“I never talked to anyone,” I said. “We had a break-in during the outage.”
“We have a record that the call was made and answered,” said the woman. “Please hold and I’ll confirm.”
I held for what seemed like forever. Police officers wandered about the shop and voices hummed from upstairs. My stomach gave another lurch.
“I listened to the conversation myself,” she said. “The responder didn’t remember the alarm code but did correctly answer both security questions.”
“You have the call recorded? Can you play it for me?”
Soon I heard my father’s voice try the old alarm code, and when that didn’t work, he answered both security questions, calmly adding that there had been a power outage on the street but that everything was fine.
That blew my first theory. No intruder had disabled the alarm.
I closed my eyes and reset the mental images. No intruder awakened Dad. He was already awake. Maybe he had been in the shop when the power went out. He’d assumed it was an outage and answered the call when it came in. That made sense. Then he’d encountered the intruder. They fought . . .
Before I could get too relieved, I recalled that police had restored electricity by popping the breaker. So unless the victim was a ninja, or one of those Mission Impossible–style intruders with a backpack of thin cable, lasers, and assorted high-tech whatchamacallits and doodads, the breaker was pulled from inside the shop, and the alarm company appeased before the victim entered.
Dad had pulled the breaker. Why? My mind fished for other explanations. I gave up when I got to “the intruder climbed in through a secret tunnel dating back to the Underground Railroad.” While the Underground Railroad did convey a number of escaped slaves through Western New York on their way to Canada, it was too Scooby-Doo to be truly plausible.
There was no intruder. The only explanation that fit was that Dad had pulled the breaker and then fielded a call from the alarm company, all while I slept.
I allowed my gaze to trail up the stairs to the closed door. Dad, what were you up to?
###
Eventually the apartment door opened. To my relief, my father wasn’t being led away in handcuffs.
While Dad walked down the stairs, Chief Young called to me. “I can take your statement now.”
Dad put his hand on my upper arm. “Just a formality, Lizzie. Tell him the truth, and you’ll be fine.”
My feet were lead when I climbed the steps. Chief Young waited at the top, stifling a yawn.
“Are we boring you?” I wasn’t sure if I was trying to be funny or sarcastic. I hadn’t had enough sleep to make the distinction.
He let his shoulders droop. “Middle-of-the-night call.” Then he gestured over to our kitchen table. Dad’s guides were still stacked in several piles, one propped open with his magnifying glass holding his place. The old toys, however, were nowhere in sight.
I sat, then Chief Young sat. Then I sat up a little straighter, as did he. He shuffled through several papers, then looked up at me. “How about we start by you telling me exactly what happened, in your own words.”
I almost said, “Who else’s words would I use?” Instead, I recounted everything that had happened from the moment I awoke back to how I’d met the man in the shop earlier in the week.
“Did you know the man’s name?” he asked.
“Don’t you know it?” I spared a moment to push my glasses up. In my brief opportunity to dress, I hadn’t taken the time to put my contacts in.
Ken shook his head. I’d cooled down a little bit, so his name reverted to Ken in my mind. “He had no ID on him, and your father claims not to remember his name.”
“No, I . . . Wait! He handed me his business card.”
“Where is this card?”
I reached into my pocket. “I put it in the pocket. Of my other sweater.”
He nodded, and I ran to my bedroom to retrieve my black cardigan. After a brief search, I found it on a chair, topped off by a sleeping cat. I gave Othello a brief scratch behind the ears before settling him on the bed. He squeaked in protest but soon began circling my pillow. While he curled up to continue his snooze, I brushed a little fur off the sweater. That’s the bad thing about tuxedo cats. If the black fur blends in, the white fur shows, and vice versa. Meaning I was covered in enough animal fur at any given moment that I was in danger of being targeted by PETA.
I fished the business card out of the pocket. I knew Ken would take the card, so I handled it only by the edges in case he wanted to check for prints. I’m not sure what sparked the idea, but before I left the bedroom, I took a picture of the card with my cell phone.
He took the card without caring about fingerprints and slipped it into the clipboard portion of his notebook.
My jaw must have dropped.
“If you’re wondering about prints, I’m sure yours are already on it,” he offered by way of explanation.
I scooted my chair to the table and held my tongue. I suspected that most of the ire I felt had to do with the lack of sleep and Ken taking up court at our kitchen table. A fleeting thought made me wish I had loaded the dishwasher before I’d gone to bed. That was replaced by the cool voice of reason, which reminded me that Ken had to be there. Someone had died in our shop, and we needed to cooperate fully with the authorities. I attempted a cooperative smile. Then that cool voice of reason was drowned out by the voices that wanted to panic. I’m sure that smile grew scary. “Would you like some tea?” I asked.
Ken was looking down at his notes, which he’d perched against the table’s edge. “I bet you mean hot tea, don’t you? No, but if you’d like some, go right ahead.”
I got up to put the kettle on. “I could run some over ice if you’d like. A little lemon?”
