Death of a Russian Doll

by Barbara Early

  My head jerked up.

  “I’m not saying she’s putting arsenic in his tea, but he hasn’t been himself, and that’s such a shame. Not that I was ever really interested in him, you understand. Just fun to flirt and watch him blush. But you.” She softened her tone. “I thought you and he might have something.”

  “Yeah, well.” I sighed. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  Chapter 2

  It was a pleasant winter day in East Aurora, which, for me, meant that prevailing weather patterns weren’t attempting to dump the whole contents of Lake Erie onto our heads in the form of snow. The air, though crisp, wasn’t threatening to launch pedestrians to Oz, and the sun made an occasional appearance, clearing ice from the sidewalks and putting a crust on the accumulated snow plowed from the streets. Othello—our tuxedo cat, named for the board game and not the Shakespearean play—had taken up residence in the sunniest part of the display window next to his favorite Scotty pull toy. Today he even shared the space with Val.

  It had taken us months to name the naughty black cat who’d come to us last November. She’d gone through a dozen or so names that didn’t stick, some that seemed too sweet and others she just ignored. Finally, Dad started calling her “the cat that could not be named.” It was a short leap from there to Voldemort, which we eventually shortened and feminized to Val, although Voldemort better described the clawed creature that terrorized our shop and apartment. For now she was looking all innocent, just enjoying the sunshine.

  This was the kind of day that lured shoppers out of their houses onto Main Street, and we’d seen a few of them already at Well Played. One woman was Christmas shopping from a list she’d stolen from her husband—a BOLO list of 1950s American Flyer train engines and cars—and she was surreptitiously trying to help expand his collection. These were rarer S-scale models—although the purists will say only S-gauge models—and we didn’t have any currently in stock. I’d photocopied the list and her contact info for when Dad was around. If he didn’t have what she needed, he could probably find it.

  A little after eleven o’clock I went to fetch another cup of coffee but stopped to turn around the Russian doll, which once again faced the wrong way. I wasn’t sure who the joker was, but I figured I’d get the blame. I’d just set her right again when the bell over the door rang, and I glanced up to see Irene and Lenora, two elderly sisters I’d met a couple of years earlier. A less-welcoming era would have labeled them as spinsters, but these two enjoyed life too much to be worthy of that sad title.

  They did not remove the colorful scarves tied to their heads even as they loosened their coats and greeted Cathy and me with hugs all around. They were drawn like magnets to Cathy’s baby and left a few lipstick kisses on Drew’s cheeks, which suited him just fine. He cooed and sang and looked happy to see them.

  “May I?” Lenora asked, holding arms out to Drew.

  “Of course!” Cathy carefully handed him over.

  Lenora bobbed him against her hip while Irene rubbed his head, sweaty from a recent nap.

  “Soon,” Lenora said, “he’s going to be too heavy for me to hold.”

  “When that happens, we’ll get you a chair,” I said. “What brings you ladies to Main Street this fine morning?”

  “We were next door getting our hair done while the weather held up,” Irene said. The neighboring barber shop had recently gone unisex, since the aged barber decided to take more time off. Instead of closing, he rented his chairs to several local stylists. Including She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—and no, not referring to the cat this time.

  “Let’s see!” Cathy said.

  Irene removed her scarf to show off her new hairdo, which looked remarkably the same as it always had. As did Lenora’s after she’d handed Drew back and removed her scarf.

  “Were you expecting blue streaks or something?” Lenora laughed. “At our age, we know what works. Marya keeps it that way for us, which is just fine.”

  “She does good work,” Cathy said, glancing in my direction. “You ladies look lovely.”

  “And it’s so pleasant to be away from all that banging at home,” Irene said. “Jackhammers. Power tools.”

  “I heard Jack started remodeling Sy’s old place,” I said. Jack Wallace had been my on-again, off-again childhood sweetheart, right up until we permanently offed our troubled relationship so we could remain friends. After a brief property dispute, Jack had bought out the rest of the heirs to his uncle Sy’s estate, leaving him the proud owner of a dilapidated and possibly haunted Victorian.

