Murder on the Toy Town Express

by Barbara Early

  Craig wasn’t completely motionless, however. As I elbowed my way passed the spectators, I could see his chest rise and fall slightly and his eyelids flutter.

  Dad pushed himself up on his cane from where he’d been crouched next to Craig. He filled in the responders and then made his way to me. “He’s alive,” he said.

  I continued to watch while the paramedics made their own assessments and then braced Craig’s spine and neck for transport. It was at that point that Lionel started doing his best to disperse the crowd.

  Dad took my elbow. “We should get back to the booth.”

  We snaked through the onlookers, right behind Santa on his way back to his throne. We had just reached our booth when the all-clear sounded.

  “Business as usual?” I asked.

  “Lockdown was a bit of an overkill.” Dad quirked his head. “Still, I’d like to talk to Ken. See what his take is on this.”

  “It was an accidental fall, right?” I said. “We all saw him. He was up on that catwalk all by himself. Some kind of publicity stunt gone wrong. Tragic, but what else could it be?” I glanced up half expecting to see frayed wires dangling from the ceiling. But nothing up there suggested that Craig had been restrained in any way. The lost balloon was still there, though, bobbing in the air currents.

  Dad inhaled and held his breath but didn’t answer.

  This was my cue to reexamine the situation. I had missed something.

  Craig, dressed as a superhero, had climbed the catwalks, possibly as some kind of publicity stunt. He overreached, lost his balance, and fell.

  But Dad had just given me the same look he used when he’d tried to help me with my homework in high school and I just wasn’t getting it. I had made a mistake.

  I started going through my original assessment point by point. Craig was dressed as a superhero. Fact. Even with the mask, that body shape forced into spandex was recognizable, and not in a good way.

  He was up in the catwalks. Fact. Alone? That was an assumption. I hadn’t seen anyone, but I suppose someone else could have hidden up there, perhaps behind a light or panel or in a dark recess. That warranted investigation.

  “Was he really alone?” I asked.

  Dad nodded, but grimly. I’d only solved part of the puzzle.

  “And was it a publicity stunt?” That was also an assumption, based on the timing, when Maxine had told me all would be revealed. “We need to talk to Maxine.”

  A smile tickled the corner of Dad’s mouth, his tell whenever I was close.

  “And then there’s the question of why the mob was watching his booth,” I said. “It seems unlikely that the timing is coincidental.”

  “Bingo,” he said. “I hate coincidences.”

  Dad didn’t have to search for Ken. Maybe half an hour after Craig was whisked off to the hospital, the chief approached our booth, notebook in hand.

  “How’s it looking?” Dad asked him.

  Ken paused for a minute, as if considering his words. Or perhaps how much he was willing to share with Dad. At times the new chief and former chief seemed like, if not best friends, at least the wise old mentor and his prized student.

  “So far nobody has come forward claiming to see anything suspicious,” Ken said, hazarding a glance up to the catwalk, “including our two bogeys.”

  “You interviewed them?” Dad asked.

  “Casually and briefly. No more than any of the other nearby witnesses. Nothing to hold them on so I didn’t want to spook them. Just the same general questions.”

  “I had my eyes on one of them while Craig was up there,” Dad said. “He seemed as surprised as we were to see Craig try to pull a Wallenda. But they were definitely interested in him—or at least something at his stand.”

  “Still are,” I said, discretely nodding toward the crowd where both Grandpa and Edward Millroy were hovering nearby, pretending not to know each other.

  “Is that why it’s closed?” Ken gestured toward the covered booth.

  “That was Lionel Kelley’s doing,” I said. “He took objection to some of the comic books—and their special guest. Poor Maxine practically left in tears.” Lexi Wolf was nowhere to be seen now, either.

  Ken rubbed his bristly chin. “Wish I had a clue as to what was going on. I don’t see anything to connect the mob to Craig McFadden, and I have no idea what that man was doing up there. Could he have been suicidal?”

