About four AM, a warm front blew through, and the wind shook the old house, sending creaks and groans through the infrastructure. About five AM, Bonnie and Clyde were making a racket on the back deck. And about six AM, Parker was humming in the shower. I know because I was awake for all of it.
When Cathy padded into the kitchen to make coffee, I was already on my third cup.
She collapsed into the oversized recliner and pulled her feet underneath her. After several sips, she croaked, “Good morning. You look like a wreck.”
“Didn’t sleep well.” I resisted the urge to comment on her own early-morning appearance. Her hair was a study in static.
Moments later Parker joined us, appearing fresh and well rested, already dressed in his khakis and polo for work. The gang was all here. All but Dad, that is, whose measured snores gave us the assurance that at least someone could sleep.
“I hoped to ask another favor,” I said. I hated imposing further on Parker and Cathy. We were already living in their home and eating their food. Not to mention, Othello was shedding all over their furniture, had knocked half the ornaments from their tree, and without his scratching post, I worried that he’d picked out a discreet portion of their sofa to dig his claws into.
“Sure,” Cathy said, but at the same time, Parker said, “What is it?”
I wagged my eyebrows at him. “You’re no fool.” I took another sip of my coffee to fortify my nerves. “I’d like to swing by the police station this morning and talk to the chief, see how the investigation is going, and try to feel out if they have any suspects or new leads.”
“Dad will love that,” Cathy said. “He enjoys popping by the station.”
I shook my head. “Here’s the thing. I want to find out if they really consider Dad a suspect. They’re not likely to tell me much anyway. Even less if he’s around.”
“He’ll flip if he knows you’re going behind his back,” Parker said.
“Exactly. Which is why I was wondering if either of you could maybe distract Dad so he doesn’t know what I’m doing.”
“I was going to run some errands,” Cathy said.
Parker shook his head. “Dad can come down to the center. We’re having a school group in, and I could use the extra help with crowd control. He’s good with the kids.”
“Good with them?” I asked. “Or does he scare the living daylights out of them?”
“Both.” Parker smiled. “Our father does have quite the multiple personalities. He can put the fear of God in any delinquent just with a glare.”
“But he’s such a teddy bear,” Cathy said.
“That’s because you’ve never been on the wrong side of the law,” Parker said.
“Or broken curfew on a school night,” I added, still smarting from the memory of a particular instance. Dad’s temper had mellowed with the years. Or perhaps my formative years were spent with a parent working a stressful job and trying to compensate for an alcoholic wife. There had been occasional blowups at home. Nothing physically violent, but emotionally trying nonetheless. These were always followed by tearful apologies, hugs, and reconciliations. I knew my dad loved me. After the death of my mother and then later Dad’s retirement, his temper had all but disappeared. His greatest frustration now was unsticking rusted gears on old toys and finding Barbie shoes that matched.
By the time we’d drained the coffee pot, we agreed that Cathy would drop Dad off at the wildlife center when she went out to run her errands, leaving me free to run mine. I was to continue to look tired—no problem—so Dad would assume I was home catching up on my sleep.
It worked like a charm. Dad might have been a tad suspicious, but he went with Cathy nonetheless. I leaned in the doorway and yawned as they backed out of the driveway, then I hit the showers, put heavy concealing makeup on my dark circles, then grabbed my coat and was out the door.
The combined police department for East Aurora and the neighboring town of Aurora was housed in the village’s municipal building, a stone’s throw from our shop on Main Street. The white-shuttered brick building had seen its share of history. The village’s historian had also made the move, bringing the collection of murals that now filled up wall space in every hallway, making the offices a tourist attraction in their own right.
When I got to the police wing of the building, I spotted more than a few familiar faces, and officers waved or nodded to me as they milled around the area. I stopped at the front desk to explain why I was there, but the officer just pointed me to the door. I could hear it unlock as I approached. Apparently I hadn’t worn out my welcome—at least not yet.
“I’m here to see Chief Young,” I said to the officer, and she waved me to a group of chairs for the department’s more welcome visitors, those not needing to be handcuffed to a bench, not that there was all that much of that in a town of our size.
