Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

  “Probably not,” I said. “He’s been working long hours on this case.”

  “Not that I mind your father. I like him, in fact. But there are a few things I want to make sure we talk about early on.”

  “If there’s a Mrs. Mark Baker that you haven’t told me about, somewhere in another state, so help me—”

  Mark laughed. “Nothing like that. But especially considering what happened, I want to make sure there are no surprises.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, although the words terrified me. What deep, dark secret was Mark going to spring on me?

  Chapter 23

  When I made my way to the kitchen the next morning, Dad was just standing up after feeding Val and Othello. He clutched his back and winced.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I will be. It seems someone let me sleep in the chair last night.”

  “What did you expect me to do? Carry you to bed and tuck you in?”

  “You could have woken me.”

  “You were dead to the world.”

  Dad sucked air through his teeth. “Maybe not the best choice of words.”

  “How’s the investigation going?” I pulled out the biggest mug I could find in the cabinet, the one with a jolly snowman. He wore a badge and directed traffic, and some of the guys in the department had bought it for Dad a few years back as a gag gift. I filled it with coffee and slid into my seat at the table.

  “I kind of wish I knew,” he said.

  “What happened to your big break? With the FBI, ICE, and I-forget-who-else swooping in.”

  “I could tell you if they returned my calls. I managed to get the name of the man Marya was in contact with. Someone named Bobkov.”

  “The guy in the pickup? Let’s call him Bob.”

  “Works for me. But they also uncovered a few details about Bob that threw a king-sized wrench into our investigation.”

  “Why a wrench? And don’t say because he’s a real tool.”

  Dad chuckled. “Now I don’t have to. Seems the Feds are more interested in nailing”—he cleared his throat—“that whole trafficking ring than they are in helping with our little old murder. If I want to question him about the money Marya handed off, I have to wait in line. But they did say someone saw Bob in North Carolina just a couple of hours after Marya was killed. He was in jail, in fact. Seems he got hammered and ran his pickup into a tree.”

  “So he didn’t kill her.”

  “Sounds like we can’t pin our murder on Bob, after all.”

  “Do we have a picture of Bob?” I asked.

  “It’s about all we do have,” he said. “If you want, I can text you a copy when I get to the office.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” I said.

  “On the level?”

  I touched the tip of his nose “Right on the bubble.”

  * * *

  When I reached the shop, I realized I’d become so disconnected from the business that I had no idea who was on the schedule or where I’d put it. When Miles arrived with his laptop under his arm, just a little after ten, I decided it must be him.

  “Sorry I’m late, boss.”

  “Only a couple of minutes. I won’t dock you.” I winked at him. “This time. I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Work a little magic with your keyboard.”

  “I’m going to have to put a tip jar on the counter if I keep getting requests like this. You know, search engines are free to use. Have been ever since Al Gore invented the Internet.”

  “But you always seem to find so much more than I do. What’s your secret? Voodoo?”

  “Boolean search terms.”

  “I’m still assuming that’s a form of Voodoo.”

  “It’s a way of typing in what you want to search for and eliminating what’s irrelevant. That, and I sacrifice a goat once a week.” He laughed and cracked his knuckles. “What do you want to find?”

  “Anything you can dig up on Joan Toscano, Diana Oliveri, and Valerie Browning.”

  “This about the murder?”

  “More about money,” I said. “And Dad always said to follow the money. Oh, and I have a video on my phone that I want to get onto my laptop. How hard is that?”

  “Not hard at all,” he said. “Just give me your phone and laptop.”

  I handed over my phone and pointed to where my laptop was under the counter. “I suppose you need the passwords?”

  He looked up at me over his glasses. “Only if you want to make it easy.”

  “I’m glad you’re on our side,” I said, and left him to it.

  Cathy came in a little after noon carrying a garment bag.

  “Oh, my personal stylist is here,” I said. “I’m beginning to think I’m some kind of important celebrity or something, with all this attention to my appearance.”

