Murder at the Toy Soldier

Book 0: Cozy Capers Book Group Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery

Synopsis

It’s a cold, wet, February on Cape Cod, but a murder at the local toy store blows an especially icy wind through town—and through bike shop owner Mackenzie “Mac” Almeda’s sleuthing Cozy Capers Book Group.

Mac is extra busy these days as she and Tim do their best as working parents of a preschooler and a baby, not to mention Mac’s participation in the Cozy Capers book group. With Ella’s 4th birthday approaching, Mac uses her lunch break to shop for a gift at the Toy Soldier, which is run by June Fadiman.

Behind the counter is Zia Carven, a young woman Mac recognizes as a shopper at the Free Grocery food pantry Mac’s father sponsors. Zia finds Mac a kid-sized gardening toolkit Ella will love and offers to gift wrap it. In a rush, Mac plans to pick it up after work. But at 5:30, she finds Zia slumped over the counter, dead, dried blood on a toy rifle nearby. The first police officer to arrive is June's son, August. Then June arrives and is upset to find the police won't allow her inside.

Mac’s mother, Astra, confides that she’d been trying to help Zia, and now the police want to speak with her, which worries Mac. Then Mac discovers that Zia had been in town searching for her birth mother, which only multiplies the questions—and the suspects. Just one thing is certain: Mac and the book group will have to double down to find a killer who isn’t playing around . . .

Release date: August 25, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

I pulled open the Toy Soldier’s front door that late February afternoon and was greeted by the music of a string of jingle bells that hung from it.

A woman about my height stood with her back to me at the retail counter. She tucked a lock of dirty blond hair behind her ear as she spoke in a low tone to the young woman behind the counter. The young one was dressed in a violet sweater and had wavy dark hair to her shoulders, framing the porcelain skin of her face.

“I need more time to think about it,” Dirty Blond murmured.

“Please,” Violet Sweater pleaded with her. “It would mean so much to me.”

I scuffed my foot on purpose. This didn’t sound like a retail transaction, and I didn’t want them to think I was listening in.

Dirty Blond whirled. “Mac?” the chef of the Rusty Anchor Pub asked.

“Yvonne, I didn’t recognize you without your toque and your chef’s tunic.”

“It’s my day off,” Yvonne said, “and I was just leaving.” She pushed past me and pulled open the door, setting the bells jingling again.

The young woman seemed to sag for a moment, then took in a deep breath and straightened her spine.

“Welcome to the Toy Soldier,” she said, her voice low and throaty and a little quavery.

“Thanks.” I took another look. Yesterday I’d seen this person elsewhere but hadn’t interacted with her.

She didn’t return my smile as she cleared her throat. “Excuse me. What can I help you find, ma’am?”

At the counter, I held out my hand. “I’m Mac Almeida, owner of Mac’s Bikes at the other end of Main Street. Have you worked here long?” I hadn’t seen her during the holiday season, when I’d been in shopping for toys for Ella and Luca, our newly adopted children.

“No, I only began last month. I’m Zia Carven.” She shook my hand with her smooth, slender one, but it was a brief and unsure touch. She was two or three inches shorter than my five foot seven, and I doubted she was over twenty-five. Her eyes were a light brown, almost golden shade I’d never seen before, and her naturally arched eyebrows angled down toward the bridge of her nose as if she were actor Nicole Kidman’s offspring.

“It’s nice to meet you, Zia. I’m sure June is glad for the help.”

“Yes.” Her gaze darted over my shoulder toward the door.

When I didn’t hear bells, I didn’t twist to look. “My daughter is turning four in a couple of weeks.” Although the word “my” combined with “daughter” still sounded strange coming from my lips, I was now a mother of two. “Ella’s been talking about gardening since last fall. Do you have anything like children’s garden gloves and tools for digging?”

Zia finally smiled. “We do. Let me show you.” She had a wide mouth, and the smile transformed her face from ghostly to lovely.

I followed her to a display of miniature gloves, trowels, hand rakes, and bucket hats painted with whimsical vegetables.

“Those look perfect.” I picked up a Made in the USA two-pack of a trowel and a hand rake, which were plastic, but the packaging said they were made of recycled marine plastic. The handles looked easy to grip for small hands, and neither tool had sharp edges.

“Let me know what else I can help you with.” Zia made her way back to the counter, casting a quick glance at the door as she went.