I could already tell that the department was not operating at business-as-usual status. Trash cans overflowed with takeout bags, and stacks of cups dotted each desk, testifying that many here were working long hours. It didn’t seem to be going well. Shoulders were hunched, chins unshaven, and a tinge of body odor permeated the air.
Even after the officer at the desk announced my arrival, nothing seemed to happen. When I’d visited the station when my dad was chief, generally only a minute or two passed before the door would open and he’d head out of his office smiling at me. But he was no longer behind that door, which now seemed impenetrable, and remained that way for the better part of an hour.
I got up to pace and stretch my back several times before sitting down again. When I was close to falling asleep in the chair, someone cleared his throat. I opened my eyes. Ken Young stood in front of me, either smiling or smirking. I didn’t know him well enough to know which one.
“You wanted to see me?” He still sported a stubbly beard, and I began to wonder if the department had made the decision not to shave until the case was solved, like hockey players who grow their beards when they start the play-offs. By the crumpled condition of his uniform and the amount of red in his eyes, I decided he just hadn’t been home to sleep or shave.
I followed him back to his office and took an offered seat while he perched on the corner of his desk.
If I expected a greeting or pleasantries, I was going to be disappointed. “Shoot,” he said.
“I came for a couple of reasons . . .” I stammered and stopped, a little taken aback. That was a mistake.
He gave me a shrug and a wry look, as if saying, “What am I supposed to do with that?” Or maybe that fabled line of Joe Friday, which Dad swears he never said: “Just the facts, ma’am.”
I rallied. “First, I wanted to check if you’d gotten the autopsy results back for Sy DuPont.”
Ken folded his arms in front of him and said, “Nope. I asked if we could hurry it up, and the medical examiner looked at me as if I was speaking Swahili.” His guard was up. Where was the flirty guy who asked me to call him Ken? Seemed like this man had more than one personality, and I’d need the easygoing one if I was going to be able to pump him for information.
I tilted my head and hazarded a smile. “Dad and I were talking yesterday . . .”
“Did he reveal more about the incident?”
“Well, no. I mean, yes. But what I wanted to talk about was a few ideas we had. Like I said, Dad and I were talking, and we thought that maybe one of Sullivan O’Grady’s former patients, or rather one of their family members, might have killed him. Perhaps because he was helping to usher them into the afterlife a little sooner than fate would have, if you get my point. Then there’s Mrs. O’Grady. She had motive, and maybe if she was out driving when she said she was home with the kids—like if she was caught on a security camera . . . And then there’s the matter of the missing toys, because they weren’t in the apartment . . .” I trailed off, because if looks could kill, my body would be added to the medical examiner’s backlog.
“Miss McCall,” he said, then stopped. Something in his eyes told me he was counting to ten. “Miss McCall,” he said again, then scratched his upper lip. “I appreciate you coming down here to supply more theories. However . . .” His head bobbed a couple of times. Counting again? “I have a whole department of active officers, all of whom are pretty good at coming up with theories.” His voice was pleasant, but in a completely nonconvincing way. “Now, why don’t you tell me about what your father said.”
“I . . . maybe Dad should tell you.” I was suddenly hesitant to share my dad’s memory of letting the victim into the store.
“Fine,” he said, putting his hand on the receiver of his desk telephone. “I can have him brought in.”
“What is wrong with you?” I flew out of my seat. “Have him brought in?”
He walked to the open door and pushed it closed. Without saying a word, he resumed his perch at his desk.
My face was hot, and the words felt like they were still out there in the air, incriminating me, especially since he didn’t answer. “Fine,” I said. “He remembers letting O’Grady into the shop that night.”
“And?”
“And he thinks he might have pulled the breakers, because he was sure the alarm wasn’t going to sound.”
“And?”
“That was it.”
He sighed. “That we pretty much already knew.”
“Look, the doctor thinks Dad may have some temporary memory. A concussion from that bump on the head.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets.
I sat up straighter. “Your turn.”
“Fair enough. Here’s what we have. One Sullivan O’Grady shows up at the doorstep of your shop. Your father lets him in. A short time later, O’Grady is found dead in your shop. Your father is alone with the body. Yet somehow, he has no recollection of anything that happened. Just for that time in between.” He uncrossed his arms and began a thorough examination of his cuticles. “It’s too convenient.”
