Death of a Toy Soldier

by Barbara Early

  I didn’t find a vase, but I found a quart-sized mason jar in the back room. I unwrapped the bouquet, which turned out to be a rather festive bunch of red and white flowers, and put them in water.

  Cathy stole in behind me. “Flowers, huh? I said he liked you.”

  “Just a peace offering.” I turned to face her. She had her hands behind her back. “What do you have there?”

  “An early Christmas present. A game I thought you’d like to play.”

  “I already promised Jack and Ken I’d play Risk with them.”

  “Oh, Jack and Ken. You might want to play this one instead.” She then revealed a vintage copy of Mystery Date from behind her back. “Will it be the handsome chef or the dashing cop?”

  “Very funny. Cathy, Jack is a friend, and Ken just wants to apologize for threatening to send my father to jail.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” She poked my upper arm. “Have fun.”

  When I left the back room, Ken and Jack had taken seats opposite each other, leaving me a spot on the end of the table.

  “Three okay?” Jack said. “Nobody else wanted to play.”

  I looked over to my father, who normally loved Risk. He winked at me. This was payback for all that teasing about Peggy Trent.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll take the pink armies.”

  As we got into the game—and I must admit, the pink armies began to multiply on the board—conversation naturally flowed to the investigation.

  “There’s only so much I can comment on,” Ken said. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  “Ongoing?” Jack said. “I think Liz did an excellent job of catching your killer for you.”

  I decided to help Ken out. “Almost getting killed in the process.”

  Ken glanced up from studying the board. “I don’t recommend the public getting involved in these situations. It can be dangerous. If you had brought your evidence to me . . .”

  “I was about to do just that.” I shook my head. “I had no intention of confronting Peggy. That was her idea.”

  A furtive smile stole across his face and disappeared just as quickly. “I’m only sorry you lost your marbles in the process.”

  I was never going to live that one down. “Dad warned me that I would be called to testify.”

  Ken nodded. “But we have found some corroborating evidence in our search of Peggy’s house.”

  “The toys?” I guessed.

  “Don’t let my mother know,” Jack said.

  “What’s going to happen to them?” I asked. “It may have been Sy DuPont’s intent to leave them to the museum, but Irene and Lenora may have a prior claim, at least to one of them.” I pictured them as girls with Fred and Ginger. “We finally got in touch with the expert, and the toy with the two boxers is worth close to ten thousand dollars.”

  “For now they’re evidence,” Ken said.

  “Will it help much?” I asked. “I mean, now that Peggy has denied her confession.” When she recanted, perhaps under advisement of her lawyer, Dad had warned me that her lawyers would try to destroy my testimony.

  “It corroborates more than you think.” Ken leaned forward and whispered, “Bloody fingerprint. O’Grady’s blood, Trent’s fingerprint. On an item that more than one person can testify was taken from the crime scene. And found in a hidden cubby in Trent’s basement. It’s the holy grail of evidence.”

  I leaned back in my chair, feeling palpable relief. “Good job, Chief!”

  He smiled, his face coloring a little. “Let’s be happy that she’s off the street, and it looks like she’s going to stay there.”

  I smiled back at him and then used my pink armies to drive him out of North America.

  Chapter 23

  “Are you sure it’s okay to be here?” I asked. Dad never liked unanswered questions, and that trait had led us to be sitting in the car in front of Sy DuPont’s old house. “Ken specifically asked us to stay away from the murder investigation.”

  “This has nothing whatsoever to do with the murder investigation.” He reached for his car door and climbed out.

  Since I’d let him off in the driveway instead of a snow bank, I pulled the car forward and parked. By the time I joined him, Dad was helping to load boxes into Kimmie’s trunk.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m being evicted,” she said.

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I thought I’d move a few things out I didn’t need.” Judging by the addresses on the packages, she was “moving” a few more of Sy’s things on eBay. “I have sixty days and enough time to fight it. Even if I lose, it’s not all bad. That’s sixty more days to carry out my investigation.”

