Murder on the Toy Town Express Read online

  Also by Barbara Early

  Vintage Toyshop Mysteries

  Death of a Toy Soldier

  Bridal Bouquet Shop Mysteries (writing as Beverly Allen)

  Floral Depravity

  For Whom the Bluebell Tolls

  Bloom and Doom

  Murder on the Toy Town Express

  A Vintage Toyshop Mystery

  Barbara Early

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Early

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-309-0

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-310-6

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-312-0

  Cover illustration by Hiro Kimura

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First edition: October 2017

  Dedicated to the parents, teachers, librarians, and booksellers who spend their hours getting good books into the arms (and minds) of children. You are changing the world!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  “I swear the My Little Ponies reproduce when we’re not looking.” I stretched my back and glanced around the toyshop. After four hours of carefully weeding out inventory and loading it into our cars, our shelves still looked fully stocked.

  “Naughty little ponies,” said Cathy, my sister-in-law and our self-appointed doll czar. “Too bad they don’t, Liz. What a cost-effective way of increasing inventory.” She blew out a breath that ruffled her bangs. “Why is it so hot in here?” she asked loudly, looking over to where my father was sorting through our selection of train engines and cars.

  This November had brought unseasonably warm temperatures, and heat rippled from the brick street as bright sunlight beat through the display windows of Well Played. Our vintage toyshop felt like it could be in Florida instead of Western New York, especially at a time of year when we’re accustomed to seeing snow swirling in the streets.

  “Fine,” Dad said, mopping his own sweaty brow. “Turn on the air. Let’s just hope we make enough at the toy show to pay for it.” My father, Hank McCall, had always talked about starting a toyshop when he retired as East Aurora’s chief of police. When that retirement came earlier than expected, courtesy of a bullet wound and the lengthy recovery that followed, he’d made good on that threat. After several lean years, we were almost solvent.

  Cathy was at the thermostat like a shot, and soon cool air blasted around the shop. She stood directly under a vent and threw her head back, letting the coolness fall down on her as if she were taking a shower.

  Othello, the tuxedo cat who shared our shop and apartment above it, was the only one who didn’t appreciate the drop in temperature. He hopped down from the wall-mounted train tracks, sent Cathy a sour look, then curled up in a sunny spot in the window next to the stuffed Scottie dog pull toy that had become his best friend.

  I found my own comfortable spot by the board games—I’m a self-proclaimed board-game junkie—and continued loading a selection into a large cardboard box, choosing a couple of the rarer titles that savvy collectors might be looking for—The Addams Family Card Game and The Beatles: Flip Your Wig game, a recently found gem from 1964. I augmented these with all the classic favorites such as vintage Candy Land and Life.

  “How about we take the Santa?” Dad said, holding up the box innocently marked “Happy Santa, With Lighted Eyes.” Dad had picked up the toy—a battery-operated Santa sitting at a drum set—at an estate sale he’d attended without me. It was made in postwar occupied Japan, when factories that once turned out guns and bombs and planes were retooled for more peaceful purposes, like cheesy holiday decorations. This little guy was adorable . . . at least until you turned it on.

  “You know people will be thinking Christmas,” he said.

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” Cathy whined.

  “Besides,” I said, “that thing is seriously creepy. You can’t tell me those red eyes are original.” Light up that thing in a dark room, and it’d make Krampus look like Lamb Chop.

  “Maybe,” Dad said, “but if we sell it at the show, you won’t have to look at it anymore.”

  “Bring it!” I said.

  The annual train and toy show—and sale—had moved to a conference center only a stone’s throw from the shop this year, and we crossed our fingers that the onslaught of collectors heading into our territory would be good for business.

  Cathy sealed up a box and brought me a piece of paper. “Here, I made a list of the dolls I packed. I color-coded everything to match the color of the dress so you don’t have to look them in the eye, since I know dolls aren’t your thing.” An understatement. I’d been assured pediophobia, fear of dolls, was fairly common, but it was certainly a drawback when you worked with toys all day. Barbies were okay, but those creepy, old porcelain dolls with eyelids half-open and those chipped smiling faces . . . I was thankful for Cathy’s willingness to work the doll room.

  I looked at the page. “What are all these numbers?”

  Her zebra-print manicured fingernail pointed to the top row of figures. “This is the first price you give them when they ask the cost—that is, if you like an occasional steak. Maybe not filet, but a nice sirloin now and then. The one underneath it will get you a good burger at most places in town. The third? That’s living on ramen.”

  “And the fourth?”

  “It’s what we paid for it. Make a habit of selling at cost, Mother Hubbard, and you’ll quickly lose those twenty pounds.”

  “Gotcha. You’re sure you’ll be okay running the shop all by yourself?”