“Too convenient?” The words drew the air out of my lungs and left me weak and limp, like I was about to slide off the chair and onto the floor like a melting ice cream cone—or a Dalí painting. “He can’t pick and choose what he remembers.” I was able to hold back the tears stinging my eyes, but my voice had grown husky.
Ken scratched his cheek. “I don’t know what to tell you. Until he’s more forthcoming, that’s what we have to go on. Yes, we’re doing our homework. We’re checking the cameras up and down Main Street. Most are focused inside of the stores, but a few of them do provide some glimpses of the street. And yes, we’re investigating Sy DuPont’s death. Even though the family is less than thrilled with me.”
“What about the woman who showed up? That Kimmie whatever.”
“That might be the only entertaining facet of this case. That marriage license she was waving around appears legit.”
“So this chick starts hanging around the house. Then the old man’s health aide gets fired. Then she marries the old dude. Then both men die. How’s that for a chronology?”
“And the motive would be . . . ?”
“She’s an obvious gold digger. We learned from Mrs. O’Grady that Sullivan was very close to his clients. Maybe he was too protective and had to be disposed of.”
“First, I’m not sure there was any real gold to be had.”
“Then what were all those people shoving into their pockets?”
“Not the Hope Diamond, I can tell you that. This is real life, not Antiques Roadshow. We’re talking a few bucks here and there for most of the small stuff.”
“Surely a few genuine antiques were mixed in.”
“I doubt Sy left enough of value to pay for the dumpster they’ll need to haul in to clear all the junk out. No, that house was the only asset he had left. Not much gold worth digging.”
“She might have thought there was gold. There’s something fishy there. Maybe she’s some black widow. Maybe,” I said, “Sullivan O’Grady was taking his suspicions to my father to ask him for help.”
“This is getting interesting. We have an angel of mercy and a black widow and an amnesiac and a beautiful amateur sleuth. This is where I usually walk out of the theater before the identical twins pop out of the secret passage. Liz . . .” He got up and pushed his rolling desk chair so that it faced mine, then sat down. He paused before starting to speak slowly and softly. “If you want to help, the best way isn’t by driving around town asking questions that we’ve already asked. It’s by getting your father to remember what happened. If you could work with him . . .”
“The doctor said it doesn’t work like that,” I said. “Memory is an elusive thing. It pops up when he’s calm. And these last few days were anything but calm. If you could take down the crime scene tape, I could get him back in familiar surroundings . . .”
“I have another investigator going through the scene tomorrow.”
“No,” I said.
“No?”
Now my back was up. “You heard me. I’ll hire a lawyer if I have to, but you’ve locked us out of our home and place of business long enough. Unless you’re ready to arrest one of us, I want that yellow tape off our shop. You want Dad to remember? Let me take him back home. Let me get back to business. Now when can I have my shop back?”
He inhaled as if he was planning to let loose with a string of obscenities, but then he merely shrugged. “Tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see if I can get my expert in earlier.”
I left feeling oddly invigorated. I still worried for my father but was no longer terrified for him. Dad always said, “Truth will out.” Then again, he lived his life making sure it did. Somehow I knew the truth would be revealed, if people worked hard enough. The police department clearly was not slacking off on this case, so it was only a matter of time. And I had no doubts whatsoever that the truth would vindicate my father.
I was so distracted with my thoughts as I walked through the station that I almost plowed right into Lori Briggs, the mayor’s wife. She was wearing a cute little belted coat that somehow conveyed her figure. This was quite a feat, since most of us were bundled up, resembling Oompa Loompas in our insulated outerwear.
“Oh, Liz,” she said. “I was just thinking about you. I’m assuming game night is canceled tonight. Too bad, because I was looking forward to a nice Pandemic.” She was, of course, referring to the strategy game and not a global disease outbreak.
I walked with her to the exit. “Sorry, I should have called the regulars. I’ve learned we’ll have our shop back tomorrow, so after that, the normal schedule resumes.”
“If you’d like, I’ll call everyone and let them know.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take care of it,” I said. Lori’s tendency to gossip might end up costing us more than her kind offer would help.