  “Any more paranormal observances?” I asked. I also wondered if she had found Dad’s tiddlywinks.

  “You know, it’s spotty. And unlike any investigation our team has ever done. Sometimes we get disembodied voices, and other times nothing. Some tools aren’t working at all.”

  “Really?” Dad said. “How remarkable.”

  “We haven’t gotten a single EMF spike,” she said, “even during some of the more active times. You’d think when that voice came, it would be off the charts. Nothing. All we seem to get are sounds. And not near as many as Sy said he’d experienced. Still, it’s better than nothing, I guess.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  Dad looked smug, like he was one step away from winning a game. “Let’s go pay a visit to Irene and Lenora while we’re here. Shall we, Lizzie?”

  I took his arm as we trudged back down the driveway to the sidewalk and then started up the driveway belonging to the two sisters. Two young men were shoveling some of the recent snow from it, but there was one cleared path to the door.

  I was eager to get inside where it was warm, but to my surprise, Dad stopped and greeted the two young men by name. “George, Javier.” The truly impressive feat was that he managed this identification even though the young men were bundled up with heavy coats, scarves, and hats and facing in the opposite direction.

  They slowly spun around. “Chief,” one said. Bright, curly red hair peeked out from beneath his cap.

  “Liz, I’d like you to meet George and Javier. Our paths crossed, oh, officially a number of years ago, right about the same time I met Miles. Isn’t that right?”

  They looked at each other, then George answered, “That’s about right.”

  “Nice to see you young men being productive and on the straight and narrow.” Dad squinted at them.

  The two shared a few nervous glances, giving every appearance that they’d rather be buried in the snow than shoveling it.

  “Yes, sir,” Javier said. “Straight and narrow, from now on.”

  Dad patted his upper arm. “Good man.” Then he looked to George.

  George dipped his chin. “Straight and narrow.”

  Dad shook gloved hands with him. “When you’re done here, could you come to the shop? I have a little errand I hoped you could help me with.”

  The young men stammered their agreement, then resumed shoveling.

  Dad and I mounted the porch. “What kind of errand did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Just a little delivery. I set aside a few nice toys for the O’Grady kids. Only I’d rather it be anonymous.”

  I kissed his cheek. “My favorite Santa.”

  He blushed and knocked on the door.

  The sisters ushered us in quickly, offering us all manner of hot drinks and sweet treats. Apparently they’d been bitten by the baking bug.

  “No thanks,” Dad said. “Save them for your workers.” He did, however, accept their invitation to sit and visit in the parlor. Once the sisters and I sat, Dad got up to pace the room. One of his first stops was the stereo system, where he pulled out a record: “Ghostly Sound Effects.” He held it up for display.

  Irene started to say something, but Lenora hushed her. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re getting a
t, Chief.”

  “I’m not the chief anymore,” Dad said. “You’re not in trouble. But I think it’s time to come clean.” He gestured out toward the two young men shoveling the driveway. “Do you realize they could be sitting in jail right now?”

  Irene stood up. “We wouldn’t have let them go to jail. If it came to that, we would have told the whole story.”

  “Irene!” Lenora hissed. “We don’t need to say anything.”

  Irene turned to Dad. “Are you telling us the truth? We won’t get in trouble?”

  Dad held up his hands. “I’m not going to tell on you.”

  Irene looked to Lenora. Eventually Lenora nodded. Irene then opened the old console stereo cabinet, picked up the transmitting portion of a baby monitor, and tossed it to Dad.

  “You’ve been using this to haunt Sy DuPont’s house?” he asked.

  “Only for a few years,” Lenora said. “We had a really good monitor before that. Lasted fifteen years. Not everything we’ve used has lasted that long.”

  “Exactly how long have you been haunting Sy?” I asked.

  The two sisters held a whispered consultation, then Lenora said, “We were just trying to figure that out. As best we can recall, we always played tricks on Sy, like he used to play on us.”

  “But those disco parties in the seventies really got us worked up,” Irene added.

