A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (13 page)

She shrugged. “I’m not sure he’d get approval for it. Martha, do we know anyone on the zoning board? Don’t worry, Daisy, we’ll find a way to squash it. Make sure he never gets a liquor license.”

Suddenly I remembered Marybeth talking about making it a point to stay friendly with zoning board members and developers. “I can ask Marybeth Skelton. She has some connections.”

“What’s her motivation to help you?” Eleanor asked. “If you stay where you are, she gets nothing in commission.”

“Oh, jeez, you’re right. Well, I’ll offer to pay her a fee.”

“Bribery?” She picked up two of the honey madeleines.

“No, no, I mean for the work she already did. For taking me out to the places she’s shown me. For her time.”

I knew it would be more a matter of pride with Marybeth anyway. She was a savvy real estate agent who knew that if she took care of me, I’d recommend her to others or use her again someday. Real estate wasn’t a one-off kind of business.

At that moment, PJ Avery bounced into the store like a skinny female Tigger. “Hey! What’s goin’ on? I was just passing by.”

She frowned as she looked at us. “What’s the matter with you guys? Did someone else take a dirt nap?”

“No. No one died,” I replied in a dull voice. “Well, not unless you count the death of my business, that is.”

“Buck up, Daisy,” Martha said, with a worried glance at Eleanor. “That doesn’t sound like you. You’re usually Miss Glass Is Half Full.”

My friends filled PJ in while I poured her a cup of coffee and proffered the biscuit tin.

“This is becoming a habit,” Eleanor said. “Like feeding a stray cat.”

“I know,” PJ said, her eyes closing briefly as she took an appreciative gulp. “I
love
this place.”

I was sure she was smart enough to pick up on Eleanor’s sarcasm, but chose to ignore it. She must figure that if Martha and I wanted to spoil her, she’d be a willing participant.

“Daisy, I almost forgot. I did some digging on the Rosenthal case,” PJ said. “According to my sources, it sounds like that stepdaughter was Sophie’s main caretaker, and after she left, Sophie’s health deteriorated rapidly.”

Eleanor placed herself between the reporter and the madeleines. “It’s ironic that the person who looked after her the most was the one person who couldn’t inherit.”

“Yeah, although actually I just found out she died abroad,” PJ said. “Some kind of tropical disease. Sad.”

“What kind of disease? Where?” I asked.

She picked up a brass egg-shaped thread holder with thimble attached and inspected it closely. “Not sure. Doesn’t really matter anyway, does it?”

For someone who was supposed to be a reporter and in the business of getting facts and details straight, she seemed a bit vague.

PJ sucked down more coffee. “So, like, maybe you could close this place, work online for a while, wait until one of the other tenants leave, and then take over their space?”

“That’s not a bad idea, except I’d lose a lot of business. I’d have to start all over again.” I walked back to the counter and promptly stubbed my toe on the sad iron I’d left sitting on the ground. “Ow!
Ow!
”

Martha glanced at Eleanor. “We’d better get to the meeting.”

“Yes. See you later, Daisy.”

I couldn’t speak, just waved as they beat a hasty retreat, with PJ close behind. When the throbbing in my toe subsided and I could walk without gasping for breath, I tried to think clearly about what I was going to do.

I still had money in the store’s bank account, and a lot of valuable merchandise to liquidate. If I closed Sometimes a Great Notion now, I could walk away with a nice chunk of change, instead of risking it all on a new location and a higher overhead.

“Alice, what do you think? Should I quit while I’m ahead?”

Alice stared back at me, an uncharacteristically stern set to her mouth.

I sighed. “You’re right. That’s not like me. I never give up.”

• • •

T
he next morning, I decided to ride my bicycle to Jeanne’s store to pick up the paint. She opened at 9 a.m., so if I got there on the dot of nine, I could still be back in plenty of time to open mine at 10 a.m. It was only two small cans and I could put them in the basket on the front of the bike.

With the price of gas these days, I’d be saving the money it would take to buy the paint.

Pleased with my logic, I set off.

Sheepville was only about five miles away, but some of the turns and hills on River Road were a challenge. It felt good to push myself physically, to work off the tension and stress of the past weeks. The traffic was heavier than I was used to, with kids being back in school, and there wasn’t a whole lot of room for a bicyclist.

It was a beautiful morning, with the temperature forecast to be in the sixties later on. As I cycled, my muscles warmed up and the bike hummed along. The more I rode, the more my mood improved. No matter what else happened, I was determined to finish this dollhouse, and I grinned at the thought of Claire’s reaction.

After I stopped at Jeanne’s, I was feeling so good that I decided to swing by Meadow Farms before I headed back to Millbury. I didn’t have much of a plan in mind, except an urge to ride by Harriet’s house one more time.

I pulled up to the guard house and gave the elderly sentinel my brightest smile.

“Good morning. My husband and I are thinking about joining the country club. He’s such an avid golfer and he wants to teach me. I wonder if I can go in and check it out?”

He looked dubiously at my ancient bicycle, but after having me sign in and show some identification, he let me in.

I rode toward the clubhouse complex. Several golfers were already out on the course. It was a great day for a game. Not much wind and a clear sky. The trees were all turning color now, and the riotous mix of scarlet, burgundy, orange, and yellow was breathtaking with the hills in the distance.

A couple of women drove by over the greens in a golf cart, and I nearly fell off my bike.

I was pretty sure that they hadn’t seen me, but what the heck were my real estate agent, Marybeth Skelton, and the artist Tracy McEvoy doing here together?