  “Hired some fancy-schmancy outfit,” Lenora said. “Browning Restoration,” she added in a posh transatlantic accent. “They have signs up all over the yard. Right next to the bright green porta-potty.”

  “Better than the workmen peeing in the bushes,” Irene added, “which is what they were doing before the porta-potty arrived.”

  “Did someone complain?” Cathy asked.

  “No,” Irene said. “They just caught someone watching them pee in the bushes.” She glared at her sister who blushed.

  “Anyway, all kinds of heavy equipment. Never a moment’s rest. Sy never made that much noise,” Lenora said. “It was his best quality.”

  “You’re forgetting the eighties, my dear,” said Irene. “The Madonna years.”

  “That’s right,” Lenora said. “Foolish old man, blasting ‘Like a Virgin’ as loud as his boom box could manage, not caring a lick what the neighbors might think.”

  “Incidentally, we thought it was some kind of midlife crisis,” Irene said. “Although in Sy’s case, his midlife crisis lasted about thirty years.” She stopped herself. “May he rest in peace.”

  “Jack’s a good neighbor, mind you,” Lenora said. “And we like his new girlfriend, too. And the boy.”

  “Yes, Amanda’s sweet,” I said, referring to our most recent part-time employee. She and her autistic son had moved to East Aurora last December. “She’ll be here this afternoon, in fact. School conferences this morning. She found a great private school that works with Kohl’s special needs.”

  “Although we are still a little sorry that things didn’t work out between you and Jack,” Irene said.

  I waved her off. “No worries. Jack and I have been friends for years, and I couldn’t be happier that he found someone. They seem good together.”

  Irene looked unconvinced.

  “Trust me,” I said. “I’m fine with it. Jack and I were a mistake we kept making and kept regretting. We’re better off as friends.”

  “And your police friend?” Lenora said.

  I sighed. “I’ll admit that’s a little harder to take.”

  “Now I feel like a rat for going on about that haircut,” Lenora said.

  “Now look,” I said. “It’s no secret I’m not exactly fond of Marya Young, but we all live in the same town. I guess it’s time to learn to get along.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want this nice juicy bit of gossip we just picked up?” Irene said coyly.

  “And maybe lunch on us?” Lenora added, pulling a handful of Wallace’s gift certificates from her pocket and waving them in front of my face. “Jack gave them to us when we complained to him about the noise.”

  Cathy started laughing but nudged me. “I’ll watch the shop. You go, but bring me back the dirt. And maybe a doggie bag.”

  * * *

  I removed my foggy glasses after entering Wallace’s. The place hadn’t changed much since Jack had assumed control from his mother. Just after Thanksgiving, he’d hung up the same dated Christmas decorations—faux wreaths with their crushed velvet bows—in exactly the same places. The same silk poinsettias sat atop every table. And mistletoe dangled from the rafters above the bar. In past years, when I was dating Jack, I might have sought it out. Today I avoided it like a tofu burger at a rodeo.

  One recent change was that a few sports jerseys now hung in glass cases near the bar. Jack’s brother Terry’s influence, perhaps? I’d also heard that the k
itchen had been totally overhauled, of course. Jack had always thought of the place as more of a family restaurant than a tavern, as the sign had always advertised. He clearly placed his emphasis on the food; the bar took a backseat, and nobody I knew seemed to have a problem with that. Today, the familiar spicy tang of chicken wings lay heavy in the air, mingling with the aromas of various sauces and gravies. Instead of competing with each other, they somehow created the counterpoint for a symphony of scents that made my stomach rumble.

  A patient hostess wearing reindeer antlers led us halfway around the restaurant before finding an empty table that suited Lenora.

  “I don’t care for the booths anymore,” she explained. “I think my ability to scoot has scooted.”

