Traitorous Toys (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 2)

by Mildred Abbott

  I could barely hear what they were doing over my pounding heart, over my brain screaming at me to leave, to get out of there. But I couldn’t; I was frozen. Stillness was what finally forced me to move. When I noticed the steady beep had been silenced, I realize Declan Diamond was dead. For a heartbeat, I considered staying where I was, but then I pictured Officer Green arriving on the scene. It didn’t matter if Branson was back in town or not. I glanced around, noticed the stairwell a few doors down, and took the escape offered.

  Even with the snow falling outside my living room window, the sparkling Christmas tree directly in front, the cozy warmth and glow of the fire, the steaming hot chocolate beside the overstuffed armchair, the unread book on my lap, and the softly snoring corgi at my feet, my brain refused to shut down, and my blood seemed incapable of slowing its rapid race through my veins.

  I had been in the room the moment Declan Diamond died.

  And I’d run.

  At least I’d called for help, not that it had done any good. But I’d run.

  One second I was stressing over how it would look if one of the nurses recognized me. Dreading Officer Green’s reaction to me at the hospital would be nothing compared to her showing up at my door. And the next moment, I was plunged into a crisis of identity. I was Winifred Wendy Page, daughter of Charles Page, the best detective in the entire world, who died in the line of duty. I did not run away. No matter what.

  But I had. Maybe I really was just a bookshop owner. Nothing more, nothing less. I supposed that wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. But this felt so right, helping Barry, then Katie, then simply trying to put the puzzle pieces together. But this wasn’t a puzzle. It was life and death. And as Charles Page’s daughter, I should know that better than most.

  When the headlights flashed over the living room as a car drove up, then parked in front of the porch, I was almost relieved. At least one of these scenarios would be over—I could quit worrying about whether I was recognized, or stop anticipating the condescending glee in Officer Green’s eyes as she took me in for questioning.

  It would be done.

  Watson leaped up, barking when the knock sounded on the door. I patted his head. “It’s okay, boy.” Then I stood and walked over to the front door. I nearly just threw it open, but then reminded myself I was a single woman, living alone in a log cabin in the middle of the woods. And it seemed this beautiful tourist trap of a town wasn’t quite the safe haven I’d envisioned. I looked through my recently installed peephole and nearly did a double take. Not Officer Green.

  I opened the door. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  Branson stomped snow onto the mat, then stepped inside, looking larger than life in his uniform, complete with bulletproof vest and gun holster. He gave me a sidelong glance. “Do you really need to ask that?”

  No, of course I didn’t. It was a different person than I’d expected, but the result was the same. “Let me grab my jacket, and I’ll come with you.”

  He gave a little flinch. “Come with me?”

  “Yes. Down to the station for questioning.”

  He studied me for a moment, then shut the door. I’d not even noticed the cold air and snow coming in nor Watson taking a protective stance between us.

  “Do you want to go down to the station?”

  I considered. Maybe I was reading this wrong. Maybe all my fears had been for nothing. The nurse hadn’t recognized me. Why would they, really; I was new in town. Just because a lot of people seemed up on gossip didn’t mean everyone was. Maybe Branson was here as a precursor to the dinner he wanted to take me on, though that didn’t seem his style. Nor was it something I was comfortable with. But given the circumstances, possibly the better of two options. Well, whatever. I’d been sitting by the fire beating myself up for running away. I didn’t care if Branson knew or not. I wanted all my cards on the table. I wanted to feel like Charles Page’s daughter again.

  “I was at the hospital when Declan Diamond died this evening. I figured that’s why you were here.”

  Branson’s lips twitched, and I thought he was going to smile, but he held it back. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. I thought I’d have to worm that out of you somehow.”

  So he had known. “You’re not taking me down to the station?”

  His brows furrowed, and then he glanced around the cabin. “You’ve done a lot of work since I was here last. Looks like a real home. It suits you.”

