Traitorous Toys (Cozy Corgi Mysteries Book 2)

by Mildred Abbott

  That part didn’t matter. I was certain that was what it was. And right behind Bushy Evergreen’s Workshop. It was the only thing needed to figure out which one of the Diamonds had killed Declan.

  I called Branson. He didn’t answer, so I left a voicemail. Then I texted him a few minutes later. I tried to call again.

  After ten minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I called the station.

  There was an answer after one ring. “Police, what is your emergency?”

  “No emergency, but I have information on the Declan Diamond murder. Could I speak to Sergeant Wexler?”

  There was a brief pause, and the clicking of keys. “I’m sorry, Sergeant Wexler’s not on duty. But I’ll get you through to the officer in charge of this case.” Before I could protest, she put me on hold, and silence filled my ears, an occasional beep let me know the connection was still live. I had a sinking feeling about who was going to pick up. Sure enough, nearly three score of electronic beeps later, Susan Green’s voice greeted my ears. “This is Officer Green. I hear you have information on the Diamond case.”

  I nearly hung up the phone. I had my thumb over the End Call button and then envisioned her tracing the call and how that would look. I lifted the phone back to my ear. “Yes. I do. I think I discovered the glove the killer wore to be able to use the garland to strangle Declan.”

  She groaned. “Fred?”

  “Yes. This is Fred.”

  “So you found a glove, huh?” I swore I could hear the eye roll. “Just one? Was this killer doing the moonwalk at the same time as the strangling?”

  “Maybe there’s two. I didn’t check.” I was surprised my voice was audible through my gritted teeth.

  “Really? I thought you were better at police work than the rest of us. You know, the rest of us who are actually… police.”

  “I never said that.” Watson groaned in his sleep, and I realized my voice had risen. I didn’t think I’d ever met anyone other than my ex-husband who could make me so angry so quickly. “May I speak to Branson… sorry, Sergeant Wexler?”

  “What’s wrong, Fred? Lovers’ spat? He finally realize you’re just as batty as the rest of your family and refused to take your calls?”

  It was her soft chuckle that did it.

  I saw red.

  “You know what, that’s exactly what happened.” I ended the call.

  Well, that was stupid. She’d just call back and then give me a hard time for hanging up on an officer of the law. How she’d ever earned such a title was beyond me. Although it wasn’t, really. Cops like her had been the bane of my father’s career.

  I waited for her to call back. To my surprise, she didn’t.

  After a few moments of considering calling her, I pushed the thought aside. Even if she did actually listen to me, I didn’t trust her to follow through on it, and if she did, she’d probably find some way to use it against Katie, my parents, or myself.

  I could go get the glove. Easy enough. As I started to slide off the bed, Watson gave another moan in his sleep, this one seeming like he was having a pleasant dream.

  No, I wasn’t going to leave him, and I wasn’t going to carry him back to the car. I wasn’t going to risk anything happening to him. And chances were, the glove was fine. No one knew I’d seen it, and that alley was on the same side as my shop. Trash pickup wouldn’t be for another three days.

  Besides, Branson would call back. He’d listen.

  Lying there, I nearly vibrated with excitement and nerves. One step closer to figuring out who killed Declan, one step closer to truly and completely clearing Katie’s name. And though maybe I should be ashamed of the thought, one step closer to me figuring this thing out. The next thought, I was certain I should be ashamed of. I had a sense of disappointment knowing the glove was going to tell who killed Declan. Through DNA or some such. It seemed a little anticlimactic to me. I wanted to figure it out, not hand it over to science.

  My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten dinner in all the chaos. Quietly I got up and started making a grilled cheese. Before long, Watson padded into the kitchen, doubtless the smell of buttered bread in the skillet wafting into his dreams. Typically I would’ve given him some of my grilled cheese, but I didn’t want to risk any chance of constipation, just in case he’d swallowed some of the shards. Instead, I simply toasted a slice of bread and gave it to him as I ate my sandwich. His snack was gone in two bites, and then he disappeared back into the bedroom. He was eating as voraciously as normal, another good sign.

