“Isn’t it?”
I jumped at the unexpected voice but fortunately didn’t knock anything over in the process. I whirled around to face the assistant curator, my heart thumping. Not that she was in any way scary. Jillian Hatley was one of the least scary people around. She had straight blonde hair, a meek expression, and a voice that couldn’t be heard above the average toaster. Seriously, when she did a tour, you needed to be right next to her in order to hear. I’m convinced people in the back just nodded and then went to their doctors for a hearing test.
I tapped Jillian’s forearm. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” A few seconds later, she smiled. Jillian didn’t lack a sense of humor, but she was the one at the movie theater laughing five minutes after the joke. “Have you come in to see the newest items in our collection? I’m afraid there are only a few recent additions.” She cast a nervous glance over at my father.
Maybe there was some truth in Dad’s impression that he scared her. He walked farther back into the museum.
“I hope you might help me with something.” I pulled out my cell phone. “Did you hear about the man who died in our shop?”
A few seconds passed. “Was that your shop? The radio said one of the shops on Main. I thought maybe it was that new tattoo parlor.” She wrinkled her nose. Whether it was over the death or the thought of tattoos was anyone’s guess. “Dreadful. Was it somebody you knew?”
“No. I’d met him earlier in the week, but he gave me a fake name. He wanted an appraisal on some toys. I took a picture of one of them. It seems it’s rare, and Dad couldn’t find it in any of the books.”
“Perhaps Peggy . . .” she began.
“Well, maybe,” I said. “Is she here today?” I felt a pang of guilt for asking a question I was pretty sure I already knew the answer to. And if Jillian couldn’t give us any leads on the toy, perhaps we’d have to try Peggy. Or I would have to try Peggy. I think Dad was considering a restraining order.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Jillian looked overly penitent. “It’s her day off.”
I flipped through my pictures—I had taken a couple of new pictures of Othello and a cute one of him staring at Bonnie and Clyde through the glass patio door—until I got to the one of the toy.
She leaned in to study it. “I have seen this before. I’m pretty sure.”
“Are you positive?” Which was a lame question, because she’d already said she was pretty sure. Conversations with Jillian tended to go this way.
She nodded. “It’s part of a collection bequeathed to the museum.”
“You mean it belongs here? Was it stolen?”
She shook her head. “The owner was planning to leave it to the museum in his will.” She shrugged her petite shoulders. “But he hasn’t died yet. Which is a good thing.”
“Have you seen this man?”
She nodded again. “Once. Since he’s technically a donor, he can visit the museum for free, but I gather he didn’t get out much.” Her eyes fell to the floor. “Do you think he might be the man who died in your shop?”
“Was he very tan with a pockmarked face?”
Jillian must have thought about this question for a full minute. I wouldn’t call her stupid, just slow to respond. As if the whole world had high-speed Internet, and she still had dial-up and was waiting for the modem to connect. I half expected the next words out of her mouth to be, “You’ve got mail.” She tilted her head and gave it a brief shake. “I don’t think so. But I do have the donor’s name and address on file, if that helps.”
Moments later Dad and I headed to the address Jillian had printed out from her files, after apologizing when she had to reload the paper and then the toner on the printer.
“Quit apologizing,” Dad had insisted.
“Sorry,” she’d said.
But we’d gotten what we had come for, and without running into Peggy Trent once.
When we drove past Well Played, with the yellow crime scene tape barring the door, Dad merely cleared his throat and I forced my eyes back on the road.
The name Jillian had given us was Syril DuPont, and the address was in a once tony part of town, where grand, old painted-lady Victorians, in various states of disrepair and restoration, were draped with snow, looking like so many gingerbread houses made by a baker a little too generous with the butter cream.
Dad studied the printout as we neared our destination, at least according to the GPS. He tapped the page. “There’s something familiar about this address.”
When I parked in front of the building, he whistled. “I was right. Betsy, I’ve been here before.”
“Been here before recently?”