  “Craig?” I said. “I think he liked inflicting pain on others too much to let go of life just yet. Besides, Maxine said he had some kind of big announcement at ten.”

  “Do you know where she went?” Ken said.

  “Not sure,” I said.

  “Took off a little before Craig’s dive,” Dad added.

  “Is there some kind of conference nobody bothered to tell me about?” Lionel Kelley stood glaring, hands on hips, looking at where we were huddled behind the sales tables.

  “I’m just interviewing the witnesses,” Ken said defensively.

  “I was thinking,” Dad said, “that maybe we should ask the hospital to make sure someone thinks to run a tox screen. Maybe Craig wasn’t in his right mind when he climbed up there.”

  “Good idea,” Ken said, pulling out his phone.

  “You’re acting like this is some kind of criminal investigation,” Kelley said.

  Ken eyed him. “Yup.”

  “But it was an accident,” Kelley said. “I mean, yeah, McFadden must have gotten by the safeties somehow to gain access to the catwalks. They’re normally locked off. Only licensed tradesmen use them to access the HVAC and replace light bulbs.”

  “You check them regularly?” Dad asked.

  Kelley spat out the next words. “Weekly, with additional checks after every scheduled maintenance and then again before events. I checked this morning, in fact. Everything was locked up tight.”

  “You should get a print kit out here,” Dad told Ken. “Check for Craig’s or any additional prints on the railings and ladder.”

  “Another good idea,” Ken said.

  “For an accident?” Kelley said. “Everyone saw him, up there, all by himself. He wasn’t pushed. He didn’t jump. It was a freak accident.”

  “Maybe,” Ken said.

  “I don’t like where this is going,” Kelley said. “I am head of security here. Don’t I get a say?”

  “Then you’re just the man I need to talk to,” Ken said. “I hope we can trust you to cooperate?”

  Kelley didn’t answer for a moment, then gave a reluctant nod.

  “How soon can we get Craig’s booth reopened? We were surveilling it, you see.”

  “Why?” Kelley asked. “We?”

  “That’s . . . uh . . . kind of need to know.”

  Our little group was forced in tighter when two older men I didn’t know slid in behind our booth. One wore an old-timey conductor’s uniform, right down to the hat and gold pocket watch. The other was dressed in a white shirt and tie.

  Dad made introductions. The conductor was the head of the show and went by the title Chief Conductor Frank. I called him “Chief” when I shook his hand, and I think he liked it. He tipped his hat, anyway. “No need to be that formal.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” I said.

  “Conductor Frank.”

  The other man was Bruce Palmer, the events manager for the facility.

  Bruce reached a hand to Ken and offered his full cooperation in any investigation.

  “I was just asking your head of security here how soon the Craig’s Comics booth could reopen,” Ken said.

  “As soon as you’d like,” Palmer said.

  “I didn’t know they were closed,” the conductor said. “Do they need help now that Craig is incapacitated? I could probably rustle up a volunteer or two.”

  “Wait,” Kelley protested. “You want to give them volunteers? I shut them down. They were selling lurid comics.”

  Conductor Frank almost dropped his pocket watch. “Porn?”

  Dad and I shook o
ur heads.

  Kelley rolled his eyes and continued in his most pedantic manner. “Lurid as defined in New York State law as, and I quote, ‘devoted to or principally made up of pictures or accounts of methods of crime, or illicit sex, horror, terror, physical torture, brutality, or physical violence.’”

  “That pretty much defines a comic book, all right,” I said.

  “I’m pretty sure that old law is off the books,” Dad said.

  “Even so,” Kelley said, “decency is still subject to local ordinance, and even further restrictions here at the center, since we have the welfare of our patrons under the age of twenty-one to think about. I consider it my job—and more than that, my moral duty—to see to it that the material presented here is legal and safe for our patrons. This ought to be going through me.”

  “So, in other words,” Palmer said, “you just didn’t like what he was selling.”

  Ken snorted, then tried to control his face.

  My dad’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down; he was going to crack up any moment.

