Murder on the Toy Town Express Read online

  The circle of life. And no, I wasn’t about to belt out any verses from The Lion King. But life moved full circle, much like all those trains on the tracks, making endless loops along the same paths. There was something both depressing and hopeful about that. Life, in all its mundane continuance.

  Unless some idiot fell out of the sky and crushed you.

  About fifteen minutes before closing, announcements began. Barely audible over the crowd, they reminded visitors to make their final purchases. We had a brief rush, lasting until about five minutes past six. No vender is going to refuse cash shoved into their face just because it’s technically past closing.

  Eventually, though, the lights dimmed and the aisles cleared. Without the sounds of conversations bouncing from the rafters, you could even hear the tiny electric motors whining and the trains clicking along on their tracks. That eventually died down too, as the little-engines-that-could were put to rest for the evening.

  Maxine stretched, kicked off her shoes, and sighed. “One last search.”

  “Do you think the missing comics could’ve been taken out of their cases?”

  “Not by accident,” she said. “I’m going to lay odds that they’re not here, but that’s not going to stop me from doing a top-to-bottom search first. I’d feel like an idiot if I reported them stolen and then found them tomorrow when we packed up.”

  “If you have a list of the graded comics you brought to the show, I can check the bins, just in case.”

  “I do.” She pulled out a three-ringed binder, flipped through a few pages, and ripped one out. She pulled a pen from her apron. “Everything from here”—she made two marks along the left side of the spreadsheet—“to here.”

  “Gotcha.” I studied the list for a few moments to acquaint myself with the titles. There were even thumbnail pictures of the cover images.

  Amazing Spider-Man from 1963. Incredible Hulk: The Terror of the Toad Men. Now, there’s a plot you don’t see every day. There was an early Iron Man that looked more like a bulked up Tin Man from Wizard of Oz than the more developed version we see in the movies. Most of the superheroes were familiar, even in their early incarnations. More unfamiliar was a newer, but apparently rare, book called The Time of the Preacher. I squinted at the thumbnail cover. As best I could tell, it was a demonic image hovering over a burning church. To quote the immortal words of Fozzie Bear, “They sure don’t look like Presbyterians to me.”

  With those titles and a few more in my head, I pulled the dollar bin to the floor and sprawled out. Since the building was now almost empty and all the other dealers probably felt as wiped out as I did, there was no sense standing on ceremony. Or standing, period.

  Some books were in cheaper flexible plastic sleeves. Others weren’t. But I checked all the sleeved comics to make sure there was only one inside and pulled all of them from the box to make sure nothing had fallen underneath them.

  Parker came up behind me and started rubbing my shoulders.

  I craned my neck to look up at him. “You know, for a brother, you’re awfully nice.”

  “Our booth is all shut up for the night.” He sat down next to me. “What are you doing here?”

  I held up the page Maxine had handed me. “Looking for these. They haven’t been seen since this morning.”

  His eyes bulged when he read the list. “You misplaced an original Spider-Man?”

  “That we’re not sure about. We only know it’s missing.”

  Parker sucked air through his teeth. “That’s a big loss. How about I help you look?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled down a three-dollar bin and started going through them. He’d gotten three books in when he pulled one out to read.

  Our search of the bins turned up none of the missing comics. Maxine also removed the table covers to see if the tablecloths might have been laid over the comics. (They weren’t.) And she pulled everything out from underneath the tables, all the coats and extra supplies. (Nothing.) She plopped a gym bag on the table. “Craig’s,” she said. “I guess I should check it, right?”

  Parker said nothing, mostly because he was still reading. I just shrugged. But when she unzipped it, I pushed myself up off the cool concrete floor so I could take a look. There was nothing in there but dirty laundry.

  Maxine wrinkled her nose and rezipped the bag. “I’ll just take these home and wash them for him.”

  We even searched the area around the booth. Fabric curtains draped the back wall, covering some ugly utilities, it turned out. But no comic books behind it or under the heavy fabric.

