He yawned. “And you want to help me how?”
“If you haven’t eaten, there’s a plate in the fridge that just needs microwaving. I have a fresh uniform pressed and hanging on your bedroom door. And a lunch and some healthy snacks packed and ready to go.”
“And?”
“And …” I swallowed hard to get up the courage to say what I hoped to get out. “I have helped you in the past. You’ve told me as much. Said I had a good mind for detection.”
He began dramatically wagging his head.
I put a finger up. “Use me as a sounding board. A sanity check. I won’t say anything, and you don’t have to tell anyone that you’ve shared anything with me.”
“If it got out …”
“It would be using all of your resources to get at the truth while making sure Ken gets a fair shake. Unpaid consultant?”
He stared at me under drooping eyelids then reached into his bag, pulled out a couple of file folders, and slid them on the table. “I brought these home to look through. Under no circumstances are you to touch them.”
I leaned forward. “Pottergate?”
He closed his eyes. “I’m going to bed.”
Chapter 8
Pottergate, for those unfamiliar with the term, which is just about everybody outside our immediate family circle, refers to the controversy surrounding me bringing in the first Harry Potter book that ever entered the McCall family dwelling.
Mom had just finished up another rehab, this time a religious-based program that seemed to last longer than a few of the others. The only problem was that now she was not only against the devil of drink, but a host of other gateway things that could “open up our home to evil.” She burned Dad’s collectible Ouija board with some ceremony. Out went the Magic 8-Ball, since apparently it had roots in fortune telling. Also out went playing cards, her favorite soap operas, and all our videos except those with a G-rating. Cabbage Patch Kids could reportedly be possessed, at least according to her counselor (might be some root to my doll phobia right there), so they were bagged up and trucked off. Scooby-Doo had ghosts and was therefore not suitable entertainment, nor was I Dream of Jeannie or especially Bewitched, since apparently all witches should be burned.
Into this mix, I’d brought home a boy wizard named Harry. Mom had gone nearly apoplectic. I’d argued that I had to write a book report. Mom had been adamant. Dad had stood between us like Moses holding back the raging waters of the Red Sea.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “I’ll read the book and decide if it’s appropriate.”
Before Mom could say a word, he shot her a warning look. Since Pastor Bob down at the church also encouraged her to be a submissive wife, she’d pinned her lips together so tight they turned white.
Dad had wagged a finger at me. “And you are not to touch the book until I do. Hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I’d said, wondering when exactly he’d get around to it and how flexible my teacher would be about the due date.
On my bed that night I found a brown paper bag containing the book, a pair of evidence gloves and two knitting needles. At first it was awkward turning pages with the limited dexterity of the gloves, but it didn’t take long to figure out that was what the knitting needles were for. And, happy to say, I received an A on my report.
Of course Mom didn’t learn about Pottergate until she was well off the wagon several months later, “resting her eyes” while she caught up on Days of Our Lives.
So, in that spirit, I hadn’t “touched” Dad’s files he’d left on the table. Instead, lacking evidence gloves, I’d shoved my hands into plastic sandwich bags and used my cell phone to take pictures of all the pages. There were reports and witness statements that I’d need to be more fully awake to digest, and copies of crime scene photos that were frankly difficult to look at.
Marya had been so beautiful. I’d not given her enough credit. Not only were her features naturally attractive, but always well made up and her clothing fashionably put together. She would have been appalled by these photos of her sprawled on the floor in the shop surrounded by cut hair.
Cut hair? Didn’t stylists generally sweep up after each haircut? Perhaps the hair on the floor could belong to the killer. Had the police considered that? But even squinting at the photograph, I couldn’t make out the color of the hair.
I made one mental note to mention that idea to Dad and then finished taking pictures, leaving the file exactly as it had been lying on the table. Untouched. Well, at least by human hands. Othello decided the manila folder looked like a great place for a snooze, and before I left the room, he started curling up on it.
I set my alarm for seven. The shop was closed on Sunday, but my recollection of Pottergate had me thinking about heading to church. Although that church-based rehab program didn’t work for Mom, it was still highly popular among those recovering from addiction. And since I recalled all the talk about Marya and her twelve-step program, I wondered if she might have ended up there, too.
Time to pay a visit to Pastor Bob.
* * *
Dad was out of the house before I woke up, and he’d whisked away his precious notes. I found evidence that he’d fed the cats, though Val circled my ankles trying to convince me she hadn’t eaten in days. I stroked her sleek fur. “You little liar, you!”
Halfway through my coffee—the caffeine must have pried my eyes open, because I realized I’d never answered Mark about the movies—I texted a noncommittal, “Sounds good.” I still doubted his motives, but I was curious if he might be investigating the Brownings. And if he’d let anything slip.
Othello jumped up on the table and nudged my arm, and I scratched his chin. “Yes, because the FBI are known for being loose-lipped.”
Othello meowed his assent.
The sun streamed through the apartment windows that morning, so instead of hopping into my car, I put on my boots and decided to hoof it to church.
Main Street was quiet but not deserted. When I passed Lionel Kelley’s PI office, the miniblinds were rocking ever so slightly, but there were no sounds or other signs of movement. Perhaps a heating vent by the window?
