Death of a Russian Doll Page 17

  “Never been here, either?” he asked.

  “Not at Christmas,” I said. “One year the mayor gave Dad golf lessons. He didn’t have time himself, so he set it up so my brother Parker and I could both have a few lessons. I never took to it, but Parker still plays occasionally.”

  The valet held open the door then Ian helped me out of the car, and we made our way into the club’s restaurant.

  Lush poinsettias decked the massive stone fireplace, and red linens graced the tables. It didn’t take long for me to figure out who Ian’s parents were. Not only were the two of them sitting at a four-person table close to the fireplace, they were probably the least welcoming people I could have imagined.

  Marvin Browning most closely resembled a rotten lemon. Shriveled and slightly jaundiced, but without the softness. Still, his handshake was so firm it might have sent recipients to the nearest orthopedist for x-rays.

  His wife seemed a little more approachable. She was impeccably dressed in a black suit with white trim, which accented her snowy hair, fashionably styled in a chic bob. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d seen that bob before, coming out of the barber shop on Lionel Kelley’s surveillance tape.

  She squinted momentarily after I escaped her husband’s vise grip but greeted both Ian and me with wan smiles and air kisses.

  “We were about to send out a search party,” Mr. Browning—and no, he did nothing to encourage more familiarity—staunchly told his son. In fact, he told the whole room.

  But his wife—“call me Valerie”—waved him off.

  “They’re right on time,” she said, pushing her watch in her husband’s face. “Grumpy old fool.”

  Ian slipped ahead of the waiter to pull out my chair, next to his mother and opposite his father.

  “Lovely dress,” Valerie said. “Who designed it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to figure out how to describe the dress. Used? Previously loved? “It’s … vintage.”

  “It’s very becoming on you. More than that number you were wearing in that picture in the paper, I think.”

  “My picture was in the paper?” I said.

  “If what I hear is true, you’d better get used to it.”

  I looked over at Ian, but he was knee-deep in a business conversation with his father.

  “I think I prefer your hair this way, too,” she said.

  “I tried a new stylist, but I’m afraid he didn’t work out.” This gave me an idea. “Your hair is lovely. May I ask where you go?”

  “I’m afraid I’m in search of a new stylist myself. Mine no longer cuts hair.”

  “Retired?”

  “Actually, the poor girl got herself killed.”

  “I think I did see something about that,” I said.

  Ian took this moment to join our conversation. “Don’t be so cagey, Liz.” He turned to his mother. “Liz’s father is with the police.”

  “With the police?” Her eyelids started twitching. What, a cop’s daughter not good enough for their heir apparent?

  “Afraid so,” I said. “Actually, he retired several years ago as chief of police, but he’s been reactivated, I guess you could call it, for this investigation.”

  “How novel,” Valerie said. “You’ve never dated a policeman’s daughter before.”

  Mr. Browning laughed so hard he choked, but recovered with a sip from his water glass. “What you need to keep you on the straight and narrow, my boy.”

  “I thought you’d like that,” Ian said.

  A few more questions followed. They seemed like casual conversation, but before our dinners arrived, they’d learned where I went to college, my area of study, and a brief sketch of both my dating history and my current aspirations. If I’d have known, I would have worn my blue interview suit and brought my résumé.

  And then it hit me. I wasn’t Ian’s choice, nor was I the type of girl—that glamorous model type—he was normally attracted to. I was Ian’s best attempt to please his parents. And it became clear that a mature, educated woman with working class roots was just what they’d ordered for him.

  “Nothing wrong with starting at the bottom,” Mr. Browning said, with the first smile I’d seen on him all evening. “When I started my business, I didn’t have two nickels to rub together. But I worked hard, lived frugally, invested everything. I’ve made some friends in the business, and I’ve made some enemies, but I arrived where I wanted to be.”

  I nodded.

  “But it grounded me,” he continued. “Ian, he works hard and he’s a smart boy, but he needs that grounding.”