I brought the two-pack of tools, a pair of purple flowered gloves, and a hat decorated with pea pods to the register, along with a picture book about growing vegetables.

“These will make my girl happy.” I pulled out a credit card.

“Good.” Zia rang up the sale. “Would you like me to gift wrap them?” She gestured behind her at three rolls of wrapping paper featuring balloons, jungle animals, and kites in primary colors.

“Would you? All I have is Christmas paper at home.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. Please do the tools in the animals paper, and the rest together in the balloon paper.” My husband, Tim, and I could say the tools were a gift from Ella’s baby brother, who was all of six months old and clueless about things like birthdays. I checked the time on my phone. “Actually, I’m on my lunch break, and I have to get back to my shop. I’ll pick up the gifts at five, on my way home, if that’s okay.”

“Not a problem. We’re open until six.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you then.” I made my way to the door. As I pulled it open, I looked back at Zia. She again stared at the plate glass, those naturally intense brows drawn even closer together.

What was this young woman worried about? And what had she wanted from Yvonne?

Even though I needed to get back to work, I pulled out my phone in front of the consignment shop two doors down from the toy store and pretended to read something. My peripheral vision was trained on the front of the Toy Soldier.

Zia seemed anxious about an unwelcome visitor she was hesitant to see or maybe afraid of. Should I contact June? Maybe she wasn’t around, if she’d left her new employee in charge. June had owned the store at least as long as I’d been back in Westham, going on four years now, and possibly longer.

Brrr. I pulled up the hood on my winter jacket. The end of February on Cape Cod could be miserably cold and rainy or bitter cold and dry, sometimes with snow. This week was all of the above. This morning had brought freezing rain on top of last night’s snow. The temperature had warmed enough to make slushies of the sidewalks, but it wasn’t enough to feel remotely comfortable. The damp cold permeated to my bones. At least it wasn’t precipitating in any form.

I turned away toward the other end of town when the scuff of a foot caught my attention. Turning, I caught sight of a hooded figure peering into the toy store window. The person gave a wave through the glass and set their hand on the door handle.

But the door didn’t open. The person hammered on it with a closed fist, then glanced up and down the sidewalk. I raised my phone in front of my face just in time. I began to stroll away, switching my phone’s camera to selfie-mode so I could see behind me.

The impatient knocker uttered a growl. When Zia didn’t unlock the door—and who could blame her?—the person stomped away in the opposite direction. They were maybe three or four inches taller than me, but they were so bundled up in a dark, thigh-length coat with the hood up, I couldn’t tell who it was.

I gave myself a shake. I’d delayed my return to my workplace and livelihood even more. By now it was one thirty, and my high-metabolism empty stomach was complaining bitterly of mistreatment. I always gave my employees their lunch breaks before I took mine, but I had run my errand in search of a birthday present instead of eating. My ham-and-cheese sandwich awaited me back at Mac’s Bikes. I could sneak bites of lunch between customers if I had to.

As I walked, I thought about an incident I’d witnessed the day before. Every other Monday, at the end of the afternoon, I volunteered at Our Neighbor’s Table, a free food market run out of the basement of the church where my father was minister. I’d just finished my shift and was gathering my things to walk home when my mother began a conversation with a young woman I now knew was Zia.

They were at the far end of the market area from the door, so I couldn’t make out their words, but Mom seemed to be exhorting the younger woman about something. Zia wasn’t having it, shaking her head and turning away. Mom didn’t appear happy, either. My mother, aka Astra MacKenzie, was rarely confrontational, although she did hold strong opinions, which I admired. I decided to ask her about their conversation next time I saw her. I shook off the memory and picked up my pace.

I hurried past my husband’s business, Greta’s Great Grains, which was named after Tim’s mother, who’d taught him to bake. Since we’d taken in his late sister’s two small children last November, Tim had pulled back from full-time baking. He still managed the bakery but needed more flexibility in his hours to make sure the kiddos were okay and that we had healthy meals on the table most nights. He knew I wasn’t capable of making the cooking part a success.

What I was succeeding at was loving up Ella and baby Luca, those two little beings whose birth fathers had never been in their lives and whose mom was too troubled to keep herself sober and safe. Tim had been named the children’s official guardian in case of need, and we happily took in our niece and nephew. Their official adoption was in process.

Tim and I had planned to get our own family underway after we’d married over a year ago, but conception was so far proving elusive. I had turned thirty-eight last September to Tim’s thirty-five. If my husband and I also produced a child or two the usual way, so much the better. If we didn’t, if my eggs were too old or something, we still had our own little clan meshing with my beloved family here in Westham.