  My thoughts drifted back to Declan and the Diamonds. I felt like I had missed something. Something obvious. It wasn’t surprising that the glove was behind the toyshop. Well, it was, for the killer to do something so careless, but even so, it only confirmed what I already suspected. The killer was right there. But which one? The betrayed father? The brother in love with his sister-in-law? The pregnant wife who discovered her husband was cheating?

  Cheating. It was one piece of the puzzle…. Sarah Margaret Beeman.

  Maybe she played more of a role than just that of the other woman.

  At that thought, I left my crumb-filled plate on the kitchen counter, retrieved my laptop, and carried it back into the bedroom so I could keep an eye on Watson.

  I situated myself against the headboard and propped the laptop on a couple of pillows in my lap, then opened Google and typed in Sarah Margaret Beeman. Might as well start with the simple and go from there.

  I got nothing relevant, of course. There was an author with the name Margaret Beeman, an actress, a woman who worked with horses, but none close by and of an age that I thought would appeal to Declan. I narrowed it down to Colorado, still nothing.

  I tried a couple of people-search websites, but they kept asking questions like—is Sarah Margaret Beeman related to so and so? Has Sarah Margaret Beeman ever lived at this address? Has Sarah Margaret Beeman ever been convicted of a felony? After hitting I don’t know multiple times, I realized I was wasting my effort. That, and each one of them wanted me to put in a credit card number. Which I would’ve done if I thought it could help. But I didn’t.

  Even though I realized I was wasting time at this point, I also knew I wouldn’t be getting any sleep with as fast as my mind was racing. So I went with it. I just typed in Sarah. Like I suspected, nothing helpful came up. Too much came up. Including a list of nicknames. I had no idea women named Sarah were also called Sadie or Sal. How odd.

  Odd, but not at all helpful.

  Feeling like I was wasting time, I did a similar search on Sarah’s middle name, more out of desperation than anything. As with Sarah, Margaret offered up more information than could ever be useful. The third link was to Wikipedia. I hesitated with the mouse over the link. Knowing that if any of my ex-professor colleagues found out I ever clicked on Wikipedia as an actual source, they would quite literally crucify me. Well, whatever. I clicked.

  I discovered that Margaret was a French name originally, and then later English. Not helpful or even overtly interesting. But then there was a long list of nicknames. A few of which I had no idea how they could possibly come from the name Margaret. The last one of those was a name I knew. Peggy.

  I stared at the name, my blood running cold just as the tingling over my skin increased. Peggy was a nickname for Margaret. I couldn’t understand why, but there it was in black-and-white. So, it made sense that Peg would be as well.

  Peg. Peg Singer. Not quite Peg Beeman, but I knew I’d found it. I was willing to bet Beeman was Peg’s maiden name. Those two letters from the Denver law firm to Sarah M. Beeman. Sarah Margaret Beeman. In essence, to Peg Beeman. I was also willing to bet at least one of those had been in regards to Declan’s will and the fate of the toyshop and the Diamond family. I’d quite literally handed over evidence to the killer.

  Peg had killed Declan.

  No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than I shook my head. It didn’t make any sense. Why would Peg kill Declan for making her sole bene
ficiary? An image of her holding up my hoodie, nearly engulfed by the size, flitted to my mind. Peg couldn’t have killed Declan. Not only did she not have the motive, but she quite literally couldn’t. It would’ve been like a toy poodle killing a Doberman.

  No, of course it wasn’t Peg. It was Joe. Joe was every bit as big as Declan, bigger.

  Joe had found out about the affair between his wife and Declan.

  I texted Branson. I know who killed Declan. Call me back.

  I woke up to the sun streaming through the bedroom window. I’d fallen asleep on top of the covers, and the computer upside down like a tent beside me. Watson peeked at me, only his pointy ears and chocolate eyes visible as he stood on his back legs, his two forepaws pounding on the mattress as he whined.

  “For goodness’ sake, Watson. Must you be so demanding every….” The night before came back to me, and I sat up straighter. Doing a little test, I lilted my voice in the same tone I often used when I said treat or walk. “Breakfast?”