  Cathy rolled her eyes. “It’s only for the weekend. It’s not like you’ll be in Spain or anything. I’ll call you or Dad if something comes up.”

  “Spain might be easier. The food’s certainly better. Cell reception at the conference center is a little spotty, and it’s so loud you can’t always hear the phone.”

  “Stop worrying! It’s a toyshop, after all. What could happen?”

  I squinted at her. Truth was, bad things could happen in a toyshop.

  Cathy caught my meaning, and her expression sobered. “I have the police on speed dial.” She paused and bit her lip. “Which reminds me, what should I do if one of the men in your life stops by and asks for you?”

  “The men in my life? You make me sound like some debuta
nte, with guys throwing themselves at my feet.”

  “Hey, there are two eligible bachelors expressing interest . . . and let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger. It might be time to stop hitting the snooze button on that biological clock.”

  “Well, none of us are getting any younger,” I hedged. I was often guilty of saying that I wasn’t ready to settle down. That wasn’t exactly true. I could certainly see myself establishing my own home, maybe having a couple of kids while biology still allowed—not that I was unhappy or in a panic to make a change. I’d seen enough of bad relationships to know that I’d only want to pull that matrimonial trigger if I was sure of the proper partner. Maybe it’s because it’s impossible to be 100 percent sure of anyone that I hadn’t been willing to narrow the field. Or maybe it was because I had genuine affection for both Ken and Jack that I didn’t want to lose either from my life. Whatever the reason, I’d been avoiding what should be an inevitable decision. Maybe “snooze button” was an apt analogy.

  Dad came up behind Cathy and put his arm around her shoulder. “If I’m hearing talk of grandchildren, I should remind you that you and Parker have a head start. I’m still waiting for news on that front.”

  Her cheeks colored. “As soon as I have news to share, I’ll let you know.”

  That seemed to satisfy Dad, who went back to his trains, but something in the way she phrased her answer made me study her face. In a moment of telepathy more befitting sisters than sisters-in-law, I knew. My jaw dropped, and I wanted to rush over and hug her.

  She put a finger to her lips, checked that Dad was still distracted with his trains, then mouthed, “Parker doesn’t know.”

  I spun toward the front of the store so Dad wouldn’t be able to see my broad smile. It’d be nice to have kids running around the shop one day.

  Cathy cleared her throat. “About Ken and Jack?”

  “We’re just friends.” Again, my phrasing wasn’t quite accurate. But since I was still seeing both—occasionally and nonexclusively—neither one could really be considered a boyfriend. So friends it was. And no benefits involved, except for maybe a little hand-holding and an occasional kiss.

  “Still, you’re dating. More exciting than my life, which consists mainly of cleaning animal dung off of Parker’s trouser cuffs.” She winked at me. “Good thing I have my writing to sustain me.”

  Cathy had switched from her first love of poetry and claimed to be writing a novel inspired by a murder that occurred in our shop last year—when a man who’d come for an estimate on a box of old toys was found dead in aisle three, impaled by a lawn dart. My father was briefly a suspect, and the whispers, especially in a town as small as East Aurora, nearly sounded the death knell for our business. That string of events, during which Dad did his best to embroil both of us in solving the case, was enough excitement to last me for a lifetime. Cathy’s fictional version was a little more embellished, containing spear guns, spies, bikinis, an occasional zombie, and a whole lot of steamy embraces. She insisted readers would need something spicier.

  I wagged a finger at her. “And don’t go trying to spice up my love life, either. If Jack or Ken stop by, just tell them I’m at the train show.”

  “Okay.” But her eyes lit up like a Lite-Brite.

  “Cathy?” I warned.

  She held a hand up. “I promise. If they stop by, I’ll tell them you’re at the train show. But I never said how I’d tell them. Look, have you considered that it’s not fair to string both of them along?”

  “Someone’s not listening. I just said we were friends. Last time I checked, people were allowed to have more than one friend.”

  “Sometimes friends become more.”

  I eyed her warily.

  “Sometimes they need a little push.” She sent me an impish look.

  Spain was sounding better by the minute.

  # # #

  Dad and I were on our own at the conference center the next morning. I sipped my coffee and stared at the mountains of boxes piled in our trunks. Somehow we needed to get all that stuff from the cars to our designated tables, unpack, and then try to attractively arrange our inventory. We needed either twelve more people or way more caffeine.

  Dad was looking chipper, though, barely using his cane today. “How about we each grab one small box and check out our space?”

  I tucked a small selection of loose board games under my arm, and we made our way into the center. The voices of vendors setting up their tables and booths already echoed from the high ceilings. We showed our passes to a harried-looking conference worker who was trying to arrange a table outside the main doors. Then we waved or stopped to exchange brief pleasantries with a few familiar vendors while we looked for tables thirty-two and thirty-three.

