Death of a Toy Soldier (2 page)

I glanced at the clock in front of the five-and-dime. Just after noon. Maybe Dad wasn’t off arresting people. Maybe he was hungry.

I made a slow pass by the cupcake shop—no sign of him, but the owner waved, so I waved back. Then I started the short hike toward Wallace’s, Dad’s favorite eatery. Although the sign designated the place as a tavern where customers could order their favorite beers and spirits, Jack Wallace clearly focused on food, evident by the vinegary tang that pervaded the air the moment I opened the door and walked in.

My eyes took a few seconds to adjust from the bright snow outside to the darker interior of the restaurant, but I didn’t need twenty-twenty to see that Jack’s place buzzed with locals and visiting shoppers, their bags sitting in the booths next to them. Servers wearing elf ears, reindeer antlers, or festive Santa hats whizzed by, carrying oversized pizzas on gleaming steel stands and wings overflowing their platters alongside
celery and bleu cheese dressing. A busboy wiped off a nearby table to the cadence of “Winter Wonderland,” which blared from the overhead speakers.

When the hostess rushed up with a menu, I waved her off. “Just looking for someone today. Thanks.” Although, full disclosure, my stomach rumbled at the appetizing smells. If I found Dad in a back booth, safely nibbling on wings, I wasn’t going to leave without my share.

Since the booths sported tall backs that obscured the identities of the patrons dining in them, I had to casually stroll past every single one, stealing a glance at the occupants while trying not to look like a jealous wife out to catch her husband lunching with another woman.

Finally, at the last booth before the restrooms, I spotted a pair of handcuffs dangling from the bench into the aisle.

“Aha!” I said, rounding the corner.

But the uniformed man hovering over a plate of chicken wings wasn’t my father. The current chief of police, Chief Young, winced when he saw me.

I slid into the seat opposite him. “Houston, we have a problem.”

“
We
have a problem?” The chief set down his knife and fork, then rubbed his fingers with a paper napkin. A knife and fork? Eating an order of wings with a knife and fork would take hours. “And don’t call me Houston.”

His eyes twinkled a bit, which only made me angry. He wasn’t taking me seriously.

“You don’t understand,” I said. “I’m worried my dad might be—”

“Up to his old tricks?” Chief Young picked up a celery stick and aimed it straight for the bleu cheese. “I know right where your father is. He’s down at the station filling out arrest forms.”

“Tell me you didn’t arrest him.”

“Miss McCall . . .”

“Liz.”

“Liz, don’t worry. I didn’t arrest him. His rank and file would run me out of town.”

I settled into the plush booth opposite the chief. The youngest man to hold the office in years, he was just a little older than me, with dark hair and eyes that squinted just a little too suspiciously. And although he joked about not being named Houston or being from Houston, he spoke with a distinct twang. North Carolina, my dad had told me.

“Dad has a lot of friends here,” I said. “More than thirty years on the job, and then injured in the line of duty . . .”

“Believe me, I don’t need his résumé. He left some mighty big shoes to fill. I’m sure that’s one reason my immediate predecessor didn’t last long.”

“That and the embezzling.” Dad’s replacement had stunned the village when he’d morphed from a decorated officer into a megalomaniac who treated the department funds as though they were his own. After he left in a cloud of scandal and an internal investigation that enveloped the whole department, warranted or not, the mayor had broadened his search for a new chief well outside the village borders, an unprecedented action.

I glanced down. His wings looked awfully good.

“Why don’t you join me? I have more than enough. I can order you a Coke.” He raised his hand to signal the waitress, then grimaced. “I mean
pop
.” I could have sworn he shuddered. “Still getting used to the lingo. As for embezzling, this village has nothing to fear from me. The powers that be practically wrote ‘Keep my hands out of the cookie jar’ into my oath of office. I have to fill out three forms now to get a bullet. Not to mention a reporter from the local rag follows me almost everywhere. Sometimes I have to duck into the men’s room to find some peace.”

“So sorry for you, Chief. But about my father . . .”

“Since you and I are likely to encounter each other in a semiprofessional capacity again—at least until someone circles the definition of ‘retirement’ in your father’s dictionary—why don’t you call me Ken.”

“Ken.” I paused. Same as the doll. And yes, the man’s brown hair was a little too perfect and his teeth were just a little too white. I’d never get the comparison out of my head.

Ken shuffled a wing onto his plate with his fork. “Your dad made a pretty good bust. Took in a shoplifter. Had she picked a different store to rob this morning, she might have gotten away with it.”

The waitress approached the table, and I placed my order, asking for a takeout box.

