Death of a Toy Soldier (6 page)

If we’d walked in on a holiday party, it might be one of the worst ever.

Dad was busy talking to a man I didn’t recognize. I was about to join them when Jack returned.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with Uncle Sy,” he said.

“Oh, this is your uncle’s house?” I wondered which of the men present might be his uncle. Then I realized the others were all wearing suits and most of the women were in dresses or nice pantsuits—if there is such a thing as a nice pantsuit. I felt a little underdressed in my jeans. At least I’d coupled that with a dressier top, a glittery red number with a draped neckline. Cathy had raved about how it flattered my figure and complexion.

Then I noticed something my eyes hadn’t caught the first time I’d scanned the room. The official guests were all dressed in somber colors: blacks, charcoal grays, and muted purples.

“Your Uncle Sy . . .” I began.

A nearby man raised a bottle of Michelob in a toast. “To Sy!”

More beverages were raised in his honor, while a number of those in attendance did the sign of the cross.

“May he rest in peace,” another said.

I sent a panicked look toward Dad. We’d crashed a wake.

Dad seemed quick to catch on to the real reason for the gathering. Soon, he was buzzing from one mourner to another like a bee collecting pollen, offering sympathy with a pat on the hand and a consoling expression.

“I’m sorry about your Uncle Sy,” I said to Jack.

“My great uncle, actually,” Jack explained. “My mother’s uncle. I’m surprised you knew him at all. He was a bit of a hermit. I think his picture was in the dictionary under ‘curmudgeon.’” Jack leaned an elbow against the top of an upright piano wedged just inside the living room. If he’d worn a suit coat, he ditched it at the same time as his overcoat. But he’d kept the teal-and-gray tie, which looked kind of snazzy, as Dad would say, against his freshly pressed dress shirt. He’d even shaved his ordinarily scruffy face. With his olive skin, intense brown eyes, and hair freshly combed, Jack had only gotten better looking with age. In high school, a lot of girls weren’t interested in smart, gangly, geeky Jack. Their loss. Although he’d also picked up a bit of a paunch, probably from
sampling a little too much of his own food, it didn’t take away from his appeal. The man was just reaching his prime.

And he was waiting for a response. From me. What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Uncle Sy. “I didn’t know him,” I admitted.

When Jack raised a jaunty eyebrow, I added, “I’m here for Dad, mainly.”

“Huh,” Jack said. “I didn’t know they were acquainted either. Small town, I guess.”

“I gather he’d met your Uncle Sy on more than one occasion. Was he sick long?”

“Only all his life. Here.” He grabbed my hand. “Come see the shrine.” He led me to the fireplace mantel, not that there was a fireplace, at least not anymore. The opening had been sealed and wallpapered over, an apparent victim to central heating, but at least they’d kept the wood mantel. Several framed pictures there showed Uncle Sy. He was alone in all but one of them, a grumpy expression on his face and his arms crossed in front of him. The lone exception was a black-and-white photo of a group of men, dressed in military uniforms, standing stiffly. I caught that signature grumpy look on a man in the back row.

Jack tapped the photo. “Korea. Uncle Sy fought at the Battle of Triangle Hill. If you want to know any more about it, ask anyone in the room. I’m sure we all know it by heart.” He leaned toward my ear. “But be warned. Uncle Sy never had a kind word for anyone. Everyone here today is here either because they’re expected to be or to stake their claim on their share of the estate.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Expected to be here, although Mother asked me specifically to bring the truck.” He winked. Moments later, however, his smile dimmed. I followed his line of vision to where his mother sat, also with her arms crossed, with that same icy stare. Maybe it never had anything to do with me. It seemed to be hereditary. The Wallace glare. I bet it had its own chromosome. She gestured for her son to join her.

“Sorry. Gotta go.” He squeezed my arm. “Try the deviled eggs. They’re my special recipe.”

I found the punchbowl perched on a corner of the dining room table. The recommended deviled eggs were nearby, so I snagged one and nibbled on it. While it tasted amazing, I hoped Dad would be ready to leave soon.

One nice thing about the punch bowl was the absence of company. One of the Wallaces’ relatives—my guess, since she had that same glare—was hovering over the desserts. She was fully engaged in that activity, so I didn’t have to carry out any coherent conversations or answer any sticky questions, such as how I knew Sy or what I was doing there.

I stopped to inspect a curio cabinet; every shelf was jammed full of knickknacks and figurines. No toys among them, though. I thought I recognized an old Hummel amid a bunch of tacky thrift-store fodder.

When I turned around, the woman eyed me suspiciously.

