Murder on the Toy Town Express Read online

  “It still doesn’t make any sense,” Amanda said. “What did she have to gain from killing Craig?” I caught Cathy’s eye, but neither of us volunteered any more information. All the sordid details would eventually come out, but they didn’t have to come out on a holiday.

  Dinner was very edible this year, and after we ate—but before dessert—we squeezed in two rounds of Pictionary. Kohl was a force to be reckoned with. Whichever team he was on won, but at the end of the second game, it was clear he was becoming overwhelmed with the stimulation.

  “Why don’t you go draw in the family room?” Amanda said.

  Kohl didn’t meet her gaze but carried his bag to the coffee table next to the sofa where the two cats were sleeping. They weren’t quite cuddling up together, but definitely coexisting.

  Cathy stood at the white board we’d set up for the game. “I hate to erase this,” she said, pointing to Kohl’s last drawing. “He is really good, you know.”

  “That’s exactly what Tippi Hillman told me yesterday,” Amanda said.

  “So you met Tippi?” I asked. “I thought she might come looking for you.”

  “She was keen on getting her hands on the rest of Craig’s comic books,” Amanda said. “I told her I didn’t have access to them yet.”

  “I take it the police still have Craig’s computer,” I said.

  She nodded. “Which will be returned to me eventually. Tippi was willing to wait.”

  “You didn’t sign anything, did you?”

  “Not until I find a good property rights attorney. She did tell me that she wanted to continue Craig’s series, and she brought along one of Craig’s comic books. While she was giving me her spiel, Kohl started copying some of the pictures and drawing them into his notebook. She got all excited. Kohl got excited. She asked him if he wanted to draw comics like his father.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  Amanda smirked. “He frowned, and I was about to tell him that he didn’t have to draw anything he didn’t want to. But then he said he didn’t want to draw like his father. He wanted to draw better.”

  Parker wet his finger and gave Kohl a point on an imaginary scoreboard.

  “So if Craig’s series sells, Tippi was going to see if she could find someone to continue to write the stories and have Kohl illustrate them.” She took a breath. “I have reservations. I don’t want to capitalize on Craig’s misfortune, or even on Kohl’s challenges, but if it’s what he’s good at and what he wants to do, I could hardly stand in his way, either. But I’d also like to find a teacher who’d help him develop his own style, not just copy.”

  “If you’re planning on staying,” Dad said, “there are classes at the art store, and the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo has a program for teens as well.”

  “I’ll have to look into that.” She smiled. “And yes, we’ve decided to stay. I can’t move into the house until all the paperwork is done, but I saw it and just fell in love with it—or rather what it could be with a little work. And the whole community has impressed me. The schools look good. Even Kohl said he wants to stay, and I have a hard time even getting him to change his socks sometimes.”

  “Does that mean you’ll keep the comic book store open?” I asked.

  “I was hoping we could talk about that today.” She cast Dad a hopeful look. “I just don’t think I’m the entrepreneurial type, especially since I don’t know enough about comic books to make a go of it. Is that offer to buy the stock still good?”

  Dad gave me his best “what do you think?” look.

  I sent back my “where will we put them?” raising of the eyebrows.

  Dad responded with his best “get ready because I’m doing it anyway” expression. Too bad we hadn’t played charades tonight. We would have cleaned up.

  “Yes,” he said to Amanda.

  “Only I need to be out of the shop by Monday,” she hedged.

  “How about Dad and I stop by tomorrow and finalize the details?” I said.

  “Sold,” she said, shaking our hands. “Now all I have to do is find a job.”

  “What do you do?” Dad asked.

  “Mostly just worked retail,” she said.

  Dad looked at me. I looked at him. This time we agreed. “You know, we’ve been looking for some help . . .” I said.

  Chapter 27

  Parker waved from his lawnmower as he pulled our float past my spot on the toyshop stoop. He’d constructed a giant toy box. Every so often, the classic toys inside would rise up a little, like they were growing out of the box. I started laughing when I noticed that a large box with a cellophane front didn’t contain a life-sized doll, but a real-life Cathy posing as a doll. The audience packing the sidewalks must have liked it too; they cheered as it went past.

  The hopes and predictions of the chamber of commerce were met or exceeded. The street was mobbed, and hopefully all these folks would soon spill into the shops—in particular, ours. They wouldn’t find comic books, though, at least not yet, even though we spent most of yesterday rolling them across the street on Craig’s cart—Amanda had thrown that into the deal along with the store fixtures. It was all still sitting upstairs, packing our living room, and the only thing Dad would say was that he was almost sure he could make it work.

  To give credit where it was due, Maxine had done such a good job cleaning the comic book shop—before she almost killed me, that is—that Amanda’s landlord had given her Craig’s security deposit back. I expected the cash was more than welcome to help cover their transitional costs until Craig’s estate could be fully settled. The next tenant would have to do very little except refurnish it for his business.