  Once our orders had been taken and our soft drinks had arrived, Irene leaned in, looking ready to spill. “You know, of course, that Marya is from Russia.”

  “That I gathered,” I said.

  “Now, you young people,” Irene went on. “To you, the Cold War is nothing but spy stories and a footnote in your history books. But it was real. Much of the world, after World War II ended, stood holding their breath. Nuclear weapons. Air raid drills. Bomb shelters.”

  “Fear and distrust and balance of power,” Lenora said.

  “But Marya,” I started, trying to remember when the wall went down and the USSR disintegrated. “She’d be too young to be involved in any of that, so if you’re suggesting she’s some kind of communist spy …”

  Lenora put her hands up. “No, not at all. But when did she leave Russia?”

  Irene leaned forward. “Her English is very good. Just a faint accent. We figured she’s been here a long time.”

  “I’ll buy that,” I said.

  “We got to talking about that today,” Irene said. “Well, I did, anyway. Lenora was still under the dryer.”

  “I can’t hear anything from under the dryer,” Lenora said.

  “And I asked her about Russia,” Irene said. “She didn’t remember it at all, so she couldn’t have been more than two or three when she came over.”

  “We think,” Lenora said, “she might be one of those illegal aliens. And I bet that’s why she was so keen on marrying that policeman friend of yours.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” I said. “I’m not sure Ken would marry her just to help her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he thought he was in love,” Lenora said. “There are lots of ways a cunning young woman can convince a man of that.”

  “It would explain why she’s so determined to make it work,” Irene added. “Or at least make it look like it’s working. Being married to an American can be a big determining factor in granting citizenship. And once she’s gotten it …” Irene drummed her fingers on the table.

  “You think she’s going to leave him,” I said.

  “Which would open the door for Chief Young to pursue other interests,” Irene said.

  My cheeks flushed, but our food arrived before I could respond, so our conversation hushed while the waitress laid plates in front of us, refilled drinks, and scrounged up a bottle of ketchup. I’d opted for a Buffalo chicken sub, which arrived with enough curly fries to feed twelve.

  We were several bites in when Irene said, “So, what do you think?”

  “Well, the sub is amazing,” I said.

  “I mean about getting back together with your old boyfriend,” Lenora said.

  I took another bite and considered what they had said. Was theirs a marriage of convenience? Or was the pair once genuinely in love?

  Jack picked this time to visit our table. His face was flushed from working in the warm kitchen, and his white apron sported a few food stains. “Hi, Liz. Ladies,” he added with a flirty tone. “I hope you’re enjoying your lunch.”

  Lenora patted her lips with her napkin. “It’s very good.” Then she sent him a dentured smile. “Thanks for paying for it.”

  “Least I could do,” Jack said. “Look, I know it must be really loud over there. If it’s any consolation, they’re doing a great job, and that’s gonna help property values in the long run.”

  The sisters shared a glance.

  “Probably,” Lenora said. “But we’d never sell, you know.”

  “Then I’m going to be blessed with the best neighbors for many years to come,” Jack said.

  Lenora laughed. “You are full of something, Jack Wallace, but I’m too much of a lady to say what.”

  I laughed at their conversation, then the thought hit. “Jack, did I hear right that Browning Restoration is doing the work on your place?”

  “That’s right,” Jack said. “Not the lowest estimate, but you can’t argue with the quality of their work.”

  “Any way that you could wrangle an introduction to Marvin Browning? Cathy’s starting up this doll project …”

  “Amanda told me all about it,” Jack said. “I think it’s great. I’d be willing to make a donation, especially if you have any sponsorship opportunities.”

  “There’s an idea,” I said.

  “But if you’re interested in applying for a grant from the Browning Foundation, you don’t want Marvin. Ian Browning handles that end. He also manages Browning Restoration. And you’re in luck, because I know him quite well.”

  I squinted at him. “You’ve been hiding your wealthy friends from me?”

  Jack laughed. “Guilty. He’s still a bit of a playboy, and back when you and I were dating, I guess I worried that the temptation of old money might lure you away from me.”