  And suddenly I panicked. I had to do something before I got the “welcome to our family” speech. I wasn’t sure if Ian had said something that suggested our relationship was more advanced than two dates, or if perhaps Ian assumed the same, but I needed to set things straight.

  Unfortunately, when I panic, I get clumsy, and when I turned to address the misconception, I upset my full and unwanted glass of wine. It ran down the tablecloth and puddled in my lap.

  “Good heavens!” Ian leaped out of his chair. Of course, everyone in the restaurant was now watching.

  Milliseconds later an observant waiter reached our table with extra napkins which absorbed much of the spill.

  “I should probably visit the ladies room and see what I can do,” I said.

  “I’ll go with you,” Valerie said.

  In the rest room, which I was relieved to find unattended, I blotted a little more of the stain, then Valerie suggested rinsing it out. I was trying to figure out what kind of contortions I’d need to get the full skirt of the dress into the sink when Valerie suggested I take it off. So I went into a stall, removed the dress, and handed it to her over the door.

  I’d considered going out there to help, but I’d worn only a half slip, and my beleaguered bra wasn’t quite ready for prime time.

  “How’s it coming?” I asked when the water finally stopped running.

  “I think I rinsed out most of it,” she said. “I’m afraid it’s dripping wet, though. I’m going to set it in front of the hand dryer. Would you like to come out and sit while it’s drying? I’m sure nobody will come in.”

  “I’m not totally …”

  “Want my jacket?” Without waiting for a response, she hoisted her jacket over the door. I put it on, and clutched it up tight.

  Once freed from my three-by-five-foot prison, I inspected the dress, held suspended over the hand dryer by Valerie’s clutch purse. The skirt looked much better. I gave the dryer another cycle and joined her on the sofa in the small anteroom.

  “Thanks so much,” I said. “I feel like an idiot. And I hate to keep you from dinner just to help me.”

  “No worries,” she said, kneading her hands. “Happens to everyone. How clever of you to choose something washable. Besides, the men’ll be talking business nonstop. I should be thanking you for the relief.”

  “Aren’t you involved? In the business, I mean?”

  “If you ask Marvin, my job is to spend what he makes.”

  “I somehow doubt that,” I said.

  “I guess I’m old enough to be comfortable with the role of the woman behind the man. Things are a bit different today. Women have careers of their own. The corporate wife with her mad skills of arranging dinner parties, entertaining clients, smoothing ruffled feathers, and getting various stains out of expensive clothing has gone the way of the rotary phone and party lines. I’m becoming obsolete.”

  “I think that perhaps you’re appreciated more than you think. I, for one, am very thankful for your help.”

  The dryer stopped again, so I excused myself, rearranged the garment, and gave it another cycle.

  “I must admit,” she said, “you’re not like the girls Ian usually brings home.”

  “What, poised, attractive, and capable of getting through a meal without a single catastrophe?” I shrugged it off. After all, even though half the women in the town might consider Ian the catch of the day, I was
still inclined to throw him back.

  She laughed. “I find it refreshing. So, tell me about yourself.”

  “I think we covered that at dinner.”

  “Not the résumé. What are your passions, your hobbies? What makes you tick?”

  “Family is important to me. I like my work. It wasn’t what I set out to do, but I find I enjoy the shop.”

  “Are toys all that lucrative? I mean, there can’t be that many serious collectors.”

  “We’ve had our lean times. Fortunately, our clientele isn’t limited to the serious collectors looking for that rare find. Though we are thankful for them. We get a lot of casual browsers who come in just for a look. But then they see that toy they played with as a child, and then another, maybe something they haven’t thought about in years. We make a lot of impulse sales that way. I guess our primary market is nostalgia. My dad always said that just about everyone can say they once owned a vintage toy collection if they’ve lived long enough.”

  “I’ll have to come check it out, then. I do think I have a couple of my old Madame Alexander dolls in the attic.”

  “Thinking of selling?”

