Chapter 11

After lunch, I got up the nerve to see Lionel Kelley. Except he wasn’t there, or at least didn’t answer his door when I knocked. So I ended up back at the shop where I unpacked a couple of boxes of newly arrived inventory, including a rather nice edition of the Hardy Boys Mystery Game. Cleaned and priced, it was the star of our shelves. Joe was clearly the focus of the cover, looking straight ahead, but quieter Frank had always been my favorite.

Dad never returned home for dinner, so I kept it simple with grilled cheese and canned tomato soup, then dressed for my date with Mark. Without Cathy’s help, I managed to pull together a rather cute outfit. At least I hoped I did. Green sweater, cheery holly scarf, jeans, and I even wore my nutcracker socks and snowman earrings.

And the nice thing about a movie date is that even if I didn’t quite pass muster with the fashion police, the theater would be dark.

I pulled on a red wool coat and walked the block to the theater. The sun had set early, of course, but the shimmering Christmas decorations on every telephone pole and the steady light streaming from the businesses gave a luster of midday to Main Street. The oversized figure sitting on the roof of the five-and-dime was already decked out in his Santa hat. I could see why the town had been chosen to play host to a couple of holiday movies, even if we’d had a heat wave when they were filming and they’d had to borrow snowmaking equipment from a local ski resort.

A group of Dickens carolers were performing near the theater, and Mark didn’t see me come up next to him. I tapped his arm with my mittened hand.

“Hi,” he whispered.

I turned to listen to the rest of the song, which turned into a delightfully harmonic and upbeat medley, finishing up with a rather impolite and urgent demand for figgy pudding. Instead they received hearty applause and the clanking of coins into their bucket, including from Mark who pulled some bills from his wallet before he took my arm.

Conversation was a little awkward as we waited in line for our popcorn. First dates can be like that, at least any that I’ve ever been on. Anything witty that could have been said evacuated my nervous brain.

That’s the other nice thing about movie dates: after the theater darkens and the screen lights up, you don’t have to keep up a conversation.

Mark laughed heartily at the film, which featured a love-struck teenaged Shirley Temple crushing on Cary Grant, wreaking havoc with the budding relationship between Cary and Myrna Loy. Mark’s laughter was infectious, and soon the whole theater was giggling at the comic situations and pratfalls. And any unease I felt at the first date vanished.

“I take it you’ve not seen this movie before,” I said as we rose to leave.

“I haven’t, but I think it’s going in my top ten,” he said. “It brings up something I did want to talk about, though. How about we find a nice place for a good cup of hot chocolate?” He glanced at his watch. “Who’s still open?”

“I know a place not far from here with great hot chocolate.”

“Lead on, then.”

He didn’t figure it out until we arrived at the toyshop. Miles had closed it up tight and set the alarm, so I entered the code before I popped on the lights.

“I do make a mean hot chocolate, and if you wanted a quiet place to talk …”

He wandered through the aisles a little before poking his head into the addition. “This is new.”

“Dad’s comic book room,” I said.

“This must be right behind the barber shop.”

I sighed. “Their old storage room.”

“You can’t see anything of the crime scene from here, can you?” he asked, getting down on one knee near a roughed-in electrical outlet where a glimmer of light was visible.

“No,” he answered his own question then pushed himself up and brushed drywall dust from his pant legs.

“Are you working the investigation?” I asked as we climbed the stairs to the apartment.

He didn’t answer until we reached the top. “Just assisting where I can. Looking into some financial records.”

I opened the door and draped my coat on a kitchen chair while I gathered my ingredients: milk, sugar, pinch of salt, half-and-half, and cocoa from the Amish stand at the farmer’s market. I doubted the Amish actually grew the cocoa locally, but it was still the best I’d had.

“It will just be a minute,” I said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Your dad home?”

“I somehow doubt it.” I glanced down the hallway to his open door. If he’d come home and was sleeping, the door would be shut. “Probably out working the case. We never saw much of him in the early days of an investigation.”

“He wouldn’t have a problem with me being up here, would he?” He squinted at a few family photos in a collage frame, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table.

I laughed. “I’m not exactly twelve.”

“Let’s see. When you were twelve, I was probably twenty-two or twenty-three.”

I pointed my wooden spoon at him. “Now, if I were twelve and you were twenty-two and we were up here alone, you’d never see parole.”

He leaned his elbows on the table. “That is, if I survived until the trial.”

“Good point,” I said.

I busied myself with the cocoa, and when I glanced around, Val had come out of seclusion and was sniffing Mark’s fingers. “Careful, that cat can be unpredictable. I have the scars to prove it.”

But Mark pet her and she leaned into him. She let him pick her up and set her on his lap.

“If the FBI doesn’t work out, you might be able to get a job as a cat-whisperer.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, you’re reviewing Ken and Marya’s financial records …” I turned back to the hot chocolate. The key to the cocoa was heating the milk without boiling it. And I hoped the key to getting information would be to not seem so anxious to get it.