He shook his head. “It’s been a while, but I answered a bunch of calls to this address. Nuisance stuff, mainly.”
“What kind of nuisance stuff?”
Dad scratched his bristly cheek. “I can’t remember.”
I momentarily stopped breathing. The doctor hadn’t said anything about problems with Dad’s long-term memory.
“Don’t panic, Lizzie.” He grabbed my hand and laughed. “I don’t think I forgot anything. I just don’t think that the calls ever amounted to anything that my brain thought important enough to remember. Like calls saying they heard someone prowling about the place, but there was no evidence. Fresh snow and no footprints, that sort of thing. Just some guy with an overactive imagination living in an old house that made odd noises.”
I stared up at the house and understood how someone’s imagination might run away from him. Against the bleak, gray winter sky, the house did look foreboding, almost Hitchcockian. Cue the Psycho soundtrack.
While I sat there pondering the house, a car pulled up behind me and parked. The passengers didn’t linger in the vehicle; they hopped right out, slammed car doors, and headed to the house carrying casserole dishes and trays of food.
“Someone’s having a party.” Dad smirked.
“Should we come back later?” I asked, noticing another packed car working its way into one of only a few empty spaces left on the block.
Dad gave me an impish wink. “Nah, I think we ought to crash it.”
Before I could say another word, he was out of the car and hobbling to the front door behind the group of new arrivals. I hustled to get out of the car but then had to jump a pile of slush that had accumulated at the head of the driveway. By the time I made it to the door, Dad had already followed the others inside. I stood, staring at the doorknob. Dad was a lot bolder than I was, but I couldn’t leave him in this stranger’s house alone. I took a deep breath and tried to open the door. Only the knob wouldn’t budge.
“Here, let me get that,” said a familiar, masculine voice from behind me. Jack Wallace handed me a covered tray of cookies. He gave the knob a forceful turn while pushing on the door. “It sticks sometimes.” Then whoosh, it opened, and he held the door so I could enter.
The house smelled like old people. I wasn’t quite sure how else to describe it. There was a mix of that cloying fragrance they add to chemical ointments along with the chemical odors too strong to mask, stale cooking odors, a touch of mildew, and a pinch of urine. I hoped a pet was involved in the equation.
Earlier arrivals had kicked off their boots in the cramped entryway, and I did the same, stepping over the puddles left by melting snow. I missed avoiding one and felt the cold bite through my sock. Jack took my coat and whisked it away. I turned to face the gathering crowd.
I didn’t know a blessed person in the room, save for Jack’s mother. If she had a first name, I’d never been privy to it. She was always just Mrs. Wallace. Any more familiarity would have been met with an icy stare.
I’d gotten on Mrs. Wallace’s no-fly list way back in high school, when I’d supposedly dumped her son. Jack always claimed he filled her in on the true story, but she’d taken his side anyway. Despite the fact that Jack had stood me up for the prom—yes, the prom, leaving me with credit card charges for a manicure, a pedicure, hair and makeup, an
unreturnable altered dress, and shoes dyed to match—I came out the villain, at least in her eyes. Not that I was bitter or anything. Even now I sensed my jaw tightening in her presence.
I scanned the rest of the room. Dark woodwork with cracked varnish and dated green wallpaper that puckered at the seams made the overstuffed room feel gloomy and neglected. Water stains dotted the ceiling and ran down one wall. The rug was stained and bare in spots, as was the furniture. The place was cluttered with piles of newspaper, boxes stacked upon boxes, and curio shelves crammed with dusty relics.
People milled around, some in closed-off groups, sharing hushed conversation. Others filled disposable plates from the platters of food laid out on the dining room table. Two elderly women sat primly on what could only be described as a settee.
If we’d walked in on a holiday party, it might be one of the worst ever.
Dad was busy talking to a man I didn’t recognize. I was about to join them when Jack returned.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Uncle Sy,” he said.
