“Quiet this afternoon.” Cathy slipped on her coat. “I wish I could stay to help tonight, but I’ve got a poetry slam over at the community center. I think the snow is going to keep a few people away, so I’ve got a pretty good shot at taking a prize.” Cathy adopted a dreamlike visage and gazed into an imaginary distance. If she had focused, she’d be looking at Toss Across, a croquet set, and the lawn darts—strictly for display—we kept locked in a glass case.
“‘Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn . . .’”
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” I said. “I like that one.”
“That was Oliver Goldsmith.” She cleared her throat. “The trees are claws, scratching the evening sky, as I gaze at blue-gray span with blue-gray eye.” She paused and waited.
I nodded.
“Get it? It’s personification. Trees don’t scratch. And a nice metaphor, I thought.”
I nodded again.
“Everyone’s a critic.” She rolled her eyes and bustled out the door.
I put on a fresh pot of coffee for our guests. By the time the evening got rolling, our regular gamers filled all but one of our tables, and a stack of bills and coins was growing on the counter where the players left payment for the nostalgic candies that they selected from our display. I broke away from my own game twice (yes, I’m an avid board gamer) to ring up a Snoopy music box and a vintage Spock action figure, complete with tricorder, communicator, phaser, and belt.
After this last transaction, I felt a rush of satisfaction as I took my seat. This bump in impulse sales was precisely what had inspired me to suggest regular game nights—that, and a chance to play some of my favorite games. The nostalgic candy was also my idea. It seemed the perfect complement, tempting customers with the tastes of their childhood, especially varieties that were harder to come by today: Necco Wafers, Turkish Taffy, and a full assortment of Pez.
Tonight I played opposite the mayor’s wife, whom I trailed by twenty points. Lori Briggs hovered over her rack of tiles. With the candy cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, she looked a bit like a hustler. She was one of those petite fortysomethings, all eyelashes and dimples, who could pass for twenty. And prettier now than I had ever been. Not that I was a cow or anything. But I had gotten “big” genes from my Dad, not fat exactly, but tall and built solid as a Buick.
Usually I could take Lori in Scrabble with my eyes closed, but I was off my game. Every noise seemed to distract me, especially the clickety clack of knitting needles. Peggy Trent, a mousy older woman sitting kitty-corner from me at the same table, had brought her knitting to occupy her hands between turns. At least I wasn’t playing opposite her tonight. Jack Wallace had that honor. The restaurateur was seated next to me, smelling heavily—and heavenly—of hot sauce.
“I heard your father is back on the job,” Lori said, rearranging her letters. “Are you sure he’s up for it? You know we’re all so concerned . . .”
I gritted my teeth. By “we’re” Lori meant the whole town, of which she’d appointed herself spokesperson.
“Hmpf,” Peggy said, more through her nose than her mouth.
“We’re not concerned?” Lori turned to her, raising one incredibly sculptured eyebrow.
“I didn’t say anything.” Peggy clicked away. “Of course the whole town is concerned. Go on.”
“He’s not back on the force,” I said. “This was an isolated incident.”
“You mean he’s not a deputy?” Lori asked.
“Technically he is, but—”
“Took a lot of guts for that nice new police chief to offer him a place,” Lori said. “I do hope you plan on thanking him. He didn’t have to do that, you know. Especially after so many . . . isolated incidents.”
“That nice new police chief?” Peggy said. “Apparently he hasn’t towed your Volvo yet. I’ve noticed you’ve taken to parking in the tow-away zone in front of city hall again.”
Lori flipped her hair back. “Perhaps Chief Young thinks the family of the mayor should be granted some special consideration.”
“Or maybe it’s all that flirting at the last Chamber of Commerce social,” Peggy said, with an innocent air I suspected was feigned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lori said with that same nonchalant tone. “I’m a happily married woman.” She set her tiles on the board, spelling out viper. Fitting. The i sat below an empty triple letter space. Hmm.
“I love small towns,” Jack muttered under his breath.