  She laughed. “Guess I’m just curious if they’re worth anything.”

  “There are a fair amount of Madame Alexander collectors out there. Value, of course, would depend on the specific models and their condition. My sister-in-law, Cathy, runs the doll department. She could probably tell you.” And then lightning struck. It might be the perfect opportunity to pitch the doll project to at least one Browning.

  “That sounds like a lot of fun,” she said, after I explained the rehab project. “Is there still room on this committee?”

  “You want to help on the doll committee?”

  “You’ve seen my mad stain-removal skills. If nothing else, I’m sure I could help with that. I’m surprised you haven’t pitched the idea to Ian’s foundation.”

  “To be honest, I’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

  “That can be awkward, considering you’re dating and all. Tell you what, how about I put in a good word for you?”

  “I’d …” It wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured this going. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  My dress took just one more cycle before I declared it dry enough to wear, during which I gave Valerie the details about our next meeting.

  “Looking forward to it,” she said.

  * * *

  I’d barely opened the shop the next morning when Amanda and Cathy showed up.

  “Did I make a mistake with the scheduling?” I said.

  “No, I’m not working today,” Cathy said, settling Drew in his swing.

  “Couldn’t get enough of my charming personality and witty one-liners then?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s that. But I really wanted to hear more about the date.”

  “Ooh, the date,” Amanda teased. “Forgive me, but who was this with? There’s so many men seeking your attention, I’ve lost track.”

  For that, I threw a sock monkey at her.

  “Seriously,” Cathy said, “romance aside, I’m more interested in whether you pitched the doll project. Unless there are juicier details to share.”

  Amanda leaned forward against the counter, her face resting on her hand. “I’m all ears.” She set the sock monkey up next to her. “So’s my friend here.”

  “If you’re looking for juicy details, I’m afraid to disappoint you. Our evening ended with just a chaste peck on my cheek.”

  “From Ian Browning?” Amanda said. “The town’s quickest mover?”

  “Was your father watching from the window while he cleaned his gun again?” Cathy asked.

  I laughed. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Jack?” Amanda guessed.

  “’Fraid so,” I said. “Make sure he tells you the whole story. But no, this time Ian’s parents were watching from the limo.”

  “I thought you were going to end it with Ian and pitch the doll program,” Cathy said.

  “Well, it’s hard to break it off with a guy on the second date when he’s already progressed to meeting the parents. But I did pitch the program to Valerie Browning. In fact, she might be coming to the next meeting.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be seeing Ian again?” Amanda asked.

  “Not entirely sure,” I said then shared my theory that Ian was looking for a girl his parents would approve of. “Last night felt more like a job interview.”

  “Ouch,” Cathy said.

  “On the bright side, when I do get a chance to tell him I’m not interested, it won’t leave him brokenhearted and despondent.”

  “Speaking of broken hearted and despondent, I’m still waiting to hear more about that night with Ken.”

  “Night with Ken?” Amanda said then covered the sock monkey’s ears.

  “And his sister-in-law,” I added.

  “That much I got from Dad,” Cathy said.

  I walked over to Drew’s swing and pulled up the sock that he’d kicked loose. “You, sweet boy, are the only man in my life not giving me any trouble.”

  With that, he threw his drool-slobbered toy giraffe on the ground. I picked it up, wiped it against my pant leg, and placed it back on the tray. When I turned around, Cathy and Amanda were frozen in place waiting for me to go on.

  “Fine.” I sighed. “Ken seemed to think that maybe we could pick up where we left off.”

  Cathy’s eyelids shot up. “Does he now? Are we baking a cake with a file in it for him?”

  “He’s not under arrest,” I said. “At least not last I heard. I don’t think Dad has enough to hold him unless something incriminating came back from forensics. He might be out already.”

  “And how did you leave it with Ken?” Cathy asked.

  “Let’s get past the investigation first. I still don’t think he killed Marya. Meanwhile, I thought I’d try to sell some toys,” I said. “If that’s all right with you.”

