Even several yards away from our booth and above the din of the crowd, I could hear Frank doing his best bartering with Jack.
“What if I pay full price and you throw in those purple aliens too?”
Jack had his smartphone out and was punching numbers into his calculator app. He didn’t even see me come up.
“Sold,” I told Frank, who smiled and handed over a wad of cash.
He held the UFO in one hand, picked up the aliens in the other, and raised them up for my inspection. “You don’t think the aliens are too big for the saucer, do you?”
“Maybe it’s bigger on the inside,” I said, resisting the urge to point out that they were twice the size of the door.
“Is that a thing?” Frank asked. “I mean, a real science fiction-y thing?”
“Oh, yeah. Come to think of it, it is,” I said, while in no way stipulating or suggesting that he was purchasing an actual TARDIS. “Or maybe they’re just very limber aliens. Or shape shifters. That’s also a thing.”
When Frank walked away clutching his purchases, Jack’s shoulders sank in relief. “This job is harder than it looks.”
“Thanks?” I said.
After a brief pause, he caught himself. “I mean, you make it look easy.” Jack stretched his back. “The accident sure hasn’t done much to slow business.”
“We can thank the . . . accident . . . for that little bit of business, actually.” I went on to explain Frank’s plans to fix his layout.
“I like it,” Jack said. “Very X-Files meets the Island of Sodor.”
My face must have blanked.
“You know. Tidmouth Sheds? Knapford Station? Sir Topham Hatt?”
I shrugged.
“Thomas the Train? Come on, now! Even if you never watched the show, you must sell the toys!”
I couldn’t help the chuckle at his expense. “Yes, any number of them. And Parker used to love it, so I’ve seen quite a few episodes.”
He sent me a playful glare. “So you were just pulling my leg.”
“Just a little bit. But if you’re worried about it, I can pull the other one so you don’t walk funny or anything.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh I could hear even over the crowd. “And after I’ve been slaving away, all during your ‘quick’ potty break.”
“Sorry. I ran into Maxine, and we were talking about the accident. If that’s what it truly was.”
“You’re thinking it might have been something more? Don’t tell me you’re involved in another investigation.”
“Actually, Dad is doing a pretty good job of keeping me out of one. He obviously thinks things aren’t as they appear. And I’ve been his daughter long enough to trust those instincts of his.”
“But if it wasn’t an accident, what? Do you think he might have jumped?”
I considered the idea for a moment, then shrugged it off. “Honestly, the Craig I know is too full of himself, and he certainly didn’t look suicidal. Quite the opposite; he seemed totally absorbed in his future plans.”
“Have you learned why he was up there in the first place?”
“Some publicity stunt. Even Maxine didn’t know all the details. But Ken went to the hospital to talk to Craig, so maybe he’ll get more answers.”
Jack’s jaw set a little. Was it the mention of Ken? Or concern for me getting caught up in an investigation?
But I didn’t have a lot of time to figure that out because Dad strode up to the booth. “I see we still have our shadows,” he said.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Dad had always looked dignified in his police uniform. But the security guard duds they’d dug up for him didn’t measure up, literally. The pants, in addition to being a particularly ugly shade of shiny brown polyester with a crooked stripe on the sides, were too short, showing his tube socks. The shirt, still sporting the wrinkles from being folded tightly in a package, gaped over his stomach. He shot me a warning look.
“Shadows?” Jack asked, a little bit too loudly.
Dad grabbed my arm. “You didn’t tell him?”
“I didn’t have time,” I said.
“She was on a potty break,” Jack said.
“I found Maxine,” I said.
“I can see that.” Dad shifted slightly so that he was still facing me, but he could catch Maxine’s movements in the background. Then he shifted again, maybe to watch the mobsters with his peripheral vision?
“Oh, come now,” I said. “Use those eyes in the back of your head. I know you have them.”
“I was just thinking I needed another set. You know, Liz, since you’ve done a good job of pawning your work off on your boyfriend here, maybe you should see if Maxine needs any help. It’ll give you a chance to talk with her. See if she knows more about what happened.”
“She doesn’t. Apparently Craig never filled her in.”
“What about the missing comic books?”
“Missing comic books?” Jack repeated over my shoulder.
I winced and resisted the urge to turn around and face him. Jack was a sharp guy. And it wouldn’t take much effort for him to put together the missing comic books with the questions I’d asked earlier about his brother’s whereabouts.
His quick intake of breath marked the occasion.
I closed my eyes.
“What?” Dad said. “Did I miss something?”
“Well,” Jack said, “I hate to rain on your plans and all, but I really can’t stick around. I should probably go hang out with Terry.” He pulled his jacket out from under the table, then shook Dad’s hand. “Good luck with your investigation.”
He faced me briefly but never made eye contact. “Seriously, Liz. Be safe.” His voice cracked on the last word as he gave my upper arm a brief squeeze.
Then he walked away. Out of the convention center? Or out of my life for good?