  “Oh, what’s moving in?” I’d asked.

  “A private investigator,” the landlord said. I was considering whether a quiet community like ours could support a full-time PI, but I figured even a bedroom community such as ours must have its share of infidelity investigations. With all those bedrooms, someone somewhere was probably in the wrong one.

  “Former cop,” he added. “Gave you as a character reference, in fact,” he said, gesturing to my dad, “which was good enough for me. Name of Lionel Kelley . . .”

  A brisk breeze drew my attention from my daydreams and back to the parade. Some of the Irish dancers looked a little frozen, and the sky was a bit more overcast than it had been of late, but it didn’t rain. Another gust blew away a few balloons, and I found myself thinking of Craig even as they rose in the sky and disappeared.

  I was still a bit distracted, watching one rise, swirling in the air currents, when Ken pushed his way through the crowd and climbed onto the stoop. “Liz, we’ve got to talk.”

  I’d been avoiding this. I still didn’t know how to make our relationship work. “If it’s about what we talked about . . .”

  “No, this is something different, and I kind of need you to know something before it comes out. It’s better if you hear it from me.” He looked around uneasily. “Can we go inside?”

  “But the parade . . .”

  He grabbed my arm. “Please, Liz. It’s important.”

  “There you are!” a husky voice said, and a willowy blonde climbed onto the stoop and took Ken’s arm. Dad had to step back so there’d be room.

  Ken looked as happy to see her as a middle schooler whose mother had signed up as class chaperone. She stuck out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I am Marya Young,” she said in a slight Russian accent.

  “Liz McCall,” I said, shaking her hand. “Relative?” I asked Ken.

  Ken blanched, swallowed, and then said, “Liz, I’d like you to meet . . . my wife.”

  I don’t recall how I responded. But not long after, we were all standing on the stoop together, silently watching the rest of the parade.

  My cheeks flared hot, even in the cooling temperatures, while my thoughts cycled back and forth from How could he? to How could I not know?

  I missed much of the parade. It just passed. Bands, floats, dancers, even the clowns drivin
g the little cars. They just all melted together like chalk art in a rainstorm.

  Then the music switched to “Here Comes Santa Claus,” and the Santa train came into view.

  Annie Werth had made good on her promise to play Santa, and she was ho-ho-hoing up a storm. I hadn’t known—but from Dad’s sly smile when I looked up at him, I think he did—that Frank was riding the engine too, fully decked out in his engineer’s hat and costume. Both waved to the crowd.

  Then the wind picked up. Annie made a grab for her Santa hat, but the wind carried it away, along with the white wig.

  The crowd gasped, and several mothers covered their children’s eyes.

  At first Frank didn’t know the reason for the crowd reaction, but when he spun around, he got a good look at Santa. He tugged off her beard, just to be sure. Frank must have let go of the controls at the same time, because the train came to a halt in front of the toyshop.

  Dad tapped Ken on the shoulder. “If that gets ugly, you might have to . . .”

  But after a couple of looks and brief words, Frank leaned down to hug Annie, followed by the longest, most passionate kiss ever witnessed between a train conductor and Santa Claus. A few people applauded, and one fellow nearby shouted, “Get a room, Santa!” A few wolf calls followed.

  Dad squeezed my hand. “At least I’m still batting five hundred.”

  Acknowledgments

  The hardest part about writing acknowledgments is trying to mentally replay all those moments where so many people helped in any part of the process so you don’t leave anyone out. The second hardest part is getting the names spelled correctly.

  First, I’d like to thank my husband, Rob, who really makes my writing possible. My words tend to come in spurts, fueled by inspiration and looming deadlines. When those long days occur, it helps to have someone who’ll do things like toss in a load of laundry, read over a passage I’m struggling with, or whisk me off to dinner when he knows I need a break.

  And then there are my local writing friends. Thanks to my regular critique partners: Lynne Wallace-Lee, Aric Gaughan, Nonna Gerikh, Katie Murdock, and Ken Swiatek. And to my fellow Sisters in Crime: Alice Loweecey (who often shares rides to events, more than one of which evolved into brainstorming sessions) and Lissa Redmond (who painstakingly answers my police procedure questions—any mistakes are because I didn’t think to ask the right questions). Also to Janice Cline, who reads all my earliest efforts.

  Of course, to the good folk of East Aurora—and yes, it’s a real place—thanks for providing such a cozy town for inspiration. And for patiently putting up with me when I either get it wrong or have to play havoc with the geography to suit a story. So sorry for the crime wave!

  Many thanks, as always, to my superagent, Kim Lionetti, and to all the staff at Crooked Lane.

  And thanks to you, the reader. There are many books on the shelves, and you picked this one. I hope you’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together!