  “What Cathy’s actually saying,” Miles said, “is that you have no fashion sense of your own.”

  Cathy put her hands on her hips. “Now, we weren’t supposed to tell her that.”

  “And I shouldn’t tease you, either,” I said. “I do appreciate everything you’ve done. What are we wearing tonight?”

  “Another great score from the local consignment shops! Since he didn’t tell you where you were having dinner, I thought we’d go with a classic.” She unzipped the bag. “And you can’t get more classic than the little black dress.”

  “How little are we talking?”

  Fortunately, not as little as I feared. Still, the sleeveless dress with the halter top and asymmetric hemline wasn’t something I would have chosen, especially in the dead of winter.

  “Ha!” I said. “After all this, wouldn’t it be funny if Ian took me for pizza and bowling?”

  “He’s not going to take you bowling,” Cathy said.

  “He’s got to lighten up sometime, doesn’t he? Well, tonight’s my only chance to find out. If all goes to plan, this will be the last date with Ian Browning.”

  “I’m going to miss all this, I think,” Cathy said. She put an arm around my shoulder. “It’s like having a real live fashion doll.”

  “You still have Drew and a whole shop of dolls to dress. And a creepy, haunted doll to give you messages from the beyond.”

  “Ah!” she said. “Miles, show her.”

  Miles reached underneath the counter and pulled out the matryoshka.

  I took an unconscious step back. “Do we have to?”

  Cathy laughed. “This will make you feel better.” She nodded to Miles.

  Miles set the doll on the counter, then started banging his fist next to it, and the doll slowly rotated on its base. “Seems it’s not quite even.”

  “Oh, Miles, you’re brilliant,” I said.

  “I get that a lot.” He chuckled and went back to his work on my laptop.

  “So nothing supernatural,” Cathy said. “Turns out the vibrations were caused by people strolling around the shop, maybe the workers in the comic room.”

  I pointed a finger at her. “A much better explanation than poltergeists or Marya’s ghost. But, uh, can we still keep it in the doll room?”

  “Sure.” She gathered her things. “Let me know how it goes tonight. I want to know if you think we still have a chance at funding after you drop the bomb.”

  “Will do.”

  “Hey,” Miles said. “Video’s up.” He turned my laptop around, and my footage from the inside of the barber shop played on the screen.

  “What’s that?” Cathy asked.

  “The inside of the barber shop storage room after it was ransacked,” I said. “I wanted to see it on a larger screen.”

  Cathy leaned in. “They sure made a mess, didn’t they?” She leaned in closer. “Can you back that up?”

  “Sure,” Miles said.

  “Pause it there.” Cathy pointed at the screen, letting her finger rest just under the Aqua Net can. “See that?”

  “Yeah, I noticed that earlier. My mother used to have the same can.”

  “Everybody’s moth
er used to have the same can,” she said. “I didn’t know they made it anymore, with the whole chlorofluorocarbon scare. But I was looking for some wig shampoo at the drugstore the other day.”

  “Wig shampoo?”

  “For the dolls. I’ve been looking up what other doll rehabbers do, and most say they like fabric softener for detangling, but a couple swear by wig shampoo if the hair is dirty.”

  “Go on.”

  “I found it right next to the Aqua Net.”

  “So they do still make it,” I said.

  “Yeah, but the whole can is different.”

  “So the barber shop had an old one?”

  “A really old one,” she said. “I wonder when they changed it.”

  “Is that a request I hear?” Miles said, putting up his hand to his ear. Soon he was typing away. “Whoa,” he added, just a moment later.

  “Now you’re just showing off,” I said.

  “Look!” He pushed the laptop around, and there was a can, identical to the one on the floor of the shop.

  “Very good,” I said.

  “No, read the description.”

  Cathy and I both leaned in, read the page, then looked at each other.

  “It’s not hairspray,” I said.

  “It’s a safe!” Cathy said.

