Chapter 10

Before checking in with Lionel Kelley, I returned to the shop to ditch the racy book and put on my manager’s hat and make sure everything was running smoothly. I also wanted to discuss Cathy’s fiction endeavors with her—and make a plea for her to stop including me in them.

But when I walked in, Miles was also there, bent over his laptop at the counter.

“You’re not on the schedule today,” I said.

“I called him in.” Cathy rushed from the doll room. “With Dad not around, I figured you’d be working the case too, and I needed help.”

“But Dad doesn’t want me working the case, remember?” I set my stuff on the counter, pulled Drew from his stalled swing, and took him into my arms.

“What’s this?” Miles picked up the book.

“Better not,” I warned. “I don’t think you’re old enough.”

Cathy moved closer and caught a glimpse of the cover. “Seriously, don’t open that one.” Cathy squinted at me. “What are you doing with it?”

I explained all about senior speed dating and running into the author.

Cathy cocked her head. “I wonder why Kelley sent you there.”

“I don’t know. He’s being very cagey about this whole investigation, but he was convinced something sinister was going on at this meeting. Not sure it’s a coincidence, but Marya Young had been there, too, a few weeks back, handing out coupons.”

“If it involves that book”—she pointed, but then pulled back her hand as if were covered in toxic slime—“if any part of that is real life, you should probably tell Dad. Or at least the health department.” Her face blanched slightly. “Whatever you do, don’t read the chapter about the duck sauce. You may never eat Chinese food again.”

While we were talking, the bell over the door sounded, and a mother and young daughter came in and wandered into the doll room.

“Duty calls.” Cathy went off to see if she could offer help.

I cuddled Drew close and blew a few playful raspberries into his chubby cheek, but remained next to Miles at the counter.

“I suppose,” he said, “that you’re interested in whether I came up with anything about Marya Young.”

“Spot on.”

He cracked his knuckles. “Did you have any doubts?”

“What did you find?” I leaned closer.

“On the immigration front, Marya Young was a citizen of these great United States.”

“So the illegal immigration thing is a false rumor.”

“Not so fast,” he said, looking over his hipster glasses. “Immigration status is not something that’s all that easy to find. But it seems Marya Young was the subject of a recent Buffalo News photo, and they included her name in the caption.” He turned his laptop to face me, and there was Marya’s smiling face amid an eclectic group of all skin tones, many in their native dress. I squinted to read the tiny caption. “Citizenship swearing-in at the Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural Site.”

Drew grabbed hold of the corner of Miles’s laptop with slimy fingers. I lifted him back up. “Sorry about that.”

Miles removed a cloth from his bag and wiped the drool away. “Par for the course when you work with babies or animals. No harm done.”

“When was that article published?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks?” Two thoughts struck simultaneously. One, the idea that Irene and Lenora had about her marrying Ken to help in her bid for citizenship might have some validity. And two, it was truly sad that she’d worked and waited for so long, but was only able to enjoy her citizenship status for two weeks.

“Yeah,” Miles said, catching my mood.

“Any idea when she moved to the U.S.?”

He tapped the counter. “That’s a little trickier. Nobody was taking pictures for the local paper when she arrived. And I haven’t found her name in connection with any crimes. Do you know her maiden name?”

“No idea,” I said.

“Never mind. I can probably find it on their marriage license if I can narrow the county. Give me another day?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “And thanks!”

*   *   *

Miles’s favor deserved some reward, so I called in a take-out order for all of us and walked to Wallace’s to get it.

The lunch crowd, as much as there is on a Monday, hadn’t hit yet, but as I stood at the counter I heard a familiar pair of voices.

Dad and Mark Baker were seated at a booth, both leaning forward, deep in conversation. Neither man had seen me, nor did they look up as I approached them, so I sank into the adjacent booth, suddenly grateful that my father had never allowed me to go to concerts because my hearing was still fully intact.

“It would be premature to say I was investigating anyone in particular,” Mark said. “Can we just leave it at that?”

“As a professional courtesy, would you tell me if any investigation pointed in Ian Browning’s direction?”

There was a brief pause. “I can consider your position. Tell you what. I will say that I am not currently investigating Ian Browning. How’s that?”

“Slightly reassuring. You don’t like him for … whatever it is you’re investigating?”

“Good fishing attempt. But no, I don’t like him for whatever it is I’m investigating. Nor do I like him period. Too oily and self-assured. Is that why you invited me to lunch?”

“Not entirely. I need some advice. A little help on this investigation I’m working on.”

“Read about that. That’s a whole can of worms. You investigating Young?”

“Have to,” Dad said.

“Think he did it?” Mark asked.

Dad let out a long breath. “Things weren’t all that rosy in the Young house. He’d been checking up on her. I found evidence of that when we searched the place. He didn’t trust her.”

“Checking how?”

“Auditing her books, for one thing. He made no secret of that. But he’d also been keeping records of her spending, how much she had in her purse at any given time. How much she spent on clothing and groceries. Even kept a file on her whereabouts as if he had her under surveillance.”

“Was he on to something or just whack-a-doodle paranoid about a pretty wife?”

“Wish I knew,” Dad said. “He seemed like an okay guy, decent enough cop, but things changed when she came to town. Can’t say I saw him as much after that.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“I’d like if you could look over these financial records. See what you make of them. Maybe he was onto something.”

“What does he say?”

“He was helpful at first, but now he’s not saying much of anything. Except that he didn’t kill her. He has two sisters who came to town. Didn’t unpack before they hired him some big shot lawyer who told him to clam up. Meanwhile, I got a whole list of people who didn’t care for his wife, but nobody can think of one who hated her enough to want her dead. Maybe something in that paperwork her husband was keeping will spark an idea. We also got all their joint financial records, if that helps.”

“I’d be glad to look them over for you,” Mark said, then paused as the waitress came to their table for refills and to drop off the check. She stopped by mine with a raised eyebrow, but I put a finger to my lips and shooed her on.

“You may be the money guy, but I got this,” Dad said, and movement in the booth suggested he was reaching for his wallet.

If I stayed where I was, I’d be discovered. I eased my way out of the booth, took a few steps back, then marched directly up to them. “Well, look at that. Great minds think alike!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly.

“Liz,” Dad said. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking up lunch for the crew at the toyshop,” I said. “You do remember the toyshop?”

Dad stood. “I should ask if you remember the toyshop, blowing off a morning like that. Or did you not know that I’d hear about senior speed dating?”

My jaw must have dropped.

Dad wagged a finger at me. “And I don’t care if Lance is older than dirt, if he’s going to date my daughter, I want to meet him first.” At that, he walked off, but not before he burst into raucous laughter that turned the heads of the bartender and every waitress in the place and amused the lunch crowd that had just begun to queue up at the hostess station.

I collapsed into the booth opposite Mark and stared down at Dad’s plate.

“I take it there’s a story there,” he said.

I ran one of Dad’s leftover fries through the ketchup while I waited for my face to cool down. “Maybe not one I’m ready to tell.”

“Those are the stories worth waiting for.” He sipped his Coke, then sat up straighter. “I was going to text you. You want to meet at the theater tonight, or should I pick you up?”

“It’s just down the street. How about I meet you out front?”

“Question,” he said. “Is this a date, or are we going as friends? Because I’m cool either way.”

“Are you buying the popcorn?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then it’s a date.”

When I stood up, I kissed him on the cheek, and now it was his turn for his face to flare.