Death of a Russian Doll Read online

  I waved at the clerk again at the front counter then made my way through the sparsely populated aisles to the back of the store. Charles Barr was with a customer, so I sat in the small waiting area and tried out the automatic blood pressure machine. I think I broke it.

  I paced. Took a seat. Paced again. Tried a different seat. Flipped through a magazine without seeing any of the pages, and then, when I didn’t think I could stand it any longer, the customer left with her little white bag, and I went up to the counter.

  “Mr. Barr?” I said, pointing to the name plate.

  “How can I help you?” he said with a smile. I had a feeling that smile wouldn’t last very long.

  “My name is Liz McCall,” I started. I watched his face for any sign of recognition.

  If he knew of me, he didn’t let on. Instead, he went over to a small collection of prescriptions already filled and started looking at the names. “I don’t see anything …”

  “No, I’m not here for a prescription,” I said, then ran a hand through what was left of my hair, post Antoine. “This is awkward. Let me try again. I manage Well Played, the toyshop right next to the barber shop.”

  His moustache twitched a little as recognition dawned.

  “I noticed Lionel Kelley watching the shop, and I know he’s working for you.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “No, he was adamant about not revealing his client. I happened to see you come out of his office.” I didn’t mention that I’d practically glued myself to the glass. “I know you don’t have to say anything at all to me, but I’m not sure you understand what’s at stake here. A young woman has been murdered. My boyfriend—I mean my ex-boyfriend—might get arrested for it. Her sister’s in the hospital and may get deported. My boyfriend—I mean, my friend—won’t text me back, and I got this awful haircut.”

  To my horror, my voice cracked, and tears started streaming down my cheeks. I needed sleep. Bad.

  His moustache twitched again, and he cast a nervous glance toward the front of the store. “Look, don’t cry. I’ll talk to you. But not here. I have a break in twenty minutes.” He pushed a tissue box toward me. “How about I meet you somewhere.”

  “The tea shop?” I suggested.

  “Fine,” he said softly, and then a little more loudly, probably for the benefit of the counter clerk, “and have a nice day!”

  * * *

  Rather than go home and clean up, which would have been the rational thing to do, I went straight to the tea shop.

  I had mixed feelings about this place. I loved sniffing all the small demo canisters of loose tea. I set out to try something a little bit different with every visit, and this time I picked out a lovely blueberry something or other. The words were blurring as I tried to read them. I sure hoped the tea had caffeine.

  The only thing I had against the tea shop was that it replaced the cupcake shop that closed last year, and I still mourned the loss of my favorite sugar fix.

  Once I’d paid for the tea, I sat at a table and lingered over the steamy aroma so long that my glasses fogged over. Not that I needed to see what was going on around me. More thoughts than I could handle were roiling around in my head.

  I’d ticked off an awful lot of people.

  Lionel Kelley would be miffed that I’d confronted his client. But at this point, I didn’t care what he thought, and if he raised too big a stink over it, I could always remind him that I was privy to his … passion for ponies.

  Dad was ticked at me. I replayed the whole scenario in my head. At first I wasn’t sure what else I could have done. But after the caffeine hit I realized that, yeah, maybe once I’d found Ken’s truck, I could have driven back to the station and dragged someone out there with me. Not that I was in danger, except for maybe that cabin collapsing under the weight of the snow. Or a heart attack when I opened that closet door.

  Anechka? I wouldn’t call her ticked at me. She seemed terrified, mostly. Sure, when she’d learned that I had briefly dated her brother-in-law, I got a few dirty looks, but I’d grown used to those. Maybe after she was treated at the hospital she could supply my father with information pertinent to the investigation. I doubted it, though. Even if Dad could ease her fears enough to get a coherent statement, Anechka hadn’t even known that Marya was dead. Still, she might be able to shed some light on her sister’s activities in those last few weeks, the ones that had made Ken so suspicious.

  Ken wasn’t ticked at me either. He’d seemed so hopeful of, after a reasonable mourning period, resuming our relationship.

  Jenkins and some of Ken’s other loyal officers might more happily see me strung up for killing Marya.

  But Mark. I pulled out my phone and turned the volume way up so I wouldn’t miss a text or call, and set it on the table in front of me.

  And then there was Ian. As I looked at my phone I realized that my date with him was no longer “tomorrow.” I’d have to get some sleep to deal wisely with that. Still, Ian was a good conversationalist, especially when talking about himself. I figured I could get him going and not have to worry about constructing full sentences out of my sleep-deprived brain.

  I’d started my second cup of tea by the time Charles Barr slid into the seat opposite me. He didn’t remove his jacket, and he didn’t look like he planned to stay long.

  “I called Lionel before I came, and he said I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “That’s probably true,” I said. “I hoped you’d want to.”

  “Why would I? The little matter I had Lionel looking into had nothing to do with the death of that woman. And you’re not even with the police.”