  * * *

  I texted Dad immediately. I was dying to know if the innocent looking hairspray can really was a safe, and if so, what might be inside. From the website—which also featured diversion safes made from Coke cans, household cleaners, and shaving cream—I saw how the bottom could be unscrewed. Not sure how much you could fit inside an ordinary hairspray can. Jewelry, papers, photographs? Or in Marya’s case, maybe even those pills she pilfered. Or money.

  While I had my phone out, I also reminded Dad that I was still waiting for a picture of Bob.

  “Bob’s your uncle,” he answered. “Tied up, will get to it later.”

  I texted back. “Bob’s your suspect. Need me to untie you?”

  But he didn’t respond, so I assumed he was mired in police work.

  I still hadn’t heard back from him when I stood staring in the mirror at my reflection wearing that little black dress hours later. Truth be told, I was going to miss having a personal dresser and considered keeping Cathy on retainer, at least for important events. Especially since she didn’t charge me anything except the cost of the clothing.

  The only time my phone buzzed, however, I got a Cary Grant GIF from Mark, with the caption, “Seeing me in your dreams?”

  I texted back, “You or Cary?” and then shoved my phone into the little black clutch Cathy had also found.

  I slipped on my black wool dress coat. No way I was going out tonight without it.

  “You look … warm,” Ian said, as he climbed out of his Prius to open the passenger door.

  I was tempted to ask if none of the other girls he dated ever wore coats, but in the end I just thanked him. The easy banter I enjoyed with Mark just wasn’t there with Ian.

  And no, Ian did not take me bowling, although we passed the bowling alley and I looked at it wistfully.

  I’d never been to the restaurant he pulled into and then handed his keys to the valet. I wasn’t sure how to pronounce the name, and I certainly hoped the menu choices were in English. When I saw they weren’t, I pulled a classic film move and asked Ian to order for me. “Anything but snails,” I added.

  As the waiter went away and I awaited my culinary surprise, Ian turned to me. “So, tell me about this doll project that has my mother all fired up.”

  And I finally got to pitch the doll rehab program.

  When I finished, he gave one long sniff. “One thing I don’t understand, though. Why not just buy new dolls? It would be less work, and when you consider all the materials, it probably won’t be much more expensive.”

  “But rehabbing saves the dolls,” I said. And I wished Cathy was there for this part. She was so much more eloquent about the cause.

  Ian brushed a bit of road salt from his sleeve. “I guess that works too. Tell you what, if Mother is for it, I can’t see how I could go wrong. Get the grant application together, and I’ll make sure it’s fast-tracked.”

  “Wonderful!” I said. “And I’m so happy your mother is excited about the project.”

  He leaned forward. “Honestly, I think it’s you she’s excited about.”

  “We need to talk about that. Ian, I like you very much.”

  He reached forward and took my hand. “I was kind of hoping you did.”

  “No, you’re not getting what I’m trying to say.” I pulled my hand back. “I like you very much. You’re a great guy. You’re witty and charming. But I’m not interested in pursuing a relationship with you.”

  His eyebrows hit the ceiling. “Oh.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you since the first date. And then your parents were at the second.”

  He blinked several times then shook his head. “It’s fine. Really. I just thought that when I found a girl I liked and that my parents approved of, that she’d just naturally …”

  “Maybe so, but I’m afraid I’m not that girl.” My phone buzzed in my purse. “I should check this.”

  “From someone else already?” he asked, then took a sip of his wine.

  I glanced at my phone. “From my father.” I took a peek at the picture he sent.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Just a suspect.” Then I took a closer look at the image and almost dropped my phone. Bob had pale blue eyes. “He couldn’t have been responsible for the break in, though. Wrong color eyes.” I looked up. “A witness said the person who broke in had dark, piercing Russian eyes.”

  “Russian eyes?”

  “All he saw was the eyes. Said he’d know them if he ever saw them again.”

  “Your witness sounds like a character.”

  “Whoever it was didn’t get what he came for, though.” I smiled. “Apparently he didn’t know his hairspray.”