Ken could barely sit still. There was more to this story.

“I’ll bite. Where’d Dad catch her?”

“The chocolate store.” Ken’s eyes twinkled. “She had several bags of sponge candy stuffed in her . . . uh . . . brassiere.” His ears colored slightly at the word. “And
would you believe three pounds of boxed assorted chocolates under her skirt?”

“How’d she manage that?” Did I really want to know?

“Similar method as used by a thief in Scandinavia a few years back. That woman got away with a forty-two-inch television. Walked out of the store with it between her legs.”

“Hardy people, those Scandinavians.”

“But in this case, the stolen items were chocolate, which added a new wrinkle to the situation. Your father simply engaged the suspect in a friendly but lengthy conversation.” Ken’s voice was filled with something akin to pride. He was warming up to Dad.

“He’s good at that,” I said. “But how did . . . ?”

“It’s amazing what ninety-eight point six degrees of body heat will do to the properties of chocolate. Eventually, it became quite clear what the thief was up to.”

“Ouch.” I couldn’t help laughing at the picture. “They’re not going to want that merchandise back.”

“Yep, your dad has hawk eyes and good instincts. I’m almost glad I deputized him.”

“You
deputized
my father?”

Ken frowned. “It’s not like he has no experience. Why not capitalize on it?”

I could feel my back stiffen. “He’s supposed to be retired, for one reason. It’s dangerous. The man walks with a cane. What would he do if someone put up a struggle?”

“Clobber him with the cane, would be my guess.”

I folded my arms in front of me. “I can’t believe you’re encouraging this behavior.”

Ken let his silverware fall to his plate with a clatter. “Liz, I’m not encouraging anything. He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions. As for deputizing him, I did it to protect the department. Since he’s now official, more or less, it’ll help today’s charges stick.”

“I suppose he’ll have to testify and all that.”

“We also have the evidence from the suspect’s purse and pockets—and I think we’re going to get some nice corroborating video footage when we go through the security cameras. He did good work today, Liz. You should be proud.”

I felt my eyes tearing up, and not from the hot sauce, but I bit back a hasty reply. My anger wasn’t directed at Ken—or at anyone, really. I closed my eyes, which was a mistake, because then the memories came flooding back.

I’d been living in New Jersey when I received word that my father had been shot in the line of duty. My brother, Parker, had tried to explain exactly what had happened. Dad was a hero and alive, I remember him saying. But the only thought my brain could process was that my father had been shot. I somehow managed to drive to the airport and hopped on the next plane from Newark to Buffalo. I was at his bedside in the hospital that night.

It was touch and go for too long. He’d lost a lot of blood. Various specialists argued about how best to treat him—if he regained consciousness. One neurologist scared me by mentioning the possibility that the extended time without oxygen could have led to some degree of brain impairment. Even if he escaped that, he’d need multiple reconstructive surgeries to correct his other injuries.

I was by Dad’s side when his eyelids fluttered open. He looked up, silent and seemingly helpless, smaller than I’d ever recalled seeing him. Then he started pushing back the covers and tried to climb out of his hospital bed. It took both the nurse and me to hold him down until he got his bearings. I was terrified of what it might mean. But then he cupped a gentle hand on my cheek and said, “Sorry, Betsy. I guess you could say I was resisting a rest.” With one pun, I knew he was going to be all right, that Dad was still in there. I didn’t even remind him not to call me Betsy.

Ken slid his hand over mine. “I’ll make sure he gets home okay.”

I brushed away an unwelcome tear and looked up. “Thanks.”

###

“Any word?” Parker and Cathy spoke almost in unison when I entered the shop, swinging my takeout bag.

Othello made his required four jumps down from his catwalk—the first onto the top shelf of board games, the next to the toy gun case, then to a shorter display table of Lincoln Logs, and finally to the black-and-white tiled floor. He rushed up, tail at attention, to sniff my bag.

“Liz . . .” Parker looked disappointed. “Stopping for lunch . . .”

“I found Dad before I got lunch,” I said, setting my bag on the counter. Othello contented himself with circling my ankles. “The chief was unusually reasonable this time.”

“You could have texted,” Cathy said.

“Have you checked your phones?”

Parker guiltily fished his cell out of the pocket of his khakis. He wasn’t much of a khaki person, but his pants and the burgundy polo with the insignia of the wildlife center where he worked were part of his uniform.

“No charges?” Cathy asked.

“Not against him. Apparently he collared an expert shoplifter and might end up getting a commendation from the Chamber of Commerce.”

