Murder on the Toy Town Express

by Barbara Early

  “Tell you what, kiddo, let’s get you home. I’ll make some popcorn and hot chocolate. You can even put on The Notebook.”

  Chapter 21

  Cathy came up to the apartment bright and early the next morning just as I was finishing my second cup of coffee. Since I already knew her “secret” and because I doubted I could feign surprise well enough to fool my father, I excused myself to head down to the shop.

  “Liz, before you go,” she said, “Thanksgiving at our house this year again?”

  “Sure!” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. “But this time, you’re going to have to let me share in the cooking. Not fair for you to be saddled with all the work.”

  I’d been practicing that line ever since last November. I loved the time we spent together with the family and the games we played afterward. The food, however . . . Don’t get me wrong: I love my sister-in-law fiercely, but Julia Child she is not.

  “I was thinking,” Cathy said, “maybe we ought to invite Maxine over. I don’t think she has any family.”

  “Good idea,” Dad said, followed by a quick intake of breath. “I hate to add to your work, but what would you think about also inviting Amanda and Kohl?” He went on to explain the relationship to Maxine.

  “But they don’t know yet,” I said. “That could end up being tricky if she doesn’t tell them. Or even if she does and they don’t take it well.”

  “Just a thought,” Dad said.

  “It’s a good one,” Cathy said. “Thanksgiving is still a week away. We can give it a few days. Maybe see how they do before we decide. I’ll make sure I get a big enough turkey just in case.”

  “Why don’t you let me do that?” I said. “We have plenty of room in our refrigerator. I can even mix up Mom’s old stuffing recipe that Parker likes and start cooking it here, so you don’t have to mess with food so early in the morning.” Appealing to her morning sickness. I’d never sunk lower. Besides, this way I could ensure that it was real turkey we’d be eating. Cathy had been known to make “creative substitutions.”

  “Great, Liz. Sounds like a plan,” my dad said before Cathy could respond. She’d been tag-teamed. Before she could catch on to what happened, I hightailed it downstairs.

  # # #

  Cathy’s announcement buoyed Dad’s spirits, and he was in a good mood the rest of the morning. Well, most of the morning. On the fourth or fifth attempt to hire a Santa for the parade, he slammed the shop phone down and it eyed him reproachfully. “Santa’s not picking up, and he’s not returning my calls.”

  “Are you sure you got the right phone number?” When Dad and I had discussed where to hire a Santa, he’d called Frank from the train show who’d referred us to his Santa service. “Or maybe he’s working somewhere else today. Unless . . . could you be on the naughty list again?”

  “I want to try the address,” Dad said. “It’s not far. Want to go?”

  “That depends. Do you think I’ll get to pet the reindeer? Should I bring carrots?”

  “Seriously,” Dad said, “what kind of Santa turns down business?”

  “Why all the fuss? You could always play Santa. I thought you’d be champing at the bit to ride the big train.”

  “Yeah, but this guy was really good. And now I’m worried about him . . . and more than a little curious. I just want to swing by the place and make sure the old guy’s okay.”

  “You want to see Santa out of costume.”

  “Well, there’s that,” he said. “I mean, I guess I understand there’s such a thing as method acting, but that Santa never stepped out of character. Never took off the beard. Not once.”

  “Maybe it’s Miracle on 34th Street all over again. Maybe they hired the real Santa, and he’s not returning your calls because he had to rush back to the North Pole and check on toy production.”

  “I hope not. As you recall, that movie started out with the Santa they hired for the parade showing up plastered.”

  “It just freaks you out that you never saw his face.”

  “Or any real part of him. And no, I don’t like it. I watch people. It’s what I’ve always done. All I know is he’s around five seven and has a small mole next to his right eye. And considering what’s happened at this train show, I’d like to put a real face on this guy.”

  “Fine, let’s go.”

  “Really?”