  “Well,” she said, slinging the gym bag over one arm, “here’s hoping that Craig knows where they are.”

  “Ready to go to the hospital?” I asked. I had a couple of things to retrieve from our booth.

  “I should stop home first and feed my cat. And if Craig is doing better, he might want me to pick him up something too. You know hospital food. How about I just meet you there, say, seven thirty-ish?”

  I promised her I would, then Parker and I stopped at the security office before we left. Dad was packing VHS tapes into a box.

  “Homework?” I asked, shrugging on my sweater. “Make sure you get the one that’s focused on the concession stand. I went back to ask if maybe they’d seen anything, but no luck. There should be a nice camera shot of the table though. Oh, and this morning’s coffee was courtesy of Janet something or other. Redhead. Ring any bells?”

  “No, but I can get her full name from the center and add her to the list Ken’s making me come up with.”

  I must have looked grim.

  “Honey, listen. I know you’re concerned, and I’m sure I’ve ticked off a good number of people over the years, but I doubt anyone is out there gunning for me. If they were, they probably would have come for me long before this.”

  “That’s . . . hardly reassuring.” I ran my finger across one of the security tapes. “Wait. If this center is so new, why does their security system still use video tapes?”

  “Two words.”

  “Lionel Kelley?”

  “Told the center director he knew a guy who could get him a deal,” Dad said. “Really not as bad as it sounds. The cameras are decent, and at least the tapes are fairly new. Now if only I can find our old VCR.” He placed the last tape in the box and shut off the lights as we walked out.

  “Linen closet. Top shelf,” I said. “I think.”

  “Who keeps a VCR in a linen closet?” Parker teased.

  “Who keeps a VCR?” Dad said.

  “Just be glad I did.” I smiled sweetly. “I’ll be home to make popcorn after I go to the hospital with Maxine.” I turned to Parker. “You guys want to come over and watch?”

  “Sounds like fun,” Parker said. “But as much as I love surveillance footage, I’m going to have to pass. Cathy put a special dinner into the Crock-Pot this morning. Says we need to talk.”

  “You in the doghouse, son?” Dad asked. “’Cause we have room on the couch if you need.”

  “I don’t think so, but she’s been awful moody lately, so I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Buy dessert on the way home,” I suggested.

  “Really?” he said. “I was thinking wine.”

  I shook my head. “Dessert. Pie’s good. Cake. Trust me.”

  He held his hands up. “Pie it is. On my way.”

  After Parker walked out, I kissed Dad on the cheek. “I should get going too. I’ll run home and change and check on Othello before heading to the hospital.”

  Dad gave me a look that suggested he was a tiny bit green with envy. Not quite lime green. More like iceberg lettuce. “Maybe I could go with you.”

  I shook my head. “He’s not going to say anything more to you than he will to Maxine—and probably less. I promise I’ll share with you, in detail, everything Craig says, including all nonverbal communication, gestures, facial expressions, and awkward pauses. Would you like a diagram of the room and a copy of his medical charts?”

  “Well,
if you can take a picture of them when nobody is looking . . .”

  “It’s not like old movies where they hang them at the foot of the bed.” I laughed. “I’ll get everything I can.”

  “Thank you, Liz.” Then he clammed up tight. Something more he wanted to say but was afraid to say it.

  “What is it?”

  “We don’t know what we’re up against yet.” He gave me a hug. “Be careful.”

  # # #

  The visitor lot was full when I got there. Well, almost full. I did find a tiny spot in a corner, next to a sports car that was parked at an odd angle. The owner probably figured nobody would park next to him, but never discount the squeezing-in abilities of a Civic owner who’s tired and doesn’t want to walk ten blocks. Climbing over the cup holder so I could exit through the passenger door was a fair tradeoff.

  Maxine wasn’t in the lobby when I walked in, so I got Craig’s room number from the guard at the desk, then found a spot in the lobby and sank down into the fake leather chair. The cushions of the oversized cube chairs were the only softness in the space. Everything else was angular and made of aluminum, glass, or stone in varying shades of gray and black. It was meant to be sleek but came off a little cold. I thumbed through a couple of magazines and, when no one was looking, tore out a recipe for orange Creamsicle cake.