  “Thanks. It’s definitely better. I’m going to replace a few of the things I have now. Start fresh. In fact, I hope—” I realized what we were talking about. “Wait, what are we doing? Why we talking about my house right now?”

  Branson shrugged, then the smile did arrive. “Just saying this is a nice place to have a discussion, much better than the police station, don’t you think?”

  I considered for a moment. “I take it this isn’t official?”

  Another shrug. “No reason for it to be, I don’t think. Unless you had something to do with his death?”

  I flinched. “No, of course not. But shouldn’t you—”

  “Oh, Fred.” The smile remained, and Branson shook his head. “I really do have your number. You’re a by the book kind of woman. And I’m willing to bet that detective father of yours was a by the book kind of guy as well.”

  “He was. And I’d like to think that I am.”

  “Yeah. I can see the condemnation in your eyes. You’re actually judging me for not taking you down to the station.” He gave a little laugh. “I’m not always a by the book kind of guy, Fred. You and I both know you didn’t kill Declan Diamond. So why in the world would I bring you down?”

  He could see judgment? I hadn’t even been aware I felt that. Though, maybe I did. “Well, obviously someone recognized me. Doesn’t this need to be on the books in order to be official? Otherwise it will have to happen again.”

  He sighed, looked around once more, and motioned toward my mug by the armchair. “It’s been a long night, Fred. Mind making me a cup of whatever you’re having?”

  “You want hot chocolate?”

  He gave a little eye roll, but his grin grew. “Well, to be honest, I was hoping for something stronger, but sure, hot chocolate sounds great.”

  I nearly argued for a moment, told him that yes, I did want to go down to the station. Make this official, but maybe he was right. And honestly, I was tired of thinking.

  “Fine. Come on. I have a pot simmering on the stove.” I turned and headed to the kitchen, Watson at my feet and Branson trailing behind.

  He took the same seat at the table he’d sat in the one other time he’d been here as I got a mug out of the cabinet and ladled in hot chocolate.

  “I see you truly did decide to keep the tie-dye flamingo curtains, huh?”

  They were an eyesore, but were from Barry and my mom. I barely noticed them any longer, and when I did, they brought a smile to my face. “They have character.”

  “They definitely have something.” Branson chuckled as he took the mug from my hands and breathed in the smell of cinnamon and chocolate before letting out a long sigh. “Actually, this is perfect.”

  I let him have a drink and then decided to push. “So fine, you’re not taking me down to the station, but obviously someone recognized me, so fill me in. Why are you talking to me here instead of where you should?”

  “You weren’t recognized, actually.” He smirked a bit. “We’d already taken everyone’s reports, and Officer Green was speaking with the doctor, when one of the nurses found me and said she just remembered there’d been a tall kind of redheaded woman who called for help from his room. That in all the chaos she’d forgotten.”

  “Kind of redheaded woman?” As if that was the point.

  “Her words, not mine.” He grinned again. “I could go on about the luxurious color of your hair, but I’ll save that till after you agree to have dinner with me.”

  “You’re ridiculous.” I refilled my own mug of hot chocolate and lifted it to
my lips to hide any sort of reaction or blush my body might betray.

  “You know, I’ve heard that before.” He set his mug on the table between us. “You weren’t technically recognized, but there was only one tall, kind of redheaded woman who would randomly be in Declan Diamond’s room around the time he was murdered.”

  “A fair deduction, I’ll give you that. And yes, I was there. I wanted to see if I noticed anything, something that the police missed, or talk to the nurses and see who all came to visit. But—” Branson’s words cut through my thoughts. “Did you say murdered?”

  He nodded slowly. “So you didn’t know that?”

  “No. I was barely there any time, but he seemed normal when I walked in, totally fine. All the beeping of the machines was steady. And then they changed all of a sudden, and he flatlined.”

  Though his green eyes narrowed, I didn’t see any distrust there. “You had to have missed the killer by seconds.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense, Branson.” I shook my head, trying to think through it. But no one had been there. “There was a policeman talking to some nurses down the hall. He would’ve noticed.”

