A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (12 page)

Mac nodded toward a bank of windows at the end that provided a peaceful view of the woods. There was a deck at ground level and French doors to the right. “I lived in a mobile home out there for a year and a half.”

“You’re quite the girl, aren’t you?” It would be hard to miss the look of admiration on Joe’s face. “Well done.”

At last, here was a hint of a smile on her face.

I wondered if what
little
she knew about electrical was enough to rewire a dollhouse. Did she have a reason to kill Harriet? With that, I reminded myself that I wasn’t just here as my husband’s chaperone. After all, Mac was the one who’d recommended Larry Clark to Harriet in the first place.

“I took shop in high school before it was acceptable for girls to do so.” Mac stuck both hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Yeah, I was never into sewing, or girly stuff like that.”

I gritted my teeth. “Your work is exquisite.”

“Thank you,” she said, but with no smile for me. “I studied art in college, and worked in a restoration shop part-time. Just got into it, I guess. Bought some tools, and here I am.”

She picked up a tilt-top tea table and turned it over to show Joe the construction underneath. “This table was originally made in Philadelphia around 1770. It’s walnut, over a birdcage support.” She ripped a tiny piece off a sheet of finishing paper and began sanding. “It’ll get five coats of shellac with sanding in between. Lastly a good rubbing with paste wax of French polish.”

I stared in awe at the precise baluster turnings, and the three carved cabriole legs with snake feet. The detail was incredible for something so small.

“Harriet was the one that got me into the miniatures in the first place. She commissioned me to create a Windsor chair. I discovered I liked the challenge.” Mac blew gently on the table and inspected it. “She was an opinionated bitch, but so am I, so we got along.” The faint smile reappeared for an instant until her face scrunched up in concentration again.

Joe sank down on a stool. I stood behind him.

How old was she? That shirt had to be at least ten years old, so perhaps she was mid to late thirties. Her body was in such good shape, it was hard to tell.

“Here’s a sample of the grandfather clock I made for this last show. It actually runs. Solid mahogany with box inlay, and the clock face is hand-painted paper over metal. Except Harriet’s was bigger, of course. It nearly drove me to drink, but I finished at the last minute. I was up for twenty-four hours straight getting it done.”

Joe never took his eyes off her, hanging on to her every word. I couldn’t exactly blame him. There was a lot to look at, with the tight jeans and the top that hung loosely on her toned frame. When she bent over slightly to set the clock down, I caught a glimpse of pale breast and red bra.

“Harriet came over here to pick it up?” My voice sounded as raspy as the scratch of the sandpaper.

Mac frowned. “Yeah. And I already told that annoying cop everything. What a pain in the butt he is.”

Was Mac the only female on the face of the planet who was immune to Serrano’s innate sex appeal? Heck, I ramped up the air-conditioning in the store whenever he stopped by, no matter what the weather. Was she gay? Was Harriet?

Suddenly nervous under her glare, I chattered on about my dollhouse and how I was fixing it up and having trouble choosing what to put in because there were so many choices.

She eyed me closely. “Many miniaturists allow one style to predominate. But in real life, people often have a variety of pieces they’ve inherited and accumulated. If you’re trying to document an historical record, it’s probably best to keep the same period together, but otherwise, do what feels right.”

I pictured our house, with its mix of modern, antique, and what was actually authentic for a Greek Revival. The old steamer trunk in the study, the butcher-block table in the kitchen from the turn of the century, and the modern leather couches.

She turned to Joe. “The fine-grained woods are best. Oak is too coarse, so you want to use birch to
look
like oak.” She gestured to the tools on the bench—the pliers, files, tweezers, and chisel. “You have these, right?”

Joe nodded eagerly. Like me in my conversation with Ardine the other day, I could see that he was trying to soak it all in.

She showed him some drawer pulls made with a jeweler’s lathe and carvings done with dentist’s burrs. “These tools are delicate enough for the most intricate work. It would probably be good for you to take a jewelry class at some point.”

Oh, great. Something else to spend money on.

She slipped on a pair of head magnifying glasses. “You need a hell of a passion for detail to do this type of work. You might be able to get away with an imperfection in a larger piece, but not in miniature.”

“I don’t know if my big old fingers will get in the way,” Joe said.

Mac grinned at him, and as she worked, she relaxed even more. “You could specialize, too, Joe, depending on what you’re drawn to. One guy I know makes ship models, another woman only makes wing chairs. The world of miniatures uses almost every craft from pottery to textiles.”

“Why were you mad at PJ for writing that article about you?” I asked.
Nice transition.
Smooth, Daisy.
I could practically hear Serrano’s mocking voice in my ear. “Um, it’s just that I would have thought more business was a good thing.”