Knowing just how defensive Jack was about his brother, I suspected the latter. After all, when Dad arrested Terry the first time almost a decade ago, it had pretty much put a nail in the coffin of Jack’s and my relationship. He’d walked out of my life then, until events last year brought us back together and resurrected the old feelings we had for each other. I seriously doubted they’d survive another trial. And given Jack’s proclivity for walking away whenever things got tough, I was beginning to think it might be healthier for me to let him go—and close the door after him—instead of delaying the inevitable.
Dad put his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. It’ll be okay.”
“Will it?” I leaned into him. Maybe the years had softened my dad. He’d never been particularly aware of my love life and never especially sympathetic.
“Yeah. I called Miles earlier,” he said. “And Cathy said Parker can swing by after his shift at the wildlife center. As soon as one of them gets here, you can go work with Maxine and see what you can figure out.”
# # #
Miles arrived twenty minutes later, and I gave him the thumbnail tutorial instead of the full version. The tech-savvy twenty-year-old had originally come to us to design our website, but he stayed on to set up our social media platforms and eventually wormed his way into handling our online sales and acquisitions.
Dad had never fully explained how they knew each other, but from the few breadcrumbs he’d scattered, I’d gathered that Miles had gotten into trouble in high school when his mother moved him from the reservation to East Aurora, and he fell in with the wrong crowd. He certainly credited Dad with his reformation. Now the two were as thick as, well, thieves, and Miles was a trusted member of our staff, a dear friend, and working his way toward family status.
And since he’d set up our mobile payment system, he certainly didn’t need any instructions on that.
I did, however, clue him in on Batman-man and Grandpa. “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. They seem more interested in Craig’s Comics, but if you notice anything odd, let Dad or me know.”
“Got it,” he said. “Where will you be?”
“Helping at Craig’s Comics.” I glanced over to where Maxine was fielding customers, answering questions, and haggling like a pro. “Not that she needs it. But Dad’s hoping I can get enough information by osmosis to crack the case.”
“Or so he could crack the case,” Miles said with a bit of a smirk.
“I have caught a killer before,” I said.
“Not the way your dad tells it.”
I glared at him, but he was probably right that Dad’s version of the story differed from mine, just a little. It couldn’t have been easy for Dad to admit that I, a woman—or a girl, as I’d probably always be in his mind—with less training than the greenest rookie, had beaten him to a collar. Even harder since he was a seasoned detective who had, as he was prone to remind me, changed my diapers. I decided to take Idina Menzel’s advice and let it go.
I first detoured to the concessions area, bought a Coke and a bottle of water, and carried both back to Maxine. I waited until her most recent customer left before offering her a choice of either. “You have no one to relieve you, and I thought you looked thirsty.”
“That’s so sweet!” She took the water and gulped down half the bottle before pouring a little into the cupped palm of her hand and splashing it down the back of her neck. “Trust me. Don’t get old.”
“I’ll do my best.” I took a sip of the cold Coke. “Would you like some help for a little while?”
“You know comics?” she asked.
“A little,” I said. “I know most of the major characters, at least the ones who’ve had action figures made of them. I could handle the easy questions and general sales.”
“Then I would love the company,” she said.
The next half hour offered little time for talking. The customers who approached the booth weren’t the gangly teens I’d stereotyped as comic book fans. These were grown men—with one or two women thrown in for variety—who’d probably established that gangly teen stereotype ten, twenty, or even thirty years ago. These were serious collectors, who, if they’d held onto and maintained their original collections, could have some serious dough tied up in the hobby.
One such man in front of me, hunched in an oversized canvas jacket despite the warm temperatures of the room, glanced up from the bin of comic books he’d been perusing, exposing warm brown eyes under a pair of surprisingly long lashes. He pointed to a group of comics in plastic cases. “You have any more CBCS-graded comics?” His eyes crinkled when he smiled.
“I . . . let me get Maxine to help you with that.”
Maxine had overheard the question and came to my rescue. “I did have some,” she said, “but they got misplaced when we were setting up. I hope to find them, and I can bring in what we have in the shop, if you’d care to check back tomorrow?”
He gave her a nod, let the stack he’d been browsing fall back into place, and wandered off.
“Thanks,” I said. “What’s all that? Were those the comics in the plastic cases?”
She nodded grimly, a flicker of worry darkening her expression. “CBCS stands for Comic Book Certification Service. We use them for our rarer comic book finds.”
“Like appraisers?”
“Sort of. It’s more of an evaluation of the condition of a book. We send them the physical books, and they give each an impartial grade out of ten, based on everything from how vibrant the ink is to color of the staples.” She rolled her eyes. “All very picky. They seal the books up and put the grade right on the cover. It works great because there’s no squabbling over multiple inspections—all of which can damage a comic book. And it’s independent, so it protects buyer and seller alike.”
“But you don’t do it with every comic.”
She shook her head. “Too expensive. It doesn’t make sense to spend thirty or forty bucks to have a comic book graded unless its value is at least in the hundreds. Otherwise, there’s no way of getting that money back. But once we have the grade, we can then look up the value of a particular book with that grade in the pricing guides, so it makes life a lot easier. Of course, the market goes up and down, so you still end up haggling a bit, but overall, the system works.”