  “You were patient with me. You actually got through twenty-seven minutes of The Notebook before you dozed off. New record. I can at least humor you. And we do need to hire a Santa.”

  “You’re curious, too.”

  “Chip off the old block.”

  # # #

  Leaving Cathy running the shop on a relatively quiet weekday, Dad and I headed out again, this time to a small stretch of no-frills patio homes squeezed in on an already established street. A cheery fall wreath, decorated in orange and red flowers, hung on the door overlooking a neatly swept patio, the only thing making it different from any of the other six connected houses. “A. Werth” was hand-painted on the mailbox.

  Dad knocked. All my earlier teasing aside, my stomach now twisted in anticipation of what we might find. How many doors had he knocked on when he worked for the police? How many welfare checks ended up with him finding an elderly person unresponsive, locked inside his own home? I could always tell when he’d arrived too late. He’d sit quietly at the dinner table and pretend to listen to the conversation. He’d even force himself to take a few bites of his food. But we all knew he wasn’t really there.

  When nobody answered the door, Dad leaned back, almost imperceptibly, to try to look into the front window. I hoped he wouldn’t find Santa lying with a broken hip or worse: dead from a heart attack from just a few too many Christmas cookies.

  The neighbor’s door opened and a woman with curly white hair stuck her head out. “I don’t think she can hear you. She’s out back.”

  “Thank you,” Dad called out, and started walking down the sidewalk that led behind these units. Only one woman was out back, pulling dead plants out of a raised bed.

  “Mrs. Werth?” Dad said.

  When she heard his voice, I could see her back noticeably stiffen, but she spun around a moment later with a friendly smile and looked us over. “Do I know you?” She pulled off her gardening gloves.

  “I might be looking for your husband,” Dad said. “A. Werth? I think he played Santa over at the train and toy show.”

  By this time, the woman who’d met us out front was shamelessly peering out her window.

  “There must be some mistake,” the woman said. “I have no husband. I’m Annie Werth.” She smiled at Dad, then me, then Dad again, in that same over-the-top smile actresses use in commercials when trying to convince consumers how much fun it’d be to buy their products to scrub their floors or degrease their ovens.

  “That’s odd,” Dad said. “He gave this address.”

  Annie shrugged, just a little too innocently. And then I saw it. A mole next to her right eye.

  “You’re A. Werth,” I said.

  “I just said as much,” Annie said, although she couldn’t hide the growing concern.

  “You mean . . .” Dad said, doing a double-take as he squinted at her face. His eyes opened wider when he saw the mole.

  Annie threw her gloves down and glanced at the neighbor’s window. “Perhaps we ought to talk about this inside.”

  # # #

  Just inside the patio door was a small dinette table, warmed by the afternoon sun, and we sat down.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am Santa Claus.”

  “Have you been doing this for long?” Dad said.

  She threw her head back. “No, it’s not a job I’ve been doing for a while.” She looked up. “I think you know that. One-time wonder. The woman who runs the Santa service owed me a favor, so she let me do it.”

  “Why the train show?” I asked.

  She sat silently for a moment. “I’m not in trouble, am I? Are you police?”

&n
bsp; I said no at the same time Dad said yes.

  “Retired,” he added. “But I do help out.”

  “Is that what you’re doing here now?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

  “Actually,” I said, “we’re here to hire a Santa Claus for the parade. You did an amazing job.”

  “So those were your calls on the machine,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “I am such an idiot.”

  “Why were you so desperate to work the train show?” I asked.

  “I have my reasons,” she said.

  “Did it have anything to do with Craig McFadden?” Dad asked.

  “The guy who fell?” Annie snorted. “I may have met him at the shows, but I’m not sure. Comics were never my thing. Although, I have to admit his aim was pretty good.” Her smile faded. “Sorry he died though.”

  “His aim?” Dad said, then whipped his head in my direction.

  “Frank?” we both asked in stereo.

  “Conductor Frank W.,” Dad said.

  “The W stands for Werth, doesn’t it?” I added.