  The conductor cleared his throat. “I’m no judge, but if the police don’t have a problem with what Craig was selling, let them reopen.”

  Palmer nodded.

  Kelley’s complexion reddened. He crossed his arms. “And if I don’t agree?”

  Ken took a step toward Lionel Kelley, towering over him by at least five inches. He raised an eyebrow. “If you want to play this game, chief of police trumps rent-a-cop. Every time.”

  Kelley glared at him for a moment, then without saying a word slapped his two-way radio down on the table, followed by a heavy duty flashlight, pepper spray, and his ID in his lanyard. Then apparently he thought twice about it, because he clumsily fished his security ID out of the lanyard and slammed just the card down on his table. “I paid for the lanyard.” He crammed it into his pocket. “Good luck without me.” He stormed off.

  Palmer pinched the top of his nose. “I should have figured that would happen.”

  “Do you have a replacement in the wings?” Ken asked. “I’d like to have someone in security here that I can work with.”

  Palmer shook his head. “The rest of the staff is pretty green. A couple of guys quit when I promoted Kelley. I guess I should have seen the writing on the wall.”

  “We can’t keep the show going without adequate security,” Conductor Frank said. “Am I going to have to shut her down?”

  Palmer’s look grew more somber, then his head jerked toward my father. “Hank?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, putting up my hands in protest. “He’s retired.”

  “Works for me,” Ken said.

  I closed my eyes. I’d already lost this one, but I figured I’d better at least make a formal protest. “He has a booth to run. And I don’t want him up on those catwalks with a cane.”

  “I didn’t say he’d need to climb anything,” Ken said. “I’ll bring in my men to check prints and investigate the catwalks.”

  “And I suppose, as temporary head of security, I’d have access to all records, such as security camera footage.” Dad gestured up toward the cameras that I hadn’t even seen.

  “Sounds like the perfect solution!” the conductor said.

  “Yeah, just ducky,” I said under my breath. But I doubt anyone heard since they were so caught up in their plans.

  “I’ll get you a badge and uniform and introduce you to the guys. You can start right away,” Palmer said. “I’ll get moving on the paperwork.” He rushed off toward the front offices.

  Conductor Frank shook my dad’s hand. “Thanks so much. You’re a great help. Now I have to figure out how to fix this mess.” Then he wandered off, hands clasped behind his back.

  Only then did Ken seem to catch my expression of disapproval. I crossed my arms to emphasize it.

  “Now, Liz,” Ken said, “it’s only temporary. And you have to admit it’s the best solution.”

  Dad held up his hand as if taking an oath. “And I promise: no catwalks and I’ll call in the police at the first sign of danger.”

  At this point, Ken checked his phone. “I gotta go. Craig just regained consciousness. Now maybe we’ll get some answers as to what he was doing up there.”

  Chapter 5

  To no one’s surprise, I got stuck manning the booth. Once again, I tried to convince myself I was upset at being left all alone. Or worried about my father being pulled into an investigation that might involve my old school bully and the mob. Truth was, I resented that they left me out of all the fun.

  Since when was investigating fun? Well, it was for Dad. And I wasn’t entirely convinced he didn’t latch onto this noncase while trying to shirk his work. What was there really to investigate? This was simply a matter of an idiot—okay, I winced when I thought of him as that, especially since he was still lying in a hospital bed—rather, a man overestimating his high-wire skills and almost getting himself killed. It was a good sign that he had regained consciousness. With proper care and time to heal, Craig would soon be back to his annoying self. At that I found myself breathing a surprising sigh of relief.

  Why two mobsters were roaming the facility, showing an interest in Craig’s booth, was another niggling question. But since I couldn’t move about freely like Dad, with his spiffy new uniform and two-way radio, I could at least—in between customers, that is—keep an eye on the still-closed comic booth and the two now ubiquitous men who seemed to be hovering nearby in shifts.

  “Think you can sneak away for lunch?” Jack asked, leaning across the table, upsetting one of Cathy’s precious dolls in the process. “Oh, sorry.”