  Lenora leaned forward. “One of our nephews was here watching Scooby-Doo on the television, and that’s how we came up with the idea of haunting his place.”

  I couldn’t help the smile. This haunting had reminded me of Scooby from the beginning. Now it turns out the ghost was unmasked as two elderly sisters? Jinkies.

  “But it wasn’t always baby monitors,” Dad said.

  “Oh, no,” Irene said. “See, our families were always close, and Sy didn’t realize we still had a key to his place.”

  “If only that stubborn old coot had changed the locks,” Lenora said.

  “We used to sneak in to play our tricks,” Irene said, “and then sneak back out. I’m surprised we never got caught, but, oh, those were exhilarating larks. I made us matching black jumpsuits. Well, that was when jumpsuits were in style, you understand.”

  Dad leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. “Sy called the police. More than once.”

  “You almost caught us the last time,” Irene said. “We barely got home before you knocked on our door, asking us if we’d heard anything. I had to slide my bathrobe on over my jumpsuit. My heart was pounding so hard!”

  It was almost fun to hear these elderly women reliving their sprees.

  “Only it got to be too much for us,” Lenora said. “We were getting slower. Sooner or later, we’d get busted. So we decided to take advantage of technology. Once when Sy was off at a doctor’s appointment, we sneaked in and hooked up the first baby monitor. Was that back in the eighties?”

  “Late eighties maybe,” Irene said.

  “We didn’t do it all the time,” Lenora said. “We’d pick nights when it seemed especially dark and gloomy.”

  “Storms were fun,” Irene said. “He’d get good and creeped out in a thunderstorm.”

  Lenora put her hand over her mouth, but her eyes were twinkling. “He’d come out of his house the next morning, dark circles under his eyes, asking us if we heard anything. Of course, we’d say we slept like babies. And then . . . oh, I feel so wicked.”

  Irene finished for her. “We’d make up stories of heinous things that happened in the house. Made them up right on the spot and told him we’d learned it from our parents or the historical society. He drank it right in.”

  That explained a lot of things. I touched Dad on the arm. “So the ghost hunters and psychics . . .”

  “Heard and felt what they wanted to,” Dad said.

  “We felt bad about that, too,” Irene said. “When Sy died, we were all set to stop.”

  “Which is why you hired the young men who shovel your driveway to break into the DuPont house?” Dad asked.

  “They were not breaking in,” Lenora said, folding her bony arms across her chest. “We gave them our key. They were only going in to retrieve what belonged to us.”

  “The baby monitor,” I said.

  “Only they ran away when that new chief showed up,” Irene said. “I don’t like him.”

  “We’ve always liked you better,” Lenora said to Dad.

  “Why, thanks,” he said. “But you mustn’t put those lads in a position where they can get in trouble again.”

  “Do we just leave it there?” Irene said. “What if she tracks it to us?”

  “You can’t track baby monitors,” Dad said. “Just get rid of the transmitter. And the key.”

  The two women sent him relieved smiles.

  “Besides,” I said, “even if Kimmie finds it, I doubt she’ll tell anyone. It could tarnish her reputation if people learn she was a victim of a fraudulent haunting.”

  I almost felt bad for her. Almost.

  ###

  Two weeks later, I was back in front of the DuPont house. Kimmie’s car wasn’t there, which was okay with me. I’d just learned from Jack, while picking up a gorgeous meatball sub for lunch, that his family’s attorney had settled with Kimmie’s lawyer. She was dropping all claims to the house and moving out.

  She’d married the old man and gone after his house only because she thought it was haunted—and her willingness to walk away from the deal was obviously due, in part, to the complete cessation of any paranormal activity. But she’d done so sincerely, only to be caught up in a decades-old feud between Sy DuPont and his neighbors.

  My warped mind had decided I should give her an early Christmas gift, something she might appreciate as much as I was happy to be rid of it. So without bothering to ring the bell or leave a note or card, I set the monkey, that possessed monkey that taunted me from the shop, onto the porch, facing out, so that its demonic face would be the first thing Kimmie saw when she returned home. As Dad always says, “There’s a perfect toy for every person, if you only take the time to look.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said as I patted it on the head and turned to walk back down the sidewalk.

