Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

  Death of a Russian Doll

  A Vintage Toyshop Mystery

  Barbara Early

  To my granddaughter, Abbie, wishing you a lifetime of giggles, hugs, and books. And to Elizabeth and Andrew for making me a happy grandmother.

  Acknowledgments

  Often the acknowledgments are a laundry list of names, and there are certainly many people I’d like to thank. But since the list hasn’t really changed from the last few books, I’d like to say “ditto.”

  Instead, a heartfelt thank you to all those people who encouraged me. Thanks to those who told me I could write when I didn’t believe it myself, to those who nudged me to finish when I was more ready to give up, and to those who took on tasks that let me follow my dream, when maybe I should have been doing something else … like cooking dinner. You’ve made all this possible.

  But a special thanks to readers who’ve told me they enjoyed spending time with my characters. To see a book that I’ve written, bound and with a pretty cover, is a joy. But to know that it’s been opened and read and enjoyed is truly priceless. Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  I never should have opened the box.

  My heart now racing, I flipped the lid shut, then grabbed for the nearest folding chair and sank into it. Our vintage toyshop had become a swirling kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, so I closed my eyes until the vertigo passed. I finally forced them open to distract myself from the memory: dismembered body parts, matted hair, and worst of all, those cold, lifeless eyes staring up at me.

  “Cathy?” I said, my voice hoarse and soft. “I found another box of doll parts.”

  “Sorry!” My sister-in-law looked up from the baby swing, where she had just placed Drew in an attempt to keep him entertained while we finished setting up for her meeting. Cathy and Parker had chosen the name Andrew—and the nickname “Drew”—to thwart Dad’s desire to see all his progeny named after toys in some way. Of course, Dad had immediately begun to call “Drew” by the name of “Andy” and informed my brother that the first girl would be “Ann.” What Parker told Dad in response isn’t to be repeated, but he didn’t seem to object to Dad supplying a rag doll costume for Drew’s first Halloween.

  I jumped as a hand grasped my shoulder.

  “Easy there,” Dad said. “You okay? You look pretty pale.”

  I nodded but didn’t reply.

  “This is your fault, you know.” Cathy wagged a finger at my father.

  “Mine?” Dad flashed back his most innocent look, his eyes shining and cherubic under his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. Maybe a little more salt than pepper these days.

  Cathy put her hands on her hips and continued her lecture. “Letting her watch that silly Trilogy of Terror on television when she was only …” She turned to me. “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine years old,” Cathy scolded, her broad sleeves flying. Her wardrobe choices, as usual, were bold and eclectic as she decided best fit her artistic temperament—today it was bright coral leggings and a draped, oversized tunic ranging in colors from coral to turquoise—but her tone and expression were becoming more maternal by the day. “Voodoo dolls coming to life. Back to back with that ‘Talking Tina’ episode of Twilight Zone!”

  “You can’t pin that all on me,” Dad said. “I wasn’t even there. Your husband turned it on.”

  Cathy folded her arms. “Parker wouldn’t do that.”

  “Actually,” I said, “he did. He was seven at the time, but I forgave him long ago.” But the damage had been done. Dad had been working, investigating some important case, as usual. And Mom was sleeping one off. That day sparked my long-lived fear of dolls—something that had become more problematic since I began managing Well Played, the vintage toyshop my father opened when he retired as East Aurora’s chief of police. Now I worked every day adjacent to a whole room full of the demonic porcelain, rag, and plastic creatures. When the shop was especially quiet, you could almost hear them plot world domination.

  “But you’d been doing so much better,” Cathy said, pressing my cheeks with her cool fingers.

  I took a fortifying breath. “I’m good. And I want to help. I love your whole idea of refurbishing old, donated dolls. Well, maybe not that part, but getting them into the hands of needy girls who would appreciate them. That’s such a worthwhile cause, especially for the holidays.”