  I got her back on her metal stand without making eye contact. With the doll, that is. I had no problem making eye contact with Jack, who had the dreamiest eyes. “Not sure I can manage lunch,” I said. “Dad’s been pressed into service, and I’m all alone here.”

  “Pressed into . . . ? Does it have anything to do with the accident?”

  “Long story, but he’s now temporary head of security. And yeah, they’re investigating what happened.” I left out the part about the mobsters since there were too many people nearby who might overhear. I didn’t want to create a general panic. Or get myself launched into Lake Erie wearing cement shoes.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “Aren’t you busy with Terry?” I glanced around, expecting to see him. “Or did he go home?”

  “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Jack quipped, but I found the joke far from reassuring. It must’ve shown on my face. “Yeah, he went home. Why?”

  “No reason. I just wondered if he, uh, enjoyed the show this morning.”

  “I guess.”

  “You weren’t together?”

  “No, we weren’t together the whole time this morning. Why do I have a feeling I missed more than an accidental fall? Do you suspect him of something?”

  “No! I just asked if he had a good time. Don’t read anything into it.”

  Jack took a breath and then held it. “Sorry,” he finally said. “Didn’t mean to get overly defensive. I’m trying to find the line myself. He’s my brother and I love him, but he’s also an ex-con. I don’t know how much to trust him and how much to check on him. And now that my big brother is working for me, our whole relationship is in flux.” Jack wasn’t a crier, but he couldn’t hide the huskiness creeping into his voice.

  “Family is tough sometimes,” I said. “Always hard to find that balance. Like Dad—I don’t know whether to tie him to his chair or enlist in his cause. Tell you what, though. I feel helpless just standing here. If that offer of help is still good, could you spot me for a quick . . . potty break?”

  He saluted playfully, moved behind the table, and then stowed his coat underneath it. “Any instructions?”

  I thought of all the carefully prepared charts with various prices, but those would be too complicated for a noob. “Don’t take any lowball offers. Tell them anything less than ninety percent of the marked price will have to be approved by your b
oss.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  I kissed him on the cheek and grabbed my purse. “Thank you!”

  Despite the fact that I really did need a potty break, I yielded to my curiosity and took the long way around to the restrooms, passing by the spot where Craig landed. The wrecked train layout was roped off but still drew a crowd. I inched forward and craned my neck to get a view over the shoulder of a white-haired man wearing a plaid shirt and suspenders.

  “Here.” The man stepped aside so I could get a look. “Such a tragedy. That kind of loss is hard to recover from.”

  “It’ll be weeks. Maybe months,” another man said. “Poor Frank.”

  “His name was Craig,” I said. “Craig McFadden.”

  The man shook his head. “Nah. That’s the idiot that wrecked it. Frank’s the guy that worked for years on this layout and now has to fix it.” He pointed to a man inside the railing.

  “Oh,” I said, recognizing his uniform. “You mean Conductor Frank.”

  Their smirks led me to believe that I was the only one who had to call him that. I mentally dropped the honorary title, especially since he’d removed his hat and rolled up his sleeves.

  Frank was sorting through a box of what looked like, from a distance, herbs and spices. I’d learned my lesson earlier in the day when, hoping to score a good deal on oregano, I discovered vendors were using the same containers to hold rocks, sand, gravel, moss, and grass used to create realistic landscaping in the train layouts. He was readying his repair supplies.

  “Years,” said the other man. “He’s been bringing that same layout to the shows for almost ten years now. Adds a little bit more real estate every year. This will never be the same.”

  I looked at the complicated layout. As Dad might say, Craig had left quite a first impression: half of a mountain had caved in. Train cars still lay in a twisted wreck on the floor. The bridge looked like the resistance had taken it out.

  Frank drew closer and scrutinized the wreckage. He pulled out a tape measure and jotted numbers on a scrap of paper he fished from his shirt pocket.

  “How are you gonna fix it?” the man next to me asked.

  Frank rubbed his chin. “Don’t think I’m going to. It would never be the same.”