“I was mad because I specifically asked her not to,” Mac said, slowly and carefully. “She went off and wrote the damn thing anyway. I don’t like having to turn customers away.”

I blinked. This Amazon struck me as someone who wasn’t afraid of saying no.

“Many craftspeople have more orders than they can handle.” She nodded at Joe. “In fact, I have some leads I can turn you onto when you feel you’re ready.”

Joe smiled at her, his dark eyes glowing.

“But it was the fact that PJ plowed ahead like a steamroller, intent on her own agenda, that pissed me off. The fact that she didn’t take no for an answer.”

I winced. She could have been describing me. I didn’t dare look at Joe. I knew the corners of his mouth would be turning up.

“She just gets into everyone’s business, she’s nosy, and—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I snapped.

Mac raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment.

I shifted on my stool. “Um. I was thinking about adding some lighting to my dollhouse. Do you know anything about that?”

“Some purists say that since light can’t be scaled down, it shouldn’t be used at all.” Mac smiled at me for the first time, and I wondered if she was just humoring me. “But the simplest technique is to use a regular bulb and splice the bulb socket directly to the line cord that plugs into the wall. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.” She paused and blew a fine layer of dust off the table. “Not unless you want to commit suicide, that is.”

I sucked in a breath, while Mac and Joe discussed why toy train transformers were also dangerous to use. I backed away and wandered around the studio, ostensibly to look at the paintings, but my mind was in a whirl.

Had Harriet killed
herself
? No one had even considered that possibility. Why not? She could have been depressed over her husband leaving. She’d certainly seemed on edge when she came into my store.

Because she’d never give Birch Kunes the satisfaction, that’s why not.

And if someone was planning on doing themselves in, why would they make elaborate preparations for a competition the next day?

“A ten-volt doorbell transformer should be okay,” Mac was saying, “and it can light some wheat-of-grain bulbs. Then you can hide it behind a wall or inside the ceiling. But make sure the bulbs are well ventilated.”

Joe smiled benevolently at her, as if he hadn’t spent most of his life as head of an electricians’ union.

She’d explained everything so carefully. Would she really reveal all this knowledge if she was the killer? Or maybe she was being extra clever to divert attention away from herself. But what would Mac have against Harriet?

“It sounds like Harriet was a good customer,” I said. “Did she ever keep you waiting for payment? Did she owe you for the pieces she’d just commissioned?”

Mac laughed, a short hacking sound. “Oh, no, she always paid on time.”

I could feel Joe’s eyes on me, silently pleading.
Stop playing investigator, Daisy.

After another twenty minutes or so, Mac announced that she had a lunch appointment, so Joe and I got up to leave.

“This was fantastic,” he said. “I learned so much. Thank you.”

“Feel free to stop back anytime.”

I’d bet my last dollar that the invitation did not include me.

O
n Monday morning, after a restless night, I took Jasper out early. It was still dark. Actually more like a strange half-light in the diaphanous transition between night and day. We hurried down Main Street, where the streetlights were still on and the wind whipped stray leaves in tumbling circles alongside us.

I mentally rehearsed my pitch to Chip Rosenthal as I trudged, glad of my warm gloves and scarf. I would be calm, pleasant, and persuasive, and I’d get him to see reason. The more I practiced, the more my confidence grew. I wasn’t leaving this town without a fight.

A bread truck passed us on its way to the diner. In the distance I could see the yellow glow from the old trolley car, already serving meals to the night shift.

Joe had spent the rest of the weekend down in the basement, putting his new ideas to work, inspired by our visit to Tracy McEvoy’s. Mac had been a female version of Cyril—gruff and off-putting—but Joe didn’t seem to notice. All the way home in the car, he kept saying what a great girl she was.

Suddenly I gasped, the dry air biting the back of my throat. I stood stock still on the street while Jasper looked back at me in surprise.

I should have asked her about Sophie. If Sophie was as avid a collector as Harriet, I’d bet Mac had done some work for her, too. And seeing as Sophie was agoraphobic, she may have had to go to Sophie’s home. I wondered how I could approach her to find out. Mac had erected such a wall between us, I wasn’t sure I’d ever manage to scale it.

I headed toward the south end of Millbury, and found myself walking past Dottie Brown’s house. To the right of the above-ground pool that was covered now for the winter, Sam had created his pumpkin patch. It encompassed almost half of the backyard. Bet Dottie was thrilled about that.

There were three large pumpkins growing amid a vast bed of waist-high dark green leaves. Sam had erected wooden shelters above them, presumably as protection from the wind, and in the chill of the morning, they were also lovingly covered with blankets. The largest was snuggled under a Thomas the Tank Engine comforter.

Sam waved and came over to the split-rail fence when he saw me and Jasper.

“How are the pumpkins coming along, Sam?”