  “Also true,” I said, “but the police might want to decide for themselves if your ‘little matter’ is relevant when I tell them what I found out. They’d come to your place of work, perhaps, ask you to accompany them, give you a truly lousy cup of coffee, then make you wait forever until they grill you for all the details. If, on the other hand, you tell me what the investigation was all about, I could pass that information along, and if it’s not relevant to the murder investigation, you might not have to have that conversation with them at all. Wouldn’t that be better?”

  While he paused to think it over, I said, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Earl Grey, hot,” he said, leaving me wondering if that was his preference or if he were a Star Trek: The Next Generation fan.

  When I returned with his tea and a refill of mine, he seemed more ready to talk. He’d taken off his checked coat and laid it across the next empty chair. After a glance at his watch, he began.

  “Okay, the first thing you need to know is that I’ve only worked at the pharmacy for three months. The last place I worked got swallowed up by a huge conglomerate, and my job went to a perky new grad named Debbie who was happy to work for three-quarters of my salary.” He lifted the tea to his mouth and took his first cautious sip. “Mmm. This is good.”

  I nodded.

  “I’d used up all my severance by the time I scored the job here. Just the kind of place I was looking for. Not too many independent drugstores left these days. Only, the mom-and-pop shops tend to have moms and pops. The clerk at the desk? She owns the place with her husband. She’s my boss.”

  “Which is why you didn’t want to talk there.”

  “I don’t want to lose this job too.”

  “Yet you’re fearful that you may.”

  At this he started into a full-fledged fidget. “You need to understand that I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m careful in my work. I’ve never experienced anything like this before.”

  I leaned forward. “Like what?”

  “Complaints.”

  “Look, I know customers can be difficult at times, especially when they’re sick.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve received complaints that I’ve shorted people on their pills. Multiple complaints. I can see maybe making one mistake, not that it’s ever happened before. At least not to my
knowledge. I’m usually the one who catches mistakes. Like the time the doctor accidentally prescribed the adult dose of a medication for an infant.” He sat up a little straighter. “I might have saved that child’s life.”

  “Nice work,” I said.

  “I take pride in my work. Not like certain teenyboppers named Debbie. So the first customer who came in complaining, I apologized profusely. The amount of painkillers is all controlled, so it was a nightmare getting the okay from the doctor and insurance to cover the missing pills, and I had to eat the co-pay myself. But we worked it out, and I thought it was all over.

  “Then the next week it happened again. Different customer. I was suspicious, but basically did the same thing. Fortunately it was a different insurance company and different doctor. But two days later … I didn’t know what I was up against. I started counting pills out loud, just to double check.” His eyebrows furrowed. “I’m nearly positive I’m not the problem.”

  “So you thought maybe the clients …?”

  He leaned forward. “It happens. People strapped for cash have been known to sell their medication. Kids sell their ADHD meds at school to students who find it helps them study, and then they raid their grandparents’ medicine cabinet. There’s always a street market for opiates. I thought that might be happening here. But all of a sudden? I figured there might be some kind of conspiracy. So I gave the names to Kelley and hired him to check them out. See where they might gather together.”

  I rested my elbows on the table. “And he found they met together at senior speed dating, and most of them had their hair cut by Marya Young.”

  “It probably sounds absurd,” he said. “All these people are older, respected members of the community.”

  “There might be a live one or two in there,” I said, thinking of my writer friend.

  “Do you think the police will still want to talk with me?”

  I paused for a second then nodded.

  He slid back into his chair with an exasperated sigh.

  “But,” I said, “don’t wait for them to come to you. When you get off for the day, go straight to the station and tell them all this yourself. It’s better if you volunteer it.” I took a sip and found myself smiling as I set my cup down. “Tell them Liz McCall sent you.”

  Chapter 17

  I somehow dreamt I was Laura Ingalls Wilder trying to survive the ferocious, long winter by binding hay to be burned to keep us warm. And then Doctor Who came to rescue me. But it wasn’t Doctor Who. It was my Doctor Who ring tone.

  “Hello?” I croaked into my cell phone.

  “Hi, there.”

  “Mark.” I pushed myself up to sit on the bed and wiped the sleep from my eyes. “What time is it?”

  I glanced at the blurry clock, then I bobbled my glasses when I tried to pick them up and they fell between the bed and the nightstand.

  “A little after four,” he said. “Sorry I didn’t get to return your texts or calls until now. I was tied up at work.”

  Now I regretted sending him so many. Desperate, much? “I just wanted to make sure you knew I was all right. Seems there was a bit of confusion.” I winced.

  “All I heard is that you found Ken Young,” he said.

  Relief flooded me.

  “And then got snowed in with him in some rustic hunting lodge.”

  “Not what it sounds like,” I said. “And we weren’t alone. We found Anechka.”

  “Marya’s sister?”

  “It seems Marya was hiding her. Could that have anything to do with the money situation?”

  “It would take money for food and supplies, but not the kind that her hubby was tracking in and out of her accounts.”

  “I have a lead where it might be coming from.” I told him what I’d learned from Charles Barr.

  “Does your father know this yet?”

  I shook my head then rolled my eyes. I must’ve been only half awake if I thought he could see either. “I recommended Barr see Dad and tell him himself.”