My half-brother, Derrick, had been raising his daughter as a single dad since Cokey, now six, was three. Derr’s new wife Neli gave birth last month to a baby boy they were calling Joey. Our parents and my grandmother lived in town too. My dad, Joseph, was the Unitarian Universalist minister, my mom worked as a professional astrologer, and my grandmother Reba was a tiny dynamo and town monitor of activities, legal and otherwise. Each week, all of us congregated at the parsonage for Sunday dinner, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Mac’s Bikes was quiet when I walked in, which was what I’d expected. Who wanted to rent or buy a bicycle in wretched weather like this? Luckily my mechanic, Orlean, had her hands full with long-deferred tune-up and maintenance jobs. When it was too cold to ride outdoors, cyclists brought their bikes in for service. They could do without them for a few days.

“Delia, you’re off at two thirty, yes?” I asked my part-timer, Delia Haskins, after I grabbed my sandwich from the fridge.

“Yep. Miserable weather out there, isn’t it?”

“Totally. No wonder we don’t have any business in here.” I took a big first bite of my delayed lunch.

A dozen grizzled and weather-worn men in cold-weather bike togs clomped in, one after the other. I’d spoken too soon.

A tall dude in a yellow jacket grinned at me. “Nice and warm in here. Thank you, ma’am.” He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his palms together.

“Welcome to Mac’s Bikes.” I slid the sandwich back into its container and stashed it under the counter. “Have you all been out riding in this weather?”

“We’re hard-core, ma’am,” Yellow Jacket said.

“We’re kind of like the mailman,” a shorter man in a purple knit cap said. “Nothing stops us except ice storms.”

“We rode in from Providence, and we’re headed for Provincetown,” the first one added. “It keeps us out of trouble of the liquid kind.”

Whatever that meant. “I admire your dedication to the sport, but that’s a long ride. What is it, a hundred miles?”

“A hundred twenty,” Purple Cap said. “But we have only twenty more miles to go today. We’re breaking the trip with a night in Hyannis.”

“A wise choice.” I smiled. “What can we do for you today?”

The men spread out through the store, with both Delia and me helping them find items from energy gels to wicking socks and patch kits.

After they paid and began to leave, Purple Cap hung back. “Isn’t Westham a kind of murder magnet? I follow the news on Cape Cod, and your town’s name keeps popping up with homicides.”

I grimaced. “Unfortunately, we have had a few in recent years, but I wouldn’t say we’re a magnet for that kind of crime.” The most recent murder had been four months ago on Halloween. With any luck, that would be the last one for the foreseeable future.

“I hope not.” He held up his bag. “I’d better get going or they’ll leave without me.”

“Have a safe ride.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared through the door.

Delia sidled over. “Did you hear what the tall guy said about keeping out of liquid trouble?”

“Yes, but I don’t have a clue what he meant.”

“I bet that was a group that met in AA. My brother-in-law is in recovery, and he’s a wicked serious mountain biker in New Hampshire. For him, conquering trails, even in the snow, keeps him sober.”

“Getting a lot of focused, exhausting exercise to avoid drinking makes sense to me.” I retrieved my sandwich and thought back to my toy store encounter. “You know June Jenkins, don’t you?”

“Of the Toy Soldier? Sure.”

“A young woman was working there when I stopped in on my break. I wonder if June is away.”

“No, I don’t think so. I saw her somewhere in town this week. Maybe it was yesterday.”

“Okay. Have you met Zia Carven? That’s who waited on me in the toy store.” I took another bite of my sandwich.

“What does she look like?”

“Early twenties, slender, with dark wavy hair and the palest skin you’ll ever see. Plus odd golden eyes. About your height.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her in the pub a few times this winter, but I didn’t learn her name.” Delia tended bar at the Rusty Anchor when she wasn’t working at my shop. “Nervous, right?”

“She was today, but I didn’t pick up why. She seemed to have locked the door after I left.”

“That’s strange for a retail store that’s supposed to be open all day.”

“I know.” I gave a nod. “Someone wanted to go in after I left, but the door wouldn’t budge.”

“Maybe she was using the restroom and didn’t want to leave the front unattended.”

“That’s probably it.”

Or maybe the thing she was scared of was the person who seemed angry that they couldn’t get inside. In that case, good for her for staying safe.

