Death of a Toy Soldier (16 page)

Dad set his pen down.

“Some dudes I used to hang with. Only they swore they were done with that kind of thing. Said they were only doing a favor for someone.”

“A favor?” I said. “Someone asked them to break into the house?”

“It’s not like they wanted to talk to me about it, considering they know who I work for. They beat around the bush, said that the only way they’d do a job like that is with some inside connection.” Miles shrugged as if he thought the idea crazy too. “They kept telling me they weren’t breaking in. They had a key.”

“A key?” Dad leaned back, grimacing.

“Where’d they get a key?” I asked.

“That they’re being tight-lipped about. Asked me why I was so curious all of a sudden. I didn’t want to push.”

“You were right to stop.” Dad flipped to a clean sheet of paper. “Let’s think about this for a minute. Does anything connect the break-in with Sully’s death?”

“Okay,” I said, trying to follow where he might be leading with this. “When the attempted break-in occurred, Sully was already dead, but nobody knew the victim was Sully.”

“Except the killer,” Dad said. “Presuming he even knew whom he had killed.”

“That’s a scary thought,” Cathy called out. She peeked her head back in the door. “If the attack was random, any of us could have been killed.”

“Doesn’t feel random,” Dad said.

“How do they even investigate a random attack?” I asked.

“Forensics, hopefully,” Dad said. “But all those tests take time. For now, they have to assume that the killer was someone who knew the victim and had a motive. I think we should, too.” He tapped the paper. “Now, back to the time of the break-in.”

“Sy was being buried,” I said, “but the obituary was never printed in the paper. Yet somehow, Miles’s . . . former associates knew the house was unoccupied, which was unusual, since everybody I’ve talked to has told me that Sy never went anywhere.”

“They found out from someone,” Miles said. “Maybe this mystery person who gave them the key?”

Cathy peeked her head back out. “An inside job? One of the relatives wanting a jump on things?”

“That doesn’t entirely make sense, either,” Dad said. “Why involve these young men when almost everyone had opportunity to get into the house and retrieve whatever they wanted? The relatives all had keys. Kimmie had a key. Presumably, O’Grady had a key. By the look of things, Sy hadn’t changed the lock in years.”

“The preservation folks frown on modern-looking locks,” Cathy said.

“Perhaps Sy was too cheap to invest in a more secure reproduction when the original worked just fine,” I said. “You don’t suppose O’Grady could have been killed for his key, do you?”

“Oh, they wouldn’t have . . .” Miles started, but his brow creased in worry.

Dad jerked his head up suddenly. “Now there’s a sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. I’d like to know if a key was found on him.” His gaze fixed on Miles. “It would be better for your friends if Sully had a key among his possessions.” He turned and gave me one of his mischievous grins. “One of us should probably make nice with Ken Young and see if we can find out.”

“Why me?”

“He likes you more,” Dad said.

“He
so
likes you,” Cathy said, leaving me blushing while she went back to her work.

“Fine, I will endeavor to evoke my wiles tonight,
if
he comes to game night. Which I doubt, since he’s working a murder case.”

“He’ll be here,” Cathy said. “Because you’re here.”

Dad grinned. “If it were me, I’d be here.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” I said. “Don’t go renting a hall or anything. He smiled at me a couple of times. That’s all.”

Cathy whistled the first few bars of the wedding march from the other room.

I pointed a finger at Dad. “You lie. You’d be out working the case.”

“Yes, Lizzie, I’d be working the case. But I’d still be here.” His voice grew more solemn as he hazarded a glance to the spot where Sullivan O’Grady took his last breath. “This is the scene of the crime.”

It was Monopoly night at Well Played, and by six thirty, Cathy and I had pushed aside all the moveable displays and set up four folding tables. These supplied enough room for eight vintage boards—including a variety of game tokens, real estate, houses and hotels (both wood and plastic), and a king’s ransom in colorful fake currency.

“You’d better lock up Othello.” Cathy slipped on her gloves, getting ready to leave.