  Her tight-lipped scowl announced that we’d nailed it. “My ex.”

  Chapter 22

  Annie Werth was apparently not one to remain reticent for long, at least once the topic switched to her ex-husband.

  “Our divorce just became final a few months ago,” she said. “It shouldn’t have been contentious. It’d been coming for a long time. I was used to being an engineer’s wife, you see. I’d been one long before I met Frank.”

  “You were married before?” I asked. Given their age, I’d assumed she and Frank must have been married a long time. Never assume.

  “I was married to Todd for thirty years. Pancreatic cancer took him about eight years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dad said. I nodded.

  “Todd had always been a railroader too, so I was used to the shows. Either go with him or stay home and learn to knit.” The tone of voice made me think this woman placed knitting right up there with thumb twiddling and watching paint dry. “We did that for years and built a collection. Some couples have kids. Others have cats. We had trains. Todd and I started the train show, long before they added toys to it.”

  “And then you met Frank?” I suggested.

  “Swept me off my feet, that one.” She rolled her eyes. “But I didn’t just meet him—we’d all been friends for years. With Todd gone, Frank took over the show. I still had all Todd’s notes and all Todd’s trains. Frank would come over now and then to maintain them. Mostly I think he just wanted to run them around on the tracks, and we’d have coffee or dinner. I should’ve known that was what he was after all along.”

  “You think Frank married you for your trains?” I asked.

  She took a long time exhaling that last breath. “Don’t know,” she finally said. “I accused him of as much and he denied it. But he put a lot more time and energy into maintaining those trains than he did our relationship. I was used to being a train wife, like I said, but not a train widow.”

  “Then why would you want to go to the train show?” Dad asked. “If it would bring up unhappy memories?”

  “For one reason, Todd and I built that show from the ground up. I shouldn’t have to sneak around in disguise to go just because Frank and I are on the outs.”

  “And the other reason?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You said ‘for one reason.’ I assumed there was another.”

  She rubbed the corner of her eye with her knuckle. “That’s where it gets a little tricky.” She looked at my dad. “I won’t get in any trouble, will I?”

  “That depends,” he said. “Did you break any laws?”

  She drew in a breath and held it. “I almost did,” she finally said. “Well, more than almost, but I think I fixed it. See, in our separation of property, I ended up with the house—which I had to sell because I couldn’t afford the taxes on it myself, but at least I got a substantial amount of equity from the sale—and Frank ended up with the trains. All of them. My lawyer suggested I sign off on it. And financially, it was a good deal for me. But . . .”

  “You wanted the trains too?”

  “Not all of them!” she said. “I’m not that greedy. But a couple of them were my father’s. And one of them Todd and I got on our honeymoon. The more I thought about it, the more unreasonable that seemed. I offered to buy them, but Frank was being stubborn.”

  “You were going to steal them?” Dad’s eyebrows hit the roof.

  She took a fortifying breath before continuing. “From Santa’s throne, I had a good view of Frank and his layout. When he left it, I had one of the elves post a ‘Back in Ten Minutes’ sign, claiming I had to use the restroom. My dad’s engine was sitting idle on a piece of diverted track. All I had to do was pick it up and shove it underneath the beard. I’d just managed it when that man comes flying out of nowhere and crashes right into the layout. He was only a few feet away. I know he survived the initial fall, but I could have been killed! I thought it was a warning.” She looked up. “I put it back the next day.”

  “And you didn’t make any further attempts to take the engine?” Dad asked.

  She vigorously shook her head. “That was all I needed to be drawn back to the side of the angels. I didn’t want my last act on earth to be so petty. Especially dressed as Saint Nicholas. After all . . .” She sighed. “It’s just a train.”

  ###

  “You think she’s telling the truth?” I asked Dad on the way to the shop.

  “No reason to suspect otherwise,” he said. “She had no connection to Craig and none to the mob that I know of. She didn’t have to tell us half of what she did. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have asked her to be our Santa.”