“And?” Parker pushed aside a pile of Scrabble games that Cathy had set out for the evening’s board game tournament. He hoisted himself onto the table. “How do you account for the chief’s change of heart?”

Othello deserted me for my brother. Parker stroked him behind the ears, and the cat responded with a loud purr.

“Not sure I’d exactly call it a change of heart,” I said. “Seemed more like a strategic move to please the constituency. Friendlier than last time, at any rate. Told me to call him Ken.”

By the spark that flashed across Cathy’s face, I knew I’d made a mistake to mention this.

“Oh,
Ken
, is it?” she teased. “I thought so. He likes you, and if he has to put up with Dad’s shenanigans to win the daughter . . .”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t go putting a down payment on the Malibu Dreamhouse just yet. Ken knows Dad has a lot of friends in this town. If he’s going to establish a long career here, he can’t make waves among the locals.”

Cathy folded her arms. “He
so
likes you.”

“He does not,” I said automatically.

“Well, I sure hope he does.” Parker pulled Othello from his lap and set him on the table. “It might come in handy having a friend leading the department. Besides, you know what you don’t want to become, right?” He reached to a nearby shelf and picked up a deck of vintage Old Maid cards.

I snatched them from his hand and smacked him in the shoulder. I doubted he felt anything under his heavy coat, but he had the good graces to stagger backward and rub his arm as if he’d been mortally wounded.

“Get back to work, mister.” I pushed him toward the door while Cathy giggled.

An hour or so later, Dad walked in, leaning heavily on his cane and escorted by the new chief. Dad was always a big man, not only tall, but ample in all directions. Since retiring, his coat refused to zip over his stomach, and his wavy, salt-and-pepper hair, no longer cut to any regulation, touched his collar. Since Mom’s no longer with us, I suppose it fell to me to remind him to get to the barbershop. She had never liked his hair long, but sometimes I let him slide a few weeks longer between haircuts. It covered the scars from where his head had scraped the pavement.

I ran to hug him. “You had me worried!” I rested my head against his shoulder and just hung on.

“Sorry, Lizzie,” he murmured into my ear.

When I pulled back, I studied his face. His cheeks flushed and his eyes danced with renewed energy. In short, he didn’t look the least bit sorry.

I went over to Ken and shook his hand. “Thanks for bringing him home.”

Ken nodded. Then Cathy cleared her throat, and I realized that our hands were still clasped. I recoiled like he was wearing one of those novelty hand buzzers, the type that delivers a small electrical shock. Maybe not the kindest toy ever invented.

Dad must have seen it too. He redirected his scrutiny to the wall of lunchboxes, his shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.

Ken took this as his cue to leave, which it was. When he’d cleared the threshold, I turned to have a word with Dad, but he was already poring over the boxes the UPS man had delivered that afternoon.

“It’s here!” He slit open the tape on one of the boxes with his keys. “I was worried we wouldn’t see this baby until after Christmas.” He pulled out a hunk of brightly colored plastic and headed to the supply closet.

“What is it?”

“A key part of our Christmas display.”

I put my hands on my hips and glanced around the shop. Santa hats sat on almost every doll. Glittery crystal snowflakes dangled from the ceiling, and scratchy artificial snow dripped from the panes of our windows. Thanks to Othello, it could also be found in every corner of the shop. Lights blinked everywhere, and our speakers blared only the jolliest music.

“Where could you possibly put one more thing?”

“Ah, but that’s the joy of it. He’ll also function as our official greeter.”

“‘He’ll’?” The rest of my questions were drowned out by the clatter of the electric pump we keep on hand to fill
inflatables. Soon, a full-sized toy soldier rose from the wad of plastic.

“Exactly how much did it cost?” But despite my stress at the damage his purchase would inflict on our bottom line, I found it hard to stay angry when staring into the blank eyes and smiling face of a six-foot-tall toy soldier, replete with bright-red coat and gold epaulets.

“Don’t worry. He’ll pay for himself.” Dad sealed the plug and set the cheery gentleman near the front door, where he’d be the first thing customers saw.

I walked a complete circle around the soldier.

“What are you looking for?” Dad said.

“His pockets. If he’s going to pay for himself.”

Before Dad could answer, the door swung open. A young couple walked in, and they
ooh
ed and
aah
ed over the soldier. There was another argument I had no chance of winning, no matter how many financial reports I shoved in front of Dad’s face. Fine. He could have his soldier. But if he thought his missed appointment and his morning excursion would be ignored, he was wrong. I could choose my battles.

When the shop door rang again, Cathy leaned toward my ear. “I can handle customers for a little while, if you’d like to get Dad upstairs. In case there’s anything you need to talk about.”

