saw much of him in the early days of an investigation.”

  “He wouldn’t have a problem with me being up here, would he?” He squinted at a few family photos in a collage frame, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

  I laughed. “I’m not exactly twelve.”

  “Let’s see. When you were twelve, I was probably twenty-two or twenty-three.”

  I pointed my wooden spoon at him. “Now, if I were twelve and you were twenty-two and we were up here alone, you’d never see parole.”

  He leaned his elbows on the table. “That is, if I survived until the trial.”

  “Good point,” I said.

  I busied myself with the cocoa, and when I glanced around, Val had come out of seclusion and was sniffing Mark’s fingers. “Careful, that cat can be unpredictable. I have the scars to prove it.”

  But Mark pet her and she leaned into him. She let him pick her up and set her on his lap.

  “If the FBI doesn’t work out, you might be able to get a job as a cat-whisperer.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “So, you’re reviewing Ken and Marya’s financial records …” I turned back to the hot chocolate. The key to the cocoa was heating the milk without boiling it. And I hoped the key to getting information would be to not seem so anxious to get it.

  “Is that why I merited an invite? Not sure I should discuss that with you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You used to date the man. If the evidence points to him being guilty, how will you take it?”

  “Like a cop’s daughter,” I said. “Just the facts, man.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “And if the evidence points to him being innocent?”

  “Then that’s good, right?” I poured the cocoa into two jolly Christmas mugs and slid one across the table.

  “Wait!” Before he could take a sip, I retrieved the chocolate whipped cream from the fridge. “Not the same without the whipped cream.”

  “No desiccated mini marshmallows?” he said.

  “Strictly for amateurs.”

  “Now you’re talking.” He put a deft swirl of chocolate whipped cream on top of his cocoa, then took a sip. When he leaned back with a contented sigh, he was wearing a chocolate moustache.

  I chuckled and set a stack of napkins on the table.

  He wiped the chocolate away, and a more serious expression overtook his face. “Tell you what. You can ask me one question about the investigation, as long as I can ask one question from you.”

  “An even trade?”

  “I play fair.”

  I thought for a moment. “What all have you learned from looking into the couple’s financial records?”

  “Everything I’ve learned?”

  I just smiled.

  He took a fortifying sip of his cocoa. “For one thing, she was a very creative bookkeeper. Her husband apparently suspected her of some kind of shenanigans, and his suspicions seem valid enough. She had a lot of money coming in.”

  “I heard she was very popular.”

  “Among a certain clientele,” he said. “Her appointment slots were always booked, but she gave huge discounts. I’m not sure how she could have turned a profit at all.”

  “Then where was she getting the money?”

  Mark shrugged. “That’s what her husband was apparently trying to figure out. That, and where it was going.”

  I lifted my mug up until it steamed my glasses. I guess I was hoping it would hide the eagerness in my face. I waited for him to go on.

  “As fast as it came in, it disappeared,” he said.

  “Tax evasion? Some kind of money laundering?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like any scheme I’ve ever seen.”

  “How much money are we talking here?”

  “Isn’t that another question?”

  “It’s a clarification of the first question.”

  “Man, you are tough,” he said. “Looks like two, three grand a month. Maybe more. Money comes in. Money goes out.”

  “And she’s been here a year,” I said.

  “So we’re talking possibly tens of thousands,” Mark said. “Not exactly a huge criminal enterprise, if that’s what it was, but it’s something.” He leaned his arms against the table. “Now my question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If the investigation clears Ken Young of any wrongdoing in his wife’s death, would you consider seeing him ag
ain?”

  “Why?”

  “Nope, that’s a different question.”

  I took a long sip of my cocoa, then set the mug on the table. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “I liked Ken. And if Marya had never come to town and Ken had secretly gotten his divorce, who knows what would have happened? But honesty is a trait I value, and him not telling me he was married …”

  “If it helps,” Mark said, “it doesn’t look like this year was much fun for him.”

  “Doesn’t help at all.” I sighed. “I don’t want him to be unhappy, and I didn’t want her to be unhappy, either. And I certainly didn’t want to see her dead.”

  “You do know they’re probably going to be talking with you officially.”

  “They took care of that this morning. Kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “Probably because your father’s driving the investigation.”

  “And driving himself to an early grave in the process,” I said. “He just can’t stay away.”

  “Liz, have you considered that he took this case for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, one thing cops hate is investigating other cops. If the investigation clears Young, your father could be accused of a cover-up. If it condemns him, there’ll be a big backlash from his supporters in the department. I’m going to lay odds that your dad’s goal was to keep you as far away from the spotlight as possible for as long as possible. But he won’t be able to do that forever, unless something else breaks in the investigation.”

  “Like figuring out where this money came from and where it was going.”

  The stairs leading up to the apartment sounded a familiar creak. Moments later, Dad opened the door. He looked at Mark, then at me, then down at the table. “Please tell me there’s more cocoa.”

  I smiled. “Take a seat. I’ll heat it up for you.”

  * * *

  When Dad’s cocoa was sufficiently hot, I joined the two men at the table and conversation came to a dead halt.

  “Maybe I should head out.” Mark started pushing himself out of his chair.

  “Actually,” Dad said, “I kind of wanted to talk with you.”

  Mark slid back down into his seat, but Dad did more slurping than talking.