“And it was the graded comics that went missing this morning?”
“I need to find those.” Maxine’s posture stiffened. “You don’t think someone could’ve walked off with them, do you?”
I shrugged. “I’d like to think not.” I refrained from mentioning the suspected mobsters and ex-con walking around the show.
“I’ll search through everything again before I leave, but I don’t know where they could have gone. Unless Craig . . .” She screwed up her face. “I’m going to have to ask him.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“I’m hoping”—she crossed her fingers and looked up—“he did something with them, because if they’ve gone missing, he’s not going to be happy. Especially with him in the hospital and all. Even with everything that’s going on, I suppose he needs to know. They’re worth a chunk of change, and they’d have to be officially reported stolen before insurance would do anything.”
“So they were insured?”
“Absolutely! We won’t take a loss on the missing books. Craig might be upset that I left the booth unattended for a bit. But you can back me up. You know the books went missing before that point!”
“That’s right,” I said. “You’d asked me if I had seen them.”
She nodded. “I just hate to have to tell him. And I hate hospitals. It’s bad enough visiting—I always feel like I’m at a pet store or something. Same smells, and all the people are scared and hurting. I never know what to say.”
“I’m no pro, but it helps to have someone to go with. Would you like me to come along?”
She jumped at the chance, and we made plans to go after the show closed for the day. But when she started rambling on and on about how kind and unselfish I was, I began to feel guilty. My offer was spurred on more by curiosity than kindness—I wanted to hear straight from Craig the reasons behind his swan dive.
I changed the subject. “Where do you get your vintage comics?”
“Same places you get your vintage toys, I’d imagine,” she said. “Mostly folks clearing out garages and attics and wondering if they have anything of value. Also, the occasional Craigslist or garage sale listing.” She sniffled. “Sorry, but I was just thinking . . . Craig always likes to joke about buying comics on Craigslist. He calls it ‘My List,’ like the whole thing was made for him.”
“I do a lot of buying for the shop that way too. It’s tough, though. I think a lot of people want to be told that the broken toy that’s been in their basement is worth tens of thousands of dollars, and that’s not usually the case.”
“We tell sellers up front we don’t do appraisals, but we’ll take a look through what they have and offer them a set amount for everything. Usually after that, it’s just a matter of checking the price guides and dividing them up into the one-, three-, and five-dollar bins. Every now and then, though, we get lucky and find one that’s rare—and in good enough condition—to send off for grading.”
“Do you ever get folks who come back in looking to see how you’ve priced their comic books?” It was one of the harder parts about being a reseller. No matter how lean the operation, no business could survive by paying what an object was truly worth and then selling it for the same price. Still, it can strike some folks the wrong way when the doll we bought from them for forty bucks is on our shelf marked up to eighty.
“Oh, yeah. In fact, it’s funny you should ask, because those comic books that went missing this morning? The woman who sold them to Craig has been in the shop a couple times, asking to buy them back. Even before they came back from grading, she was offering double and triple what Craig paid for them.”
“Seller’s remorse?”
“From what I overheard, they actually belonged to her husband, who wasn’t in the picture at the moment.”
“Now he wants them back?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But we’d already sent them off, you see. And Craig wasn’t about to let them go without making a tidy profit. But I’ll tell you something else interesting. I saw her here, at the show, this morning.”
The hairs on my neck stood up. Our quaint little train show was beginning to resemble Grand Central Station. “Do you have her name and contact information by any chance?”
“Why?”
“My dad’s now working security. If it turns out that the comics were stolen, she might be a person of interest.”
“I don’t want to report them stolen yet—not until I’ve had a chance to look through the rest of the inventory and talk to Craig. I’d hate to accuse anyone and then discover it was a terrible misunderstanding.”
I held my hands up. “Noted. No accusations. Still, I wouldn’t mind having that contact information. Might come in handy.”
Maxine stretched her neck. “I can look it up for you, if you give me a minute.”
“Thanks, Maxine. Might be nothing, but couldn’t hurt to look into it.”
While she walked over to the laptop, I drained the last bit of Coke and went to place my cup in the trash can I’d noticed peeking underneath the display table. Inside were two foam cups, presumably from this morning’s coffee. What drew my attention was a big waxy H scrawled on the side of one of the cups. Last I checked my alphabet, there wasn’t an H to be had in either Maxine’s or Craig’s names. I pulled it out of the trash. This cup said “Hank.”
This was the coffee I’d bought for my dad this morning. And if I was right . . .
Without saying anything to Maxine, I squeezed between the tables on the way to our booth. Miles was talking to a customer, so I ducked down, found the trash can under our table skirt, and rummaged through it. Sure enough, there was a cup in our trash marked “Craig.”
What did it all mean? Had someone switched the cups? Or could they have switched the trash cans?
Then I recalled my father’s suggestion that someone run a toxicology test on Craig. Could he have been drugged, and might that have accounted for the erratic behavior that sent him diving from the rafters?
A shiver ran through me. If Craig was drugged, was the drug even meant for him?
Or was my father the target?