Chapter 18

When Mark arrived with takeout, I had just finished setting up for game night. The tables and chairs were all arranged at the front of the store. Tonight’s theme, chosen weeks earlier, was mystery games. Of course, there were several different editions of Clue, or Cluedo, as the original British edition was called, but I also pulled out some playable—in other words, not in pristine collector’s condition—versions of both the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys games, an old Perry Mason game, and even Scooby-Doo. I rounded it out with some newer mystery games from my personal collection, like Scotland Yard.

I stared at the fun, colorful boxes. Solving a real crime was no lighthearted game, no mere mental puzzle, though sometimes the techniques were the same. Gather evidence. Uncover secrets. Put the pieces together. Eliminate suspects until you’ve figured out the killer.

Unlike the vague, faceless Mr. Boddy (or Doctor Black in the UK), whose death begins the game of Clue, Marya was once alive and breathing, strolling around the town in those incredibly high heels of hers, with no inkling that soon her death would launch a real and dangerous game of whodunit. If she’d realized that her death would cast suspicion on her husband, would she have buried her secrets as deep?

Or deeper?

“Earth to Liz,” Mark said, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry.” I crumpled up my Mighty Taco wrapper. “I was thinking about this whole thing with Marya.”

“Worried about Ken?” he asked.

I jerked my face to look at him. “I’m worried there might be too much circumstantial evidence. Maybe not enough to convict him, but nothing to clear him either. That maybe this whole thing might always be hanging over his head.”

Mark leaned his arms against the table. “You don’t have enough faith in your father.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “If anyone can get to the bottom of this, he can.” I winked. “With a little help, of course.”

“Are you talking about you or me?” he asked.

“You, me, and, oh, his whole department.” I laughed.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Tell you what, since you uncovered quite a bit of evidence—and found Ken—I decided to quit slacking off. I unearthed a few things myself. Although I’m not sure they help your friend.”

“Do tell.”

“First, I visited Marya’s twelve-step program.”

“Learn anything?”

“Well, you can’t interrogate anyone at one of those things. I fibbed and said that Marya had told me about the group, and when she died, I knew I had to get help.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s quite a lie to tell in church.”

“It’s not a lie when you’re under cover.”

“Is that in the Bible?” I teased.

“Should be. Look, do you want to know what I found out, or not?”

I nodded.

“Nobody had much to say about Marya, but I managed to snap a few pics of license plates, so I think I know who all was in the group. I ran a few backgrounds.”

“And?”

“And a few of them have records.”

“Is that surprising?” I asked. “They’re in a twelve-step program.”

“No, but what’s surprising is that it includes Pastor Pete.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Think he might have something to do with Marya’s death?”

Mark gave a brief shrug. “He’d have to be pretty devious to go into the ministry so he could have access to a twelve-step group so he could then do what? Buy drugs? Sell drugs? Seems a stretch.”

“Unless he became a pastor sincerely, but then relapsed.”

Mark clicked his tongue as he considered. “I guess I could check with the prison and his former parole officer and see what they have to say about him. Meanwhile, we still don’t have a handle on where all Marya’s money came from or where it went. We’re only assuming drugs because of Lionel Kelley’s investigation.”

I shook my head. “I can’t imagine any of those sweet old people selling their drugs to Marya.”

Mark shrugged. “You’d be surprised what some people will do for money.”

“Then why cast more suspicion on it by accusing the pharmacist of shorting their prescriptions? And who was she selling these drugs to?”

“That I don’t know.”

“It would have to be someone she came into regular contact with. It’s not like she peddled them on a street corner. Ken was tracking her. He would have known.”

“Possibly she acquired the drugs and sold them to a dealer.”

I squinted. “I still can’t see all those old people selling … oh!” And the brainstorm hit.

“Get up!” I told Mark, and then pushed him to the door. “I’ll be Marya. You be a customer coming to get her hair done.”

Mark ran a hand through his hair. “What?”

“Humor me.” I pushed his chair into the middle of the open space and said, “I’m ready for you now.”

Mark started toward the chair, stopped, and then finished his walk with a decided wiggle. He eased into the chair, sat primly with his legs folded at the ankles, and fluttered his eyelashes at me.

“First, Marya would ascertain what kind of cut the customer wanted.”

“I was thinking maybe a bouffant.”

“Would look lovely on you, I’m sure.” I held up a finger. “The next step would be to shampoo your hair.” I set up another chair a few feet away.

“Do all your dates end up this way?”

“Seriously, I think I’m onto something.”

“Okay.” He pushed himself up and moved to the second chair. “I must warn you. I have a sensitive scalp.”

“You know what you don’t have, though? A purse.”

“It didn’t go with my shoes.”

“But Mrs. Attenborough has a purse.”

“Who’s Mrs. Attenborough?”

“Right now, you are.” I looked around and found a vinyl Barbie and Skipper carry case and shoved it into his hands.

“You can set your purse right there, Mrs. Attenborough.” I slid another chair next to his. “Or if you’d prefer I can hang it up in the back for you.”

“Oh,” Mark said, sliding the purse onto the chair next to him.

“Now lean back and close your eyes.”

Mark slouched with his head dangling over the back of the chair.

I stood between him and the purse and pretended to shampoo his hair. “I’m not sure exactly when she did it, maybe when the conditioner was in or something, but in that position, with the danger of getting product in her eyes, Mrs. Attenborough wouldn’t be able to tell if Marya rummaged through her purse. It makes more sense than all of her customers selling her their drugs.”

