A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

Praise for

Going Through the Notions

“A quaint little village, quirky characters, and a crafty killer—I loved it!”

—Laura Childs,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Eggs in a Casket

“Cate Price’s
Going Through the Notions
has everything I read cozy mysteries for—a terrific setting, a smart plot, and well-rounded, clever characters. Lucky us—it’s the first in an all-new series (Deadly Notions)—and I can’t wait for the next one!”

—Mariah Stewart,
New York Times
bestselling author of
At the River’s Edge

“A fun, fast-paced debut filled with eccentric characters, quirky humor, and small-town drama.”

—Ali Brandon, national bestselling author of
Words With Fiends

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Cate Price

GOING THROUGH THE NOTIONS

A DOLLHOUSE TO DIE FOR

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

penguin.com

A Penguin Random House Company

A DOLLHOUSE TO DIE FOR

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

Excerpt from
Lie of the Needle
by Cate Price copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14307-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2014

Cover illustration by Ben Perini.

Cover logo
Pin
copyright © Roman Sotola;
Floral Pattern
copyright © LDesign.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Owen

Acknowledgements

This book owes an enormous debt of gratitude to a wonderful friend and writer, Eileen Emerson, who was so helpful in so many ways. Let me try to count them. For taking a trip with me to Fabric Row in Philadelphia to impart some of her vast knowledge of fabrics to this non-seamstress, for plot ideas on insulin pumps and remotes, for always being ready to drop everything for a critique, and for unfailing passion for my work. Thank you, Eileen, from the bottom of my heart.

For more medical advice on diabetes, thanks to my forever friend, Cheryl McEntee, and to Lanise Shortell, RN, for the detailed information. Any mistakes in interpretation are entirely mine.

Thanks to Adele Downs, who owned a doll business for many years, for advice on antique dolls and insight into the habits of some extreme collectors.

To the plotstormers with whom I’ve enjoyed so many lunches, Jeannine Standen, Maria Entenman, Stephanie Julian, Jackie Himmel, and Eileen Emerson. You rock.

Special thanks to Judith Nichols and Gaynor Bosson, childhood friends in England who have always cheered me on, and to Judith’s daughter, Chloe, for the creative tips on upcycling sewing cabinets. Thanks to my aunt, Peggy Davies, who writes me lovely notes of encouragement.

To artist Ben Perini, thank you for my beautiful covers, and to artist Robin Carey, who creates amazing dollhouses and features them on her blog, thanks for the inspiration.

I’m grateful for the new friends and readers that I’ve had the pleasure to meet since
Going Through the Notions
was published, including my very first sale, Gayle Vreeland, who advised me to always be a seeker of the truth.

As always, deep gratitude to my most excellent editor, Jackie Cantor, and my wonderful agent, Jessica Alvarez.

Finally, for my brother, Owen, who is almost more excited about this publishing journey than I am, and who is secure enough in his manhood that he won’t mind having a book about dear little dollhouses dedicated to him. Love you more.

A
s I peered through the windows of the house I’d purchased at auction for two hundred dollars, I realized it was in far worse shape than I’d thought. All the floors needed refinishing, the staircase was askew, and some of the wallpaper was peeling. Most of the boards on the porch were rotted, and a couple of balustrades needed replacing.

Never mind
. I smiled as I peeked inside the front parlor, still entranced with my find. I planned to add some sconces on either side of the mirror and a flickering light in the fireplace. A new coverlet for the bed, a dining table and chairs, and perhaps a miniature rocking chair, too.

I straightened up, pressing a hand to the small of my back, and looked down at the pretty Victorian dollhouse with its hand-sewn curtains, real wavy glass windows, and needlepoint carpets.

With a sigh of satisfaction, I left my treasure sitting on a Hepplewhite blanket chest and unlocked the door to Sometimes a Great Notion. My store, a haven of vintage linens and sewing notions in the quaint village of Millbury, Pennsylvania, was a testament to my passion for the past. I specialized in what was called “new” old stock. Like buttons, snaps, and fasteners still on their original cards, and unopened packages of gilt braid, seam tape, and zippers.

I turned on the stereo and soon the sounds of 1940s jazz filled the space. I was about to start a pot of my traditional strong coffee brewing when I saw a gaunt figure cross the main street, on a direct trajectory for my shop.

I groaned and wished I hadn’t been in such a hurry to unlock the front door.

Not that I wanted to turn any business away, but Harriet Kunes was a tough customer. She haggled with me on every price, always wanted something thrown in for free, and had a talent for making a veritable root canal out of any transaction.

I pasted a bright smile on my face, but it didn’t last long.