  “Starting so late,” Cathy said, “we’ll be lucky to finish a dozen by Christmas. But I’m hoping it’s enough to get folks excited.” She looked at me. “But not terrified.”

  “I should be fine once everybody gets here. I’ll just make sure I stick with the less hands-on—and eyes-on—parts of the process.”

  “Don’t worry,” Cathy said, “there’s plenty of that. Ordering materials. Working with the groups from the sewing center who are making new clothes for the dolls. Fund-raising.” She ticked off the items on her glittery turquoise-tipped fingernails.

  “Coordinating with the nonprofits to make sure the repaired dolls get into the hands of the neediest children,” I added. “Working with the folks at the art center who’ll be repainting features. Getting the dimensions to the knitting and crocheting clubs.”

  “I think it’s fun that they want to make little coats and sweaters for the dolls,” Cathy said.

  “They could make Santa hats, too. Cover some of that hair.” I shuddered. “Or what would you think of mini ski masks? Cover the whole face?”

  I expected maybe a polite laugh at my suggestion. Instead Cathy sucked in a breath and looked at Dad, who seemed to be studying the floor tiles.

  “It’s true, I’m not that good at hair,” Cathy said, then winced. “But it wouldn’t be right just to cover it.”

  “No. Not if we figured out a way to fix it,” Dad said, still not meeting my eyes.

  “Or found someone who could fix it.” Cathy also failed at the whole eye-contact thing.

  “Someone?” I repeated. Then it hit. “Someone? As in some new stylist who recently moved to town?” I could hear my voice grow shrill.

  “Not quite recently. Almost a year ago, as I recall.” Cathy swallowed. “And Marya can do doll hair. Said she’s been doing it all her life. And she wants to volunteer. How could I turn her away?”

  “I can think of about fifty ways to do that,” I said.

  “I can understand how you feel,” Dad said.

  “Oh, can you?” My words came out a little more bitter than I’d intended. I took a moment to compose myself. I looked up at Othello, our tuxedo cat, as he inched toward his favorite spot on the train tracks that circled the shop, just below the ceiling. Another cat was in his favorite perch, however, her black tail twitching. He sniffed her, then turned and took up his second favorite spot. If he could do it … “Sorry, I didn’t mean to jump at you.”

  “It’s all right,” Dad said, massaging my shoulder. “I do bear some of the blame. I practically tried to throw you and Ken together. I had no idea.”

  “That he was married?” I finished with a sigh. Ken Young—or maybe I should say Chief Young—and I had been dating casually, and nonexclusively, for a year when I’d put aside my reservations about dating a cop to see where our relationship might take us. Where it took us was the front steps of the toyshop when his wife showed up out of the blue and glommed onto him.

  “I still say I should’ve taken a swing at him,” Dad said.

  “And that would have accomplished what, exactly?” I said. “You all over the local news and possibly in the clink? After all, physical violence against the chief of the police department is frowned upon.” I sighed. “For what it’s worth, I believe what he said about thinking things were over between them when he moved up here.”

/>   Cathy huffed. “Then why not say, ‘By the way, Liz, I just want you to know that I’m still married, but in the process of divorcing my wife’? At any time he could have mentioned that little fact.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir,” I said, my hands up. “Things were just heating up between the two of us, and he had alluded to something he said I needed to know. I think he would have told me, even if Marya hadn’t …”

  “Waltzed into town intent on picking up where they’d left off?” Cathy said with false sweetness. “Or was that more of a tango?”

  I bit a chapped spot on my lower lip, and then reached into my cardigan pocket for my lip balm. “I’d like to believe she was being honest, too.”

  “That she’d just come to town to make amends?” Cathy said. “I don’t care what twelve-step program you’re on. That shouldn’t take a whole year.” She did a double take at the shelf behind me. “Very funny, Liz.”

  “What?”

  She reached up and pointed to a Russian nesting doll, properly called a matryoshka, that had been turned so her back was on display.

  I raised my hands. “I didn’t touch it.”