“Sy was quite a collector,” I managed.

She continued to eye me as she chewed.

The bad thing about my location by the punch bowl was that it left me vulnerable to attack from the rear. Mrs. Wallace came up to the table, effectively trapping me. She dipped
her chin and greeted the woman standing by me. “Meredith.” Friendly group.

She then focused that familiar glare on me. “Hello, Elizabeth.” She straightened the napkins and used one to sop up several stray drops of punch. I’m sure she assumed I’d been the one who dribbled. After she’d done a thorough job, she said, “The table is an antique, of course. Has been in the family for a number of years. I’ve always admired it.”

“Mother has, too,” Meredith said, then paused to swallow, “and the matching hutch, which I believe Uncle Sy had promised to her.”

Mrs. Wallace blinked, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Well, it would be a shame to separate them. I’m sure it’s all in Sy’s will.”

“If he had a will,” Meredith said.

I was in no-man’s-land in the family squabble for Uncle Sy’s worldly goods.

“I was just remarking that Sy was quite a collector,” I said.

“Is that why you’re here, Elizabeth?” Mrs. Wallace said. “I’ll make sure you’re notified when we have the estate sale.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said.

“She was admiring the Hummel,” Meredith said.

“The Hummel will have to be appraised,” Mrs. Wallace said.

“I don’t collect Hummel, and I’m not here for an advance peek at the estate sale.” Although if the toys I’d seen were from Uncle Sy’s collection, I’d keep an eye on the notices. I figured this might be the best time to scout for information. “I did hear that your Uncle Sy collected toys.”

“Probably,” Meredith said. “He seemed to have collected everything else.”

“Who told you that?” Mrs. Wallace asked me. She glanced at her son, and then used her X-ray vision to render my skull invisible and probe my very thoughts. Or maybe it only felt that way. “Valuable toys?”

“I don’t know the value.” That much was true. “And I’m not looking to buy. I heard he was leaving a toy collection to the museum.” I left out the part about having seen the collection, carried into our shop by a man now dead.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen any toys here,” Mrs. Wallace said. “Are you sure about this? Who did you hear it from?”

“I . . .” No way I was going to put Jillian on the hook for spilling the beans. “A man came into the shop.” I proceeded to describe the dead man, from his scrubs to his parka to his tanned, pockmarked face. “I didn’t catch his name. I gather he was acquainted with Sy.”

“I don’t know who that could be,” Mrs. Wallace said.

“Maybe Tonya’s boy, Peter?” Meredith suggested.

Mrs. Wallace vigorously shook her head. “Not a single pockmark on him. Peter’s father was a dermatologist. I think they tied Peter’s hands to the bedposts when he had the chicken pox so he wouldn’t scratch. And he certainly wouldn’t be tan.”

“One thing you can say about this family,” Meredith said, “we have excellent collagen.”

“I suppose that if we do come across any toys, we might be able to make a deal,” Mrs. Wallace said.

A better businesswoman would have handed her a card. I merely shrugged.

“Sy was a bit of a hoarder,” Mrs. Wallace said. “It’s going to take a lot of work to clear all this stuff out.”

“I suppose that will have to wait until an executor is named,” Meredith said. “Of course, that could take even longer if no will is found and it has to go through probate. It, uh, might be in our best interest to work together.”

Mrs. Wallace narrowed her eyes.

Meredith blathered on. “I’m sure there are things that you are partial to, and I know there are a few small things Mother and I have always admired. Amid all the junk, of course.”

“You think your mother is going to be executor, don’t you?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

I took a step backward, but there wasn’t enough room. It put me right up against the curio cabinet, which rattled.

“Careful!” both of them said simultaneously.

They moved just enough that I was able to excise myself from the tight space and leave them alone to divvy up the booty.

I glanced over at Dad, but he was fully engaged in conversation. My gaze swept the room and found an unoccupied folding chair opposite the two older ladies on the settee. They looked harmless enough.

I claimed the chair just before a man approached from the opposite direction. I went to set my punch cup on a nearby table.

“Ah ah ah,” one of the women warned. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She poked the other lady in the ribs. “The family thinks it’s a Duncan Phyfe.”

The ladies shared a brief giggle, then resumed their more somber, funereal expressions.

I cradled my cup in my hands instead and regarded the two women. “Are you family?” While they resembled each other, they didn’t share many of the Wallace characteristics. These two had more playful, impish features.

“Heavens no,” one of them said, waving a wrinkled, arthritic hand in protest.

“We mustn’t sound too excited about that, dear,” the other said.