“That sounds amazing,” he said. “Whenever it’s on the menu here, it’s either hot or that prebottled stuff.” Ken flipped through a few pages and then eyed me with an almost pained expression. “Can I be candid with you?”
“I wish you would. I want to help.” I put the kettle on to heat. “My father always instilled in me the need to be open and honest with the police.”
“Your father’s statement. It’s a little confused.”
“He was hit on the head.”
“The EMT checked him out. Said it was a superficial injury. Frankly, I’m wondering if he’s deliberately withholding information.”
“Oh, come on! Do you seriously believe he murdered that man?”
“I didn’t say I believed he murdered him.” Ken kept his tone calm. “I’m not accusing him of anything at this point. I just don’t think he’s telling me everything he knows. Liz, this is difficult because he’s your father. Maybe you could explain some of the discrepancies.”
At this point? “I don’t know how I can help. I was asleep until I heard a noise in the shop.”
“Did your father know the victim? Enough to let him in the shop in the middle of the night?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” I said. “I’d never seen him before this week. Dad claims he didn’t even know the man’s name.”
“But your father did have an appointment with the victim.”
“That’s what the man claimed. I didn’t know anything about it until he showed up.”
“Does your father keep an appointment book?”
“Scraps of paper. Scrawls on the calendar. Post-it notes.” I pointed my head in the direction of the bulletin board, then got up to answer the teakettle. When I glanced back, Ken was studying the bulletin board mounted on the wall near the phone.
He tapped the calendar. “There’s a time circled here. No name, no description.”
I squinted. “That’s when he came by the shop. Dad must have made the appointment and forgot.”
“But he didn’t write down the man’s name or the reason for the appointment. Is he in the habit of doing that?”
“All his life,” I said.
“Hard to imagine how he managed a whole polic
e department.”
“He had a remarkable secretary, if you must know,” I said, then occupied myself by retrieving a lemon from the fridge. I’d been after Dad for months to write down all appointment information fully.
“And you said he didn’t tell you about the appointment?”
I shook my head and made a clean slice through the lemon. I realized at that moment that I clearly hadn’t merited a spot on Ken’s suspect list if he allowed me to handle a sharp knife during our discussion.
“Do you think he might have been shielding it from you in some way?” he asked.
I set down the knife and whirled to face him. “You mean hiding it from me, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer, confirming that’s exactly what he’d meant.
I paused to think. I’d intended to cooperate fully, but the direction his questions were taking challenged that resolve. “Look,” I said, “Dad didn’t include me in every aspect of the business.”
“So this wasn’t unusual?”
“It was atypical, but not unheard of.” I struggled to keep focus on the tea preparation. Only my hands must have been shaking, because several cubes missed the Mason jar and ended up skittering across the linoleum. I bent down to retrieve them. “Evaluating old toys is something he’s had more experience with. Especially toys as old as these.”
“But he wasn’t here when the man showed for the appointment.”
I set Ken’s tea in front of him and retook my seat at the table. “Exactly what are you getting at?”
“Has your father always been open and honest with you?”
“You’re a cop. Are you always open and honest with your family?”
“I don’t have much of a family.”
I shrugged. “Dad didn’t often bring his work home with him. Not that he was secretive. When he was home, he liked to focus on being at home, being a father.”
“But now that you’re an adult . . .”
“I think he’s developed the habit of being guarded in what he says. Not that he’d lie to me. If he said he didn’t know the . . . victim, then he didn’t.”
Ken pulled out the card. “The name Carson Suffern doesn’t mean anything to you?”
I took a sip of my tea to stall. “It sounds familiar. I don’t ever recall Dad mentioning him, but I’ve heard that name before. I don’t recall in what context.”
“If it comes to you, you’ll let me know?”
I nodded, then blew on my tea to cool it, steaming my eyeglasses in the process. I removed them and set them on the table.
“You’re thinking about something,” he said.
When I glanced up, I realized that he’d been studying my face. “I have some concerns about the . . . chronology of events,” I said. “The alarm system. The power outage. How exactly that man . . . Carson Suffern . . . got in.”
“It’s pretty evident, isn’t it?” He kept up that piercing eye contact. “Your father let him in.”
Chapter 5
I set Othello’s carrier down. “Okay to let him loose?” I asked Cathy. “And thanks for letting us stay. Hopefully it will only be a day or two.”
Ken had declared our home and shop a crime scene. We’d been asked if we could vacate until they finished collecting evidence and the crime scene cleaners had come through.
Cathy, now decked out in faux leopard print, walked across her living room and gave me a hug. “You guys can stay as long as you need. And Othello can come out. Parker decided Clyde was ready to release.”
“Clyde?” Dad said.
“A possum,” Cathy explained. “He was limping pretty badly, so we had him in for a few days. Just a sprain, we think. He was doing better when he didn’t have to forage for food.”
“An animal from the center?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” Cathy said. “Just from the neighborhood.”
Parker came in the door juggling more luggage. It looked like Dad and I were moving in for a month. Strange, the things you want to take with you when you don’t know when you’re going to see home again.