  Cathy eyed me doubtfully but tempered her tone. “She’s no good for him. Everyone thinks so. I can’t believe he was blind to her manipulation.”

  “Not blind.” Dad said, turning the doll around. “I’ll bet he saw it twenty-twenty but just thought it was something he could fix. It’s not uncommon in cops, really. We’re attracted to the broken ones, the victims. Then it comes back to bite us in the …”

  I looked up.

  “End,” he finished as the bell over the door rang.

  The first volunteer in the door was Glenda, the owner of the local yarn shop, followed by Lori Briggs, the mayor’s wife. I’d never known Lori to pass up a committee—although her specialty was making elaborate plans and then not following through with any of the work. They had just pounded the snow from their boots and removed their heavy coats when Diana Oliveri poked her face inside. “Right place?” Diana was a self-described “old Italian broad” with a thick accent and round, ruddy face.

  “Come on in,” Cathy said, greeting her at the door and offering to take her coat. It was Cathy’s show, after all.

  Diana craned her neck, looking around the shop. There was a lot to take in, everything from Fisher-Price pull toys to action figures to vintage board games. Even a whole wall of lunch boxes spanning decades of cultural icons from the Three Stooges to the Fonz was on display. And now, for the holidays, Dad had pulled out all the stops. Glittery snowflakes dangled from the ceiling. Ribbons and bows placed on toys and games throughout the store served as a not-so-subtle reminder that vintage toys also made great gifts. And our sound system had been extolling the virtues of walking in a Winter Wonderland even before our Thanksgiving turkey defrosted.

  “You know,” Diana said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been inside your shop.”

  “I’m glad you could join us now,” Cathy said.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Diana shrugged off her coat and hung it from the back of a chair. “There’s no way you could know this, but my family arrived in this country just a few months before Christmas when I was seven years old. We had nothing, and my father was too proud to ask for help. I knew not to ask for anything. But Christmas Eve, we went to church, and someone had put a gift on our pew with a big tag with my name on it. It was a doll.” She sniffed. “It wasn’t new, but I didn’t care. I loved her and taught myself to sew making her clothes.

  “I’m not sure why I never thought of giving back. But when I heard about this …”

  While Cathy hugged her, I ran to get refreshments for our visitors. I was rounding the corner with a tray of hot chocolate, when the door pulled open and Marya walked in.

  We shared one of those slo-mo moments where everyone else seemed to freeze. I don’t say this about many people, but even if she and Ken had never had a relationship, I’m not sure I would have liked her. Maybe that was petty jealousy on my part. She had all those impossible anatomical features idealized in the fashion dolls. As everyone unfroze, Marya flipped back her blonde locks and curled those perfectly proportioned lips, just a little, before erupting into a plastic smile. “Hello!” she said, with just a trace of her native Russian accent. She slipped off her coat and dragged it over her shoulder like a fashion model prancing on the runway, that analogy reinforced by the four-inch heels on her boots. Perhaps not the most practical volunteer committee attire.

  It would be technically correct to say that both she and I wore jeans and sweaters. That’s where the comparison ended. Her jeans could have been painted on, and her fitted sweater bore numerous flirty cutouts. Not sure if it kept her warm. The only hole in my sweater, incidentally, was on the left elbow, and I kind of hoped that nobody would notice.

  What a night. Creepy dolls and Marya Young.

  Dad put his hand on my arm and leaned to my ear. “Remember, it’s for the children.”

  * * *

  Cathy did a great job of presenting her project to the group. She’d already collected quite a few donated dolls, and more were arriving daily—many in gory pieces. Her plans to repair them, dress them, and get them in the hands of needy children, especially those in shelters and in the foster system—and just in time for the holidays—were met with enthusiasm by the capable workforce she had recruited.

  Unfortunately, the project also hinged on someone—namely me—finding additional funding. More donated dolls would arrive as soon as we could pay for the shipping and for the fabric yarn, buttons, zippers, and spare eyeballs (shudder) that were needed to keep the volunteers busy.