“Oh, this is your uncle’s house?” I wondered which of the men present might be his uncle. Then I realized the others were all wearing suits and most of the women were in dresses or nice pantsuits—if there is such a thing as a nice pantsuit. I felt a little underdressed in my jeans. At least I’d coupled that with a dressier top, a glittery red number with a draped neckline. Cathy had raved about how it flattered my figure and complexion.
Then I noticed something my eyes hadn’t caught the first time I’d scanned the room. The official guests were all dressed in somber colors: blacks, charcoal grays, and muted purples.
“Your Uncle Sy . . .” I began.
A nearby man raised a bottle of Michelob in a toast. “To Sy!”
More beverages were raised in his honor, while a number of those in attendance did the sign of the cross.
“May he rest in peace,” another said.
I sent a panicked look toward Dad. We’d crashed a wake.
Chapter 7
Dad seemed quick to catch on to the real reason for the gathering. Soon, he was buzzing from one mourner to another like a bee collecting pollen, offering sympathy with a pat on the hand and a consoling expression.
“I’m sorry about your Uncle Sy,” I said to Jack.
“My great uncle, actually,” Jack explained. “My mother’s uncle. I’m surprised you knew him at all. He was a bit of a hermit. I think his picture was in the dictionary under ‘curmudgeon.’” Jack leaned an elbow against the top of an upright piano wedged just inside the living room. If he’d worn a suit coat, he ditched it at the same time as his overcoat. But he’d kept the teal-and-gray tie, which looked kind of snazzy, as Dad would say, against his freshly pressed dress shirt. He’d even shaved his ordinarily scruffy face. With his olive skin, intense brown eyes, and hair freshly combed, Jack had only gotten better looking with age. In high school, a lot of girls weren’t interested in smart, gangly, geeky Jack. Their loss. Although he’d also picked up a bit of a paunch, probably from sampling a little too much of his own food, it didn’t take away from his appeal. The man was just reaching his prime.
And he was waiting for a response. From me. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Uncle Sy. “I didn’t know him,” I admitted.
When Jack raised a jaunty eyebrow, I added, “I’m here for Dad, mainly.”
“Huh,” Jack said. “I didn’t know they were acquainted either. Small town, I guess.”
“I gather he’d met your Uncle Sy on more than one occasion. Was he sick long?”
“Only all his life. Here.” He grabbed my hand. “Come see the shrine.” He led me to the fireplace mantel, not that there was a fireplace, at least not anymore. The opening had been sealed and wallpapered over, an apparent victim to central heating, but at least they’d kept the wood mantel. Several framed pictures there showed Uncle Sy. He was alone in all but one of them, a grumpy expression on his face and his arms crossed in front of him. The lone exception was a black-and-white photo of a group of men, dressed in military uniforms, standing stiffly. I caught that signature grumpy look on a man in the back row.
Jack tapped the photo. “Korea. Uncle Sy fought at the Battle of Triangle Hill. If you want to know any more about it, ask anyone in the room. I’m sure we all know it by heart.” He leaned toward my ear. “But be warned. Uncle Sy never had a kind word for anyone. Everyone here today is here either because they’re expected to be or to stake their claim on their share of the estate.”
“And you are . . . ?”
“Expected to be here, although Mother asked me specifically to bring the truck.” He winked. Moments later, however, his smile dimmed. I followed his line of vision to where his mother sat, also with her arms crossed, with that same icy stare. Maybe it never had anything to do with me. It seemed to be hereditary. The Wallace glare. I bet it had its own chromosome. She gestured for her son to join her.
“Sorry. Gotta go.” He squeezed my arm. “Try the deviled eggs. They’re my special recipe.”
I found the punchbowl perched on a corner of the dining room table. The recommended deviled eggs were nearby, so I snagged one and nibbled on it. While it tasted amazing, I hoped Dad would be ready to leave soon.
One nice thing about the punch bowl was the absence of company. One of the Wallaces’ relatives—my guess, since she had that same glare—was hovering over the desserts. She was fully engaged in that activity, so I didn’t have to carry out any coherent conversations or answer any sticky questions, such as how I knew Sy or what I was doing there.
