Falafel Jones - The Kewpie Killer Read online

  “So you didn’t think my opinion mattered?”

  “Geez. This is one reason why I was afraid to call. Of course it does. Look cop relationships fail a lot even when we’re married and living in the same house.”

  “When we’re married?”

  “I was talking about cops. I mean when they’re married. Look, I didn’t call to fight with you.”

  “Then, who did you call to fight with?”

  “You’re sharp. That’s one of the reasons I like you. Look, I was wrong to think that if I didn’t call I wouldn’t miss you. I’ve got some time off and I’m coming to New York. I’m hoping I could see you.”

  Chapter Nine – North or South

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “I won’t know till I get there. I wanted an excuse to call you so I looked for carnival deaths over the last twelve months.”

  “You didn’t need an excuse to call.”

  “Yeah? Good thing, because except for that clown killing and the murder-suicide with the bride and groom Kewpies, I’ve got nothing.”

  “They’re both sad but there’s something about the bride and groom Kewpie Dolls that gets to me.”

  “Yeah, me too, but you didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Can I see you?”

  “Why are you coming to New York?”

  “If your answer is no, I’m not coming.”

  I missed him too and could almost understand how his frustration kept him from calling. “When does your flight get in? I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Tomorrow, I’m due in at one.”

  * * *

  After work, Kara and I met for dinner and lingerie shopping. She feared a meal would make her belly look big so we agreed to eat after we shopped. My stomach growled while she modeled sexy things she probably wouldn’t get to wear more than ten minutes at a time. She also tried a few hot items poor Tommy would never get to see.

  She must have thought I was getting fidgety waiting because she held up an outfit and said, “Raquel. This is you. You’ve got to try this on.”

  I looked at the black sheer see-through top with red leather piping and said, “What? I’m not wearing that.” When she held up the red leather thong that came with it, I knew she flipped her lid.

  “Oh, Come on, Raquel. I’ve been modeling things all evening. It’s time for you to try something on.”

  “I’m not the one getting married.”

  “Yeah, but you can still have some fun.”

  “Oh, so that’s what this is. You want the single chick to put on the sleazy outfit?”

  “Ah, come on, I’ve been prancing around in outrageous underwear all evening. You could at least try one outfit to make me feel a bit more comfortable. Besides, with your shiny black hair, this will look incredible.”

  Kara sat down on the red velvet upholstered chair in front of the dressing room she had vacated and held up the hanger.

  “Oh, all right.” I took the hanger and entered the dressing room. “Kara, I can’t believe you’re talking me into doing this.” I changed into the tight see through top and skimpy thong, then threw open the dressing room door. “Tada!” I raised my arms and jumped out to the seat where I last saw Kara sit.

  Kara was no longer there. Instead, a balding 40-year-old man with a pocket book in his lap and shopping bags at his feet stared up at me with his mouth hanging open.

  “My wife…” He pointed to the dressing room next to mine. “Er… my wife… she… ah… my wife…”

  Kara called out. “Over here, Raquel, look at this cute nightie.” She held up a hanger and waved from across the store. I ran back into the dressing room, slammed the door and curled up into a ball.

  * * *

  When I got home, Mom was in a mood. She discovered my stuff still packed in one of the spare rooms and dragged me in there.

  “What is this?” Mom waved her hand towards the piled cardboard cartons.

  “Seems obvious.”

  “You know what I mean. You’ve been here almost a month and you haven’t unpacked. It looks like a warehouse in here.”

  “Look, you know I’m not staying. As soon as –”

  “I’m afraid I’ll get cockroaches from that room you rented.” She picked up a small box in one hand and shook it at me. “They nest in cardboard.” Something banged around inside. “Sounds like you didn’t pack this well enough.”

  The label read “RAQUEL” in black, block letters. “Mom, I didn’t pack this box.”

  “Then your movers did a lousy job.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Of course it is. It’s got your name on it. It’s with your things.”

