Death of a Russian Doll Read online

  “Anechka also admitted that Marya lifted a few pills from her clients. And based on the numbers that Lionel Kelley was investigating, it probably doesn’t amount to much more than that.”

  “But the money,” I said. “The larger amounts of money going in and out of her hands.”

  “We’re back to the drawing board on that,” he said. “I’m not sure where it came from. But at least I think we know where it was going.”

  “The traffickers?”

  Dad smirked. “I think so. I had guys pull all the security cams on Main Street on the days that Mark Baker said Marya likely transferred cash. We caught her coming out of the barber shop between clients and getting into a pickup with Carolina plates. Guess what they found parked at that chicken plant in NC? So things are coming together, piece by piece.”

  “Except who killed Marya. And why. If she was paying them off, they’d have no motive to harm her.”

  “That’s the fly in the ointment,” he said. “Maybe, since her husband was the chief of police and he was following her around, they thought he was getting too close.”

  “Then why not target him?” I said. “Going after Marya would be like poking the bear.”

  “Still, that’s a lot of suspects, a lot of witnesses, and a few folks looking to trade information for lighter sentences. Someone will end up implicated. I suspect it won’t be Ken, and it certainly won’t be you. After everyone is interviewed, maybe something will pop there.”

  “Pop. Fly? Are we moving puns into baseball now? Can I cry foul?”

  “Nah. That one was unintentional. So you’re off base.”

  “Standing in left field?” I said. “Catching flies?”

  “Home run.”

  * * *

  By the time Dad gave me the okay to open the shop for business as usual, Cathy was due to start her shift. I filled her in on the morning’s events. I may have downplayed the part about pulling a cap gun on a police officer.

  “Lionel Kelley in his tighty whities? Oh, that must have been a sight.”

  “Actually, the fledgling private eye is a boxers man,” I said, glad she’d latched onto that detail. “Oh, and remember me saying I thought we had a feral cat problem in the alley? Turns out we do not.”

  “Sure? That ammonia smell by the dumpster was pretty intense.”

  “Trust me.” I held up my hands. “You do not want to know the whole story.”

  But with Cathy to mind the shop, I texted Mark and asked if he was free for lunch.

  “It would have to be in Buffalo,” he replied. “Only have forty-five minutes.”

  “Meet you at your office?” I asked.

  “Sounds good.”

  * * *

  I’m not fond of traffic circles, so the half hour trip grew a little bit dicey at the end, but my GPS guided me there, even if I did get a great view of the McKinley monument by circling it about three times. I’m even worse at parallel parking, so I was glad to find Mark waiting outside the concrete and glass FBI building. He hopped into my passenger seat and buckled up.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Dinosaur Bar-B-Que okay?” I asked. “How strict is that forty-five minutes?”

  “It’s been known to be flexible, especially if brisket is involved,” he said. “Lead on, McDuff.”

  The restaurant wasn’t that busy on an early Monday afternoon, and our food came out quickly. Mark, as predicted, ordered the brisket. I’d contemplated getting the Carolina pork sandwich, but considering what was going on with Ken, Marya, and a certain chicken plant, I decided to avoid it. And the chicken, for that matter. I opted for the Tres Niños, a plate with a generous sampling of brisket, ribs, and pork, which turned out to be a wise choice. I think the adrenaline expenditure had left me ravenous.

  “I have to say,” Mark said, “I’ve never had a woman ask me out before. I’m afraid you’ll find me terribly old-fashioned.”

  “Are you offended that I asked you?” I said.

  “Oh, no. I’m glad you did. I just hope you don’t mind if I pick up the check. I’ve also been known to open doors and stuff. Not sure where you stood on that.”

  “Mark, as an accountant, you probably know all about the struggles of small businesses, right?”

  “In college I wrote a thesis on it.”

  “Then you know I’ll be happy to let you pay. As for doors, I don’t mind a little pampering now and then. But if it’s cold outside, I’m not going to wait on ceremony.”

  “Gotcha. I think we’re good.”

  “I have to admit something, though. I had an ulterior motive for inviting you to lunch.”

  Mark leaned forward. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I just wanted to know if you could tell me something about the investigation.”

  “Are you sure you want to keep going with this?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, why would you ask?”

  He blushed ever so slightly.

  “Who told you?”

  “About you holding off Jenkins with a cap gun? You gotta figure everyone in law enforcement in the county is talking about it. Don’t be too embarrassed, though. You actually came off much better than Jenkins.”

  I shook my head. “Which gives him another reason to hate me.”

  He pressed a hand on mine. “You must have been scared to death. Look, Liz, this isn’t fun and games anymore. That’s why I asked if you’re sure you want to continue.”

  I nodded. “It was never fun and games. But this one seems worse. Maybe it’s because someone in the police department, someone we trust to keep us safe, might be involved. The chief is suspected of murder. I know my dad has to investigate him, but because of that, a lot of the younger officers don’t trust him. Jenkins is a police officer, but today he terrified me. And it goes beyond the fragmented police department. Pastor Pete is a minister, but I saw him loitering on the street near the shop. And that made me afraid.”

