Murder on the Toy Town Express Read online

  “Given all that activity around the comic booth, I’d lay serious money on the former, but that’s not the only question,” Dad said. “As I recall, Duncan also had a chunk of change to pay back in restitution. How is it that Jenna Duncan managed to stay in this house?”

  “Maybe she has money of her own?” I asked.

  “I guess I should check with the FBI to see if she’s on their radar,” Ken said.

  “Talk to Mark Baker,” Dad suggested. “He’s the forensic accountant who worked the case. Tell him I sent you.”

  “Thanks,” Ken said.

  “Meanwhile, I’d like a replay of what happened at that comic booth.” Dad stood up and put a tape into the VCR. Soon a grainy picture popped up on the screen.

  “So we’re looking for this Jenna woman?” I asked. “And Batman-man and Grandpa?”

  “Edward Millroy,” Ken said. “And the other guy’s name is Don Eicher. We should also try to follow Craig’s movements.”

  “He disappeared for a while this morning,” I said.

  “We’ll want to watch everyone who approaches and see what they do.”

  “Including Terry Wallace,” Ken said softly. He looked at me as if he wanted to say more.

  “Terry had no reason to hurt Craig,” I said.

  Ken tapped out an unrecognizable rhythm on his legs before answering. “With all the action taking place near that comic booth, it suggests that if anyone was drugged, Craig was probably the target. But I’m not ready to discount other possibilities.” He stared at my father. “And for your own safety, I don’t think you should write them off either. If we go with the working theory that someone tampered with the coffee cup, then we still have to allow that Craig might not have been the intended victim.”

  Dad didn’t answer. He picked up the remote and pressed play.

  # # #

  When I woke up, I had a kink in my neck and a little string of drool connecting me to the throw pillow. I quickly wiped it away as I realized I wasn’t alone in the living room.

  Dad was sound asleep in his favorite chair, while Ken smiled up at me from where he’d stretched out on the floor with his back against the sofa, the remote still in his hand. I picked up my phone and glanced at the time: 2 AM.

  “You shouldn’t have let me sleep.”

  “You probably needed it,” he whispered.

  I sat up, squinted into my empty coffee cup, and set it down on the table amid the collection of cups, glasses, and the oversized popcorn bowl that now held just a few kernels. “Did you find anything?” The last tape I remembered had shown nothing suspicious, unless you counted Craig flapping his cape, swooping in on people, and annoying everyone in sight.

  Ken pushed himself up off the floor and sat next to me on the sofa. “I’d like you to see this.” He rewound the tape and let it play.

  This camera angle caught the comic book stand perfectly—and Maxine who was working behind the counter. To the left, Jack stood next to Terry who was paging through comic books from the five-dollar bin, and you could make out Maxine’s face turning in that direction, as if she was talking with them. I was so focused on them that I didn’t catch the movement to the right of the table until the person walked away, but then I realized it was Batman-man.

  “Wait, replay that.”

  Ken did, and this time I watched the right end of the table. When Maxine was talking with Terry, Batman-man approached the table. Even from a distance, something was odd in the picture, as if he was fumbling with something from the pocket of the coat that was slung over his arm.

  “Back again?” I craned my neck forward to watch.

  This time it was pretty clear that Millroy was doing something with his coat. Hiding something inside? Or pulling something out?

  “Sorry, rewind again?”

  Ken rewound, and even while the tape was progressing backward, I looked for the coffee cups. There was one on a table in the back of their booth, but midway through the tape, Maxine took a sip from it.

  “There. Could you freeze it?”

  Ken froze the tape in the spot just before Millroy approached the booth.

  I got up and walked to the television. “Right there.” I pointed to an object barely visible behind one of the comic bins to the right of the screen. “Is that a coffee cup?”

  Ken came up behind me. Close enough behind me that I could feel his breath on my neck. “I think so.”