“Is that why I merited an invite? Not sure I should discuss that with you.”

“Why’s that?”

“You used to date the man. If the evidence points to him being guilty, how will you take it?”

“Like a cop’s daughter,” I said. “Just the facts, man.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “And if the evidence points to him being innocent?”

“Then that’s good, right?” I poured the cocoa into two jolly Christmas mugs and slid one across the table.

“Wait!” Before he could take a sip, I retrieved the chocolate whipped cream from the fridge. “Not the same without the whipped cream.”

“No desiccated mini marshmallows?” he said.

“Strictly for amateurs.”

“Now you’re talking.” He put a deft swirl of chocolate whipped cream on top of his cocoa, then took a sip. When he leaned back with a contented sigh, he was wearing a chocolate moustache.

I chuckled and set a stack of napkins on the table.

He wiped the chocolate away, and a more serious expression overtook his face. “Tell you what. You can ask me one question about the investigation, as long as I can ask one question from you.”

“An even trade?”

“I play fair.”

I thought for a moment. “What all have you learned from looking into the couple’s financial records?”

“Everything I’ve learned?”

I just smiled.

He took a fortifying sip of his cocoa. “For one thing, she was a very creative bookkeeper. Her husband apparently suspected her of some kind of shenanigans, and his suspicions seem valid enough. She had a lot of money coming in.”

“I heard she was very popular.”

“Among a certain clientele,” he said. “Her appointment slots were always booked, but she gave huge discounts. I’m not sure how she could have turned a profit at all.”

“Then where was she getting the money?”

Mark shrugged. “That’s what her husband was apparently trying to figure out. That, and where it was going.”

I lifted my mug up until it steamed my glasses. I guess I was hoping it would hide the eagerness in my face. I waited for him to go on.

“As fast as it came in, it disappeared,” he said.

“Tax evasion? Some kind of money laundering?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like any scheme I’ve ever seen.”

“How much money are we talking here?”

“Isn’t that another question?”

“It’s a clarification of the first question.”

“Man, you are tough,” he said. “Looks like two, three grand a month. Maybe more. Money comes in. Money goes out.”

“And she’s been here a year,” I said.

“So we’re talking possibly tens of thousands,” Mark said. “Not exactly a huge criminal enterprise, if that’s what it was, but it’s something.” He leaned his arms against the table. “Now my question.”

“Shoot.”

“If the investigation clears Ken Young of any wrongdoing in his wife’s death, would you consider seeing him again?”

“Why?”

“Nope, that’s a different question.”

I took a long sip of my cocoa, then set the mug on the table. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I liked Ken. And if Marya had never come to town and Ken had secretly gotten his divorce, who knows what would have happened? But honesty is a trait I value, and him not telling me he was married …”

“If it helps,” Mark said, “it doesn’t look like this year was much fun for him.”

“Doesn’t help at all.” I sighed. “I don’t want him to be unhappy, and I didn’t want her to be unhappy, either. And I certainly didn’t want to see her dead.”

“You do know they’re probably going to be talking with you officially.”

“They took care of that this morning. Kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Probably because your father’s driving the investigation.”

“And driving himself to an early grave in the process,” I said. “He just can’t stay away.”

“Liz, have you considered that he took this case for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, one thing cops hate is investigating other cops. If the investigation clears Young, your father could be accused of a cover-up. If it condemns him, there’ll be a big backlash from his supporters in the department. I’m going to lay odds that your dad’s goal was to keep you as far away from the spotlight as possible for as long as possible. But he won’t be able to do that forever, unless something else breaks in the investigation.”

“Like figuring out where this money came from and where it was going.”

The stairs leading up to the apartment sounded a familiar creak. Moments later, Dad opened the door. He looked at Mark, then at me, then down at the table. “Please tell me there’s more cocoa.”

I smiled. “Take a seat. I’ll heat it up for you.”

*   *   *

When Dad’s cocoa was sufficiently hot, I joined the two men at the table and conversation came to a dead halt.

“Maybe I should head out.” Mark started pushing himself out of his chair.

“Actually,” Dad said, “I kind of wanted to talk with you.”

Mark slid back down into his seat, but Dad did more slurping than talking.

“Should I leave?” I asked.

Dad sniffed, then stared at me for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I could use a set of fresh eyes and ears.”

If my eyebrows weren’t attached, they probably would have bounced off the ceiling and smacked me in the face on the way back down. “You’re asking me to help?”

Dad sat back. “Unofficially. I kind of figured I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of it. Not for long, anyway. Better I can keep an eye on you. And I’d prefer you to be more of a sounding board, rather than chasing leads, red herrings, and the occasional goose on your own.”

“Goose chasing?”

“And I’d appreciate your discretion.” He winked. “No sharing any of this with Lance or your other friends down at senior speed dating.”

I rolled my eyes.

“I take it you discovered something,” Mark said.

Dad rubbed his nose. “Well, we did get some background on the victim.”