“Daisy Buchanan, don’t be such a stupid nitwit!” Harriet said a few moments later as she stood on the other side of the counter, glaring at me as she placed both hands on her bony hips.

I glared back. I have many faults, well,
some
anyway, but a lack of intelligence is certainly not one of them. They say the Customer Is Always Right, but in this case, she was sadly mistaken.

“I’m offering you
three times
what this dollhouse is worth!” She whipped off her eyeglasses, as if to better focus the laser power of her stare on me.

“Look, I’m sorry, Harriet, but it’s not for sale.”

While it was true that I carried some antique children’s toys in the store, in addition to the quilts and linens, this one was different. I planned to restore it and give it to one of the best kids I’d ever known, apart from my own daughter.

Claire Elliott was turning ten on Halloween. It might seem like an expensive birthday gift for a child, but I knew her mother could never afford something like this on her diner waitress earnings. Besides, I looked forward to all the fun Claire and I would have when I babysat.

She was a special kid. One of those old souls who seem wise beyond their years. Like it’s not their first time going around this earth. She shared my enthusiasm for antiques and history, and I often forgot she was only nine years old.

And as much as I loved my daughter, Sarah, now twenty-six, she and I were nothing alike. She affectionately dismissed my enthusiasm for the “dusty old sewing things” in the store as simply one more of Mom’s funny quirks.

Sensitive Claire and the pragmatic Patsy Elliott were also completely different. But Claire and I would see the magic in this dollhouse and transport ourselves back in time in our imaginations.

Harriet pressed her thin lips together. “You don’t understand. This dollhouse is of great personal significance to me.”

“Really? Me, too.” I wanted to give it to Claire.

“A thousand dollars. My final offer. You know that’s an
exorbitant
price.”

I almost felt like throwing myself across it to protect it from her avaricious gaze. I’d gone through a lot at the auction to win this particular dollhouse, bidding against another determined, maniacal woman. I wasn’t about to let it go now.

Harriet paced up and down in front of the Walker seed counter with its loading bins full of old sewing patterns and unused French ribbons. I could see where she must have been a beautiful woman at one time with her high cheekbones and arched brows, but years of constant scowling had driven deep grooves into her sallow skin. Her hair was a faded blond. Actually not even blond, more like no color left in it at all. Angry suspicion in her eyes leached away whatever spark of beauty remained.

Even though I never wore much makeup myself, I longed to soften her skeletal features with a dusting of blush. She wore a pale blue bouclé suit, which had to have been an expensive designer outfit when first purchased years ago, but was now so out-of-date it was almost retro.

Harriet’s hands reached out as if she ached to grab the house and run. Instead she gripped the edges of the counter. “You must sell it to me,” she hissed. “What kind of businesswoman are you anyway?”

I shook my head. Some things just weren’t for sale.

Calling on my many years of teaching experience, I dredged up the voice I’d used on recalcitrant students and inserted the appropriate amount of steel. “For the last time, the answer is
no
!”

With one last death ray glare, Harriet Kunes stormed out, letting the door bang shut. I winced, praying the old panes wouldn’t break.

As the doorbell continued to jangle violently, I stared after her, wondering what the heck
that
was all about.

I’d bought the little dollhouse at the Saturday night auction in Sheepville, from the estate of Sophie Rosenthal, a local woman who’d passed away last February. I admit I’d lusted after it myself when I first saw it, but the sum Harriet had offered me was just plain crazy. Was it really worth more than I’d thought?

Intrigued, I checked comparable items on the Internet again. Nope, it wouldn’t fetch more than a few hundred dollars at best in its current condition. It still needed a thorough cleaning, plus all the repairs to the gingerbread trim, roof shingles, and boards on the porch.

Why hadn’t Harriet gone to the well-advertised estate auction herself if she wanted it that much? Why the sudden interest?

The whole thing was very odd. Maybe she was just one of those people who, once they decide they want something, have to have it at any cost.

I shrugged and busied myself with arranging some items from a recent yard sale. An accordion-style sewing box I’d picked up for ten dollars would make a great display for the latest notions I’d found, and I arranged them to look as though they were spilling from one drawer to the next. I hung an assortment of tea towels on a wooden drying rack, and grouped a collection of calico needle cases next to a Greist buttonholer attachment.

I also filled some orders off my website. Even though my store was situated in a sleepy nineteenth-century village where time had ground to a halt, I managed to keep in touch with the present day.

Thanks to my business, I’d become quite the estate sale and auction junkie, always on the hunt for unique items to pass along to another good home. In fact, the idea for my store had been born after one of my trips to the auction. I’d bid on an old steamer trunk that turned out to be packed to the brim with a bounty of sewing notions and exquisite fabrics.