  I took the remote from his hand and stepped the tape slowly through the whole sequence. Ken remained close, watching it with me. I could feel his warmth against my back and smell his musky scent. I resisted the urge to pull away to protect my personal space. After everything that happened today—or rather, yesterday—the human connection felt like a tonic. I breathed it in.

  I paused during Millroy’s fumbling with his jacket. “Is he hiding something underneath it, like comic books? Or is he getting something out of it?” A few more frames after this, he’d hunched over the comic book bin. It would’ve been easy, if he had good aim, to drop something right into the cup behind it.

  “Inconclusive,” Ken rumbled, very close to my ear. “Could be either. I don’t see Jack’s brother making any kind of moves like that, unless he’s deliberately distracting Maxine.”

  “Why would he help those guys? He has no connections to the mob.”

  “Unless he made some in prison. A lot of men who go in don’t come out for the better. Unless you count the new criminal skills they learn and contacts they’ve made.”

  I nodded. So Terry still wasn’t completely in the clear.

  Ken reached his arm around my waist. “I hope you’re not mad at me. About earlier.”

  I hugged him tighter and let my head rest against his shoulder. “It’s just an ugly situation. I never liked Craig, so I can see why you had to rule me out, and I’m glad you did.”

  “It was easy when I saw you never went anywhere near the coffee.”

  I had closed my eyes, still relishing the closeness and safety. When his words sank in, my eyes popped open and I pushed him away to arm’s length. “But I did. I did have access to the coffee.”

  “I don’t see you anywhere near it at the booth.”

  I shook my head. “Not at the booth. Maxine was behind me in line. We both set all our cups down at a table. Jack and Terry were there. You. You were there.”

  Ken’s face blanched, clearly visible even under a deep five-o’clock—or rather two-AM—shadow. “There was coffee on the table.”

  “There were cameras,” I said.

  Ken froze in place, and I fumbled through the stack of videotapes, holding the labels up to the light coming in from the streetlight outside. I ejected the paused one and put the concessions area tape in the player, then fast-forwarded it, keeping my eye on the time stamp. I pressed play, and the concession stand came into near focus. I stood in line with Jack and Terry with Maxine right behind. I watched as she got her coffees, I grabbed mine, and Jack and Terry got theirs, and we all set them on that wobbly round cocktail table. All the cups were clearly visible, no tampering possible, until Ken walked up. His position obscured the camera view, and shortly after that he accidentally jostled the table and we all made a grab for the cups.

  Ken backed up the tape, played it again, then let out a chain of epithets that could raise the dead.

  My father awoke with a snort. “What?”

  Ken replayed it and Dad raised a fist to his mouth.

  “What?” I said.

  “I could have done it,” Ken said, shaking his head.

  “But you didn’t,” I said, shifting my gaze between Ken and my father. They seemed to be in the middle of an intense telepathic communication.

  “That’s not the point, sweetheart,” Dad said. He turned to Ken. “Who’s your best man? Howard Reynolds?”

  Ken nodded. His lips were drawn so tight, I was worried someone would have to take a crowbar to pry them apart.

  “It’ll be okay,” Dad said. “He’s a good cop.”


  “Don’t mind me,” I said. “Apparently I don’t need to know what’s going on. Does this mean you have to excuse yourself from the investigation?”

  “Recuse,” Dad said, “and there’s actually no rule that he has to. But should a case come to trial and some savvy defense lawyer picks up on any hint of impropriety or evidence tampering—”

  “But he wouldn’t do that,” I said. “And they certainly couldn’t prove it. Besides, aren’t you like ninety-nine percent sure that Craig is at the center of all this?”

  “I still think he is,” Dad said.

  “Then what does it matter who drank out of whose cup?” I asked.

  “Because just putting that idea out there,” Ken said, “can weaken a case in the eyes of a jury. All any savvy defense attorney needs is reasonable doubt. For instance, you didn’t like Craig.”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t kill him!”

  “And I wouldn’t tamper with evidence. Would a jury who doesn’t know either of us have the same confidence?”