“You know what?” Mark gave my arm a tug and pulled me closer, then kissed me. “See, that’s how all your dates should end.”

“Why, Mrs. Attenborough!”

*   *   *

That game night might have been our best attended ever. True to Amanda’s prediction, Ken showed up. To my dismay, he’d brought Mad Max and Cujo with him. Ken’s appearance might have been the reason my father “took the night off” and came to game night, reminding me of when Ken had done the same thing once.

Jack and Amanda were both there, as were most of our regulars, such as Lori Briggs and Glenda and her knitting needles. The one first-timer, sneaking in just as we were about to begin, was Lionel Kelley. He took a while to pick a seat and ended up with Lori Briggs at the table next to Glenda’s. Glenda had been a client of Marya; I’d seen her on the video. I wondered if he’d followed her in.

Despite the attendance, game play was otherwise subdued. No one joined Ken and his sisters. I wasn’t sure if everybody stayed away because of the cloud of suspicion still over his head or if they didn’t want to face his guard dogs.

Midway through his game of Scotland Yard, Lionel Kelley stood up slowly and winced. When nobody else seemed to notice that, he clutched his back, stooped over a little, and let out a pathetic sound, somewhere between a whine and yelp.

“What’s wrong?” Lori asked.

“My back,” Lionel said. “And rats! I forgot my pain meds.”

Everybody just traded glances.

Finally, Lionel asked, “Does anyone have anything?”

Nancy rummaged through her purse and came up with a bottle of Tylenol. Someone else had Advil.

Lionel pushed them away. “I need something stronger.”

With that, Ken shot my father a look, but Dad waved him off.

Kelley practically hovered over Glenda, but she kept on knitting without looking up.

“Ma’am?” he said. “Do you have any pain meds I could borrow? Or buy from you? I think the going rate for Oxycontin is eight bucks? One pill?”

“Hank!” Glenda yelled, jumping from her seat. She waved the knitting needle toward Kelley, like an Olympic fencer parries with his sword. “Arrest this man!”

At this my father cracked up.

Ken jumped to his feet. “I might be suspended, but I can still make a citizen’s arrest. And if you’re not going to do anything about this, right here in your own shop—”

“Hold your horses,” Dad told Ken. “I think I know what this is about.” He turned to Glenda. “Kelley was just testing you, I think, to see if you’d sell drugs.”

“Me?” Glenda said. “A drug dealer?”

Now the whole room was snickering.

Lionel’s face grew red, and I almost felt sorry for him. He was only a little off from the truth.

“No one thinks you would sell drugs,” I assured her. “But did you have some go missing?”

She reclaimed her seat, but looked wary. Of Kelley or of the question? “There was that bottle that spilled out in my purse,” she finally said. “I never did find all of them. I had to go back to the doctor and he gave me a sample to last out the month.”

“You didn’t sell them to Marya Young?” Kelley asked.

“Hey!” Ken said. “What is this?”

Dad looked at Ken. “Back at the station I asked you about your wife’s accounts and, in particular, your audit of the funds going in and out. You suspected something.”

“But he just called my wife a drug dealer.” Ken advanced on Kelley, who stumbled backward.

Dad hurried to place himself between them. “Knock it off!” He turned to Ken. “What he says doesn’t matter. What matters is the truth. Did you suspect your wife’s extra funds might have come from drugs?”

Ken held his tongue, but his face betrayed the answer.

Nancy and Grace jumped up. “I told you it was a bad idea to come here,” Nancy said, tugging on her coat.

Grace picked up Ken’s jacket and handed it to him.

Ken sent one last look toward me—a plea for help?—then his sisters hustled him out the door.

Lionel paced, then turned back abruptly and wagged a finger at my father. “What I say does matter. Just wait until I crack this case.” And then he was gone.

Lori, now missing her game partners, put down her clue sheet. “That means I win, right?”

*   *   *

The evening ended a bit early, and Mark stayed to help my father and me put everything back to rights.

“This little theater performance tonight reminded me that I never finished telling you what I learned about Marya’s money habits,” Mark said. “Before Mrs. Attenborough most rudely interrupted.”

“Since when do you report to my daughter?” my father said. “And who in the blazes is Mrs. Attenborough?”

“Liz, you need to tell him your theory,” Mark said. “I think it’s a good one.”

“Only if I can sit down.” Dad set up the chair he had tucked under his arm.

I retold the theory, without the dramatic demonstration—or the kiss—and Dad bobbed his head.

“Makes better sense than a lot of ideas that have been thrown around.” He turned to Mark. “How does that jibe with what you’ve learned?”

“As best I can narrow down, she bought cashier’s checks totaling twenty thousand dollars over the past few months.”

“Twenty grand?” Dad said. “From drugs?”

“Maybe not all of it. She was also robbing her hubby blind. There’s a lien on the house that I’ll bet he knows nothing about.”

“Wow,” I said.

“And if she made some from selling whatever drugs she stole from her clients …” Mark said. “Not sure if that accounts for everything. Still working on it.”

“But where did it all go?” Dad asked. “And does that have anything to do with who killed her?”

“Twenty grand could be plenty of motive,” Mark said.

But it didn’t answer the question. I stooped to pick up a game card that someone must have dropped.

“Go back three spaces.” Story of my life.