  “Ask? You practically blackmailed the woman!” I said.

  “Blackmail is such a harsh word,” Dad said. “It’s why we went over there in the first place.”

  “Yes, but her willingness to volunteer? That was all due to her knowing that you know her secret. It’s manipulative.”

  “Maybe a little. But since it’s a position that could put her around children—”

  “Proving my point.”

  Dad nodded. “Also provides the justification to do a background check.”

  “So you don’t believe her?” I said.

  “Actually, I do. But it never hurts to check. Besides, mission accomplished. Boy, did I just save the town all kinds of money.”

  “Do you think East Aurora is ready for a cross-dressing Santa, especially one known to hide stolen property under her beard?”

  “They’ll probably never know.” Dad licked his lips. “Right?”

  # # #

  As we drove past the police station, I could see my father almost begin to salivate, so I pulled into the parking lot.

  Dad sent me a confused look. “I didn’t ask to stop here.”

  “You were thinking it.”

  “That’s it. We’re getting rid of the Amazing Kreskin game.”

  “The who?”

  “Mind reader. Before your time.”

  I closed my eyes and put my hands on my temples as if I were channeling a message. “We haven’t checked in on the official investigation in a while. How about we see if there’s been any new developments?” I looked up. “Am I close?”

  “Nailed it.” He reached for the door handle. “Remind me to hide the spoons when I get home.”

  “What?”

  “Kreskin used to bend spoons. With the power of his mind.”

  Dad’s winning smile was enough to get us past the clerk. Ken’s office was dark, but Howard Reynolds sat hunched at his desk, embroiled in paperwork. I followed Dad there.

  Reynolds looked up, then stretched his neck. “Boy, am I glad to see you,” he said to Dad.

  “Oh?” Dad took a seat in a guest chair, and I tried to look less obvious by leaning against a nearby unoccupied desk. “And here I thought I was just here to give you more information.” Dad filled him in on Annie Werth.r />
  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Reynolds said. “It’s probably a dead end. But at least it’s one we can rule out. I’ll run her background for you, though.”

  “I appreciate that,” he said. “And it will probably be reassuring to the chamber of commerce.”

  “Although I don’t recommend you tell them the whole backstory,” Reynolds said. “And thanks for bringing in those videotapes, by the way,” Reynolds said. “They were actually more helpful than you realized. They got Millroy and Eicher talking. That and a little savvy police work.”

  “Really?” Dad said. It was all he needed to say.

  “We played it for the suspects. Slowly.”

  “But you couldn’t see them do anything,” I said.

  Reynolds wagged a finger at me. “Never underestimate the power of a guilty mind. When one of them started making excuses, we separated them. At first, they both clammed up. Then we hinted that the other was talking. Next thing you know, we got them both singing like the high school glee club, only in better harmony.”

  “You got them to talk? I’m impressed.” Dad didn’t ask what they said. And if he had, I doubted Reynolds would have told him.

  “Millroy was the one you saw leaning over the cup. We may have hinted that Eicher was an older man, probably not wanting to spend the rest of his life in jail for murder. Next thing you know, Millroy’s saying he might have put the scopolamine in the cup, but that was a far cry from murder.”

  “Nice,” Dad said.

  “Then we took that bit of confession to Eicher, hinting that he was complicit to murder. A few more back and forths, and, as best as we can work out, the two of them conspired to put the scopolamine into Craig’s cup while it was sitting out at the comic booth. The whole cup switcheroo was just a simple mistake. After Craig drank it, they told him to get the comic books and meet them outside. They both claim they had no idea he was going to climb up onto those catwalks. They said Eicher was waiting for him outside. Best I can figure out, Craig must have gone out a different door, not seen anybody, and then stashed the comics behind the planter. When Eicher got tired of waiting, he went in and saw all the ruckus. They said it took them a while to figure out what had happened, but they stayed to try to find those books.”