  After traversing an aisle or two, we figured out the theme. The toys and other items were arranged along the outskirts, with the large displays of tracks and tiny buildings—or layouts, as Dad said they were properly called—clustered in the center of the conference space. We even passed a full-size Santa’s Village, decorated in glittery snow and capped with a plush, but now empty, red velvet throne. Barrels were set up for toy donations to go to deserving kids. A sign specified new toys; otherwise, that demon-eyed Santa might have “accidentally” ended up in one of the barrels. A table next to the village conveniently sold new toys for that purpose.

  We finally found our spot near a corner, right next to a booth that already sported a banner from another familiar East Aurora business: Craig’s Comics.

  I swallowed hard. It was going to be a long two days.

  One might think that a toyshop and a comic store in the same small town would get along. Only a small selection of our inventory competed with theirs—namely, superhero and other action figures. But it wasn’t the competition that was the problem.

  It was Craig.

  Craig, who in kindergarten dumped my full carton of chocolate milk down the front of my favorite dress. We let that one pass. Accidents happen.

  Craig, who in the third grade decided he preferred my lunch to his own. Repeatedly. Until I finally fessed up to Dad about what was happening, and he had a talk with Craig’s foster family.

  Craig, who in the fifth grade flipped my science project into a mud puddle and shook my report folder until all my neatly handwritten pages—well, maybe not so neat, but I tried hard—fell out and blew away in the wind. Dad had a talk with his new foster family.

  And Craig, who in the eighth grade decided to see if I could fit in my locker. I couldn’t but ended up with broken glasses, three cut and sprained fingers, and assorted bruises all over my body from the attempt. Follow this up with the humiliation I felt when Dad insisted every single bruise needed to be photographed. Shortly after, Craig disappeared, rumored to be in some juvie facility.

  I didn’t see him again until I ran into him several years ago at the grocery store after I’d moved home to East Aurora. I barely recognized the pudgy man in the too-small light-gray sweats, but he certainly knew me. While the fat on the rest of his body jiggled—tight sweats were not this man’s friend—his face was hard and his eyes cold. He said nothing but glared at me. It unnerved me so much I ended up putting four boxes of Cocoa Puffs into my cart. And I’m not all that cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I’m more of a Froot Loops kind of girl.

  We never figured out what the man had been doing all these years, but Dad got one of his friends on the force to check for prior offences. Nothing—not as much as a parking violation—came up, so apparently he’d changed his ways. Still, that glare warned me to keep my distance, and Dad promised to keep his eyes open as well. We watched as the former bully joined the chamber of commerce and, embarrassing to admit, had a slightly better rating on Yelp than we did. Maybe I needed to give him a chance to prove he’d changed.

  This new close proximity might allow, or rather force, that to happen.

  Or maybe not. Because he was nowhere to be seen, unless he’d shown up in drag. His tables were being organized
by a rather portly older woman with graying curly hair and glasses. Unlike Craig, she had a friendly smile. She waved as we approached.

  “Howdy, neighbor,” she said, holding out a hand. “Name’s Maxine.”

  “Liz McCall,” I said. “And my father, Hank.”

  She shook his hand. “Looks like it’s going to be a great little show, huh?”

  “Not much little about it,” I said, eying the venue. There had to be at least an acre of trains, toys, and collectibles, not to mention the ubiquitous but seemingly unrelated direct sales items—jewelry, tools, and household cleaners—that always seem to find a spot at a show of any kind.

  She laughed. “Just a figure of speech. I’d help you unload if I could, but I still have more to set up. Feel free to use our cart, though.” She pushed over a gray industrial cart.

  “Oh, I like you,” I said. “That would be fantastic.”

  And it was fantastic, at least for the first three trips. But on the last one, I heard shouting as we neared the table. Maxine was being harassed by a large man wearing a yellow cape with red and orange flames appliquéd to the bottom. When he turned around, it was even worse. I immediately recognized Craig’s hard face under that bright-orange cowl. I tried hard not to look any lower. Ninety-nine percent of American men can’t pull off spandex and tights, and Craig certainly was no exception. The fake six-pack sat above his natural keg, making him puffy all over. I’d never seen anything like it, and if I lived right, I’d hoped to never see anything like it again.

  “Finally!” He said it with so much force I took a step backward. “I need our cart.” Without allowing us time to unload, he started pulling off our items and flinging them onto our table. Both Dad and I had to hustle to unload to minimize any potential damage. Dad went for the antique tin toys on the bottom, while I rescued Cathy’s box of fragile dolls.

  Once everything was off the cart, he took off without another word, his cape waving in his wake.

  Maxine bustled over. “I apologize for that. Craig’s a good kid, but sometimes he’s just so focused that he forgets his manners.”