  “Try the Browning Foundation,” Diana had said, rubbing her fingers together. “I hear they have deep pockets.”

  Cathy’s head snapped up. “We have some donated materials. Do we need that much extra cash?”

  “The more that’s available, the more the volunteers will have to work with,” Glenda said.

  “Any relation to Browning Construction?” Dad asked. We had consulted them for an estimate for our shop expansion, but apparently our project was a little small for them.

  Glenda nodded. “And Browning Properties Management. And a small list of other highly profitable offshoots that put Marvin Browning on Millionaire Acres.”

  Cathy looked at me. “Worth checking out.”

  I dutifully wrote it on my burgeoning to-do list.

  After the meeting, attendees lingered and chatted. Awash in good feelings, I resisted the urge to run upstairs to my room.

  That proved to be a mistake.

  Marya sidled up to me when I stood at the coffeepot with Lori Briggs. “Liz?” She held out her hand. “I want to say that I’m happy that we can work together on this project. Considering …”

  “Marya,” I said. “You do understand that nothing happened between your husband and me.”

  “Oh, I know that!” She waved me off, then looked me over from head to toe using her x-ray vision. Maybe that part was my imagination, but I shuddered and pulled my sweater tighter.

  “Kenny explained it to me,” she continued. “Many women are attracted to the office and the uniform.”

  My jaw might have dropped, but I was too busy gritting my teeth.

  “That may be so,” Lori said, beginning to pace in a circle around Marya. Sharks suddenly came to mind. “Especially when that man in the uniform is apparently un … encumbered.”

  “Encumbered?” Marya said, arching an eyebrow.

  “Married,” Lori explained with a smirk of her own. I felt like a flyweight watching the heavyweight match from the stands. She squinted. “How are things going, anyway?”

  Marya eyed her coolly. “Very well.”

  Lori shrugged. “I only ask because Ken always looks so tired and worn down. He hasn’t seemed himself lately.”

  “Maybe he is not getting as much sleep as he is used to.” Now it was their turn to share a moment. Cue the Jaws soundtrack. These were dangerou
s waters.

  But before any blood was shed, Marya shot Lori a half smile, threw her coat over her shoulder, and said, “Speaking of which, my ride is here.”

  I followed her gaze to the door, where Ken was standing just outside. He shrank back when multiple eyes turned to him. Lori was right when she said he hadn’t seemed himself. He was still serious about his job, of course. He was a dedicated cop, and that much hadn’t changed. But where he once could be cajoled into a smile or laugh, now the corners of his mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. Laugh lines were becoming wrinkles. And his eyes, which used to light up when he saw me, now quickly diverted from mine, looking to rest anywhere else. He shifted his focus to Marya, and his jaw tightened even more.

  See you all next week!” Marya called out to the room, seemingly oblivious to her husband’s body language.

  All eyes watched her prance out and take a possessive hold on Ken’s arm. As soon as the two had disappeared from view, Diana called her an impolite name.

  She turned to me. “Don’t you be jealous. Watch out for the Malocchio.”

  I must have looked confused.

  “The evil eye, a curse,” Diana explained, then vehemently wagged a warning finger at me. “She’s not worth it.”

  As Diana turned to leave, I wondered if she was putting me on. But Val, one of the two cats who now occupied our toyshop and our apartment above it, chose that moment to hop down from her perch on the model train tracks near the ceiling and strut along the aisle. Diana crossed herself at the sight of the black cat in her path and gave Val a wide berth, shimmying against the wall to get to the door before she gave us a wave.

  Lori started laughing and put a hand on my arm. “Diana’s a bit over the top, but she might be right about that whole evil-eye thing. Oh, the look on your face when I started messing with Marya!”

  “I’m apparently out of my depth,” I said.

  “And stay that way,” she said. “It suits you. I wouldn’t have taken her on at all except what I said was true. Ken hasn’t seemed himself, not since that witch arrived. She’s killing him.”