“On Marya,” I said. “Victim” seemed so impersonal.

“From what Ken said before those two sisters of his arrived, from what they let slip when they got their dander up, and from what I learned from his former department, Marya has been in this country most of her life.”

“Which explains why her English was so good,” I said. “But she only became a citizen a couple of weeks ago.”

Dad’s head jerked in my direction. “How do you know that? Do you know how many hours it took me to find that out?”

I clammed up. No way I would throw Miles under the bus, especially if I might need to ride that bus a little later.

“As best we can figure,” Dad said, “she was only two or three when she arrived, and not by the usual channels.”

“What are we talking?” Mark asked. “Black-market adoption? Human trafficking?”

“Not adoption,” Dad said. “There’s reports of an adult sister who functioned as guardian. But she’s like a ghost. No record of her much anywhere. Only a few people claimed to have met her.”

“If they were illegal aliens,” I said, “they wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail.”

“Still,” Mark said, “most illegal aliens pay taxes. There should be records. You have a name on this sister?”

“That’s about all I have.” Dad pushed a paper in Mark’s direction, but I snagged it before he could complete the handoff.

“Anechka Besk … ry … ost … nov.”

“Something like that,” Dad said. “There’s an office pool on how to pronounce it. You might have a shot.”

I took out my cell phone and took a picture of the name, then handed the paper to Mark.

He stared at it for a moment. “I’ll run it. And maybe some variations. She might have tried to anglicize, or at least shorten it.”

“Appreciate it,” Dad said. He leaned forward and rested his head on the table. “Unless we find a few other suspects and pretty quick, pressure is going to be on to arrest Ken Young. I think he knows it.” He peeked up at me. “Any thoughts?”

“I wondered if it might be someone she encountered at her twelve-step program.”

“That’s a good thought,” Dad said. “You know where she went?”

“The same one Mom went to,” I said. “Only there’s a Pastor Pete in charge of it now. I met him yesterday.”

“Liz, you shouldn’t be chasing down leads on your own.”

“Well, someone shut me out of the investigation,” I countered. “Besides, all I did was go to church. No crime in that.”

Mark leaned forward. “Did you learn anything?”

“Not a lot. Pastor Pete didn’t think Marya was relapsing or anything like that.”

“Did you get a list of names of who else attends?” Dad asked.

“I asked, but they’re all so … anonymous. I thought about attending a meeting, but now Pastor Pete knows me.”

“He doesn’t know me,” Mark said. He held up his empty cup. “Hello, my name is Mark, and I’m a chocoholic.”

“Hi, Mark.” I took his cup and poured the dregs of the cocoa into it.

“Any other thoughts?” Dad asked.

“Well, since she was killed in the barber shop, maybe a client could have killed her.” I mentioned the hair on the floor from the crime scene photo. “I couldn’t make out the color.”

“It was gray,” Dad said. “And we have a client list.” He shuffled through some papers. This time he slid it in my direction.

I scanned the names. “You want to know what’s interesting about this list?” I said as I trailed a finger down the page. I looked up at him with what was probably a smug smile. “They were almost all at senior speed dating.”

“Now that I’m not ready to check out,” Mark said.

“And I don’t think they’d welcome me back,” I said.

We both turned to Dad. I won’t repeat what he said.

*   *   *

While Dad went to find his much-neglected bed for a few hours, I walked Mark downstairs.

“This is a first,” he said. “I’ve never had a date turn into a murder investigation before.”

“Sadly, I think I have,” I said. “Oh, you wanted to talk about something. Did we ever get to that?”

“Kind of. I was a little concerned about whether you were comfortable dating a much older man. When you turned it into a joke, I figured the answer was yes.”

“I don’t think of you as that much older.”

“Is it my boyish looks or my perpetual immaturity that you find attractive?”

I swatted his arm and laughed. “Maybe both. But I should probably tell you that I do have some hesitation about getting involved with someone in law enforcement.”

“Because of Ken?”

I shook my head. “Not entirely. I grew up in a cop’s house, and I know the stresses it creates.”

“Does that apply to accountants?” he asked. “My job is a bit less dangerous. Aside from a paper cut or two, I’ve had a perfect safety record.” He pointed to his pinkie finger. “You can barely see the scar now.”

“You make a strong case there,” I said. “But now it’s my turn. Ken had a problem with me getting involved in a case in the past. What are your thoughts?”

He moved closer to me. “Well,” he said, trailing a finger along my cheekbone. “If you understand that I may not always be able to answer all of your questions, and as long as you don’t take any stupid chances …”

He leaned in for a tender kiss that sent all the blood racing from my head down to my toes, then back again. Kind of like NASCAR but without the burning rubber, checkered flags, and—as Dad would always say—endless left turns. I felt a little dizzy, a little breathless. Either this was chemistry at work, or I needed a cardiologist, stat.

“I think it’s kind of hot.” He smiled at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Goodnight.” And he was out the door.