I pulled my coat tighter, and quickened my pace. The sunlight deceived me. It was cold.
Pastor Bob’s historic little white church was a block off Main. Its once-grand stained glass had dimmed and showed signs of poor repair, and its siding needed a fresh coat of paint. It had changed names and denominations several times in my lifetime. Now it simply bore the name of Lighthouse Nondenominational Church, and a small lighthouse stood, half buried in snow, in the front lawn next to the peeling, almost unreadable sign.
I was greeted warmly at the door, given a visitor’s card and a handful of cheery pamphlets featuring the flames of hell on the cover, and ushered to a pew containing a friendly elderly woman determined to carry on a conversation with me, despite the fact that she couldn’t hear anything I said. I was glad when the singing started.
The service proved better than I had anticipated. The congregation sang enthusiastically about the love of God, and when the pastor rose to speak, it wasn’t Pastor Bob. The burly gentleman in the pulpit asking people to turn to Colossians—and maybe this was power of suggestion from my conversation with Miles at the store a day earlier—resembled a young Hoss Cartwright. I leafed through the bulletin I’d been handed at the door. Pastor Pete.
And Pastor Pete was rather good. He held my attention, anyway.
After the service, I stood at the tail end of the line to shake his hand. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your sermon. I didn’t realize when I walked in this morning that Pastor Bob wasn’t here anymore.”
“Ah,” he said. “Pastor Bob left maybe six months ago. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Just something I’d like to ask.”
He looked around, but most folks had departed, and nobody competed for his attention. He pointed to a pew in the very back. “Care to sit?”
; He folded his long legs under the pew. “What can I help you with, Miss …”
“Liz,” I said. “Liz McCall. I wanted to ask if you still had the addictions program here at the church.”
His smile dimmed a little and I could see his Adam’s apple dip as he swallowed hard. “We do. Can I ask what you’re having an issue with?”
I closed my eyes. “That came out wrong. I’m not having any issue. See, my mother was with the program a number of years ago.”
“And she’s relapsed?”
“She did, but she’s no longer with us.”
“I’m sorry. Was her passing recent?” Confusion washed over his face and I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Maybe I ought to start over,” I said. “I was interested in someone I thought might be coming to the program now. Did you know Marya Young?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss …” Then he squinted. “Did I? Past tense? Has something happened to Marya?”
“I’m afraid she passed away. You didn’t know?”
“Nobody said anything to me. I guess nobody had to. She’s not a member here or anything. She just came to the program.”
“I’m sorry to break it to you this way. But can you tell me anything about Marya? Was she having any special problems lately?”
He inhaled deeply before answering. “Marya … I don’t know what to tell you. She came to meetings, but she never said much. It’s hard as a pastor to step into someone else’s shoes. Some folks were happy I wasn’t Pastor Bob; the others seemed to be trying to turn me into him. I gather she opened up more with him. I hoped things would improve over time.” Then he sat up straighter. “Before I say anything else, can I ask what your interest is?”
“She was killed next door to our toyshop.”
“As in murdered?” Pastor Pete sat frozen for a moment, staring into empty space, his face stoic and unreadable. Finally, he licked his lower lip and turned back to me. “I take it you’re not part of the investigation.”
“Not the official one,” I said. “I served with Marya on a charitable committee and knew both her and her husband.” Probably overstating my relationship. “Now I’m afraid they’re going to suspect Ken.”
“Her husband?”
I tapped my fingers on the back of the pew. “I grew up in a cop’s house. I know that the victim’s significant other is often the first suspect.”
“And you don’t think he did it.”
I let out a frustrated breath. “I thought maybe someone who knew her well might be able to cast a little light on who else had motive.”
Pastor Pete scratched his chin. “Since confidentiality ends at the grave, I will say that Marya’s relationship with her husband was a bit turbulent. Marya was terribly jealous of another woman.”
“Ken was seeing someone else?”
Pastor Pete gave a brief shrug. “That I couldn’t tell you. But dealing with those feelings was crucial. A lot of addicts try to bury their pain in drugs or alcohol.”
“What was Marya addicted to?”
“That never came up. I gathered she’d been clean a long time. Said she came to meetings to remind her she needed help to stay that way.”
“And do you have any idea who this other woman might be?”
“Marya never mentioned her name, just someone that her husband had begun seeing before she moved here. Marya used to call her ‘the brazen hussy,’ and only because we told her she couldn’t use her original term in church.” Pastor Pete chuckled. “Not sure that helps.”
Hopefully he didn’t notice my cheeks flaring pink. “I think it might.” At least that line of questioning was a dead end.
“Other than that, she talked a little about work.”
“Problems there?”
“Not that she mentioned. I think she was actually trying to drum up a little business from the women in the group. Handed out coupons. Look, if you’re trying to find someone with a reason to kill her, I’m afraid I can’t help you much.”
As I headed home, I felt a little disappointed with the information.
Yes, the conversation pointed to another person, but since that brazen hussy was me, I sure hoped that the official investigation wouldn’t run along those same lines.