  Ian sent me a confused look.

  “Sorry.” I laughed. “It’s just that I think I beat my dad to a big break in the case—well, really my sister-in-law Cathy did.” I explained about the change in label of the Aqua Net.

  “I’ve heard of people putting their valuables in mattresses and in freezers, but that is a new one. I guess if you’re going to hide something in a barber shop, a can of hair spray is as good a place as any.”

  “Ingenious, isn’t it?” I said. “I hope my dad lets me know what he finds.”

  When a magnificent dessert cart came around, Ian waved it off. The message was clear: girls who break up with him don’t get luscious French desserts. “We should be getting back.”

  “I hope you’ll still consider our project,” I said.

  “Absolutely. Once you get the paperwork together, send it on and I’ll definitely consider it.”

  I noticed the change in wording from “fast-track” to “consider.” Good thing Lori promised to keep those fundraising ideas.

  When Ian dropped me off, he was pleasant enough, but he didn’t even get out of the car. He must have driven off before I reached the door. When I turned around to wave goodnight, he was already gone.

  * * *

  I put the dress on a hanger and slid it in my closet next to the other two. I wasn’t sure if I’d have any occasion to wear any of them again. Once comfortable in my pajamas—this evening called for my Batgirl fleece jammies—I curled up in bed with a cup of cocoa and texted Cathy the bad news. I pictured Ian off somewhere having a good laugh that I’d thought “I’ll consider it” meant that we had a chance.

  I thumbed through my pictures and looked at the photo of Bob. No way those eyes could ever be called dark and piercing. So someone else had broken into the barber shop.

  And since it was a man who’d overpowered Lionel Kelley, that eliminated all of Marya’s clients that I’d been tracking for a few days.

  I sure hoped Dad was having better luck.

  C
hapter 24

  During that dusky mental twilight that just precedes sleep, my idle brain tossed the details of the investigation together with snippets from my personal life into a very unusual salad of thoughts.

  Of course, the whole idea of a thought-salad is unusual, too, but that’s how my brain works when I’m half asleep.

  If I assumed that the person who broke into the barber shop was the same person who killed Marya, then the killer had to be a man based on Lionel Kelley’s description of the attacker. And the only men I could think of who’d been suspect in the investigation were Ken, Bob, and Pastor Pete.

  Without flicking on the light, I grabbed my phone and cropped the picture of Bob and an old picture of Ken, so that only the eyes were showing. I did the same with a JPEG of Pastor Pete that I downloaded from the church’s website.

  If Lionel Kelley was sure he’d recognize his attacker based on those “deep, piercing Russian eyes,” why not give him a full lineup? So I also cropped pictures of Dad’s eyes, Parker’s, and Ian’s—from the photo of the two of us that was in the paper.

  “You awake?” I texted Lionel. Since I wasn’t sure he’d respond just to that, I also texted that I might have a picture of his attacker’s eyes.

  “I’m up,” he said. “Right out back, in fact.”

  I considered taking my phone down there so I could see his reaction, but I didn’t want to leave my warm bed.

  “Six pictures,” I said.

  First I sent the picture of my dad’s eyes, then Bob’s, then Ian’s, then Ken’s.

  “That’s him!” he texted back, before I even got to Parker’s. My heart sank. I never wanted to believe it was Ken. I trusted him once, shame on him. Trusted him twice, shame—

  “No on the fourth pic,” Lionel texted back. “But the third is definitely him.”

  I looked back. The third picture was Ian’s eyes. I sent the picture again. “These?”

  “Yes!”

  That just didn’t make sense. From all accounts Ian didn’t know Marya, and the only connection I could think of was that Marya cut his mother’s hair. I decided that Lionel must be mistaken.

  Still …

  I mentally replayed my conversations with Ian. He was ambitious, true. And he was also a bit detached, almost heartless. Would he kill someone? If the stakes were high enough and if he thought he could get away with it? Quite possibly.