  “He didn’t notice you, did he?” He cocked a brow. “Officer Borland isn’t the star of the station, let’s put it that way.”

  That much had been obvious. He didn’t come running with the nurses. Probably stepped into the restroom or out for a smoke. “Even so, I was in Declan’s room. Nothing happened. One minute his heart was beating along just fine, and the next it wasn’t.”

  Branson took another drink, then nodded slowly. “Heart attack. It looks like the lines were tampered with, though. Someone put in a nice little air bubble. Could’ve done anything. Caused a stroke, respiratory failure, but in Declan’s case, a heart attack. Of course, that’s all speculation until confirmed by autopsy, but it was clear enough.” He leveled his gaze on me, all serious this time. “I know you didn’t do it, Fred. I don’t want to cause any grief for you or your family after everything that’s already happened. If you saw anything, I need to know. Depending on that, we may have to go down to the station and make an official report. But I’ll try not to. Do you remember anything?”

  “Like I said, Branson, I don’t mind being taken down. It’s the right thing—”

  “I got it, Nancy Drew. You do the right thing. I know.” He reached out and covered my hand with his on the tabletop. “Do you remember anything?”

  I started to argue but decided it would be pointless. I closed my eyes, picturing the scene. Hearing the beeping of the machines, smelling the disinfectant. I started to shake my head, then heard the pounding of the nurses’ feet running toward me, then remembered running away myself, the slam of the door as I booked it down the stairwell and out to my car. My eyes flew open.

  “The door.”

  His eyebrows raised. “The door?”

  “Yeah. The door to the stairwell. When I went out, it slammed.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “When I got there, before I arrived at Declan’s room, I heard a door slam. I didn’t think anything about it. But I’m willing to bet it was the exact same door. You’re right. I must’ve just missed the killer.”

  “That’s all you remember?” He let go of my hand and slumped back in the chair.

  “It is. But I didn’t even remember that to begin with. At least it’s proof, well, kinda, that someone else was there.”

  He shrugged. “True. But not exactly news. Obviously someone was there since they put air in his IV, and obviously, you barely missed them, given the timing. You sure you didn’t see anything? A flash of clothing or something, enough to know if it was a man or woman?”

  I shook my head again. “No. Nothing. Sorry.”

  As Branson bit his bottom lip, considering, I tried once more. “We really probably should go down to the station, do this officially. Just in case.”

  His eyes flashed with just a hint of annoyance. “No. I told you. There’s no reason to. It would just cause more paperwork, and then days of Susan foaming at the mouth as she tried to pin this on you. All the while, whoever really did this has more time to get away or cover their tracks. I don’t put rules or protocol over results.”

  He most definitely wasn’t the same kind of cop as my dad. It didn’t mean he wasn’t a good one, just different. And yet, it brought to mind Leo. How he’d had suspicions the taxidermy shop was involved in some of the poaching, and Branson wouldn’t give him the time of day. Branson had been wrong on that one, at least it seemed that way.

  “I still think—”

  Branson stood. “Fred, if you want to go down and make a statement, be my guest.” His voice was hard, not unkind, but firmer than I’d heard it. “But I’m not wasting time doing it. Like I said, it would cause more work for all of us. As I told you earlier today, I have faith in your skills. I’d rather you snoop around over the next day or two, trying to find out what really happened, as opposed to trying to convince Susan you weren’t the one to give Declan more air than he needed.”

  I couldn’t say I entirely agreed with Branson, but part of me did. Especially the part about being wrapped up in trying to clear my own name for something I didn’t do. Something Officer Green most definitely would take it upon herself to prove that I did. Finally, I nodded. “Okay.”

  He nodded back, only a touch of his warmth returning. “Great. Thanks for the time and the hot chocolate.” His expression altered, something flitted across his face that I couldn’t name, and when he spoke again, he was himself once more. “Have a good night, Fred. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” And with that, he left.