  “I’m still looking into Pastor Pete,” Mark said. “His parole officer said he had no problems, and I also put a call into the prison chaplain. He said Pete found the light in prison, was a model prisoner after that, and got his degree from an online Bible school while he was still incarcerated. The chaplain is fairly certain his reform is genuine.”

  “Which still leaves open the possibility that he relapsed when he got out.” My shoulders sank. “It’s just impossible to know who to trust. It’s like some demented version of the Sesame Street song about all the “People in Your Neighborhood,” except any upstanding member of the community might be a stone-cold killer out to get you. Mark, this needs to end, and I can’t see that happening until Marya’s killer is behind bars. So will you help me?”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Dad told me that you’d narrowed down two dates where money was most likely transferred, and that they think they have video of the handoff.”

  “It was a good break,” he said. “I, uh, might be able to clue you into something even your father doesn’t know yet.”

  I sat up in my chair. “Really?”

  “Shortly after the second payoff, Marya filed an I-130.”

  “Oh.”

  “You have no idea what an I-130 is, do you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Since Marya was now a citizen, she could petition that Anechka become one, too. But only if she could prove their relationship. My working theory is that she paid off the traffickers to cough up the paperwork she needed to file the form.”

  “Nice,” I said, then sighed. “And sad. With Marya now dead, what happens to Anechka?”

  “No idea. That,” he said, “is a little beyond my pay grade.”

  “Can you tell me what days Marya paid off the traffickers?”

  Mark paused for a moment, dabbing a bit of his honey cornbread into the remnants of sauce on his plate. “I don’t see any harm in that. I don’t have them on me, though. But I can text you when I get back to the office.” H
e leaned back in his chair. “Can I ask you a question in return? Why didn’t you just ask your father?”

  “And deny you the opportunity of Dinosaur brisket?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Well, besides needing to get away from the shop for a little while, I wanted to see you.”

  He reached across the table and took my hand. I just hoped it wasn’t too sticky with all the barbecue sauce. “I wanted to see you, too.”

  He glanced around, then assured no one was looking, leaned in for a kiss.

  “Mark,” I said, after I caught my breath. “You got barbecue sauce all over your tie.”

  Chapter 21

  The dates of the money transfer reached my phone long before I reached East Aurora. In fact, I think I heard my text notification ping several times while still circumnavigating Niagara Square.

  The next part of my little, unofficial investigation wasn’t going to be nearly as pleasant. But when I got back to the shop I texted Ken Young anyway, asking if he had Marya’s appointment book.

  He called me back a little later.

  “I had her account book that has record of all her payments. But your father took that. The barber might have her appointment book.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “They shared a phone number in the shop, and the stylist working that day would schedule all the appointments in the same book.”

  “Do you think it’s locked up in the barber shop?” I asked.

  “No idea,” he said. “Why? What are you working on?”

  “Just a theory,” I said. “Probably won’t turn into anything.”

  “I’ve seen you work those theories of yours. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I assured him I would, told him to take care of himself, then deleted his number from my contact list.

  “Goodbye, Ken.” I closed my phone.

  I called Dad next.

  “Not sure I want to talk with you right now,” he said.

  ‘What did I do?”

  “Sent me chasing a few of those geese of yours. They sure don’t make little old ladies as nice as they used to. I swear one of them pinched me.”

  “Little old … ohhh. You went to Senior Speed Dating. Did you … get many numbers?”

  “Plenty. Let’s just say I gave your buddy Lance some serious competition. Unfortunately, that’s all I got.”

  When I asked about the appointment book, he said, “Yeah, I think one of my guys brought that in. Wanted to run down the names of everybody who had an appointment the day Marya was killed.”

  “May I see it?” I asked. “I can come in. I can wear gloves. I promise not to damage any evidence.”

  There was a long pause. “Tell you what. How about I send you a PDF?”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Only for my favorite daughter. Just promise you won’t go brandishing it around. And if you have any brainstorms, don’t get in over your head.”

  “I just want a peek at the appointment book.”

  “Fine. Give me a few minutes and I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  I must have checked my e-mail every thirty seconds after that. Finally the file came in. While Cathy dealt with customers, I was behind the counter, hunched over my laptop, staring at the almost illegible names. Some were scratched out. Others included more information, such as what kind of service the customer needed.

  I set up a spreadsheet and typed in the names and times of everyone with an appointment on the days just prior to the two suspected money transfers, then looked for any customers on both lists. Because if Marya wasn’t selling drugs to get all that money she was alleged to have, then it might, just might, have come from one of her customers.

  Why one of her customers would give her exorbitant sums of money was a mystery to me, but that’s what this was, anyway: a mystery that needed a solution.

  “Huh,” I said, staring at the spreadsheet while Cathy worked nearby.

  “What’s that?”

  “Turns out, there were three women who saw Marya just before she apparently handed off money to …” I didn’t know what to call them. “The Russians?”

  She came up behind me. “Anybody we know?”

  “We know all three. At least I do.”