  Ken waited for a response, but I didn’t have one. “I’ll let Howard know this is his case in the morning—somebody might as well get some sleep.” He picked up his coat. “You both should too.”

  While Dad walked him to the door, I gathered a few dirty glasses and the popcorn bowl and put them in the kitchen sink.

  “Don’t look so worried, Lizzie,” he said when he returned.

  “I don’t know Howard Reynolds. Any good?”

  “Best as they come. Iraq War vet. Level-headed. Thorough. Doesn’t back down from a fight but doesn’t go looking for one, either.”

  “I suppose that’ll make me a suspect, then.”

  “He’ll want to talk to you. He’ll want to talk to me. Will he consider either of us as suspects? That’ll depend on how the evidence comes in.”

  “I don’t like this one,” I said. “It’s coming too close. To all of us. I could be a suspect. You might have been targeted and could have been killed. Ken is off the case. Jack and Terry are under suspicion as well. What in the world is going on?”

  Dad gave me a hug. “I don’t think we’re going to find any answers to that one tonight. Get some sleep, sunshine. Maybe in the morning something will dawn on you.”

  I was halfway to my bedroom before I recognized the puns, but I was too tired to groan.

  Chapter 9

  I awoke to pressure on my chest and a black tail swishing my face, but before I had time to swat it away, Othello dug in his rear claws and launched off, running to the sound of a can of cat food being opened in the kitchen, no doubt by Dad.

  I fumbled to find my glasses on the nightstand and glanced at the clock: 6 AM, on the dot. Later than I’d wanted to sleep, but I still had plenty of time to get ready and start the second—and last—day of the train and toy show by eight.

  I reluctantly threw off the covers and crossed to the window to pull back the curtains.

  Main Street still looked the same. Same faux brick street. Same delightfully quaint shops, most still closed, of course. A few cars ventured down the street, windshield wipers slapping off a little condensation. A stray reflected headlight pierced the morning twilight and drew my eyes to Craig’s shop. It brought a lump to my throat. He’d accomplished so much, converting that once-vacant storefront into a thriving business, and he had died leaving so many plans unfulfilled. What would happen to the business and to those comics he’d been working on?

  When I padded out to the kitchen, Dad, wearing an apron over his security uniform, had already started the coffee. Bacon popped and sizzled in a small pan on the stove, and he rushed to turn down the heat.

  “You seem chipper this morning,” I said, reaching into the cupboard and pulling out the largest mug I could find.

  “It’s all those years operating on little or no sleep. I’m rather used to the long hours. How are you doing?”

  “Funny thing,” I said. “My alarm clock didn’t go off this morning.”

  “I may have sneaked in to turn it off,” he said. “I texted Parker and Miles, and they’re both willing to pitch in today. I figured Parker could work the store, maybe Miles and Cathy run the booth.”

  “And I could, what? Sleep in and have my nails done, maybe catch a movie? Dad, yes, I was upset about Craig, but I think I can handle working today.”

  “Actually, I thought you might like the chance to just walk around the train and toy show.”

  “Take in the scenery? Check out the competition?”

  Instead of answering, Dad pulled a plate from the cupboard, lined it with paper towels, and started draining the cooked bacon. “I was hoping you could be my eyes and ears. You did good yesterday, kiddo. The coffee cups. The missing comics. Jenna Duncan. They’re all details that might’ve gone unnoticed because it all looked like an accidental fall. You gave the police several leads and may have preserved key evidence.”

  As he heaped on the compliments, I could feel my head swell, but at the same time, my internal early warning system was activated. Dad’s praise was seldom unconditional. The safe, rational thing to do would be to put my foot down and drag both of us out of the investigation. But Dad had spun his words as adeptly as some cult leader, playing on my pride, my craving for his approval, my sense of justice, and that infernal inherited curiosity.

  I said nothing, but my next sip of coffee tasted an awful lot like Kool-Aid.

  “This is the last day of the show,” he said. “I’m assuming all the major players from yesterday will show up again. They seem to have some unfinished business.”