  Watson was snoring within ten minutes. I’d be lucky to get even two hours of sleep. Not only did I have the revelations about Declan’s murder to consider, but my view of Branson was shifting. He definitely wasn’t the type of officer my father was, but I couldn’t tell if different always meant bad, or if it simply meant different.

  As expected, I was exhausted the next day. So much so, I couldn’t think clearly enough to even decide who to speak to about Declan. Instead, I opted for continuing to work at the Cozy Corgi. My brain often started to make connections and opened up to new ideas when it was distracted with something else. Plus, the books weren’t going to shelve themselves.

  By midafternoon, Katie had finished her shift at the Black Bear Roaster and joined me. I filled her in on the night’s events. To my surprise, the only thing she reprimanded me for was not taking her along to the hospital.

  Katie’s theory was that it was a joint effort between Dolan and Daphne to get the controlling brother and cheating husband out of the way. It was just as good a theory as any. “But just think what that would mean for poor Duncan. His oldest son murdered, his youngest son and daughter-in-law murderers and in jail. And him all alone in that toy shop just whittling away.” Katie considered for a moment. “Although Daphne is pregnant, so maybe he could raise his grandchild. But he seems too old and grumpy to do that very well.”

  Somehow I hadn’t even thought about the baby. What a tragedy it would be born into, especially if Katie’s theory was correct. “I don’t know, I still think Duncan might be responsible. After all the betrayal Declan put him through. I know everyone says he’s got a gentle soul and is just a kind old man, but they also say Gerald Jackson is a fine lawyer, so I’m not keen to put too much stock in Duncan’s peers’ opinion of him.”

  As I’d shelved books that morning, it was Duncan I kept returning to. I even walked down to the toy store at lunch, thinking I’d go and buy something, see if I could turn the conversation in a way that might give an idea of what they were feeling. “The toy shop is still closed. And I don’t have a good reason to show up on their doorstep. But it really did sound like Declan serving Daphne with divorce papers was the last straw for Duncan. Maybe it’s what pushed him to go to the hospital and finish what he’d started.”

  Katie shook her head but didn’t look over at me as she used a box cutter to slice through th
e tape on a new box of books. “I just don’t see it. Duncan, grumpy as he may be, is an artist, a creator. He makes toys for children, for crying out loud. You might as well accuse Santa of being a murderer.”

  “I don’t know if I would go so far as to equate Duncan to Santa. You said yourself, he’s grumpy. Santa is supposed to be jolly. As much as I hate to admit it, Carl Hanson makes a much better Santa than Duncan Diamond ever would.”

  She waved off that thought. “Again, Duncan is a creator. He brings things into the world, not takes them away. Even if his creation was used to try and kill his son.” Katie shuddered. “I’ve never liked those nutcrackers. Even less now.”

  “They are rather creepy, the way their mouths hang open like that. Just waiting to smash something.”

  “Did you know—” Katie paused and looked over at me, all seriousness. “—that the first wooden soldier nutcrackers were carved by German miners? It was their side job. They would whittle during their free time and sell them on the side.”

  “You know, Katie, I definitely can’t say I knew that.”

  She nodded emphatically, sending her curls bobbing in a way that had already grown familiar and endearing. “It’s true. And they were often given to German children for good luck.”

  I gaped at her. “For something that creeps you out as much as you claim, you sure know a lot about them.”

  She raised a finger. “My favorite fact is that some of them were carved to look like politicians who were despised during the day, and weren’t really for cracking nuts at all. Of course the people who made them said any resemblance was completely coincidental, but I do think it explains why I feel the way I do. They’re meant to be creepy.”

  “Katie, what in the world…?” And then it hit me, and I burst into laughter. I’d forgotten about one of her quirks she’d told me about. “Oh, I get it! You got sucked into the never-ending hole of facts and trivia about nutcrackers, didn’t you?”