“Right,” I said. Monopoly was one of his favorites. One sprint across the boards would send everything flying.

After a brief hunt, I found the cat sitting in the shop window, expressing amorous attentions to a Scottish terrier pull toy, which now had a little white cat fur mingling with his synthetic black variety. “You nut.” I lifted him gently into my arms. That is, I tried, but he stuck his claws into the carpet lining the window, and I had to pry him up. “An office romance is always a bad idea. Trust me on this.”

As he steadied himself on my shoulder, digging in his claws, I looked out onto the street and wondered how the weather
would affect attendance. A light, dusty snow had fallen, and a circuitous breeze swirled and rippled it across the brick street and sidewalks like sand in a desert. It would be easy to get lost in that, mesmerized by the changing patterns. I wrenched myself away and carried Othello upstairs.

When I came back down, Dad had cranked up the Christmas music and picked up a miniature cannon, one of the retired tokens that still graced our boards. “Funny how games change over time.”

I nodded, not just thinking about the quality of the playing pieces. That Monopoly started out as The Landlord’s Game is a sad bit of game history. The original purpose was to expose the greed of property owners who took unfair advantage of their tenants and
not
to celebrate their cunning. Others eventually took the game, improved upon it, and sold it to Parker Brothers, while the original developer got nothing. Lessons in greed well-learned.

Soon the bell over the door started chiming at regular intervals. Our friends and neighbors greeted us, some giving Dad a hug at the door, or at least a smile and a wave, before they took up their positions at the gaming tables.

Dad’s prediction was correct: Ken came. He scanned the store from one end to the other before claiming a chair on the outskirts of the room, giving him a full view of everyone present. Only then did he wave at me and slip off his jacket.

Even Dad decided not to lock himself up in his garret. He shoehorned himself in at a nearly full table just before Peggy Trent arrived. She claimed the last spot one table over to join a game with Jack Wallace and Glenda, the owner of the yarn
shop. Peggy briefly acknowledged her opponents, then concentrated all her attention on my father.

“There you are, Hank!” She followed this up with her best come-hither look. If she wasn’t careful, Dad was going to start running in the opposite direction. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out another covered plate. “I brought more cookies,” she practically sang out.

I came to Dad’s rescue. “Thanks for the ones you sent over earlier. But . . .” I paused and put on my fake contrite voice. “We don’t allow outside food brought in during game night.” I shrugged, hoping I came across as a little bit sweet.

“Oh, sorry.” She pushed the plate into her bag and fished out her knitting. “Remind me to give them to your father before I leave.”

Like Peggy, Glenda had brought her knitting, and the click of needles soon blended with the sounds of dice rolling, deal-making, and general conversation.

Jack caught my arm. “Are you playing, Liz?” His expression said, “Rescue me.”

“Sorry, not in a playful mood, I guess.” Instead, I went to the candy counter, grabbed an assorted armful, and started making the rounds.

All our gaming tables were at or near capacity. Maybe some of the morbid types wanted to ogle the crime scene and hear the latest gossip about the murder, but I’d like to think that at least a few had come to show their support. They were buying snacks, at least, and a congenial mood prevailed, even while players scarfed up properties and tried to drive each other into bankruptcy.

Lori Briggs had assumed a spot at Ken’s table, and I think she was regretting it. If there was any truth to Peggy’s unveiled accusation of Lori flirting with the chief, he wasn’t reciprocating, at least not tonight. Not engaged in the game or in conversation, he mechanically rolled the dice, moved his racecar, and then returned to watch the crowd.

I tried to follow his gaze. Who was he watching? These were our friends and neighbors, playing games and having fun. Surely none of them was a cold-blooded killer returning to the scene of the crime. And were criminals even drawn back to the scenes of their crimes? Or was that just old movie fodder?

A shout drew my attention. Jack was performing a rather nerdy celebratory dance, fanning his face with Park Place and Boardwalk. I couldn’t help but wince when Peggy tucked States Avenue and St. James Place under her corner of the board. Bad trade.