  Watson let out several deep, excited growls, plopped to the ground, and began to bounce on his two front paws like a bunny in his excited way.

  The sight sent such relief through me I nearly cried. I slid off the bed and gathered him in my arms. “You’re feeling better! You’re really going to be fine, aren’t you?”

  The bark he gave next was a clear admonition, and he jerked himself free, giving me a side glare, then looking toward the bedroom door and beginning to bounce again.

  Laughing, I stood up. “Yes, Your Majesty. Anything you want since you’re feeling better! You name it. Toast, a can of tuna? Prime rib?”

  He let out two short impatient yips.

  “Twice, huh? I’ll take that to mean you want the second choice. Which is good. I don’t actually have any prime rib.” He pranced at my feet as I walked to the kitchen, nearly tripping me a billion times in the short distance. I don’t think I ever enjoyed nearly falling so much.

  Watson was almost through with his bowl of tuna when other aspects of the night before returned as well. I rushed back to the bedroom and snagged my phone. There was a message from Verona, and another from Katie. No missed calls, and nothing from Branson.

  I called him again. Still no answer.

  I considered calling the police. Susan wouldn’t be back on duty this quickly, surely. But then I paused. I’d already tried the police. I’d attempted to do the responsible, regular citizen sort of thing. But it wasn’t what I wanted to do.

  Feeling much, much happier than I should about that, I brushed my teeth, threw on clothes, and pulled my hair into a ponytail quicker than I ever had in my life. I was so wide-awake, I didn’t even need to stop at the Black Bear Roaster. Solving a murder was an even better wake-me-up than caffeine.

  Still nervous to put a collar on Watson, despite him seemingly being back to normal, I carried him into the car. From his thrashing around, chances were high I was doing more damage than the collar ever would, but the die had been cast. And truly, from the way he was acting, by the time I closed the passenger door and received a murderous glare through the window, I figured the only thing I’d risked was matricide.

  Just to make sure I could say that I truly had tried, I texted Branson. I know who killed Declan. I’m on my way to get the glove. Call me back.

  I’d just started the engine when I realized what I was forgetting. I hurried back into the cabin, grabbed a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, and then Watson and I were on our way.

  When I attempted to pat Watson’s head, he sniffed and turned around. Unwilling to give him the last word, I tickled his nubbed tail. He attempted to tuck it away but failed, causing me to giggle, and only dig my hole deeper.

  The snow had fallen through the night, and it truly was a winter wonderland. If it had been another moment, I would’ve paused and enjoyed the sight of the herd of elk, steam rising from their nostrils, as I drove into town. It couldn’t have been lovelier. The snow lay heavy on the branches, turning each one into a Christmas tree. The blanketing covered every building, house, and store, transforming Estes Park into a magical Christmas village as the snow sparkled in the glistening morning sun.

  I giggled again at the thought, remembering the porcelain Christmas village under my grandmother’s tree when I was a kid. How I’d lie on my stomach and watch the battery-powered ice-skaters twirl over the frosted-mirrored pond. Imagining what life would be like in such a magical place. It turned out, pretty murderous. At least much more than one would expect.

  I giggled yet again. Watson deigned to inspect me over his shoulder. Clearing my throat, I focused on the road. Something was wrong with me that I was so excited about going to retrieve a murder weapon.

  I parked just on the other side of the stream of the newly redone riverwalk. From the spot, I could see the alley that the toyshop and T-shirt place shared. I didn’t attempt to pat Watson as I exited the car, though I did crack the windows slightly. He wasn’t the only one who could play hard to get. “I’ll be right back. You can’t come on this one, but I won’t be very long.”

  He’d been crossing the middle console onto the driver seat to hop out just as I closed the door, and once more he glared daggers at me from behind the window.

  Swinging my purse on my shoulder, I left the parking lot, made my way over the little wooden bridge that crossed the narrow part of the river, and headed down the winding, mostly cleared, sandstone path. Halfway to the alley, I realized just how cold it actually was, which should have been a no-brainer, considering all the snow, but I’d been so excited I hadn’t brought a coat. Whatever. I remembered the plastic bag, no… the evidence bag. That was much more important than being warm.