The first turned to me. “We’re neighbors.” She pointed toward the side window. If I recalled correctly, there was an equally intimidating Victorian in that general direction.

“How long have you been neighbors with Sy?” I asked. “I’m Elizabeth McCall, by the way.” I nodded in lieu of a handshake. No way was I going to risk losing this chair by standing up.

“Always,” the first one said, her eyes dancing. “And I’m Irene Dedrick. This is my sister, Lenora.”

“Sisters,” I said. And then Irene’s other comment caught up with me. “Always?”

They grinned and nodded, all overly bright lipstick and dentures. “Both houses have been in the families for simply years.
I
was born in the house,” Irene boasted.

Lenora sighed. “Because I was born in a hospital, I’m a second-class citizen.” But the twinkle in her eye proved her irritation false.

“So you two must have known Sy pretty well,” I said.

“Oh, good heavens, yes.” Lenora leaned closer to me. “The man was a total—”

Irene interrupted with a loud throat clearing. “Watch your language among the young people,” she said.

“I’m not that young,” I said.

“How’d you know what I was going to say?” Lenora protested.

Irene smiled coyly. “We both know what Sy was. Can’t change it now, and it doesn’t make any sense to try to hide it.” She gestured at the room. “Not a person here who didn’t know it.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t know him at all. I’m here with my dad.” I pointed to where Dad was standing, still working the room.

Lenora shook a bony finger in his direction. “Your dad was the sheriff, right?”

“Chief of police, actually,” I said. “Now retired.”

“Thought I’d seen that face around,” Irene said. “He’s gotten older, but then, who hasn’t?”

“He interrogated us once,” Lenora explained. “He was very nice about it, as I recall.”

I could feel my eyebrows hit the ceiling. “My dad . . . ?” There was something a little enchanting about these elderly women in their polyester skirt suits and orthopedic shoes. Maybe it was the pixie-like mischievous grins. I liked them immediately. “Were you ladies being naughty?” I teased.

They looked guiltily at each other. “Maybe a little,” Irene admitted. “But if you live next door to someone for more than eighty years, do you really think you’ll get along all the time?”

“For a number of years there, we had a right good feud going,” Lenora added.

“With Sy DuPont?” I asked.

Irene winced. “Took a nasty turn in the seventies. All those wild parties over here.” She folded her arms and leaned back. “Leisure suits and disco music blaring at all hours. And we weren’t invited to any of them!”

“Sy had wild parties?” I said. It didn’t fit with the antisocial-looking man in the pictures.

Lenora waved off the question. “That phase didn’t last long. Confidentially . . .” She scanned the area to see who might be nearby, then said a little too loudly, in almost a stage whisper, “I think he was just trying to get laid.”

Several smirks and titters from nearby betrayed the fact that she’d been overheard, and I suspected that’s what she’d intended all along.

“Oh, look at her blush.” Irene pointed at me. “Been a long time since either one of us blushed like that.”

“I wasn’t sure young people blushed anymore,” Lenora said. “Don’t let my sister annoy you. We can talk about something else.”

I reached into my purse for my phone. “Perhaps there is something you can help me with.” I pulled up the picture of the toy. “If you knew Sy for such a long time, have you ever seen this toy before?”

Irene took the phone first and squinted at it, moving it farther away from herself. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my glasses.” She passed it to Lenora.

Lenora rummaged through her gigantic mauve handbag and fished out a pair of reading glasses. “Well, will you look at that!” she said, scrutinizing the picture of the two boxers. “It’s Fred and Ginger.”

“I think they’re actually boxers,” I said, hoping that Lenora no longer operated a moving vehicle.

Lenora responded with a throaty laugh. “Oh, I know they’re boxers. You must think I’m blind as a bat. But when you wound it up with the little key on the bottom, they moved more like dancers than fighters. So we used to call them Fred and Ginger, and it made Squiggy so mad.”

“Squiggy?”

By this time Irene was laughing and trying to focus on the picture of the toy. Lenora continued. “Our father had taken us all to the pictures. Of course, children were mainly taken to cartoons, but our father said all that stuff was fluff and nonsense, so he took us to see Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Oh my, the dancing.” She clasped her hands together, cherishing the memories. “The costumes and the dresses that swished and swirled. And such high heels!” She brought her hands to her lips. “Fred and Ginger were the bee’s knees.”

“But Squiggy . . . uh, Sy didn’t think so?” I asked.

“He was a sourpuss even back then.” Irene handed me back the phone. “Sy had this toy, you say?”

“I understand he intended to donate it to the toy museum,” I said.

“Well, that explains what happened to it.” Lenora’s brows furrowed. “Where is it now?”