  “I never saw this before, but I did get one just like it at the office.”

  “You mean someone sent it to you? How did it get in here, mixed in with this stuff? What’s inside?”

  I took the box from her and cut the tape with my fingernail. “Maybe someone gave it to the movers or dropped it off when they unloaded?”

  Inside, pages from my Sunday feature article on Kelly’s Carnival, wrapped a Kewpie Doll. Black tape covered the doll’s eyes and mouth and the head lay separate from the body.

  Mom peered into the box. “A Kewpie Doll reporter. How cute. Too bad it broke.” She picked up the head and peeled off the tape. “Oh, look, black hair and blue eyes.”

  I pointed out the red paint on the bottom of the head and the top of the neck. “It didn’t break in the box. Someone sent it that way.”

  “What? You mean this is a threat… because of your Kewpie Killer story? We need to call the Police.”

  I phoned Robby and told him about this second reporter Kewpie. He gave me the usual caveats about not touching anything and said he was on his way.

  Mom asked, “What do you mean you got a box like this at the office and this is the ‘second reporter Kewpie’?”

  I told her about the other one.

  “I’ll hire you a guard. No one messes with my daughter or my reporters. Does Uncle Bill know about the first doll?”

  “Of course. He’s my editor.”

  “He didn’t tell me. I’ll kill him. He’s just like his brother.”

  She ranted and carried on until the doorbell rang. Then she froze. “Who is that?”

  “Probably Robby.”

  “But we don’t know. Wait here.” She walked away. I followed her to her bedroom, where she opened her night table and removed a silver, snub nose, revolver. It looked like guns P.I.s carried in movies.

  I said, “Mom?”

  “What? It’s a defensive weapon. A woman living alone, you should have one too.” She brightened and said. “We could go to the range together.”

  “Yeah, with matching Mother and Daughter holsters. C’mon, Annie Oakley. Let’s get the door.”

  Mom peered through the peephole and swore. “You can never see clear through these damn things.” Then, she shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Police, Ma’am, Detective Carlyle. Your daughter called me.”

  Mother turned to me, waved her gun in the air and asked, “What do I do with this now?”

  “You got a permit?”

  “Of course, but I don’t want him to see me with a gun in my hand. That’s little Robby Carlyle, Denise’s boy.”

  “Gee, Mom. I bet if you show him yours, he’ll show you his.”

  She made a face at me and shoved her gun into a ceramic umbrella stand in the foyer while I opened the door.

  “Robby, thanks for coming.”

  He came in and Mom embarrassed herself making a fuss over how much he grew since she saw him last. Robby politely endured her comments and the three of us went to look at the doll and the box.

  Mother asked Robby, “Did you get one of these too? Maybe a Policeman doll?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Maybe another officer investigating this case got one?”

  “No one on the force received a doll like this, just Raqu
el.”

  “Well, why is this maniac threatening my Raquel and not you? No offense.”

  “None taken, I don’t know.”

  “The killer must think Raquel knows something the police don’t.” The way she transformed from my ditzy Mom into a levelheaded reporter impressed me. She didn’t get to enjoy her success without earning it.

  Robby asks “How?”

  “I don’t know, but Raquel was at the scene when that farmer was murdered. Maybe she saw something she didn’t realize she saw?”

  I said, “…or maybe the killer thinks I saw something I didn’t see.”

  Robby picked up the box with a glove. “I’ll bring this to the lab. Doubt we’ll find anything, but it pays to be thorough. We get anything off it, we’ll call.”

  Mom and I walked him to the door.

  “Bye, Raquel. Be careful.”

  “Always. Thanks for coming.”

  “Ms. Flanagan, nice to see you again.”

  “Bye, Robby, say ‘Hi’ to your mom.”

  After he left, Mom retrieved her gun from the umbrella stand and asked me, “Do you think you might be in danger?”

