Death of a Toy Soldier (13 page)

“So what was it like in the big house?” Parker asked as I slid into the passenger seat of his car. “Did you get to keep the orange jumpsuit and the flip-flops?”

“Orange isn’t my color.” I took a cleansing breath. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“You’re welcome, but it’s not something I ever thought I’d have to do. What happened?”

“I was with Jack Wallace . . .”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ‘Ah’?”

“Why were you with him? After how he treated you?”

“Ask your wife. She set it up.”

“That makes me feel a lot better.” We drove the next couple of blocks in silence. Then he said, “It was a theft charge?”

“I didn’t steal anything. And neither did Jack. He simply carried a package to the streetlight to figure out where it came from. He wasn’t going to take it anywhere. How were we to know that the chief was watching the house?”

“Ken Young?” Parker said. “Your boyfriend arrested you?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I crossed my arms in front of me. “Especially not now. When they finally got in touch with Kimmie Kaminski, she declined to press charges, so it’s a moot point.”

“You always did have all the luck.” When he pulled up behind the shop, he turned off the engine. “Liz, I didn’t tell Dad what happened. And I suggest you don’t, either.”

“Not a problem,” I said.

“I’ll wait here for Cathy. She stayed with Dad.”

I leaned over and gave Parker a hug. Sometimes it can be awkward hugging your brother, even more so while he’s wearing a parka and buckled into a motor vehicle. But I think he got the point.

When I got upstairs, the apartment was dark. Cathy switched off the television.

Othello hopped up, arched his back in a lazy stretch, and ambled over, rubbing against my booted legs.

“Thank heavens,” Cathy whispered, coming over to hug me. “I felt awful when I heard what happened.”

“Dad doesn’t know, right?” I picked up Othello, and he rested against my shoulder, a prickly whisker scratching against my chin.

Cathy shook her head. “Parker texted me. Dad’s sleeping now, so for all he knows, you were out late on a date.”

I breathed out a relieved sigh.

“So, except for the whole getting arrested part, how did it go?”

“Are you asking about the date or the investigation?”

“Do I have to pick one?”

“Parker’s waiting for you. Pick one, and I promise to fill you in on all the other details tomorrow at work.”

“Spoilsport. Okay, the investigation. No, the date.”

“Final answer?”

She wrinkled her nose and then nodded.

“There might be something there. We had a long talk and got some things out in the open. We ended on a good note. That is, until the sirens started.”

“That is exciting!” She grabbed my arm. “Unless he’s a killer.”

“I don’t think Jack killed anybody.”

“I hope not. I can’t wait until work tomorrow!” She shoved her arms into her coat and headed down the stairs.

I followed her to double-check the locks and alarm system. I must have been holding onto Othello too tightly, because he squirmed out of my arms at the bottom of the steps and took off running into the shop.

I wasn’t ready to settle down for the night either, so I flipped on the shop lights, grabbed a bag of Pop Rocks from the candy display—for strength—and booted up my laptop, which I’d left at the counter. Despite the slap on the wrist we’d gotten from Chief Young, I was still curious about the boxes that we’d found on Kimmie’s doorstep.

Cameras and audio equipment, Jack had said. Immediately my brain had erupted with possibilities. The first was that they were using the house to film pornos, but that might have been inspired by the sisters’ lurid imaginings. They could be shooting a documentary. Or some kind of commercial. Or
a low-budget independent film, using Sy’s worldly goods to fund their production. Or trying really, really hard to get on
America’s Funniest Home Videos
.

The box Jack dragged to the streetlight didn’t have a company name on it, just three initials and a logo. It didn’t take long to find the logo on Google. The company website was slow in loading, and in the meantime, Othello decided I was more interesting than his favorite stuffed terrier pull toy that sat in the store window, because he jumped on my lap.

There in the darkness, as I stroked his sleek fur, we learned that Kimmie had received a package from one of the foremost manufacturers of infrared cameras.

Huh?

###

“Infrared?” Dad said the next morning while buttering his toast. A little too much butter, but I wasn’t ready to fight the cholesterol battle. I’d told him everything about the previous evening except some of the juicier details about Jack and me and the whole part about being arrested.

“Could be making a movie of some sort,” I said. “But I don’t get the infrared part.”

“Some law enforcement use infrared,” he said. “That’s how they catch people trying to enter illegally from Canada, not to mention human trafficking, at the border. Might she be filming some kind of documentary?”