Jack apparently mistook my wince for admiration of his gamesmanship. “Pull up a chair, Liz. Come watch me win.”

Jack was making one of the biggest mistakes you can make: selling off everything for a pricy monopoly, leaving himself cash poor and unable to build on it. Meanwhile, Peggy started adding cheap houses to hers. From those she’d collect regular rents, keeping Jack cash poor. Peggy had this one all but locked up.

Despite the train wreck I knew was coming, I set up another folding chair where I could watch this game as well as Dad’s. Unfortunately, it also left me staring straight at my nemesis, that little monkey with the cymbals. Tonight they seemed ready to strike.

While Glenda dithered over whether or not to buy Marvin Gardens, Jack leaned over. “I don’t know if you got a chance to hear yet. The second autopsy results came back on Uncle Sy.”

Even though his tone was low, heads turned in our direction, necks craning to hear.

“Natural causes,” he said. “Same as before. Now the cousins want another service. Only nobody wants to pay for it.” He eyed Ken.

The chief’s jaw tightened. “The village is paying for the diggers and all the complications involved since the ground is frozen. A service is the responsibility of the family.”

“Wouldn’t that be Kimmie’s job this time?” I asked.

Peggy leaned forward. “Is Kimmie the new wife I heard about?”

“Yup,” Glenda said.

“You guys know about Kimmie?” I asked.

“Been the topic of the town for days,” Glenda said. She must have seen our startled expressions. “Well, when a college student up and marries an octogenarian bachelor in a community our size, people are going to talk about it. A few of the ladies in my morning crochet class have decided that the . . . unusual excitement did him in.” She paused for effect. “Mostly, they’re asking why. What was she hoping to gain?”

“A haunted house,” Jack said. Excited whispers rippled across the room, like a stone tossed into a pond.

Glenda and Peggy both stopped their knitting in midstitch.

“Haunted?” Peggy asked. “And she still wanted it?”

“Oh, haunted places mean tourist dollars now,” Glenda said. “Why, we have our own ghost at the yarn shop.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Have you seen it?” I wondered if Dad had gone all across town with his tiddlywinks.

Glenda continued her knitting. “One of the local paranormal groups caught some men’s voices or something like that, so we tell the tourists that it’s Millard Fillmore.”

“Apparently he likes to make the rounds,” Jack said.

“Oh, dear,” Glenda said. “Is he taken already? Maybe I could say it’s William McKinley. Is he taken?”

“I don’t think so,” Peggy said, “but has he ever been to East Aurora?”

This question sparked a general discussion. The conclusion was that although there was no direct proof, at least without a visit to the historical society, that William McKinley ever visited East Aurora, it was well documented that the druggist who supplied McKinley’s medicine eventually settled in the village. So the footsteps above the yarn shop might easily belong to the druggist, pacing over some mistake, or McKinley himself, seeking retribution for the ineffective medicine.

Once that was settled, Peggy turned to Jack. “Do you think Kimmie Kaminski’s claim on the house will hold up?”

Jack pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. “Personally, I’m up for letting her keep that spooky old place.” Jack squinted at my father. “Actually, it wouldn’t surprise me if half of what happened the other night was faked.”

“The other night?” Ken asked from across the room.

“Séance at the old DuPont house,” someone said. I wasn’t even sure where the voice had come from. That’s one thing about small towns—not many secrets. Except for who had killed Sullivan O’Grady, that is.

“A séance?” Ken was apparently the only one in the room that hadn’t heard, not having lived in town long enough to be a part of the gossip network. I wasn’t sure if that would help or hinder his investigations. “Who all was at this shindig?” he asked.

“Kimmie and her paranormal team,” I said. “Althena, the psychic.”

“I was there,” Jack said.

“Dad and me,” I added.

“Don’t forget Millard Fillmore,” Dad said.

“I’m sticking with McKinley,” Glenda said.

Ken put his hands to his temples. “What were you trying to accomplish with a séance?”

“For one thing,” Dad said, “I wanted to see Kimmie in the house. Get a feel for what she was up to. She seems sincere in wanting the house for her paranormal investigations.”