“Chicken,” I whispered, and while nobody was looking, she flapped imaginary wings twice.

I grabbed Dad’s arm. “A word?”

He didn’t answer but followed me upstairs with the same posture a small boy might have on the way to the principal’s office.

When the door closed behind him, he leaned against it. “I suppose we’re going to have that talk again.”

I crossed my arms. “Only because it hasn’t sunk into that hard head of yours.”

“Well, I do like to be
ahead
of the game. Hey, did you hear about the guy who got hit in the head with a can of pop? He was lucky it was only a
soft
drink.”

“If you think you can distract me with more of those silly puns . . .”

“Betsy, I only stepped out to get a haircut . . .”

I squinted at him. “Is that all?”

“Well, I considered maybe tinting a shade lighter. I figured it would be the
highlight
of my day. But then I decided I’d better
mullet
over.”

I practiced my best glare. “I know you took your handcuffs. Your gun.”

“Perfectly legal.”

“Would you like to reconsider your ‘I only went out for a haircut’ defense? Why would you take your handcuffs?”

“Well, there is a new stylist who’s been catching my eye, and my private life is my own.”

If he’d meant to mollify my anger, his flippant response had the opposite effect. I marched over until I was in his face. “You promised me.” I jabbed an accusing finger into his chest. “You stood right here and promised me.”

“I know what I said, and I had every intention . . . Look, it’s not like I pinky swore or anything.”

“It’s all a joke to you.” I raked my hair with my hands and spun away from him. “I spent months. Months of my life
taking care of you, dealing with your insurance company, helping with your therapy, getting your mobility back . . .”

He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “I appreciate all the sacrifices you made.”

I faced him. “Apparently that life doesn’t mean much to you, but it does to me.” My voice had started to quaver, so I clenched my fists and stopped talking.

“It was only one little shoplifter. Not very dangerous.” He tried to reach in for a hug.

I pushed him away. “It’s like Oreos and My Little Ponies. You can’t stop at one. And sneaking out? One day I’m going to get a call that something happened, and I won’t even know you left the house.”

He set his jaw. “A cop is what I’ve always been.”

“A toyshop owner is what you are now.”

“A
part
of what I am now.”

“Apparently not a very important part. You do realize you missed an appointment today . . .”

“Was that today?” Now he did look contrite. “You may not believe this, but I never intended to go out. I’d seen that woman walk by any number of times, and I always suspected something was off. Today I noticed something odd about her gait.” He smiled. “Let me tell you what we found. It’s one for the books.”

“I’ve heard the story.” The adrenaline ride must have taken a lot out of me. Suddenly I felt exhausted. I collapsed into a kitchen chair and rested my arms on the table.

Dad came up behind me and started massaging my shoulders. “I guess I need to try harder. Please know that I do appreciate everything you’ve done, moving back home to help a foolish old man.”

I patted his hand and then held it. “Not old.” I stopped there. He could draw his own conclusions.

“What’s this?” Dad headed toward the cardboard box of toys that Cathy must have moved upstairs.

“Toys that came in today.” I rose to put the teakettle on. “Your missed appointment. The man who brought them hasn’t decided if he wants to sell them. He’d like to know their value.” I picked out my father’s favorite herbal tea, a combination of orange and spices, while I went for an Earl Grey.

“Did he leave his name?”

“I have his card somewhere. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten his name.” I fanned my face with the empty teabag wrappers. “I have it on the best authority that you have a
photographic
memory.”

He paused and tilted his head, then a full smile erupted. “But what if it fails to
develop
? I’m not even sure he gave me his name. He just called and asked to meet over some confidential matter.”

“This about toys or something else?” I glared at him.

Dad raised his hands in a show of innocence. “Hey, he called me and said he didn’t want to go into any details over the phone.” He gestured to the box. “Apparently it was about toys. But if these are stolen and he’s looking to fence them, he’s come to the wrong place.”

“In which case you’ll call the police?”

Dad let out a disappointed breath. “Pinky swear.”

###

I went back to making the tea while Dad continued to make more photography puns, ending with a chorus of “Someday my prints will come.”

By the time I turned around with our steaming mugs, he’d donned his gloves and unloaded a number of toys onto the table, gently lifting one and holding it up to the light. He whistled.

“Some good stuff?” I started to set his cup on the table.

“Why don’t you keep the tea over there, Lizzie. I wouldn’t want to risk damaging these toys.”

I took a quick sip of my tea before setting both mugs down on the counter. Most likely they would still be there, full and cold, hours from now.