  When the cymbals clapped together, I ran the rest of the way to my car.

  ###

  “All fixed!” Dad wrestled his toy soldier back to its sentry post by the front door, then stepped back to admire it. “It’s enough to make your heart grow three sizes, isn’t it?” In honor of the holiday, Dad had switched from his favorite puns to holiday movie references. I hadn’t let him answer the phone since this morning, when he greeted a potential customer with, “‘Buddy the Elf. What’s your favorite color?’”

  I joined him by the door. The inflatable soldier had a few clear patches over one leg, but he remained upright this time, his smile undimmed by recent events.

  The shop bell rang.

  “I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “‘Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.’” Dad had repeated that line so often, I was considering disconnecting the bell.

  Irene and Lenora walked in, primly clearing the salt from their sensible boots.

  “We brought cookies,” Irene said. “Everything we had in the freezer. I hope it’s enough!”

  I took the tote bag she offered. “I’m sure these will be great. Come on in. The kids will be here any minute.”

  Dad looked at his watch. “My cue to go change! Excuse me, ladies.”

  “I guess we should go, then,” Lenora said.

  “Oh, no! Stay for the party! It’ll be great. We have about a dozen military families coming. Each of the kids will get a gift from Santa, then we’ll load them up on cake, cookies, and candy. It’s kind of our way of paying tribute to Sullivan O’Grady.”

  Cathy came up behind me with a cake in her hands and a patently fake smile on her face. “And after we hype them up on sugar, we get to send them home.” She carried the cake over to the sweets table, which looked worthy of a spot on the C
andy Land game. To give credit where it’s due, Cathy sets a lovely table—just as long as she’s not responsible for cooking anything on it.

  “I think we will stay, then,” Irene said, looking at her sister, who nodded.

  I herded them to the chairs we’d set up for the adults. “And help yourself to the punch bowl.” Then I remembered who I was talking to. “Only no spiking it. Most of the guests today are minors.”

  I handed their cookies to Cathy, left Parker in charge of greeting our guests, and went to the back room. George and Javier, Dad’s elves for the day, were there, still busy wrapping presents. “How’s it going, guys?”

  “Almost done,” George said, attaching a bow to a wrapped present that was clearly a hockey stick.

  I helped them carry the last of the presents to the large chair by the tree. By then the bell was ringing like crazy as children piled into the shop. A few were practicing their salutes on the toy soldier. Others perused the aisles, but most had found their spots on the large rug in front of the tree and were eyeing up the presents. Their excited chatter drowned out all but a few stray rum-pum-pum-pums of “The Little Drummer Boy” playing over the stereo system.

  I was checking the back room one last time for stray presents when Dad walked down the stairs. Or rather, Santa did.

  When he got to the bottom, he did a little spin so I could inspect his costume. “‘Yes, Virginia,’” he said, “‘there is a Santa Claus.’” He had it down, from the rosy cheeks, which remarkably resembled my shade of blush, to the twinkle in his eyes, which was all his.

  I put my arms around him and held him tight. “I never doubted it for a minute.”

  Acknowledgments

  If publishing were a board game, it would be a cooperative one, where all the players work together, pooling their strengths to accomplish one complex objective. It hardly seems fair that only one name goes on the cover.

  First, I’d like to thank my agent, Kim Lionetti, who was there on this project from square one, when the vintage toyshop was just one idea jostling around with a bunch of others.

  Next, I’d like to thank my critique partners and readers, who helped slough off the rough spots and make the story even more fun. Thanks to Lynne Wallace-Lee, Aric Gaughan, Katie Murdock, and Ken Swiatek, who’ve spent lots of hours with me strategizing around a table. Thanks to Alice Loweecy and Kathy Kaminski for brainstorming with me when I was stuck. (Kathy’s ideas gave birth to a whole character. Alert readers will easily figure out which one.) And thanks to Janice Cline and Rob Early for reading for me.