  “So you’re thinking Marya was what? Buying pills from older customers and reselling them? That’s quite an operation. I guess it might explain where the money came from.”

  “But not where it was going,” I said.

  “Still, it’s progress. What are you up to tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “I thought maybe we could have dinner and go over a few things.”

  “I can’t tonight. I’m … pitching the doll project to the Browning foundation.” I winced. True enough. But I neglected to tell him it was with Ian over dinner at the country club. And that Cathy had rummaged up another humdinger of a dress, this one from a local consignment shop where the owner said I could consign it back after the evening was over as long as I didn’t damage it.

  “Tomorrow night?” he said.

  “Tomorrow is game night at the shop,” I said. “Unless you wanted to catch a quick dinner before? Might have to be takeout though. I need to put some hours in at the shop, or as my own boss, I might have to dock my pay.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Tomorrow night, then. Have a good meeting.”

  I felt like a rat when I hung up the phone. Tomorrow when we had dinner, when I could see him face to face, I’d clarify all those half truths.

  Cathy showed up at five thirty with a bin of beauty products, determined to do something about my hair. “I’m not as good as Marya was,” she said. “Or Antoine, even though I don’t think the cut works for curly hair. But I think I can improve on what you’ve been doing.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and let her at it. She worked silently, and I might have dozed off once. By six thirty, I was almost a new woman. She’d tamed the poodle into gentle waves, but not stopping there, went on to see that my nails were freshly groomed and colored and that my makeup looked better than Antoine had done—more natural, which seemed to suit my personality better.

  I leaned in closer to the mirror. “I can barely make out the dark circles under the eyes.”

  “I’m still waiting on details of that, you know.”

  “I know.” I closed my eyes. “Not sure I want to rehash all that then go out with Ian. Can we save it for later?”

  Cathy agreed, but her somber tone suggested she’d rather have the gory details now. “Oh, I gave the doll to Althena.”

  “Good riddance.”

  “And she gave it right back. Apparently dolls creep her out. She said she sensed some kind of negative energy associated with her.”

  “I’ll buy that. It gives me the willies, too.”

  “But nothing more than that. Unless I set up a session and pay her.”

  I started to shake my head, but she cautioned me to hold still.

  “Which I’m not going to do,” she finished, mumbling through the bobby pins she held in her mouth. “There.” She did a three-sixty walk around me and nodded approval at the glittery hair ornament she’d strategically placed over the most unruly patch of hair. “You’re so much easier than doll heads.”

  “Thanks?” I stared at my reflection in the mirror. “Seriously, thanks for helping. Keep this up, and I might have to name you my official fairy godmother.”

  She put the hair goop on the bathroom counter. “Keep this. You may need a couple more gallons until that cut grows out.” She winked. “Let’s think of it as Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Goo.”

  I groaned. “Dad would be proud of that one.”

  “He’s a bad influence.”

  The dress of the evening was classic, classy, and a little more subdued. And thankfully a tad longer. I gave it a swirl in the full length mirror. “I might have to keep this one. How much was it?”

  “Would you consider it an early Christmas present?” she said.

  “I’d love it.”

  “Good, you’re set for the next three Christmases.”

  “Yikes!” I said. “We’ll figure that out later.”

  Cathy had left by the time Ian arrived, not with the practical Prius. A big honking li
mo snaked its way around the dumpsters and other obstacles in the narrow back alley. And by honking, I mean quite literally. Not an impatient Manhattan taxi kind of honk, but one of those musical car horns. I think he was going for “Jingle Bells.”

  As I stepped outside, Ian stood next to the car, tapping the final line of the carol into a small keyboard. He held the last note which blared and echoed in the alleyway. “It’s nice to know that all those pricy music lessons didn’t go completely to waste.”

  “What’s this?” I pointed at the limo, the chauffeur of which was standing stiffly with the back door propped open.

  “My father insisted,” he said, then squinted at me. “You look lovely tonight. Mom and Dad are sure to approve.”

  “Your parents?”

  “Are joining us for dinner at the club. Didn’t I mention it?”

  “No, I don’t think you did.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Well, I guess that means there’s less time to be nervous about meeting my folks, then. I think you’re going to get along just fine.”

  Great. My “you’re very nice, Ian, but I don’t see us having a future, but let me tell you about our doll project” speech was just pre-empted by the dreaded meeting-the-parents date.

  I climbed inside the limo and slid across the plush seat. Once Ian joined me, I said, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever ridden in a limo before. We were supposed to have one for Cathy’s bachelorette party, but it never showed, so we piled eight grown women into my Civic. Some party.”

  Ian wagged a finger. “I don’t know. Perhaps all the best parties begin with eight women in a Civic.”

  Ian spent the rest of the trip pointing out all the doodads and whatnots of the luxury limo, ending with another chorus of “Jingle Bells” just as we pulled up at the country club. The stone building was awash with thousands of twinkle lights draping every tree down the long drive and around the building itself.

  “It’s beautiful.”