  “That box must have been here around a month. If someone had it in for me, they would have gotten to me by now. Besides, I haven’t done anything on that story in a while. Maybe they think their threat worked.”

  Mom’s fingers massaged the base of her neck. “Let’s hope so.”

  * * *

  The next morning I sat at my desk working a story on a zoning controversy when my phone rang. It was Robby.

  “The lab finished with the doll and the box. No prints.”

  “Did they find anything useful?”

  “Well, I hoped that they could at least ID a manufacturer so we could try to trace them, but they said the dolls were hand made. Somebody just poured plaster into a mold and painted it. The same for Finley’s doll as both of yours.”

  “Oh, too bad.”

  “Maybe not. Now, we have reason to suspect that maybe the killer made these dolls.”

  “Does that help?”

  “The dolls are Plaster of Paris made from mixing water and flour so after the water’s absorbed, chemicals remain. The flour is too hard to place but the water’s consistent with that common to upstate New York. The lab thinks somebody possibly made the plaster in the Waalbroek area. They also said the texture of the plaster indicated the dolls were made only a few days before we found them.”

  “So, I guess we’ve got nothing.”

  “Not exactly nothing. I did some research on the style of the molds. Seems these particular doll characters were popular as Carnival prizes around twenty years ago. Could be the killer is using an old plaster doll making kit.”

  “So, now what?”

  “I’m going to visit your mover, see what he knows about how the box arrived. Want to come?”

  A second light lit up on desk phone. “Sure, uh, Robby, I’ve got another call.”

  “No sweat. I’m done. Be there in a bit.”

  “Thanks.”

  My desk phone displayed Eddie’s cell phone number and the time, 9:20 AM. I pushed the button to connect the call.

  “Hi, getting ready to take off?”

  “No.”

  My heart sunk for a moment. Maybe he wasn’t going to come. “Huh?”

  “I’m already here.”

  “Here where?”

  “At the hotel. I allowed more time for airport security than I needed and got there in time for an earlier flight. How about lunch?”

  “Where? There?”

  “You’re starting to sound like a Dr. Seuss book. Sure you write for a living?”

  “Funny guy. Great way to get a girl to go to lunch with you.”

  “OK. I’m sorry. I’m staying at the Waalbroek Inn. I’d love to buy you lunch.”

  “I can be there at 12:15.”

  * * *

  Robby picked me up in an unmarked Waalbroek PD car. I don’t know why folks think these black Crown Victoria sedans are stealthy. They look as much like police cars as do the cruisers with the light bars on the roof.

  I gave him the address of Nip and Truck Movers and when we arrived, Nipsie Fletcher, the owner, stood in the office behind a counter reading from a clipboard. He looked up when we walked in.

  “Wait. Don’t tell me. I never forget a customer. You’re Anna, no, Raquel, Fitzger…, no, Flanagan. Right?” He shook Robby’s hand. “You, I don’t recall. Gotta be the boyfriend, huh?”

  Robby showed his badge. “Detective Carlyle.”

  Nipsie took a step back and held up his hands, one holding the clipboard, the other one a pen. “Whoa. Any problems with the move we can handle through arbitration. We’re insured. There’s no need for any criminal complaints. We operate by the book here. Full DOT compliance.”

  Robby shook his head. “No complaints. Just some questions.”

  “Bout what?”

  “Who moved Ms. Flanagan’s things.”

  “I’ve only got two regular guys. Did he have a beard? Baseball cap?

  “No,” I answered. “I wouldn’t call it a beard but looked like he needed a shave, wore a cowboy hat.”

  Nipsie sighed, “Ahh, that’d be Elvis Wood. What’d he do now?”

  Robby asked, “Does he screw up a lot?”

  “Well, around here, we have a saying. “Smart folks won’t do it but Elvis Wood.”

  “He here today?”

  “No, supposed to help me make some space in the warehouse today, but no show.”

  “He call?”

  “What? Elvis? I gave up on that long time ago.”

  “How about his address?”