“I wondered the same thing.”

“You didn’t ask her?” he said.

“Well, the . . . circumstances made it a little awkward.” I dug into my fried egg, hoping he wouldn’t press further. And if he did, at least I could take the time it took to chew and swallow to think of a response.

Dad didn’t answer right away. Instead, he watched me. After I swallowed, then washed down the last bite of egg with my coffee, he attacked. “Awkward, why?” He squinted at me, and I knew I was done for.

“Fine,” I said. “Jack took one of the boxes off the front porch, trying to read the return address, and we both got busted for attempted theft. Ms. Kaminski was kind enough not to press charges, but it didn’t seem like a good time to give her the third degree about her shopping habits.”

Dad blinked. His lips began to quiver. Then he threw back his head in laughter.

I fumed for about four seconds, then I couldn’t help but smile.

“I can see why that would have been difficult.” He wiped his eye. “But here’s what we’re going to do. When Cathy gets here, you and I are going to head over to Kimmie’s house, and you are going to apologize.”

“Dad, I’m not ten years old. I don’t know that I owe her an apology, and I certainly won’t be hauled over there like some juvenile delinquent and made to act contrite on cue. Jack’s right. She’s up to something.”

“Of course she is,” Dad said. “Lizzie, you’re missing the point. How are we going to find out what she’s up to unless we go over there and ask her?”

“The apology is merely a ruse,” I said.

Dad winked at me. “Now, I recommend you go into the bathroom, look in the mirror, and practice your apology.”

###

Cathy arrived early, primed with double caffeine and eager to hear what happened the evening before. It was too early to pay a social call, so while Dad showered and dressed upstairs, I filled her in and let her know of our plans for the day.

“You be careful,” she said. “Dad is right. She’s up to something.”

“I thought you said the Wallaces were up to something.”

“Is it the day for true confessions?” she said.

“As good a day as any.” Then it dawned on me. “Wait, do you mean . . . ?”

She winced. “I really didn’t think the Wallaces had anything to do with the murder. I thought maybe you and Jack needed time together, to see if sparks flew. Maybe fan the flames.”

“Sparks did fly, and something caught. We had time to discuss what really happened years ago. I’m glad we got everything out into the open.” I wagged a finger at her. “But no more deception. No more pushes, okay? I’m not a desperate spinster, at least not yet.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let nature take its course. Just don’t sabotage it.”

I nodded, but as I worked around the shop that morning, stocking inventory and waiting on customers—yes, Miles’s coupon drew them in—I couldn’t help thinking about what she meant.

I certainly didn’t sabotage my relationships. They just didn’t work out. In most cases, I ended them after I couldn’t picture the two of us doing the whole starter home and picket fence together. It didn’t pay to jump into things. Some of my high school friends were already onto their second husbands. I wanted a happily-ever-after kind of guy. Someone I could count on, who would tough out the rough patches with me. Someone who didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve but didn’t hide them, either. He’d be strong but compassionate. A leader but benevolent.

I stopped in my tracks, staring down at the superhero action figures. I wasn’t looking for a man with X-ray vision or superhuman strength. When had my ideal husband become a clone of my father?

###

I felt a prickle up my back, as if I was being watched, as Dad and I walked back up Kimmie’s sidewalk. I glanced at the house next door, then waved to Irene and Lenora, who were standing at their window.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Dad asked.

I squared my shoulders and nodded, although my stomach was either unhappy with lunch or nervous about this bogus apology. I took a deep breath, then pressed the bell. Just in case, I lifted the old doorknocker and rapped it a few times.

A series of bumps and footsteps followed, growing closer to the door until it finally inched open, and Kimmie, still in her pajamas, peeked out.

She blinked at me, then recognition set in. “You!” She started to close the door.

“I’ve come to apologize!” I said quickly. The door stopped, now cracked open about two inches. “And explain.”

“Go ahead,” she said.

Dad signaled me to go on, so I poured my “apology” into the two-inch gap of space. Somehow, by the time my story ended, I had morphed into some innocent bystander who practically threw herself on the doorstep to prevent Jack from absconding with Kimmie’s mail. “Of course, you can’t really blame him,” I insisted. “He was distraught over his uncle’s death.”

The gap in the door neither widened nor closed. Nor was there any verbal response from Kimmie. I hazarded a look at Dad, but he rolled his eyes at my story.