“Oh, well, you know, it’s a full-time job, what with watering, fertilizing, and weeding. You have to watch them all the time.”

“They’re amazing. I can see where it could be quite a project.”

“I’ve developed a new program this year. Molasses, fish kelp, and milk.” He held up a canister with a sprayer attached. “They say the reason punkins split is because they’re calcium deficient. I bathe them every day with my secret recipe.”

He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Think I might have a chance this year though. Especially with Georgia over there.”

He pointed toward the biggest pumpkin.

“She’s a beauty. Good luck, Sam. See you later.”

Jasper and I headed home, and like a montage in a movie, we gradually walked into morning. The daytime sky was now a wintry white.

• • •

W
hen I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion, a message from Angus was on the answering machine saying Ardine Smalls was doing a fabulous job. She’d been at the auction house with him for most of the weekend, writing up descriptions of each item for the auction catalog. I smiled as he raved about her vast knowledge of collectibles, and how she’d given him lots of contacts to advertise the event.

Marybeth also left a message asking if I was available to visit some more retail locations.

I sighed. A very deep sigh.

Alice, over in her corner, gazed at me sympathetically.

“I know, Alice. I’m trying to keep an open mind, but my heart’s just not in it.”

With the weather turning colder, I’d need to change her outfit soon. Or at least add a jacket to cover up those bare fiberglass shoulders. “See, I want to keep the store but I don’t want to go through our entire savings to do it. Joe’s doing a good job of that all on his own.”

I decided I would only turn on the lamp on the Welsh dresser and the one by the register. No sense wasting electricity. I should start riding my bicycle more, too.

“Why the hell is it so dark in here?” Martha asked as she came into the store a few minutes later, with Eleanor on her heels.

“I’m trying to conserve energy.”

“For God’s sake, don’t be so cheap.”

Fine for Martha to say. She’d never had to worry about money. Teddy Bristol had spoiled her for years and then left her very well-off. She didn’t have to work—apart from her volunteer activities and the Historical Society.

Eleanor winked at me. “Daisy, I need some of your vintage lace.”

While I pulled some pieces out of the dresser drawer, I told them about my visit to Tracy McEvoy’s studio with Joe.

“Brilliant artist, but buying a painting from her was next to impossible,” Eleanor said. “She can be pretty tough to deal with. Almost rude, as a matter of fact.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but you know how Joe gets along with everyone. Apparently she’s his new best friend and mentor.”

Eleanor picked up one of the yards of lace and held it up to the stark light near the window. “And he’s still a good-looking guy.”

“Yes, very handsome.” Martha sniffed. “You want to watch your back there, Daisy. She’s probably one of those babes looking for a father figure.”

I thought back to the self-contained young woman who had built a house by herself, seemingly unaware of her primal allure even in an old T-shirt and jeans. “You know, I don’t think she’s looking for
anyone
.”

I poured coffee into three mugs. “And Joe’s purchased every tool under the sun for this new hobby of his, even though he knows money will be tight. Although from the way Harriet Kunes carried on, maybe he’s not so bad.”

Martha removed the lid from the rectangular tin she carried to reveal stacks of honey madeleines.

“I’ve brought you something, too.” Eleanor fished in the tote bag she carried and brought the sad iron out with a flourish. “Figured it owes you. You can sell it and keep the five bucks.”

“Gee, thanks.” I grinned at her as I set it down on the ground. “I think.”

“We can’t stay long this morning,” Martha announced. “We have another excruciatingly boring meeting of the Hysterical Society. These things only used to be once a month. Now it seems like it’s every week.” She shuddered. “Oh, I can’t wait to go to the B and B with Cyril. I need to get away from all this hustle and bustle.”

Eleanor and I looked out of the display windows to where the Main Street of Millbury slumbered like an old-time picture postcard. There was not a soul to be seen.

“We’re staying at the Four Foxes. But Cyril says he can’t see the point of paying money to stay in your own backyard.” She picked up a French carriage parasol of duck egg blue cotton with ivory lace and twirled it around. “I don’t know what’s going on with him lately. He’s been acting kind of funny.”

The front door jangled and Dottie Brown came bustling in. “Morning, all. Daisy, I brought you some flyers about my next class starting October first.”

In addition to running the yarn and fabric store in Sheepville, Dottie also held knitting classes at night. “I could use some more of your business cards, too.”

I handed her a stack. Dottie and I appealed to some of the same clients, and we supported each other as much as we could. “I saw your husband this morning,” I said. “Those pumpkins are really something.”

“Oh, those damn things! You should have seen him in July when it came time to pollinate. He borrowed some of my stockings to cover the female blossoms so some stray bee couldn’t accidentally screw things up, pardon the pun.”

Eleanor snickered.