  “And you trust me to do this on my own?” I pulled out a chair and plopped at the table with my coffee.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You’re going to send your little girl, out all alone, wandering the mean aisles of the East Aurora Train and Toy Show?” I forced a casual smile. “Why, I could trip over a teddy bear, step on a Lego, or even get my eye poked out by a lightsaber.”

  “Just as long as you don’t run off with that Howdy Doody doll a few booths over.”

  I batted my eyelashes at him. “But Howdy is so sweet. You don’t know him like I do. And I can earn enough to support both of us until he finishes school.”

  Dad set the plate of bacon on the table and sat down. “A pretty girl like you, I doubt you’d be alone for long,” he said airily and picked up his newspaper.

  I crumpled the top of his paper so I could see his face. “What have you done?”

  He shook the crinkles out of the paper and set it down. “I just mentioned to Ken that you’d be there. Since he handed over the investigation to Howard Reynolds, it seems he’s decided to take some time off.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s your game?”

  “Lizzie,” he said, his expression grim, “this isn’t a game. The more I think about it, the bleaker it looks. We’ve got one dead man, and we can’t even call it murder, not for sure. And all these characters are walking around, and we’ve no idea what they’re up to or who they’re after. And the clock is ticking. I know I can’t keep you from the toy show, but if you’re going to be there, you might as well see what you can find out. And I figured you’d be safer with Ken along.”

  “For my protection.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s the only reason?”

  He half-hid his face behind his coffee cup. “I thought you might enjoy the company. You do seem to get along.”

  “So a little investigation, a little matchmaking. And you’ve already talked to Parker, Miles, and Ken. What time did you get up, anyhow?”

  “A little after five. But I’ve been multitasking like the wind. I also looked up the value of those missing comic books.” He pushed a neatly written column of numbers in my direction.

  I glanced at the total at the bottom and nearly spurted coffee out of my nose. “Ninety thousand dollars?”

  “Closer to ninety-five, but in that ballpark.”

  “That’s some ritzy ballpark. Ninety grand wo
uld pay for a lot of peanuts and nachos.” I set my mug down, pulled off my glasses, and started to run down the list of comics. “These have to play some part in what happened. I had no idea they were worth this much. I wonder if Maxine does.”

  “Beats me,” Dad said. “But Jenna Duncan just got a lot more interesting.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “So did Craig. Who would even bring ninety thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise to a local collector’s show?”

  Dad rested his elbows on the table. “That’s a very astute question. You have to figure Craig brought them because he was reasonably convinced he had a buyer for them.”

  I looked up at him. “The mob guys?”

  “Maybe, but why?”

  I shrugged. “Jenna Duncan might want them back, but if Craig knew what they were worth and he got them fair and square, he’s not going to give her a bargain.”

  “True,” Dad said. “And then there’s the age-old question—who gains the most from Craig’s death?”

  “Maxine did say that they were insured. I’m going to lay odds that he carried life insurance as well.”

  “So who benefits?” Dad asked. “And when we find that out, we also need to know if those beneficiaries were at the train show.”

  “They wouldn’t have had to be,” I said. “They could’ve hired someone. What if the mob guys were there as hired guns to kill Craig? Or you? Or maybe nobody tried to kill anybody, because we still don’t know for sure that Craig was drugged. And even if he was, we don’t know the goal was murder.”

  He winked at me. “You’re very good at this.”

  “How can you say that? I have a million pieces and none of them fit.”

  “Exactly. Most mistakes at this stage of the game are made because of assumptions. You’re gathering pieces, figuring out different ways they might go together, but you’re not trying to jam them to make them fit. Seriously. You’re a natural. Must be good genes.”

  “I’m afraid my good jeans are in the wash.”

  “And it always comes back to clothes.” Dad rolled his eyes. “And I had so much hope you’d keep your mind on the case.”

  “I’m just figuring out what I should wear today. Seems I have a date with a policeman.”