Finally, the answer came. “Apology accepted. I don’t want problems with Sy’s family. But tell your friend the next time, I will press charges.”

Dad fingered the Christmas wreath on Kimmie’s door. “Wow, real evergreen!” he said, then leaned in to sniff it. “Very nice.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “Wherever did you find it?”

The door opened another inch. “At the farmer’s market. Have to go early though. They sell out.”

“Sy never bothered much with Christmas. I don’t remember him ever putting up decorations, not any of the times I answered calls here.”

The door opened a couple of more inches. “Are you a cop?”

“Retired now,” he said, “but I came out here quite a bit when Sy was alive. Seems he used to hear things.”

A few more inches, and we could now see her face. “Strange sounds? Footsteps?”

“Sounds about right,” Dad said. “Although I can’t say I ever discovered the source.”

Kimmie flung the door fully open now and eyed my father up and down. “Would you like to come in?”

The late Sy DuPont’s living room was even more cluttered than it had been the day of the wake. Cardboard boxes had been ripped open, and packing peanuts skittered in our wake like tumbleweeds. Electronic components sat on shelves that once held Sy’s hoarded bric-a-brac, much of which had been cleared out. An online auction packing slip did give some credence to the claim that Kimmie was selling off Sy’s possessions. Meanwhile, sparkling new cameras, recorders, and other unidentified electronic equipment were sitting on the same dining room table that a few days ago had held Jack’s deviled eggs.

Kimmie removed a few boxes from the chairs at the dining room table and gestured for us to sit. “I’m most curious about the calls Sy made to the police.” Before she sat down, she slipped several pieces of equipment back into their boxes. To make room? To protect it? To conceal its purpose?

Dad sat primly with his hands folded. “My, you’ve been busy in here. Redecorating?”

“I . . .” Kimmie paused. “Making a few changes. But about the calls that brought you here . . .”

“Oh, those,” Dad said. “So many years ago. All water under the bridge now. Say, I was surprised to learn that you’d married old Sy. How did you say you met him?”

Dad sat there and blinked innocently, as if he were oblivious to her curiosity. I was on to his game. The longer it took to wrangle the information out of him, the longer we’d stay in the house and the more likely we were to learn something.

Meanwhile, my phone buzzed, and I reached to check it. It was just a spam e-mail—seems I won the Irish sweepstakes yet again—but it gave me an idea. I clicked on the camera, toggled off the flash, and nonchalantly took a few pictures of the equipment still on the table.

“I didn’t say how I met him.” Kimmie leaned back and folded her arms in front of her. “It’s rather painful to talk about now, I’m afraid.” She made a point of staring wistfully off into the distance. Apparently she was up for a match of wits with Dad.

“It must have taken a lot of courage to go through with that marriage,” Dad said. “With him being so much older. I’m sure your family tried to dissuade you.”

Kimmie sat up straighter. “Not at all.”

“Supportive, were they?”

“Actually,” Kimmie said, “I never told them. It happened so fast.”

“Your mother wasn’t at the wedding?” Dad asked. “Your father didn’t walk you down the aisle?”

“We, uh, had a private ceremony, here at the house. Very simple.”

“How refreshing,” Dad said. “Most girls today want a big dream wedding.” He elbowed me in the arm. “When my
daughter gets married, I think she’ll want me to rent out the Taj Mahal.”

I sent him an adoring look. At the moment, the sentiment was faked.

“Of course, nothing is too good for my little girl when she marries that man of her dreams.”

“We didn’t want that kind of wedding,” Kimmie said.

“How pragmatic of you,” Dad replied.

She nodded, but Dad’s comments about her parents had hit emotional pay dirt.

“Was it love at first sight?” Dad asked.

Kimmie didn’t answer. Instead, she sent him a sly smile and said, “Would either of you care for a glass of water? Tea? Hot cocoa?”

“Hot cocoa would be lovely,” Dad said.

When she left the room, I leaned forward and whispered, “Why are you letting her off the hook? Hot chocolate is going to take a while, and you know as well as I do that she’s in the kitchen concocting a story.”

“Meanwhile, we’re in here with all her stuff.” He pointed at the boxes holding the equipment she had put away.

“Oh!” I said, then started taking pictures again of every bit of equipment in sight, along with all the company logos and return addresses I could find. By the time Kimmie returned with three cups of steaming cocoa, I was back in my seat, trying to feign calmness while my heart was racing.