I stopped to inspect a curio cabinet; every shelf was jammed full of knickknacks and figurines. No toys among them, though. I thought I recognized an old Hummel amid a bunch of tacky thrift-store fodder.
When I turned around, the woman eyed me suspiciously.
“Sy was quite a collector,” I managed.
She continued to eye me as she chewed.
The bad thing about my location by the punch bowl was that it left me vulnerable to attack from the rear. Mrs. Wallace came up to the table, effectively trapping me. She dipped her chin and greeted the woman standing by me. “Meredith.” Friendly group.
She then focused that familiar glare on me. “Hello, Elizabeth.” She straightened the napkins and used one to sop up several stray drops of punch. I’m sure she assumed I’d been the one who dribbled. After she’d done a thorough job, she said, “The table is an antique, of course. Has been in the family for a number of years. I’ve always admired it.”
“Mother has, too,” Meredith said, then paused to swallow, “and the matching hutch, which I believe Uncle Sy had promised to her.”
Mrs. Wallace blinked, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Well, it would be a shame to separate them. I’m sure it’s all in Sy’s will.”
“If he had a will,” Meredith said.
I was in no-man’s-land in the family squabble for Uncle Sy’s worldly goods.
“I was just remarking that Sy was quite a collector,” I said.
“Is that why you’re here, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Wallace said. “I’ll make sure you’re notified when we have the estate sale.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said.
“She was admiring the Hummel,” Meredith said.
“The Hummel will have to be appraised,” Mrs. Wallace said.
“I don’t collect Hummel, and I’m not here for an advance peek at the estate sale.” Although if the toys I’d seen were from Uncle Sy’s collection, I’d keep an eye on the notices. I figured this might be the best time to scout for information. “I did hear that your Uncle Sy collected toys.”
“Probably,” Meredith said. “He seemed to have collected everything else.”
“Who told you that?” Mrs. Wallace asked me. She glanced at her son, and then used her X-ray vision to render my skull invisible and probe my very thoughts. Or maybe it only felt that way. “Valuable toys?”
“I don’t know the value.” That
much was true. “And I’m not looking to buy. I heard he was leaving a toy collection to the museum.” I left out the part about having seen the collection, carried into our shop by a man now dead.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen any toys here,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Are you sure about this? Who did you hear it from?”
“I . . .” No way I was going to put Jillian on the hook for spilling the beans. “A man came into the shop.” I proceeded to describe the dead man, from his scrubs to his parka to his tanned, pockmarked face. “I didn’t catch his name. I gather he was acquainted with Sy.”
“I don’t know who that could be,” Mrs. Wallace said.
“Maybe Tonya’s boy, Peter?” Meredith suggested.
Mrs. Wallace vigorously shook her head. “Not a single pockmark on him. Peter’s father was a dermatologist. I think they tied Peter’s hands to the bedposts when he had the chicken pox so he wouldn’t scratch. And he certainly wouldn’t be tan.”
“One thing you can say about this family,” Meredith said, “we have excellent collagen.”
“I suppose that if we do come across any toys, we might be able to make a deal,” Mrs. Wallace said.
A better businesswoman would have handed her a card. I merely shrugged.
“Sy was a bit of a hoarder,” Mrs. Wallace said. “It’s going to take a lot of work to clear all this stuff out.”
“I suppose that will have to wait until an executor is named,” Meredith said. “Of course, that could take even longer if no will is found and it has to go through probate. It, uh, might be in our best interest to work together.”
Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes.
Meredith blathered on. “I’m sure there are things that you are partial to, and I know there are a few small things Mother and I have always admired. Amid all the junk, of course.”
“You think your mother is going to be executor, don’t you?” Mrs. Wallace asked.
I took a step backward, but there wasn’t enough room. It put me right up against the curio cabinet, which rattled.
Death of a Toy Soldier Page 6