“Ken had only the nicest things to say about Dad.” Today, that is. I shifted my letters, then rubbed my temples, trying to think. I’d been holding onto the x for several turns now.
“Ken?” Jack said, and then quickly glanced down and studied his letters. “I didn’t know you knew him that well.”
“I, for one, am happy you two are getting better acquainted,” Lori said. “You’re single. He’s single.” She directed a smile toward Peggy, as if this proved she hadn’t flirted with the new chief. “It would be nice to give that man some roots in the community. Now that he’s gained more experience here, we wouldn’t want to lose him back to the South the next time he gets a hankering for grits.”
Jack blew out a forceful sigh and continued to shuffle his letters. Either he was stuck with a rack of vowels or he found this conversation as uncomfortable as I did.
“Thanks, Lori,” I said, “but dating is not a priority right now. I have my father’s business to focus on.” Especially since his own focus tended to wander.
The clicking stopped. “Speaking of your father,” Peggy said, “maybe I should run up and check on Hank. Do you think he’s up for a visit?”
Oh, boy. Peggy had started hovering around my father at Mom’s wake, sending not one but three casseroles and her signature apple fritters to the house. After allowing him a brief mourning period, she somehow finagled my father into asking her out. Once. Despite their common interest in toys—Peggy curated a small toy museum—they just didn’t hit it off. Well, not according to Dad, at least. Still, Peggy continued to hover, harder to shake, as Dad would say, than a Yahtzee with only four dice.
“That’s so kind of you, Peggy,” I struggled to say with a straight face. “But Dad is resting tonight. Some other time, maybe.”
Actually, Dad was probably still poring over his toy guides, but for him, that was restful. Peggy might be able to help identify the toy he had difficulty with, but that would be the opposite of restful, so I didn’t mention it.
“Well, look who’s flirting now,” Lori said, but before Peggy could respond, she turned back to me. “You are too young to be cooped up in this shop all day and night. You should be getting out more. Seeing people. I’m sure there are places that would take your father.”
“Places?” I could feel my cheeks coloring while I repeated the mantra The customer’s always right.
“That new senior complex just outside of town, for example. Everything on ground level. I heard it’s very nice.”
“That, and her brother owns the place.” Peggy peeked up from her knitting. “Well, it’s a fact.” She gestured with her knitting needles. She could poke an eye out with those things, if she were so inclined. And if she were so inclined, it would probably be in defense of my father.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Jack looking down quickly in a failed attempt to hide his smirk.
“Just keep an open mind,” Lori added, still shuffling her tiles. “They have regular apartments, assisted living, and a nursing home. You could even start him in the day program. Crafts and such. Always good to keep busy. Once he’s in their system, it’s easier to get into the nursing facility.”
“Who said he needs a nursing home?” I asked, perhaps a little too loudly.
“Well, one must plan for the future.”
“He’s barely sixty,” Peggy said, shoving her knitting back into her PBS tote bag. “And pretty virile if you ask me, even if he doesn’t play to everyone’s demographic.”
Jack put his hand over mine but shifted to face Lori. “Hank McCall is a hero and an asset to this community.” He leaned closer to me. “I mean it.” He squeezed my hand.
I swallowed hard, then let out a cleansing breath. “Thanks.”
While he returned to his game, I blinked to clear the tears forming in my eyes—not over Lori’s comment, which I’d already put behind me, but because I was touched by Jack’s sentiment. We didn’t talk about it, ever, but if anyone had a right to hold a grudge against Dad, Jack did. Dad had arrested Jack’s brother, who had never returned to the village after serving his time. So Jack’s support meant a lot.
I focused on my letters, then played xu, above the ip in viper, putting the x on the triple word score. I scored a cool fifty-eight points for xu, xi, and up. Then I sent a warm, if not completely heartfelt, grin to Lori.
###
Crisp, clear days allowed the sidewalks to dry to bare pavement, and the blue skies and rare sunlight lured happy streams of shoppers to Main Street. Internet sales were also up, and customers called to check if we had some sought-after items in our inventory.