Dad went back to blinking innocently. “That’s going to hit the spot, thank you.”

“I was thinking,” Kimmie said, “that I’m really not up to chatting about Sy and our relationship.”

Dad leaned forward, put his hand on hers, and looked her flat in the eyes. “I understand. I lost my wife, too, some years ago.” He maintained his gaze and kept his hand on hers. If anything, the pressure increased, as if he was waiting for her to cry uncle.

Moments later, she pulled her hand back and averted her gaze. “Thank you. But I still am curious to know about the calls at the house.”

Dad took his time to answer. “Nothing much to report. False alarms.”

“Specifically, what did he call about?” she asked.

“I fail to see why that’s important now,” Dad said.

“It’s important to me!” Kimmie stood and began to pace, apparently growing frustrated with Dad’s verbal gymnastics. “You said footsteps?”

“Why? Are you hearing footsteps?” Dad asked.

Kimmie gritted her teeth. If Dad didn’t stop soon, the death toll wouldn’t end at two. She was sure to strangle him. “Let’s just say that I’m not sure that Sy’s spirit is completely at rest.”

“His spirit?” Then he stopped. For once, Dad was at a loss for words.

“Yes, I feel him here.” She crossed her arms over her heart. “Close to me.”

Suddenly the equipment began to make more sense. A chill ran up my back and goose bumps broke out on my arms, despite the heavy sweater I wore.

I’d figured out exactly why Kimmie had married Sy and why she wanted that house.

“You know what, Dad?” I said. “It’s late. We lost track of the time, and you have that appointment at your proctologist.”

“My . . .” Dad gaped at me like I’d lost my mind. For once, I was one step ahead of him.

“Get your coat. We’ll be late, and if we miss it, they’ll still charge us for the appointment.”

Dad glared at me while he shrugged on his coat but then shifted his focus back to Kimmie and reached for her hand. “I know how difficult those first few weeks alone can be. If you need to talk to anyone in your time of grief, call me.” He paused, staring intently into her eyes.

Was he coming on to Kimmie?

That was the first question I asked as we climbed into the car.

“Yes, I was coming on to Kimmie, to test a theory,” he said. “Believe it or not, there are young women who are attracted to older, more mature men. I wanted to see if she was one of them.”

“By setting yourself as romantic bait?”

“Well, I am younger and more virile than Sy.”

“This is good, because Sy is dead,” I said. “You could hardly be less virile.”

“Look how fast she recoiled from one touch from a slightly wrinkled hand. No way she was romantically attracted to Sy. She married him for some other reason.”

“I know exactly why she married him. She wanted the house.”

“That house is a money pit,” he said.

I started whistling a Christmas carol and just drove. I was enjoying my secret a little too much.

Finally, when we pulled into the alley behind the shop, Dad noticed. “Okay, smarty-pants, why did she want the house?”

I unbuckled my seat belt and twisted to face him.

“Kimmie wants the house because it’s haunted.”

###

“Have you lost your mind?” Dad said as I pushed open the back door of the shop.

Cathy stood just inside, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She looked up and smiled. “This sounds promising.”

“How was business?” I asked.

“Pretty good, actually. I’m more curious how your day went.”

“Apparently ghosts have now entered the picture,” Dad said, with more than a hint of scorn.

“For the record,” I said, “I never claimed I believed there were actual ghosts in Sy’s old house. I’m saying that Kimmie Kaminski thinks there are, and that is why she wanted the house. I suspect that’s the prime motivator behind all that equipment she’s ordering.”

“Why would she want a haunted house?” Dad asked. “Wouldn’t that lower the value of the property?”

Cathy and I both shook our heads.

“Ghost hunting is big business these days,” Cathy said. “Like I’ve been telling Liz, I think we need a ghost in the shop.”

“I’m still taking applications,” I said, echoing Dad’s sarcasm.

Cathy laughed. “You know, you don’t have to actually believe it. But many people out there do, or are at least interested enough to pay attention to the claims. That brings in more tourists.”

“It doesn’t scare people away?” Dad asked.

Cathy shook her head. “Skeptics don’t believe, so they ignore it. The ghost chasers love that kind of thing, though, and so do a lot of the historians, if you can put a name and date and a good story to the haunting.”

Dad stared at the floor for a few moments. I assumed the gears in his head were turning. “What does that have to do with the investigation?”