  Nipsie wrote something on a piece of paper, ripped off a corner and gave it to Robby.

  Ten minutes later, Robby parked in front of the Happy View Mobile Home Park, glanced at the paper Nipsie gave him and headed towards one of the units. I followed and Robby said, “Wait here by the car till I see it’s OK.”

  I stood by the car and watched Robby place one hand on his gun butt while he knocked on the door. When nobody responded he yelled, “Police. Open up.” and pounded on the door again. As Robby raised his fist for another attempt, the door opened to reveal a wiry guy in a cowboy hat and confederate flag boxer shorts squinting against the morning light. I recognized Elvis Wood. Robby removed his hand from his gun and Elvis looked harmless so I walked to the trailer.

  Elvis looked at me and smiled. Actually, his eyes locked onto my chest and his mouth hung open. “I ‘member you, Darlin’.” How did men like him manage to always look like they hadn’t shaved in two days? What did they do, only go out every third day?

  Robby grabbed Elvis by his neck and pulled him down the two steps leading up to the trailer. “So, you remember Ms. Flanagan?”

  When Elvis nodded, his cowboy hat bounced. You had to wonder about him. He put his hat on to answer the door, but not his pants.

  “You remember delivering an extra box?”

  Elvis stood up straight. His head pulled back about two inches. “You mean that box that wasn’t on my inventory?” He squinted at Robby. “How you know ‘bout that?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  “Well, I inventoried everything I picked up, stuck the numbered labels on ‘em, but once I unloaded, had an extra box. It din’t have any sticker on it so I figured I screwed up, forgot to inventory it when I picked it up.”

  “You tell anybody about the box?”

  “You kidding? I tell Nip I messed up… again… you think he’s going to keep me on?”

  “You know where the box came from?”

  “Nope, t’was on the truck.”

  “See who put it there?”

  “Thought I did and just forgot to mark it.”

  “Leave the truck unattended?”

  “Hell, yeah. How you think I’m going unload all by myself? Close and lock the doors each trip? Job would take all day.”

  “See anyone hanging around the tru
ck, maybe watching you work?”

  “No. Wait… you mean someone else snuck it on?” Elvis broke into a big grin and slapped his hat against his leg. “Hell, then I didn’t screw up, did I?”

  Robby walked away, shaking his head and I followed.

  * * *

  The Waalbroek Inn is one of those huge colonial era homes that not only survived but also flourished. The owners managed to modernize the place without losing its charm. I entered the dining room and saw Eddie at a table by a window overlooking the lawn.

  When I approached, he stood, took me by my shoulders and said, “Boy, I missed you.” Then he kissed me on the lips. It was a quick kiss but it felt like he wanted it to be longer. I know I did.

  We sat and I said, “It’s good to see you too.”

  “I’m sorry. I really missed you. Can we get past me acting like a jerk?”

  I said, “Me too, yeah, we can,” and looked up to see a dour waiter staring down at us. We ordered the seafood special with glasses of Pinot Grigio and fell quiet.

  Eddie asked, “What do you think of long distance romances?”

  “I think that they’re hard enough when there’s an end in sight. Impossible when there isn’t. The only exception is when it’s only a casual relation.”

  “Yeah, I’d have to agree, but Raquel, I’d really like for us to become closer. I think we have a chance for something together.”

  “Maybe, but you’re in Florida. I’m in New York.”

  “I know. That’s why I stayed away… didn’t call. Then after I realized how much I missed you, I started to get some ideas.”

  He looked at me as if he wanted some kind of response so I asked, “Like?”

  “Well, I have contacts at the Achalaca News, the local paper. I’m sure you could get a job there.”

  “Mom wants to groom me to take over the Chronicle. What about New York? Couldn’t you move here?”

  “I’ve got only about 6 years till I can get my pension. I can’t throw that away now.”

  We sat for a moment staring at each other. I was relieved when the waiter interrupted us with our drinks and salads.