Dad, good as his word, was visibly present in the shop during the busy hours. In the lulls, he went upstairs to try to figure out the value of the antique toys left for evaluation.
When I laid my head on the pillow after a few exhausting days of robust pre-Christmas sales, no sugar plums but rather visions of black ink and a balanced spreadsheet danced in my head.
The crash woke me up out of a sound sleep. At first I thought that Othello had gotten down into the shop and knocked over one of our displays. He’d done it before, once sending a vintage Charlie Brown lunchbox crashing to the ground and denting it. I remembered waiting for my dad to yell at the cat. Instead, all he said was “Good grief!” Dad must be mellowing in his old age. If Parker or I had done the same thing growing up, we would have been grounded for a week.
I sat bolt still, listening in the dark. Well, not really the dark. Between the moon and the streetlights and their reflections on the snow—even through the slats of my blinds—that whole luster-of-midday line from “A Visit from St. Nicholas” was true in that respect.
No sound at all. I began to think I’d dreamed the crash. Othello was certainly not to be blamed, as he was still on my bed. But he was listening too, on high alert, his ears perked to catch any sound. Moments later, he bolted into the closet. The phrase “scaredy cat” comes from somewhere.
I tugged on my robe and stuck my feet into my slippers. I hoped Dad wasn’t mucking about in the shop in the middle of the night. Or worse, trying to sneak out. As I passed his room, I listened for the reassuring sound of his snores but was met with nothing but silence. I pushed open his door. His covers were thrown back and his bed empty. Now I hoped it was him in the shop. Better that than carding the customers at Jack’s place—again.
Or perhaps he’d beaten me down the stairs to investigate the crash. I paused at the top of the steps, straining to listen for more noises. Maybe a minute passed, but I heard nothing more.
I crept silently down the steps, skipping the squeaky ones. I reached the bottom before I heard another noise, more of a sliding sound.
“Dad?” I called.
No one answered. Suddenly my adrenaline started pumping. If Dad made the noise, why were the lights off and why didn’t he answer? The burglar alarm hadn’t gone off, so if someone else had visited the shop in the middle of the night, they must have the code. Someone like Parker or Cathy. But they would have answered me. Unless Parker was playing one of his practical jokes again.
Something seemed off. I flipped the switch to turn on the shop lights. Nothing. Maybe a breaker had blown in the middle of the night and Dad went down to check on it.
A chill ran up my spine, and although I couldn’t see them, I suspected goose bumps were erupting all over my arms and legs. The only light in the shop came through the storefront window, but as soon as I rounded the corner, I noticed that the front door was ajar. Next to it, the toy soldier shifted in the breeze, then leaned, and finally bent at the middle. It was collapsing quickly, with that frozen smile still on its face.
More scuffling sounds followed. This time, they came from one of the aisles.
“Dad?” I called again.
The noise stopped.
I froze in place and listened, wishing I had supersonic hearing. My eyes were now fully adjusted to the dimness, but the crazy reflected light from the snow bounced through the shop, highlighting every white surface.
A maniacal tin toy rabbit crouched in one cabinet. A suspicious windup skier tried to look innocent. Meanwhile, a Marx Pinocchio lithograph openly leered at me, daring me to move forward. But the tin robot—I swore it blinked. I willed myself not to even glance in the direction of the windup stuffed monkey with the cymbals, the toy consistently voted number one in the category of most likely to be possessed by a horde of demons. This was why I didn’t work in the doll room.
After I ran the gauntlet of staring toys, I paused, listening for any sound that could be heard above my heart pounding. Fiddlesticks. I was a cop’s daughter; I should have more sense than to put myself in a vulnerable position. I should have called the police from upstairs. Like most people, I have twenty-twenty hindsight, but that couldn’t help me now. Nor could I stay frozen to this spot for the rest of my life.