“Perhaps Sullivan O’Grady was a threat to her plans,” Peggy said.

“Sully wasn’t a threat to anyone,” Glenda said, “unless you had Saturday morning plans and he was headed up your driveway for a little impromptu Bible study.”

“That doesn’t, however, mix with ghost hunting,” Peggy said.

“I’m just ready for all this murder business to be over,” Lori Briggs said, then let two dice fly from her hand. One of them fell (accidentally?) on the floor, so she got up to retrieve it, managing to expose quite a bit of cleavage from her V-neck sweater. In Ken’s direction, of course. “When are you going to make an arrest?”

“When I have enough evidence to make a case,” Ken said, his ears coloring.

“Does that mean you know who did it?” I asked.

He was wise enough not to answer.

Glenda laughed. “Maybe we should have played Clue instead of Monopoly tonight. Was it Kimmie Kaminski in the toyshop with a lawn dart?”

A few titters of laughter ensued, but the quip hung in the air, like smoke at a cigar convention. Sullivan O’Grady had been killed here, in the shop. With a weapon that was also here, in the shop. So all anyone needed to do to complete his card and make an accusation was decide whodunit. Although those gathered here were too kind to say it, the most likely explanation was that he was killed by someone associated with the shop. Like my father, for instance. Or me. Or Miles. Or Cathy. Or Parker. But any of these possible solutions would destroy life as I knew it, so I wasn’t ready to lend credibility to any of them. I had emotionally eliminated the five most likely suspects. I wondered if Dad had as well.

Ken’s game wrapped up first. He lost, badly, which, come to think of it, is generally how you lose Monopoly. I went to his table to help put the pieces away.

“Thanks,” Lori said, with more than a hint of insincerity. With nothing left to do, she made a remark about getting home before the weather got worse.

Ken dawdled over the game board, absentmindedly flipping the racecar between his fingers while he continued to study the other players.

“Chief?” I said, then waited until he looked up, almost as if coming out of a dream.

“Sorry, Liz. Woolgathering, I guess.”

“I was wondering . . .” I kept my voice low, but above a whisper. Whispering indicated that what you were trying to say was secret, or at least private. And human nature made people all the more eager to hear. If you spoke in a normal voice, like you didn’t mind being overheard, people tended to filter you out. Something I’d learned from Dad, but I couldn’t recall when.

“Do you know if any keys were found on Sullivan O’Grady’s body?”

“Any number of them,” he said. “Did you have any particular one in mind?”

“How about a key to Sy DuPont’s house?”

“You’re wondering if whoever tried to get into the DuPont house the morning of the funeral might have taken it.” Ken leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and tilted his head. “Not a bad theory, except . . .”

“Except?”

“O’Grady turned in his key when he was fired. I learned that by talking with Kimmie Kaminski about something other than things that go bump in the night. She witnessed the old man giving him the boot and saw Sully hand his key back to Sy.”

So the young men who showed up at the DuPont house didn’t get a key from the corpse. So where did they get it?

Still, the relief on Dad’s face was palpable. By dismantling that last connection between the young men and the murder
victim, he had removed any sinew connecting Miles to the murder.

The rest of the games eventually wrapped up, and people tugged on their coats, gloves, and hats and left without a lot of chatter or threats of rematches. The talk of the murder had perhaps cleared the air a bit while simultaneously muddying it.

Finally, Dad excused himself and climbed the stairs toward his bed, carrying, of course, the plate of cookies from Peggy.

Jack lingered behind, helping to break down the tables and chairs and push the portable display shelves back into place. “Liz?” He sheepishly bobbed from foot to foot. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

I still had the last two folding chairs tucked under my arm, so I handed him one. I opened the other and sat down.

“I wanted to ask about the other night.” He pushed his chair open and straddled it, facing me. “Am I right in thinking that your father rigged a lot of that stuff at the séance?”

“Some of it. I’m never letting that man near a set of tiddlywinks again. But not the voices.”

“Do you think the place really could be haunted?”