Dottie shook her head in despair. “And you should see my water bill these past few months. I bet he’s using a hundred gallons a day or more. But I suppose it keeps him out of trouble while I’m busy with my knitting ladies. See you all later.”

As she was leaving, the front door opened again and Laura Grayling came in, carrying her green suitcase.

“Laura! What are you doing here?” For a moment I wondered whether I had my days mixed up.

“I have to replenish my display.” She opened the suitcase and brought out a velvet pouch. “I sold so many things last week.”

“I’m glad you’re selling well. You deserve the success.”

She flushed faintly under the freckles. “Thanks, Daisy.”

“I might need you for an extra day on Wednesday if you can. I’m supposed to see more places with Marybeth.”

“Sure, no problem. Here’s what I made with some of the stuff you gave me.”

We admired the collection of necklaces and earrings. One in particular caught my eye. It was a long chain with green glass beads and vintage enameled buttons, featuring a gold monogrammed heart with the initials MAJ.

“I don’t remember seeing this heart before,” I said. “It’s very pretty.”

After fixing up her display, Laura left, telling me she’d see me on Wednesday. We were just settling down with our coffee again when the front door banged open.

Chip Rosenthal strode into the store with the same bullet-like trajectory as before.

“Got your message. Are you ready to sign?” he said, coming up to me, and ignoring everyone else.

Martha planted both hands on her ample hips, and if Eleanor were a dog, the hair would be standing up on the back of her neck.

I cleared my throat. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that . . .”

I struggled to remember my carefully prepared speech that had sounded so good in the first light of morning, but now fizzled from my brain like early snow landing on warm pavement.

“You see, Chip, um, well, you know I’ve been a very good tenant and—”

“Yes, yes, I believe we covered that already.” He pushed against a child’s rocking chair from the late nineteenth century, with high sides to guard against drafts. It creaked painfully back and forth against the wooden floor. “Are you willing to re-up or not?”

“It’s too much of an increase. Can’t we work something out? I can’t afford such an astronomical rent.”

He took a deep mucus-laden sniff as if to clear his sinuses. “If you don’t want to sign, that’s fine. I’m thinking about opening a wine bistro in here anyways.”

“A wine bistro!” Eleanor’s face lit up, and then she quickly sobered as she caught my eye.

Chip glanced around, as if already picturing the store cleaned out, and my quilts and linens replaced by wine barrel tables and bottle racks on the walls. “I think a restaurant is badly needed around here. Should prove much more profitable than some crappy old sewing store.”

His phone rang and he whipped it out of his pocket. “Rosenthal. Yeah, let me call you back.”

He reminded me of some students I’d had in my classes over the years, the ones who found history boring and had no respect for the past. Well, if you didn’t learn the lessons of the past, you were bound to repeat the mistakes.

He clicked the phone off. “So, yeah, I don’t really care if you stay or not. Your choice.”

Martha picked up a vintage Chinese paper fan and started waving it in front of her face.

I glanced at Eleanor and saw the answering alarm in her eyes. An overheated or hungry Martha was a very bad sign. A combustible situation to be avoided at all costs.

Danger! Danger!
I visualized flashing sirens going off inside the store and opened my mouth to interject, but it was too late.

Martha strode forward and poked Chip Rosenthal in his chest. Hard. So hard that he staggered back a step.

“Now listen here, you little pipsqueak. How dare you waltz in here and speak to my good friend Daisy like that? You need to learn to mind your manners.”

To his credit, Chip recovered quickly. He glared at her and straightened his tie. “I have no idea who you are, ma’am, but this is between me and my
tenant
. This lease is nothing to do with
you
.”

Martha tossed her mane of fiery red hair. “Well I’m making it my business, snot nose.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Chip fumbled with his cell phone, as if hoping it would morph into some kind of Taser to zap her with.

“Hey, I have a good idea.” She thrust her not inconsiderable chest out and towered over him in her leopard-print pumps. “How about you take your dumb lease and stick it where the sun don’t shine?”

I finally found my voice. “Martha, please . . .”

“Zip it,” Eleanor muttered, coming up and elbowing her sharply in the side.

Two bright spots appeared on Chip’s sallow cheeks, and he pointed the phone at me. “You can call off your pit bull now. Either sign the lease or be out by the end of the month.” He spun around on his shiny brogue shoes and stalked out.

The door crashed behind him, and we stood there in shock until the bell finally stopped jangling.

Eleanor was the first to speak. “
Mais oui
. I think that went well.”

“Sorry, Daisy, but he just made me so mad.” Martha picked up the fan again. “I might have gone a bit overboard, though.”

Eleanor snorted. “No kidding, Captain Obvious.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Do you think he’s serious about a bistro? Is
that
why he wants to push me out?”