I was, however, standing in front of the toy gun case. I hit the catch—we don’t tell the kids this, but we only pretend it locks—and armed myself with the most realistic toy gun in the collection, a Marx target pistol. I made sure it didn’t have a suction cup dart sticking out of it. That would spoil the effect I was going for. Then I straightened up and put on my best female cop voice, more Cagney & Lacey than Charlie’s Angels. “Who’s there? I’m armed and the police are on their way.” Okay, maybe I went too deep. I sounded more like Papa Bear when the librarian read Goldilocks to the preschoolers. I brandished the gun in front of me anyhow.
“Betsy?” Dad came around the corner, hunched over. His arm trailed the shelf, knocking over several Fisher-Price pull toys, which fell to the floor and started playing music. Then he collapsed to his knees.
I rushed over to him. “Dad, are you okay?”
“I think we have a problem.”
I rubbed my hand against his face and felt blood. “Dad, you’re bleeding. What happened? Did you fall?”
He shook his head and pointed to the aisle from where he had just come. I picked up the gun and headed in that direction. If anyone had messed with my father, he was going to have to deal with me.
When I turned down the aisle, however, there was no menacing figure. I focused on the parka first, lying there in the aisle next to a shimmer of broken glass. But it wasn’t empty. Below it was a pair of legs. I inched closer and recognized the man who had visited the shop earlier in the week with a box of toys. Only difference was, then he didn’t have a lawn dart jutting from his chest.
And he’d been alive.
Chapter 4
I squirmed in the folding chair the police had set up for me in the little back room behind the shop. Perhaps calling it a room overstated its status. It was merely the landing for the stairway, with a few cubby spaces where we’d stashed our coffeepot and a minifridge that was always on the fritz. Somehow, our contractor had shoehorned in a bathroom. While the sign said the restroom was reserved for staff and paying customers, we weren’t all that strict about it, and more than one tourist had left much relieved and singing our praises.
I couldn’t distinguish the muffled voices coming from the apartment upstairs where Chief Young was interrogating my father. The chief had been demoted from first-name basis as soon as he arrived, all official, and started barking questions at my father. Dad was bleeding, and he really needed to see a doctor but had refused. Nor was he very forthcoming, to either me or the police, about how the pockmarked m
an ended up dead on our shop floor. Now I felt betrayed, isolated, and worried beyond belief. A crash came from the shop—something knocked over by one of the crime scene investigators—and I nearly startled from my chair.
I got up, paced to the coffee maker, and lifted the carafe, but the thought of coffee made my stomach churn more acid. I scrounged in the cabinet underneath and scored a can of ginger ale and a half-stale box of Wheat Thins but abandoned both after a few sips of the ginger ale.
What were the chief and my father talking about for so long?
I pushed open the back door to let some air in. The alarm chirped, letting me know I had maybe thirty seconds or so to disarm it. Or what? The monitoring company would call the police? Too late for that. The place was swarming with them. Still, after I used my chair to prop the door open, I dutifully entered the code.
The alarm. That thought niggled in my mind and wouldn’t stop niggling, like some alien parasite. My mind had been on spin cycle, powered by pure adrenaline, ever since I discovered a dead body in the aisle of the shop. Why hadn’t the alarm sounded when the intruder entered?
I rubbed my temples, trying to play the scene in my head. The intruder had broken in. Maybe he had only come to the shop earlier in the week to “case the joint,” as they say in old movies. Only, in his attempt to steal from us, he made some noise and woke my father. Dad must have confronted him. They struggled, and Dad grabbed the lawn dart and struck in self-defense?
Stop. Rewind. If the intruder had broken in, the alarm would have gone off. I recalled the light switch not working, and I glanced up at the alarm panel. When the power is cut to the alarm, the alarm company calls. If nobody responds, they notify the police.
I fished my cell phone out of my pocket—I’d put it there when Chief Young reluctantly let me leave the scene to change out of my Tweety Bird pajamas—and dialed the number on the decal attached to the alarm panel. After being shuffled to about half a dozen different people and holding during the slowest and dreariest rendition of “Away in the Manger” I’ve ever heard, someone on the other end of the line confirmed that the power-loss signal had been registered during the night and that a call was attempted.
Death of a Toy Soldier Page 3