“Let’s think about this,” I said. “So Kimmie is a ghost hunter. How does she find out about Sy’s house, if he’s such a hermit?”

“He didn’t hesitate calling the police when he heard odd noises,” said Dad. “Maybe he got tired of us not doing anything about them and decided to go in another direction.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Cathy said. “One of the things these ghost hunting shows on television do is try to restore a sense of safety to people. Reassure them that the spirits are friendly and there’s not some ancient demon ready to strike.”

“You watch the shows?” I said.

“I might have seen one or two.” Cathy stopped and adjusted the collection of bracelets on her arm. “One of the women in my poetry group is involved in that kind of thing.”

“Hunting ghosts?” Dad said.

“Well, she’s more of a medium,” Cathy said. “At the last meeting, she remarked that I had a very powerful aura.”

Dad shook his head. “Please tell me you’re not planning to leave your day job. You’d make a terrible medium.”

I buried my head in my hands, anticipating his next remark.

“You’re more of a large,” Dad said.

He was saved by the bell as the front door opened. Cathy glared at him, then went to wait on the new customer.

“Welcome to Well Played,” I could hear her say as she went back into the shop.

“Why do you antagonize her?” I asked.

“Too good of a line to pass up,” he said.

“What if we need her help?” I moved closer to Dad so my voice couldn’t be overheard. “I wonder if Cathy’s medium friend might know anything about Kimmie, or even the history of the house. Maybe shed some objective light on this whole thing.”

“You’re seriously considering going to a medium for information?”

“Not from the beyond,” I said. “I’m more interested in who was in the house the week or so before Sy and Sully died. Besides, I don’t even have to make an appointment.”

Dad raised his eyebrow in question.

I tapped my forehead. “Tonight’s Cathy’s poetry group. I sure hope they’re open to visitors.”

###

Cathy’s group met in a tight space in the small bookstore. I had my handwritten poem folded in my hands but set it in my lap when my sweaty palms started to dampen the paper.

The group that gathered was eclectic, indeed. Matronly women in frumpy mom-jeans. Young hipster types. The wardrobe stretched from business casual to tie-dye to Goth black.

The first offering was a group performing something they called “sound poetry.” To my untrained ears, it
sounded like a barbershop quartet record played backward and at the wrong speed. The next few readers offered similar fare. Poetry had sure changed a lot since Edna St. Vincent Millay.

When it came my turn to read the poem Cathy insisted I attempt, I was both confused and intimidated.

“I’m afraid it’s not very good,” I said.

“We all have to start somewhere, dear,” the leader encouraged.

I unfolded the page and read:

The part about evil was a last-minute addition. As I’d stared at the grinning cymbal fiend, the verse seemed to fit. Now I wasn’t so sure.

“Did you intend it to rhyme?” someone asked. And for the next forty-six minutes, the group discussed my use of point of view, then hotly debated nature versus nurture and the goodness of man and how that applied to toy monkeys. Finally, the leader put an end to it by announcing that time was up. “Please, everybody, stay and have cookies.”

“But I didn’t get to read,” Cathy said.

“Save it for next time, dear,” the leader said before turning back to me. “And, Liz, I loved your poem. Very evocative.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Cathy grumbled as we headed over to the snack table. “Here, let me introduce you to Althena.”

She never got to make the introduction. Althena came at me with both arms extended. “Elizabeth. I got the name right, haven’t I? I loved your poem.”

“Beginner’s luck?” I said.

“No, the way you caught a spiritual element in the old toy. So many times those impressions linger on in artifacts from the past. I’d very much like to see it sometime.”

“Certainly,” I said. “It’s in my family’s toyshop. But if you’re into that kind of thing, you’d probably be more interested in a house I’ve come across that’s apparently having some spirit activity. The owner just died, you see.”

“Are you talking about Sy’s old house?” she said. “I’d heard that he’d passed away.”

“You knew Sy?”

“Professionally,” she said. “He claimed to be troubled by the spirits that inhabited the place. Old Scrooge was under the impression that I provide some kind of free pest removal service. It doesn’t work like that. I’m more interested in making connections.”

“Do you know if he contacted any of the local paranormal societies?” I asked.

“That sounds more his speed,” she said. “Those guys are nuts, but they work for free.”

“Have you ever met someone named Kimmie Kaminski?” I asked.

“Kimmie? Sure, I used to read for her all the time. Wait, are you saying Kimmie has something to do with one of those whackadoodle paranormal teams?”