  I strolled purposely across the space. There was no one about. And even if there was, I wasn’t doing anything other than what people did all day long, every single day.

  As I entered the alley, my heart rate increased, just a touch, despite there being no reason for concern. It was morning, bright out, and I wasn’t doing anything suspicious.

  Right… because I began every morning by digging through people’s trash.

  Standing in front of the snow-covered dumpster, which the white stuff somehow made look magical, I realized the other thing I’d forgotten. Gloves. Both for the cold in digging into the snow and to avoid my own prints from contaminating anything. Susan’s voice mocked in my memory about her being the actual police.

  I hated to prove her right, even for a second.

  The solution was obvious enough. Retrieving the Ziploc bag from my purse, I turned it inside out, and used it for a combination glove and digging tool.

  Thankfully, I didn’t actually have to dig through the dumpster. The pizza Watson found had been on the side closest to the back doors. So I started sifting off snow from the right of the dumpster. I wasn’t quite sure under which lump of white fluff it would be. The snow might be pretty, but it just turned everything into big, sparkling, indefinable lumps.

  I dusted some off, revealing a couple of T-shirts and some broken toys. And then I found the pizza box. I had to be close. Although I couldn’t remember once I’d pulled the glove out of Watson’s mouth if I had flung it away. I didn’t think so. I really should have tried to recreate that scene in my memory before walking into the alley.

  I began to dust the snow away a little more frantically, it wasn’t like the glove would break if I hit it. Something small and hard went flying and hit the back door to Rocky Mountain Imprints with a loud clank. I froze, waiting.

  Nothing happened. I began flinging snow again, though with a little less vigor. An orange yo-yo went flying next, but didn’t make any noise other things clattering across the ground. And then, there it was. The glove, now matted with snow and frozen stiff. I wrapped my Ziploc-gloved hand around it, picked it up, and then refolded the bag right side out, enclosing the evidence, and zipped it up in triumph. I looked at it, smiled, and gave a nod of approval. “Gotcha!”

  “Fred! What are you doing?”

  I jum
ped and let out an embarrassingly squeaky yelp, as I looked toward the voice. Peg was standing right outside the back door, her hand over her eyes as she squinted at me in the brightness.

  My mouth moved silently for a second or two—or maybe an hour, who could tell?—then words came. Like magic. Totally bypassing my brain and all thought processes and spewing out of my mouth. “Watson got into something bad in here last night as we were leaving. I had to take him to the vet. Dr. Sallee suggested that if I could find out what it was, we’d have a better chance of helping him.” Look at that. Not only words, but full sentences, good ones too. Take that, Susan Green!

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, the poor dear.” Peg’s tone shifted from surprised to sympathy. “I hope it’s nothing poisonous. I would just hate—” Her words fell away instantly, and she looked at the bag in my hands, her gaze returning to me, then back to the bag. “Fred, what have you got there?” All sympathy vanished, her tone was as cold as the snow.

  Her reaction threw me off. She recognized the glove. Which meant, she knew. Obviously. But… Peg knew? “Just some material… um… there was some… ah… pizza sauce on it that he was eating. I thought maybe Watson had swallowed some of this….”

  I was fairly certain Susan Green was laughing so hard that Peg was about to ask her to be quiet.

  “Fred….” Peg took a step toward me, and I automatically backed one away from her. She paused, staring, and then to my surprise, darted back to the shop.

  Relief flooded through me, though I continued backing up, feeling like I needed to keep my attention right where it was.

  With a ferocity that shocked me, Peg burst back out the door. Her wild expression made it look like she should be screaming, but she wasn’t. Only pure silence as she tore down the three steps, the baseball bat gripped in both hands and raised above her head as she flew toward me.

  I spun on my heels and attempted to run, and slipped. Another idiotic mistake, me and my dumb cowboy boots, even in the snow. I caught myself before I fell and managed to move, just in time to feel the air brush past my head from the bat.