  “And now that we’re not?”

  “I’ll be happy to introduce you.” Jack’s face grew serious. “Look. Ian and I go way back. Believe it or not, we were altar boys together. But still, he’s from a whole different world. He’s used to having his own way.”

  “We used to say someone like that was born with a silver spoon in his mouth,” Lenora said.

  “Platinum,” Jack said. “Adjusted for inflation.”

  “Well, if I do get to meet him, I’ll be careful not to flash him too many of my feminine wiles,” I teased.

  Jack opened his mouth to answer but then jerked his head toward Terry, who stood by the kitchen door waving to him. “Gotta go. I’ll let you know what I can work out.”

  When he’d cleared earshot, Irene said, “Another young man. And rich, too. Does that mean you’re not interested in rekindling what you had with Ken?”

  “No one has ever called me a gold digger,” I said. “And I understand what you’re trying to say. But with Ken? I don’t know.”

  “But if he married Marya just to keep her from being deported …” Irene said.

  “It could explain a few things,” I said, “because I’ve never sensed a lot of warmth or chemistry between them.”

  “If Marya does skedaddle,” Irene said, “maybe a little forgiveness and understanding might patch things up between the two of you.”

  Lenora placed a wrinkled hand on her sister’s forearm. “That’s something that Liz will have to decide. Don’t go all matchmaker on me now.” She turned to me. “You see, my sister and I have seen a lot of years go by. We’ve watched a lot of relationships come and go, and it is nice when two young people get together.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Irene said.

  “But it’s also a nightmare when the two wrong people get together,” Lenora said.

  Irene let out a long breath.

  I wasn’t sure if she meant Ken and me, or Ken and Marya.

  Chapter 3

  Darth Vader made me do it.

  No, not the mind-bending, evil Sith overlord. It was a missing action figure that lured me to the dark side. The “dark side” in this case was Dad’s latest pet project, the hotly debated comic book room, still under construction.

  Kohl favored the space. Amanda suggested that perhaps her teenage son found the dimly lit area calming, that it gave him a retreat from the sound and lights and commotion of the shop that his autism sometimes rendered over-stimulating. The electric
ian, due next week, had canceled twice, and none of us had the heart to hurry up the process.

  I found Vader on the table, next to a few sketches of the figure. Kohl’s colors were vibrant but well balanced and his lines bold and confident. The private art classes Amanda had found were doing wonders to hone his natural ability.

  His timing, however, was all wrong.

  In just a few days, the walls would have been more soundproof. As they were now, only drywall on one side of the new wall separated the comic book room from the old barber shop. After a savvy business deal—at least on the part of the barber—Dad had acquired their underutilized storage room and added three hundred square feet to our floor space.

  “Got a great deal,” Dad had bragged around town, but our bank account balances still kept me up at night.

  And as I picked up the stray Darth action figure, the voice I heard through the wall made my skin crawl more than James Earl Jones’s ever had.

  It was Marya.

  I wasn’t exactly trying to overhear, at least not at first. “Were you checking up on me?” she screeched.

  A male voice rumbled, but I couldn’t quite make it out. I stayed stock-still and closed my eyes. When that proved inadequate—not that I’m proud of it—I found the largest gap in the drywall and put my ear up against it.

  “I wasn’t checking up on you,” Ken said, the frustration in his voice mounting. “All I did was poke my head in the library when you said you’d be there—”

  “Did you look in the whole library? How do you know I wasn’t in one of the study areas? Or back in the stacks somewhere? Did you check everywhere?”

  “Trust me, I looked.”

  “A-ha! Then you were checking up on me.”

  “This isn’t about me,” Ken countered. “This is about you. About you not being where you told me you would be.”

  “Okay, Mister High-and-Mighty, this has nothing to do with whether I was at the library or not. This is about control and why you feel you have to check up on me. I’m not a criminal. I’m not on probation.”

  “You very well could be.”