  Cathy started to read over my shoulder. “Diana Oliveri, Joan Toscano, and … whoa. Valerie Browning? Your future mother-in-law?”

  “Hah! In her son’s dreams.”

  “So you think one of them might have killed Marya?”

  “Or gave her the money. If we could figure out who and why, we might be a step closer.”

  “Well, Diana and Mrs. B should both be here tomorrow night for our doll club meeting. Promise me you won’t make any accusations.”

  “Give me some credit. I’m just going to poke around, as subtly as I can, and see what I can dig up. If I find out anything useful, I’ll pass it on to Dad. Now I just have to figure out how to bump into Joan.”

  Cathy winced.

  “What?” I asked warily.

  “I know where she’s going to be tonight, but you’re not going to like it. At my last writers group at the bookstore I noticed a poster. Joan’s doing a reading and a signing tonight at the Monday night Between the Covers Book Club.”

  “Won Ton Desire?” I said. “They allow her to read that in a public place?”

  “They put up a sign saying that nobody under twenty-one would be admitted.”

  I scrubbed my face with my hands. “She’s going to ask if I read it.” I peeked through my fingers. “Isn’t she?”

  Cathy looked at her watch. “Book club doesn’t start until seven. You’d have time to start it.”

  “Go with me?”

  Cathy sighed. “Tell you what. If Drew is being good for Parker, I could probably sneak out for a little while.”

  I hugged her. “Thank you!”

  * * *

  The Between the Covers Book Club shared quite a few members with the senior speed dating group. Cathy and I found seats in the last row behind a lot of white hair.

  Our row filled up when Irene and Lenora claimed the last two seats.

  “I told you we should have gotten here earlier,” Irene chided her sister.

  Lenora poked me in the arm. “Should be a good one tonight.”

  “You’re here for Won Ton Desire?” I asked. “I should warn you, it’s a bit steamy, and I’m only part way through it.”

  Lenora waved me off. “You don’t have to warn me. I already read it.”

  Irene leaned over her sister. “Don’t let her fool you. She read it twice!”

  “And I don’t think it’s any steamier than last month’s book,” Lenora said. “The Swashbuckler’s Secret Soulmate.”

  “You two come every month?” I gestured to the packed house. “Are meetings always this well attended?”

  Lenora bobbed her head. “There’s a few more here than normal. We don’t always have an author come.”

  “Usually we just all sit in a circle and trash the book,” Irene said. “But I guess you can’t do that when the author is here. And I had some choice comments about this one.”

  “You didn’t care for it?” I asked.

  Irene winced. “Haven’t been able to stomach Chinese food since.”

  Lenora sighed. “And we had a coupon.”

  By this time the room had quieted down, and Irene’s comment kind of hung out there. If Joan heard it, she was gracious enough not to respond. She went to the podium and began her reading. It didn’t take me long to realize that she’d picked the part about the orange chicken sauce. I did my best to let my mind wander anywhere.

  I began to mentally review what I knew about Marya’s activities, just before her death.

  She’d been stealing pills from her clients’ purses. Perhaps she’d targeted the senior crowd because they have more aches and pains than the general population. She gleaned just enough not to be noticed, she thought, but enough to help slowly wean her sister off the drugs she�
��d been force fed.

  “… pushed all the food off the table with a mighty crash, and turned and stared at her with those deep, piercing eyes.”

  I shivered—it reminded me of the deep, piercing Russian eyes Lionel Kelley claimed he saw under that ski mask. Someone had come back to the barber shop looking for something. Drugs? Money? Large sums had apparently crossed Marya’s hands. Money that Mark had theorized she needed to procure Anechka’s full freedom. Marya had met with a representative twice, presumably passing these funds. But killing her would be like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.

  “He dipped his finger in the orange chicken sauce …”

  And that money had to come from somewhere. If Marya didn’t sell drugs, then where did it come from? Was she stealing it like she stole the pills, from customer wallets?”

  And who would carry that much cash? Valerie might, despite her thrifty choice of stylists.

  “She watched in rapt expectation as the sauce trickled down his finger.”

  Of course, Diana owned her own business. From my own experience, I knew that didn’t always mean you were awash in cash, but her store had been there for decades and enjoyed a regular clientele. She might have had a deposit in her purse, for all I knew.

  “He flipped on the radio, and Vanilla Ice began to play.”

  And then there was Joan. How much did authors make, anyhow? I’d bet Cathy would have some idea.

  “His eyes twinkled mischievously, and he winked. ‘Rice, rice, baby.’ ”

  Irene elbowed her sister. “She stole that from Weird Al.”

  Of course, this sent up a stir of murmurs, but Joan raised her voice and continued her reading, undaunted.

  I went back to active avoidance. One thought stopped me cold. If Marya had stolen money from any of these three ladies, why wouldn’t they have reported it? I was still missing something.

  “She never did find her shoe.” With that, Joan stopped her reading and closed the book.

  The group applauded.

  “Now I have time for questions,” she said.

  One woman’s hand went up. “That part on page ninety-seven—is that even physically possible?”