“I guess they’re releasing the name of that poor man who died in your shop,” she said. Was that a dig, or was she probing for information? But since I wanted information from her . . .
“You know, I could go for a cup of coffee. Would you care to join me?”
“Coffee shop or cupcake place?” Her emphasis was definitely on the second. After mild protests on both sides (which we quickly overcame, especially when Lori discovered she had a coupon), we were sitting in the little cupcakery. She was working on a blueberry lemon concoction, while I gave in and finally tried the maple pancake and bacon cupcake. One bite and I wondered why I’d waited so long. Of course, when it came to flavors, this was now tied with seven others as my favorite.
“So you were coming from the police department.” Lori rubbed a fork along her empty wrapper to nab the last bit of frosting. “Anything new in the investigation?”
“Just that they’ve identified the victim, as you said. Sullivan O’Grady.” I looked up to catch her reaction. “Hey, didn’t he work for your family?”
“Briefly,” she said, as if to separate herself from him as much as possible.
“I’ve heard his patients were generally pleased with his assistance,” I said. “I gather he was well-liked and trusted.”
She pushed her plate aside and leaned in closer across the little table. “Actual results do vary. He was dedicated, I’ll give him that much.”
“But you weren’t pleased.”
“My father-in-law wasn’t pleased. See, he always had a raucous sense of humor. A tad inappropriate at times.”
“Sullivan O’Grady?”
“Oh, no! Dad. He liked the occasional bawdy joke. He was never one you invited to the better parties. Not that it bothered him. He’d rather sit in the basement, drink his beer, and smoke that foul pipe of his. Sullivan O’Grady didn’t quite fit into Dad’s world. And Dad wasn’t ready to listen to any preaching about the world to come, either.”
Something fell into place, like the right piece of the jigsaw puzzle when you’ve been trying to force the wrong one in for twenty minutes. “Sullivan O’Grady liked to talk to his patients about the hereafter.”
“Like he had discount tickets,” Lori said. “I don’t think Dad ever talked about Jesus since he was confirmed—unless you count swearing. One afternoon of them alone together and Dad was ready to spit nails. The service replaced him with a nice older woman who was either partly deaf or pretended to be, because she wasn’t offended at all by Dad’s escapades.”
“So O’Grady was a devout family man,” I said. “Not the type who usually end up murdered.”
Lori shrugged. “I don’t know. They killed Jesus.”
I drained the rest of my coffee. Lori’s last statement may have been an attempt at humor, but it made me focus on the idea that Sullivan O’Grady wasn’t killed because he was doing something bad, but perhaps because somebody didn’t like how he did good.
###
My secret errands done, I headed out to the wildlife center to relieve Parker. Besides, I wanted to tell Dad the good news that we were getting our shop back. When I reached the end of the narrow drive, Miles’s little Toyota was sitting in the parking lot.
I opened the gate as quietly as I could and just made out voices near the back cages. The wildlife center wasn’t open to the public, at least not all the time. They were mainly in the business of caring for and rehabilitating injured wildlife, especially the area’s plentiful hawk population. Usually animals stayed only until they’d healed and were then successfully released to the wild. Others survived their injuries but had lost the ability to defend themselves against predators and other dangers of the wilderness. These became permanent residents of the facility, along with a menagerie confiscated from illegal home zoos or surrendered by well-meaning animal lovers who could no longer care for them. These couldn’t be sold or returned to the wild, so they lived out their days at the center, where visiting school and community groups could learn about them.
I crept toward the voices. Dad and Miles were in the middle of a quiet conversation, while Parker was working inside an empty cage. I ducked back behind a fence.
“So what about . . . ?” my dad asked.
Miles hushed him. “Just a minute. I want to see the hawk. That’s the one I brought in.” He raised his voice. “How’s he doing?”
“The last X-rays on the wing looked pretty good,” Parker said, “but he doesn’t seem all that interested in flying.” As if to argue the point, the hawk took off and fluttered a few feet, then started walking. “We’ll keep working with him.”
“Do you think he can ever go back to the res?” Miles asked.
“Not until we know he can fly,” Parker said. “Too dangerous for him otherwise.”