  “What, no big dates on your social calendar today?” Amanda asked.

  “Maybe a little one,” I said. “Mark Baker is bringing dinner over before game night tonight.” As I said it, I felt my anticipation growing. No, it wasn’t a gourmet dinner at the club, but on the flip side, I didn’t have to dress up and I could wear flats. Win-win.

  “Sounds nice,” Cathy said.

  “Hey,” Amanda said, “wouldn’t it be funny if Ian and Ken showed up, too?”

  Neither Cathy nor I said anything as we both stared at her.

  She pointed at the monkey. “It wasn’t me. He said it.”

  Chapter 18

  When Mark arrived with takeout, I had just finished setting up for game night. The tables and chairs were all arranged at the front of the store. Tonight’s theme, chosen weeks earlier, was mystery games. Of course, there were several different editions of Clue, or Cluedo, as the original British edition was called, but I also pulled out some playable—in other words, not in pristine collector’s condition—versions of both the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys games, an old Perry Mason game, and even Scooby-Doo. I rounded it out with some newer mystery games from my personal collection, like Scotland Yard.

  I stared at the fun, colorful boxes. Solving a real crime was no lighthearted game, no mere mental puzzle, though sometimes the techniques were the same. Gather evidence. Uncover secrets. Put the pieces together. Eliminate suspects until you’ve figured out the killer.

  Unlike the vague, faceless Mr. Boddy (or Doctor Black in the UK), whose death begins the game of Clue, Marya was once alive and breathing, strolling around the town in those incredibly high heels of hers, with no inkling that soon her death would launch a real and dangerous game of whodunit. If she’d realized that her death would cast suspicion on her husband, would she have buried her secrets as deep?

  Or deeper?

  “Earth to Liz,” Mark said, waving a hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry.” I crumpled up my Mighty Taco wrapper. “I was thinking about this whole thing
with Marya.”

  “Worried about Ken?” he asked.

  I jerked my face to look at him. “I’m worried there might be too much circumstantial evidence. Maybe not enough to convict him, but nothing to clear him either. That maybe this whole thing might always be hanging over his head.”

  Mark leaned his arms against the table. “You don’t have enough faith in your father.”

  “That’s not true,” I said. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, he can.” I winked. “With a little help, of course.”

  “Are you talking about you or me?” he asked.

  “You, me, and, oh, his whole department.” I laughed.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Tell you what, since you uncovered quite a bit of evidence—and found Ken—I decided to quit slacking off. I unearthed a few things myself. Although I’m not sure they help your friend.”

  “Do tell.”

  “First, I visited Marya’s twelve-step program.”

  “Learn anything?”

  “Well, you can’t interrogate anyone at one of those things. I fibbed and said that Marya had told me about the group, and when she died, I knew I had to get help.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s quite a lie to tell in church.”

  “It’s not a lie when you’re under cover.”

  “Is that in the Bible?” I teased.

  “Should be. Look, do you want to know what I found out, or not?”

  I nodded.

  “Nobody had much to say about Marya, but I managed to snap a few pics of license plates, so I think I know who all was in the group. I ran a few backgrounds.”

  “And?”

  “And a few of them have records.”

  “Is that surprising?” I asked. “They’re in a twelve-step program.”

  “No, but what’s surprising is that it includes Pastor Pete.”

  I sat up a little straighter. “Think he might have something to do with Marya’s death?”

  Mark gave a brief shrug. “He’d have to be pretty devious to go into the ministry so he could have access to a twelve-step group so he could then do what? Buy drugs? Sell drugs? Seems a stretch.”

  “Unless he became a pastor sincerely, but then relapsed.”

  Mark clicked his tongue as he considered. “I guess I could check with the prison and his former parole officer and see what they have to say about him. Meanwhile, we still don’t have a handle on where all Marya’s money came from or where it went. We’re only assuming drugs because of Lionel Kelley’s investigation.”