When I passed Kelley’s PI office, once again the shades were swinging. I went to the door and tried the handle but found it locked tight. I knocked, then strained to hear anything inside but could make out nothing over the traffic. I tented my eyes to look inside but could see little through the tinted glass and lowered shades.
I mentally noted the office hours posted on his door. Lionel Kelley had been watching someone from that alley behind our shop. Sooner or later, he and I were going to have a nice little chat.
* * *
I stayed home just long enough to bake a batch of peanut butter cookies. The apartment felt too quiet with Dad off working himself to death. Any other time I might have enjoyed the homey solitude. Instead I felt myself being pulled into action, as if somewhere a clock was ticking. Or more like a giant hand winding a jack-in-the-box, and when I least expected it, Detective Reynolds was going to jump out of a closet and arrest me on charges of being a brazen hussy.
I piled the still-warm cookies onto two plates and loosely covered both with clean towels, then headed out to my car. I quickly brushed off a thin layer of snow and headed first to Ken Young’s house.
The brazen hussy comment aside, I hadn’t liked the way he’d sleepwalked into that cold, dark house, and I was concerned for my friend. Minutes later, I pulled into his driveway behind a red Toyota with North Carolina plates.
The recent snow hadn’t been shoveled, but a path had been worn to his front porch steps. I barely rang the bell before a blonde swung open the door. “I got it,” she called in a thick Southern accent to someone else behind her. When she turned back to me, her voice was saccharine: sweet as honey but not quite genuine. “Can I help you?”
I lifted my plate of cookies. “I’m a friend of Ken.”
“Aren’t you sweet.” She pushed open the storm door just wide enough for the plate to pass through.
“And I hoped I might see him,” I added.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t.” I tried to laugh off my poor manners. “Liz McCall.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Pardon?” Even as she started to close the door, I wasn’t quite sure I heard her right.
“Nancy, for Pete’s sake,” Ken said from somewhere behind her. “She’s a friend of mine. Let her in.”
Ken pushed past her and swung the door fully open. “Come on in, Liz.”
I stepped into the living room and took a good look around. I’d seen Ken’s old apartment, but I’d never been in his house before—and this wasn’t exactly Ken’s house. This was clearly Ken’s and Marya’s house, and the couple never had time to marry their styles in a way that worked. His big, chunky granite sectional took up most of the room, and his hunting trophies—always gave me the willies—hung over the fireplace. But lighter touches mingled in, here and there. And a lot of delicate gold and crystal accents—apparently Marya had been a fan of bling—that just looked out of place amid the otherwise woodsy style. As did the glittery aluminum pencil tree in the corner.
When my survey of the room ended, my eyes took in the two dark-rooted blondes who’d taken positions on either side of Ken, like Secret Service agents, sans the dark glasses. Instead were heavily made up eyes, overplucked eyebrows, and demure expressions as fake as that Nigerian prince who keeps emailing me.
“Liz,” Ken said, “I’d like you to meet my sisters, Nancy and Grace.”
“Oh, you must get teased a little about that.”
“Why?” Nancy said.
“Nancy. Grace. Nancy Grace.”
Nancy flashed a cold smile, reminding me more of a dog baring its teeth, while Ken turned back to his sisters. “Liz is a friend of mine.”
“So you’ve said.” Nan
cy eyed me up and down. She handed the plate of cookies to Grace who set them on the coffee table.
“Come, sit,” Ken said, waving us all to the sectional, where his sisters took the same positions on either side of him, leaving me the small accent chair halfway across the room.
I turned to Nancy, who seemed to be the spokesperson. “I saw the North Carolina plates. You made good time getting here.”
“We couldn’t leave Kenny to deal with this all by himself,” she said.
Ken pitched forward in his seat. “Have you heard anything about the investigation?”
“Bits and pieces,” I said. “Not enough to be of any help. I hoped you might have news.”
He shook his head. “I’ve been going over everything backwards and forwards, a million different ways ’til Sunday, and I’m coming up blank. I have no idea who might have wanted her dead.”
“I’m assuming they’ve interviewed you,” I said.
“If you ask me, they could have been a little nicer about it,” Nancy said.
Grace seconded.
“They grilled him for hours. Hours! And with him in such grief. That temporary police chief should be ashamed of himself.” She scrunched up her face.
Grace gave a decided nod.
“That police chief is Liz’s father,” Ken said, “so …”
Nancy waved it off. “That explains that, bless her heart.”
“I’m sorry?” I said. I could tell she was miffed, so I assumed it wasn’t the good “bless her heart,” but I wasn’t quite sure what “that” explained.
“He didn’t squeeze enough blood from the turnip so he sends you over here to finish the job.”
“My dad didn’t send me,” I said.
“Did you call me a turnip?” Ken said.
Grace just nodded.
“Look, I’m just trying to—” Nancy started, but Ken silenced her like a conductor ending a symphony.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Ken said, “but I don’t need you two protecting me. I’m a big boy and can take care of myself.”
Nancy sank back in her seat, silent but looking unconvinced.
Death of a Russian Doll Page 7