“What’ve we got?” I asked.

“German, I think. Prewar, mostly. These would go for a pretty price. Definitely need to keep the punks away from these.”

“Punks” were what my father called the aficionados of steampunk. Nice people, from all my encounters. I’d tried to explain the genre, with its mash-up of Victorian society, science fiction, and anachronistic steam-based technology, to Dad once. The closest I got was “If Florence Nightingale and Inspector Gadget had a love child . . .” But Dad flipped when he discovered that they were disassembling old toys to salvage the gears for their costumes and jewelry. To hear him talk, they were right up there with skinheads and terrorists.

He gently lifted the toy boxers. “There’s a dealer in Michigan who might know more. I don’t recall his name. Is Miles here?”

I couldn’t help but smile. Miles was the college student whom Dad had hired to build a website for the shop. The guy didn’t talk much when he first came, and Dad volunteered little about how they’d met. The website turned out fabulous,
however, and Miles then suggested he could place some of our inventory for sale online. The venture proved so successful that he now handles all our Internet sales and auctions and occasionally rolls up his sleeves and works in the shop during busy holiday periods.

Using my cell phone, I took a picture of the toy boxers from several different angles, including the winding mechanisms, and e-mailed them to Miles, asking if he knew anyone who could provide an estimate.

By the time I needed to head down to relieve Cathy, a stack of pricing guides was piled on the table. Dad’s reading glasses were perched on his head as he examined the elephant bank with a gigantic Sherlock Holmes–style magnifying lens. I made him a sandwich, which I left sitting next to his cold tea, and sneaked downstairs. In a flash of either pure genius, or possibly postadolescent defiance, I stopped to change the alarm code on the back door. No way Dad was going to pull a Houdini tonight.

Cathy had set up four tables with eight Scrabble boards between them, and tiles and racks awaited our guests for the evening.

“Quiet this afternoon.” Cathy slipped on her coat. “I wish I could stay to help tonight, but I’ve got a poetry slam over at the community center. I think the snow is going to keep a few people away, so I’ve got a pretty good shot at taking a prize.” Cathy adopted a dreamlike visage and gazed into an imaginary distance. If she had focused, she’d be looking at Toss Across, a croquet set, and the lawn darts—strictly for display—we kept locked in a glass case.

“‘Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn . . .’”

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” I said. “I like that one.”

“
That
was Oliver Goldsmith.” She cleared her throat. “The trees are claws, scratching the evening sky, as I gaze at blue-gray span with blue-gray eye.” She paused and waited.

I nodded.

“Get it? It’s personification. Trees don’t scratch. And a nice metaphor, I thought.”

I nodded again.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She rolled her eyes and bustled out the door.

I put on a fresh pot of coffee for our guests. By the time the evening got rolling, our regular gamers filled all but one of our tables, and a stack of bills and coins was growing on the counter where the players left payment for the nostalgic candies that they selected from our display. I broke away from my own game twice (yes, I’m an avid board gamer) to ring up a Snoopy music box and a vintage Spock action figure, complete with tricorder, communicator, phaser, and belt.

After this last transaction, I felt a rush of satisfaction as I took my seat. This bump in impulse sales was precisely what had inspired me to suggest regular game nights—that, and a chance to play some of my favorite games. The nostalgic candy was also my idea. It seemed the perfect complement, tempting customers with the tastes of their childhood, especially varieties that were harder to come by today: Necco Wafers, Turkish Taffy, and a full assortment of Pez.

Tonight I played opposite the mayor’s wife, whom I trailed by twenty points. Lori Briggs hovered over her rack of tiles. With the candy cigarette hanging out of the corner
of her mouth, she looked a bit like a hustler. She was one of those petite fortysomethings, all eyelashes and dimples, who could pass for twenty. And prettier now than I had ever been. Not that I was a cow or anything. But I had gotten “big” genes from my Dad, not fat exactly, but tall and built solid as a Buick.

Usually I could take Lori in Scrabble with my eyes closed, but I was off my game. Every noise seemed to distract me, especially the
clickety clack
of knitting needles. Peggy Trent, a mousy older woman sitting kitty-corner from me at the same table, had brought her knitting to occupy her hands between turns. At least I wasn’t playing opposite her tonight. Jack Wallace had that honor. The restaurateur was seated next to me, smelling heavily—and heavenly—of hot sauce.

“I heard your father is back on the job,” Lori said, rearranging her letters. “Are you sure he’s up for it? You know we’re all so concerned . . .”

I gritted my teeth. By “we’re” Lori meant the whole town, of which she’d appointed herself spokesperson.