  Maxine came running in at 7:45 carrying a Wegmans bag. “Sorry. I couldn’t find a parking spot.”

  “It was pretty packed when I got here.” I pushed myself out of the chair, only to find my legs had stiffened up on me. If this kind of day was hard on me, Maxine, older and a bit more out of shape, had to be exhausted.

  “I brought some of those little powdered donuts. Craig’s always liked them, but I’ll have to ask at the desk if he’s allowed to have them.” We waited at the bank of elevators for a car to empty and then headed up to the third floor.

  Maxine stopped at the desk. Craig was permitted the donuts, and she pulled out the box and stuffed the bag into her pocket.

  We followed the signs down the maze of hallways. By the numbers, we had to be getting close to Craig’s room when total chaos erupted. Medical personnel in scrubs flew past us, and Maxine and I had to cling to the wall to avoid colliding with a cart someone raced down the corridor.

  “Where’s the fire?” Maxine asked.

  When the foot traffic cleared, we rounded one more corner and discovered that half the doctors and nurses in the hospital seemed to be jammed into Craig’s room.

  We’d found the fire. And oddly enough, it led us back to Doctor/Mister/Professor Inferno.

  “Maybe it’s routine?” Maxine suggested. But we both knew it wasn’t.

  I leaned against the cold tiled wall in the hallway opposite his room and said a little prayer for Craig. I tried to remember him as the boy who’d had so much trouble in his life and had somehow succeeded despite all the obstacles. Occasionally, I’d look at Maxine, and I think she was praying too.

  Eventually, the frantic pace of those inside the room seemed to ebb. A few staff members started to leave. Because the emergency had passed?

  But when enough medical personnel had left the room so that it was no longer wall-to-wall scrubs, it became clear that not only had the emergency passed, but by the graying pallor of his skin and his lack of response as those around him unhooked him from various machines, Craig had passed as well.

  Maxine let out a cry and dropped the box of doughnuts. The container burst open, sending up a cloud of powdered sugar. Mini doughnuts rolled around on the floor by her feet, and one adventurous fellow went tearing down the hallway.

  Chapter 8

  I pulled into the alley behind the shop, turned off my ignition, and sat there for a moment watching the car windows fog and blur my surroundings. My heart ached, but I wasn’t sure why.

  I’d never liked Craig. In fact, for much of my life, I’d hated him. But in that moment, I remembered him as I first saw him: the gangly new kid marched into the front of the class in elementary school. He had a homespun haircut with muddy brown locks sticking up here and there, and he wore a snagged, striped knit shirt that hung in places where the original owner had stretched it out. All that was rounded out with a freckled face complete with a chipped-toothed, crooked smile and a voice that was throaty and sometimes hard to understand.

  One lone tear ran down my face, and I hesitated to brush it away. I still didn’t like the bully he had been or the man he became, but I was glad I had at least one honest tear to shed for him.

  When I finally climbed out of my car, Dad was holding the rear door of the shop open. “I just heard,” he said. “You all right?”

  I nodded.

  Headlights lit up the back alley and swung wildly as a police cruiser pulled in next to me. Ken climbed out. “Does she know?”

  “I just came from the hospital.” I shivered, not sure if it was from the cold or the memory, and my dad hustled us inside.

  Up in the apartment, the coffeepot was gurgling its final refrain. Without bothering to remove my coat, I dragged myself into the living room and collapsed on my usual spot on the sofa.

  Othello sat on his haunches in the middle of the coffee table, surrounded by VHS tapes. The cat looked up at me for a moment, blinked, then wove his way around the tapes, stopping to stretch before he hopped onto the couch and curled up in my lap.

  Dad shoved coffee into my hand. “Drink,” he commanded, standing there until I did.