“I’m pretty sure Zia isn’t from Westham,” Delia added.

“I suppose not. I don’t recognize the last name, but that doesn’t mean much. I was elsewhere for a decade and a half, between college, working in banking, my stint in the Peace Corps, and traveling after I got out.”

“If she’s in her early twenties, she would have been an infant when you were packing up to go to Harvard.”

“True, and I didn’t babysit when I was in high school. Or she could have recently moved to town.”

I finished my sandwich and started puttering around the shop. Delia bundled up to leave half an hour later.

“Say hi to Lincoln,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in months, and that’s a good thing.”

She’d reunited last year with her former husband, the state police detective who had worked on most of the murders I’d become involved in solving. Lincoln Haskins and I had become friendly, and I was more than happy that he and Delia had resolved their long-ago differences, issues that had arisen after the tragic death of their young daughter.

“I will. See you tomorrow.”

I perched on a stool behind the counter and switched on my laptop, then brought up the accounting software I used. Quiet days like this were perfect for accomplishing the administrative tasks of running a business. Orlean worked away in the repair room, providing background music of tools clinking, the air compressor humming to life, and the hiss as it filled bike tires.

The only customers for the rest of the afternoon were folks picking up their serviced bikes. I checked in with my mom about how Ella was. Mom and Pa cared for the little girl once preschool was out for the day at three o’clock. Little Luca stayed in the church day care until four thirty, when Tim picked up both kids. I texted him that I’d be home by five twenty at the latest.

At four thirty, I headed into the repair area. “Are you at a good stopping point?” I asked Orlean.

“Yup.” She lifted a replica Schwinn off the repair stand. “Just finished this one.”

“Is anyone else expected in to pick up their cycles?”

“Nope.” Orlean was nothing if not efficient in her communication.

“Then let’s close up now.”

“Sure.” She wiped her hands with a rag.

I smiled and turned away. The sound of running water followed as she scrubbed her hands at the industrial sink in her area. I turned down the heat and ventured outside to bring in the Open flag. Brr. The temperature was dropping again. I hurried to lift the pole out of its holder, then paused to sniff the air. Was snow on its way again? I couldn’t tell, and I hadn’t checked a forecast since yesterday.

A few minutes later, Orlean gave a mock salute as she headed for the door.

“See you in the morning,” I said.

“Yup.”

I didn’t care how taciturn my mechanic was. She did good work. I knew how to do the bike repair and maintenance side of the business, but having her take care of it freed me up—and kept my hands clean—to run the rest of the retail and rental shop, which was about to close for the night. I had gift-wrapped items to pick up and a cherished family to eat supper with.

My cheeks stinging from the cold, I paused for a moment to admire the display in the window of the Toy Soldier. Dolls and stuffed animals kept books and games company on a bookshelf. In front stood a half dozen soldiers dressed like Buckingham Palace guards, and a toy train emerged from a tunnel onto a track that encircled the shelf.

As I watched, one of the soldiers teetered and crashed across the tracks directly in front of the engine. If someone switched on the train, he was a goner. I hoped June or Zia picked him up before any children saw him run over.

I pulled open the door to the shop, glad it was unlocked. I wasn’t sure it would be. Inside, I gasped. Instead of smiling at me from behind the waist-high counter, Zia Carven slumped over one end of it.

“Zia!” I rushed toward her.

She didn’t move. Her right arm hung over the edge. My nostrils flared with alarm. She was too still. Her back wasn’t moving with breath, not even a little. I tore off my fleece glove and gently pressed two fingers into her neck.

I stepped back, my eyes filling. Zia Carven would never move again. Her skin was cool. She had no pulse. In the space of a single afternoon, she’d gone from being a lovely, if nervous, young woman, very much alive, to this. Dead.

But why? How did she come to slump over a retail counter? Surely she was too young to suffer a heart attack or a stroke.

I shook myself out of my musings. I needed to call this in. As I pulled my phone out of my bag, my gaze refocused on Zia. I moved closer to the end of the counter and peered at the floor under her dangling arm. My breath rushed in all over again.

What appeared to be dried blood was pooled under a toy rifle on the floor. My eyes lifted. The hair on this side of Zia’s head was matted. The poor girl had been attacked. Maybe by the upset figure I’d seen? I couldn’t solve that. What I could do was press 9-1-1.

“This is Mackenzie Almeida at the Toy Soldier on Main Street in Westham. I came in a m. . .