When the door was closed, I knelt down and opened the carrier. Othello didn’t budge. Even the brightly blinking Christmas tree in the corner wasn’t enough to lure him out. I had a feeling in an hour or two, I’d be peeling him off the branches.
“No, we’re not at the vet,” I said.
He sniffed, as if he were checking out the place, then took a few cautious steps forward.
“Don’t rush him,” Cathy said.
I sat with my back against the coffee table and waited him out. “Thanks again for letting us crash here.”
“Oh, you know me,” Parker said. “Always glad to help the strays and the refugees.”
“Hear that, Othello?” I asked. “He’s calling you a stray.”
Othello peeked out of the carrier when I mentioned his name. He put one paw on the carpet and stopped before scanning the faces in the room. Then his nose went to sniffing madly.
“I’ll bet he smells Clyde,” Parker said. “He’s gone.”
Othello stared up at Parker as if he understood him, then took another cautious step out of the carrier. Convinced that no deadly danger was near, he started sniffing around the room, rubbing his cheek against the corners of the coffee table. He didn’t venture far before looking back to make sure I was there.
“He’ll be fine.” Dad sank down into an overstuffed recliner. He let his head fall back against the pillowed chair and closed his eyes. “I could sleep a week.”
“You didn’t get much last night, Dad,” I said.
I hoped that would start him talking. He blew out a long breath, then opened his eyes. “Sorry, Lizzie.”
“For what?” I tried to sound nonchalant.
“For worrying you.”
“For worrying me?” I could feel my volume and pitch rise but checked myself. When he was stressed, he’d clam up. Maybe it was a cop thing. Interrogations only worked with him when he was the interrogator. If he was going to volunteer any info, it would be when he was calm and relaxed and in familiar surroundings, which was one more reason I hoped we could regain our home and open the shop soon. That, and I’d grown fond of being able to pay my bills, having a roof to keep the snow off, and eating.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I said in my most reassuring tone, despite the knot in my belly. “But I would like to know a little more about what happened. Did that man come back for his toys?”
“The toys?” he asked.
“Yeah, I noticed they weren’t in the apartment.”
A vague expression crossed his face, as if he struggled to focus. “I suppose the police could have taken them into evidence.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t . . .” The vague look disappeared and he set his jaw. “Do we have to do this right now?”
I put a calming hand on his and squeezed. “Only when you’re ready. In the meantime, everything’s okay. We’re safe and together.” I patted his hand, then looked up at Parker, who hid his own worried look behind a reassuring smile.
“I should bring in the rest of the luggage,” he said, then vanished out to the car.
###
I woke up early the next morning, aware of another presence in the living room. Yes, Othello was sleeping on my chest, but then I heard someone clearing his throat.
“Parker?” I pushed myself up, trying to ignore the achy feeling in my back from sleeping awkwardly on the couch.
“Shhh.” Parker already wore his work uniform and sat in the overstuffed chair drinking his coffee. He was quite blurry since I didn’t have my glasses on. “Everyone else is still asleep,” he whispered.
I picked my glasses off the coffee table and managed to get them on my face. I pointed to his coffee cup. “Any more where that came from?”
“Whole pot. Do you still like it insanely sweet?” he asked.
“I cut back to two sugars,” I said, “and some milk.”
While he headed back to the kitchen, I sat up a
nd ran my fingers through my hair, which in the morning tended to stick out at odd angles, similar to Bozo the Clown’s. When Parker came back with a full snowman mug, I was sitting cross-legged on the sofa rubbing the sleep from my eyes. For several minutes, we sipped our coffees in silence.
At all the big junctures in life, it seemed Parker and I shared a quiet cup of coffee. When Mom went to rehab. Before Dad’s major surgery. On the day after I came back after breaking up with my former fiancé. The morning he married Cathy. We’d start by each draining a cup of coffee in silence, then we’d talk things through during the second cup. Today, I dreaded finishing the first one.
When I had, I rummaged through my suitcase, dug out my slippers, and padded out to the kitchen to pour more for both of us. When I spun around holding two steaming cups of coffee, I spotted eyes peering in at me from the patio door. I jumped, sending scalding coffee spilling over my fingers and onto the tile floor. Only then did I realize the eyes were not of the human variety.
I breathed in through my teeth, set the cups down on the counter, and dried my hands on my sweatpants before steeling myself for a closer inspection of the critter. A possum, its pink nose twitching at the end of its long snout, was balanced on the gas grill outside, craning to look into the house.
Othello had followed me into the kitchen, probably wondering if it was time for him to eat yet. The possum caught his attention, too. The cat was in full stalker mode, advancing an inch or two at a time toward the door, then freezing, but never keeping his eyes off the possum.
“What’s wrong?” Parker said, coming up behind me.
“I think I met Clyde,” I said.
“Sis, you and I need to have that talk again. That there is Bonnie.”
Since rolling your eyes at your brother doesn’t count when it’s before dawn and he can’t see you, I punched him in the arm, and then we carried our coffees to the kitchen table.
“How much trouble is Dad in?” Parker asked.
Death of a Toy Soldier Page 4