And luckily for me, people around here passed their farms and houses on from generation to generation, and when they finally cleaned out their attics and basements, there was a treasure trove of perfectly preserved merchandise that had been sitting in storage for decades.

In only a year and a half, Sometimes a Great Notion had become a well-known destination for collectors, interior designers, and antique dealers.

The doorbell rang again, and some live customers came in next looking for a quilt. There were several hanging on the walls, plus I showed them a few more on the second floor, where I had additional rooms for storage and repairs. They finally settled on a field-of-stars design fashioned from feed sacks in soft colors of mauve, pink, blue, and yellow. I wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and placed it in one of my signature shopping bags with its peacock blue grosgrain drawstring.

After they left, I clambered into the nook in one of the windows that jutted onto the porch of the former Victorian home to rearrange the display. Outside, the sky was darkening, and I hoped it wouldn’t rain. My husband and I had dinner reservations at the Bridgewater Inn out on River Road. I pictured us sitting on the veranda overlooking the falls, enjoying the last of the late summer evenings.

Across the main street from me was a shop called A Stitch Back in Time, owned by my friend Eleanor Reid, who restored and altered antique wedding gowns. A
CLOSED
sign hung on the door. Eleanor opened her store when she damn well felt like it, or had deigned to make an appointment with a client, blissfully immune to the burden of guilt and responsibility that propelled me through life.

Far from the customers always being right, with Eleanor they had to fall on their knees and grovel, but her work was so specialized and immaculate that she was always in high demand. No one was about to trust their grandmother’s treasured wedding dress to anything less than an expert.

It wasn’t until I was cleaning up the counter at the end of the day that I noticed Harriet Kunes had left her eyeglasses behind.

Great.

I rummaged through my well-worn box of customer index cards. Not very high-tech, I know, but hey, it’s what I was used to. I called the number on the card, but there was no answer and no voice mail for me to leave a message.

Joe Daly, my husband, walked through the door just as I was hanging up the phone. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married, unable to deal with the concept of going through life as perky-sounding Daisy Daly. Tonight he wore a crisp white shirt, navy pants, and a sports jacket. At sixty-three, he was still a handsome man, tanned, gray-haired, and well-built. Since we’d retired, neither of us dressed up that often, and to see him decked out like this made my heart skip a beat.

I’d also switched my usual work uniform of T-shirt and jeans for a cocktail dress from my collection. A sexy 1950s Christian Dior black lace number that I paired with high-heeled pumps instead of my cowboy boots. I’d twisted my hair up into a decent impression of an elegant knot, although a few wayward brown strands escaped here and there.

Joe’s dark eyes took in my appearance. A smile curved his lips, and he pulled me into his arms. When he kissed me, the world spun away, as did the years, and I savored the feel of his firm mouth and the familiar rush of heat and dizzy longing.

I pulled away first, albeit with a smidgen of regret. It probably wouldn’t do for Millbury’s sewing notions proprietress to be seen making out through the large display windows.

“Do you mind if we make a stop on the way?” I murmured. “Harriet Kunes left her glasses in the store. I know I’d be lost without mine.”

“Sure.” He offered his arm as we walked down the three steps from the black-painted porch. I smiled at him, feeling the familiar strength beneath my fingers and loving the anticipation of a night out. A real date.

A soft raindrop touched my cheek, and I glanced up at the ominous sky. “Oh, I hope this rain holds off until after dinner.”

As we got into the car, I told him how Harriet had seemed desperate to buy my dollhouse. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to her, Joe, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.” He grinned at me. “Hello, Pot, this is Kettle calling!”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” I pulled the customer card out of my bag and read the address out loud.

Joe took a left at the end of Main Street, and drove up Grist Mill toward River Road as a crack of thunder sounded. He had both hands on the wheel of our station wagon to navigate the twists and turns of the rain-spotted road that ran alongside the river and canal.

When we got to Swamp Pike, he turned right and then headed down to the intersection with Burning Barn Road, where a famous artists’ colony attracted painters for weeklong retreats.

It was raining in earnest now, and I sighed. Guess the veranda was out.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Meadow Farms Golf Club and Preserve. A gold crest adorned each stone pillar at the entrance, and flags hung on tall poles on either side. The guard waved us through when we mentioned we’d come to visit Harriet.

We drove past the clubhouse and attached fitness center, a beautiful fieldstone complex with a flagstone patio in front. We’d been to a wedding there once. The clubhouse had an excellent restaurant and dance floor, and there was an outdoor pavilion next to the pool where the ceremonies were performed.

The radiant manicured islands on the eighteen-hole course were surrounded by prairie grass, shimmering ponds, and copses of trees turning burnt orange and crimson. The protected open space and the hills in the distance provided a stunning vista for golfers teeing off.