The hawk gave a few half-hearted hops across the pen.
Miles shook his head. “He’s not going to get away from a bear that way.”
“And he’d have difficulty hunting,” Parker explained. “Or mating.”
“Aw, man,” Miles said. “You never said my boy lost . . . anything crucial.”
Parker laughed. “His crucial parts are all there, as far as we can tell. I just meant that the female will choose the strongest, healthiest male.” He tipped his head to where the hawk was still making his way across the floor. “I’m afraid Hopalong Cassidy here would be the wallflower at all the best bird dances.”
While Parker gathered the hawk and went to take him wherever rehabilitating hawks spend the night, Dad elbowed Miles. “So what did you find out?”
“They were just being stupid,” Miles said.
“That I knew,” Dad said.
“Hey, I don’t hang with those guys anymore, so they’re not going to spill to me.”
“Since when?”
“Since someone set me on the straight and narrow. As soon as they knew I was cooperating with you and then working for you and going to college, they dropped me like the proverbial sweltering spud.”
“Sweltering spud?” Dad repeated.
“Hey, I’m a college boy now. Gotta exercise that vocabulary. From what I gather, they were probably back to their old tricks. They must have read the obituary in the paper and decided to hit the house. They were too dumb to realize that the new chief apparently had heard of that trick, too.”
“Keep digging, if you can,” Dad said.
“I don’t think they know anything about the murder.”
“Maybe they saw something at the house. You never know.”
Miles saluted. “Sure, boss. I’ll continue my association with known felons if it will help you out,” he said with exaggerated sweetness. “After all, if not for you, I’d probably be getting my first jail tat.”
Dad laughed. “Okay. Anything on the toy?”
“I keep getting shuffled from collector to collector. A few have offered to buy it, should it ever cross our hands again, but nobody seems to know exactly what it is or what it’s worth. Last guy gave me the name of a specialty collector, but he’s off on his honeymoon in Hawaii and apparently didn’t leave his number with anyone, the slacker. I left my number with the nice lady taking care of his shih tzu, and she promised to give him my messages.”
“Keep on it.”
So apparently I wasn’t the only one carrying out secret interviews. I backed up a few steps and approached them again, allowing my footsteps to crunch on the rocks. “Dad, are you back here?” When I rounded the corner, I said, “Oh, hi, Miles. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Hey, Lizzie,” Dad said. “Did you catch up on your sleep?”
“It wasn’t happening,” I said, “so I decided to drive out and see what you were up to.”
Miles seemed a little antsy, like he was ready to bolt. “I came to check on a hawk. It’s from the reservation, and we have to look out for our own.” He checked his phone. “But I should get to class.” He started walking away. “Nice talking to you!”
“See you, Miles,” I called after him, then squinted at my father. “He couldn’t get out of here fast enough. He didn’t come out here to check on a hawk, did he?”
Dad narrowed his eyes. “This is what I get for teaching you half my tricks. You’re becoming too perceptive.”
“Only half your tricks?”
“Hey, an old man’s gotta protect himself.”
I raised an eyebrow and continued to stare.
“Fine,” he said. “I asked Miles to come out here. The young men who broke into Sy’s house—or rather tried to? Miles used to hang with that gang.”
“Oh, boy,” I said. “So that’s another connection that involves the toyshop. Do you think it’s a coincidence that they picked that particular funeral from the obituary notices?”
“You were eavesdropping on me.”
“Well, you were holding out on me.” I poked my finger to his chest. “I thought I was your partner in this little investigation.”
“You are, but Miles . . . I don’t want too many people around the shop to know of his past. He’s a good kid.”
“So you hid your meeting with him from me. See, that’s important. You also didn’t tell me about the appointment you had with Sullivan O’Grady.”
“That had nothing to do with Miles. There is no way he can be on the suspect list.”
I stuck my hands into my coat pockets, then looked up at Dad. “How can you know that for sure? You’ve forgotten what that meeting was about. Can you be certain it wasn’t about Miles? One hundred percent?”
Dad swallowed, his Adam’s apple taking its good old time to bob in his throat. Then he sank down on a nearby bench and shook his head.
When he finally raised his eyes, they were watery. “I think I’d rather it be me.”