  Ken threw his jacket over the arm of the chair facing me and sat down.

  I looked up at him, hesitant to ask the question I needed to ask. “Murder, then?” I said quietly, reaching out my hand for Othello to sniff before running it along his head, then along his sleek black and white fur, all the way to tip of his tail. He immediately rewarded me with a purr.

  Ken gave a hesitant nod, then locked his gaze with mine. “Still not sure. Going to treat it as such, though, until we know otherwise.”

  Dad returned with two more cups and set them on the coffee table.

  I pointed to the stack of VHS tapes balancing precariously on the glass. “Did you come over to watch?”

  “Considering what happened, I thought I’d better.” Ken reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out papers held together by a rubber band. “By the way, there’s no record on Janet, our barista, except that she likes to drive a little fast. I’ve got a couple of guys tracking down the whereabouts of the other names on Hank’s list. So far, most of them are either still in jail or have moved out of the area.”

  I looked up at my dad, whose face was grim. I wondered if he’d included Terry on that list. He’d have motive, I suppose. And the opportunity. Though if he had drugged the coffee—assuming the coffee had been drugged in the first place—his motive might have been less than murder. A practical joke, perhaps? Something that would maybe make Dad sick or loopy, perhaps embarrass him? All things that might have happened if the person who’d ingested this still hypothetical drug hadn’t donned a spandex suit and climbed a ladder.

  “How do you do this?” I asked. “Manage all these what-ifs? It’s a tangled mess.”

  Dad put a hand on my shoulder. “You follow every possible lead until they dead-end.”

  “And on that note,” Ken continued, “I was able to get a few things on our mystery woman, the one who sold Craig the comic books. Including a picture.” He pulled that sheet out of the packet and handed it to Dad.

  Dad reached for his reading glasses, offering me a glimpse of the picture as he did. Jenna Duncan was a hard woman to characterize. Brunette, yes. Pretty, yes. But that was the easy part. Classic and elegant would be her style. A little Jackie O, but with a lot more swagger. I suspected that if any of her features had dared stray outside of the limits of perfection, she’d’ve had them surgically altered years ago.

  “Anything pop up when you ran her background?” Dad asked.

  “No priors. She’s clean, but it’s who she’s married to that makes this all a little int
eresting. Y’ever hear of a lawyer by the name of Joshua Duncan?”

  Dad sat up a little straighter. “This is Josh Duncan’s wife?”

  Ken nodded.

  “Who’s Josh Duncan?” I asked.

  “Ah, he’s . . .” Dad let that word end in a hiss. “Uh, rather, he was a local lawyer. Still alive, but disbarred and kind of in prison.”

  “Kind of in prison?” I repeated.

  “He’s definitely in prison,” Ken said.

  “I put him there,” Dad said, scratching his cheek. “At least, I started the investigation based on some initial complaints. I was out of my league so I handed it over to the FBI, who put their white-collar investigators and forensic accountants on it and found even more. Duncan claimed he just took on too many clients and got in over his head. But he’d falsified documents to make it look like he was doing a stellar job, even though his mistakes hurt his clients. One poor sap even found out his divorce was phony. His new wife was not happy to discover she’d married a bigamist, despite the reality TV potential.”

  “How did I miss all this?” East Aurora always seemed like such a quiet hamlet when I was growing up. And it still looked the same. Maybe it was time to get those rose-colored glasses checked.

  “It brewed over when you were living in Jersey,” Dad said. “When it came to trial, sentencing guidelines said he could’ve been given anything from a slap on the wrist to serious jail time. Only Duncan apparently had a habit of acting pretty cocky in court, so not only did the judge throw the book at him, but I think she adjourned before passing sentence so she could go home and search for a bigger book.”

  “So while he’s locked up, his wife cleans out the attic and sells Craig her husband’s prized comic book collection,” I said. “And from what I gather, at a steep discount. And now she’s mad.”

  “But who’s she mad at?” Ken said. “The comic book dealer who cheated her? Or the cop who sent her husband away?”