W
hat an odd couple. I would never have connected the two as friends, although I supposed they were from the same Easter basket in many ways. Both tough, competent, self-made women.

Real estate and miniatures must certainly be lucrative to afford memberships here.

I rode up to the clubhouse, and when I glanced back and saw the guard was busy checking someone else through, I sprinted toward the road that led to the residential area. I slowed down once I was around a corner and out of sight. Also because my heart was heaving painfully in my chest.

Maybe Mac was the one who had done the dirty deed on Harriet? She had the electrical expertise, plus Marybeth Skelton was more the type to hire people to do stuff for her, not get her hands dirty herself. With those long fingernails, she could barely dial a phone, let alone handle intricate wiring.

Harriet would know Mac and would let her in. Mac could have made up some story about bringing more miniatures over for her to see. And although the guard had said there were no other visitors except me, Joe, and the cleaning people that day, Mac wouldn’t even have to say she was visiting Harriet. She could just flash her membership card like she was going to the clubhouse, and who would be any the wiser?

I reached Barnstead Circle and cycled slowly down the cul-de-sac. I took a quick look around and wheeled the bicycle across the grass and leaned it up against the side of Harriet’s house, nearest the trees.

As I walked into the woods, the noise of the world faded away except for the chirping of birds high above and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot.

What did I expect to find? A monogrammed scarf conveniently caught on a tree branch perhaps, or maybe Chip Rosenthal’s wallet that he’d dropped as he ran from the scene?

Get real, Daisy.

The police had scoured this area, I was sure. I went as deep as I could before the brush blocked my way, trying to imagine I was mowing grass, making straight overlapping lines back and forth. As I made another route back toward the house, I caught my breath. A young deer stood staring at me, only about six or seven feet away. There was a moment when neither of us moved, and I drank in the sight of its liquid brown eyes and soft fur. A bird cried out, and suddenly spooked, he crashed away in a flurry of spiky legs and white tail.

It had probably been a deer that night, too. So much for my overactive imagination.

A minivan with a logo saying
THE DAZZLE TEAM
zoomed down the street, radio blaring with some kind of joyous music with a throbbing drumbeat. It ground to a halt in front of the house across from Harriet’s.

I slipped behind a tree and hoped they wouldn’t notice my bicycle. Four women tumbled out of the van, laughing and chatting. I watched for a few minutes, as they went in and out of the house with cleaning supplies.

Harriet’s house must have been sort of a sweet deal, come to think of it. Only one person living there, with no pets. They would only have had to vacuum a narrow pathway through the hallways. Most of the bedrooms were inaccessible, being stuffed to the gills with collectibles, which they were forbidden to dust anyway.

As I hid behind the tree, wondering when I could make my getaway, I saw the garage doors rise, and two of the women, one wearing a bright red bandana around her hair, pulled the trash cans to the curb for pickup next morning. They went back inside the house, leaving the garage open.

Was
that
how the killer entered the house? It wouldn’t be too hard to slip inside, and hide somewhere that the cleaning people wouldn’t go, like the unfinished basement. Or heck, even in Harriet’s garage, if they squeezed behind one of those towering piles of totes and boxes. Once the crew left, it would be a simple matter for the killer to tamper with the dollhouse, hit the door closure, and scoot under the garage door, just the way Birch had done.

I checked my watch. Damn. Already 9:45 a.m. I’d need to haul it back to Millbury. No doubt I was going to be late opening the store. The question was how late. As I swung my leg over the crossbar, I had a bad feeling I’d overdone it. What had seemed like a great idea suddenly seemed reckless, if not plain stupid.

I rode along Burning Barn Road, thigh muscles aching, and toyed with the idea of calling Joe to pick me up.

A car was coming from the opposite direction, and I gasped as the one behind me suddenly passed, leaving barely six inches between its mirrors and my handlebars. I swerved, the bike wobbled, and I fell off into the undergrowth by the side of the road.

I lay there for a minute, praying that my bike wasn’t covered in lilac and yellow paint.

Lights flashed in my peripheral vision. I groaned as I twisted around and saw an unmarked police car with Serrano at the wheel.

I sat up as he sauntered over to me. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a sky blue tie that matched the color of his eyes.

“Whatcha doin’, Daisy?”

Looking like an old fool.
“Saving money.”

“By getting run over and ending up in the hospital?” He held out a hand and I grasped the steely warmth as he pulled me gently to my feet. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods anyway?”

“I just bought some paint for my dollhouse.” I picked up the cans. They were a bit dented, but thankfully intact.

“At Meadow Farms?”

I sucked in a breath. “Look, Serrano, I think I know how the killer got into Harriet’s house.” I explained about seeing the cleaning women leaving the neighbor’s garage doors open.

“You can’t see that particular street from the gate.”

I gritted my teeth. “All right, all right. I may have talked the guard into letting me check out the clubhouse.”

Serrano shook his head, whether in exasperation or admiration, I couldn’t tell.

“See, someone could have snuck in when the cleaners were busy, rewired the dollhouse, and then exited through the garage, the same way Birch Kunes did.”

“You have a point there,” he said. “Most people leave the door unlocked from the garage to the mudroom or kitchen, and leave that alarm zone turned off. But what about the front door being ajar?”

“When Harriet got home, she was probably so excited about seeing the dollhouse, she forgot to close it properly.” Now that I’d stopped cycling, I could feel my leg muscles cramping up again and I rubbed a hand against the small of my back. “We assumed it was from someone running out, but maybe not.”

“Want a ride?”

I nodded.
To heck with my pride.
“Yes, please.”

Serrano picked up my bike, slipped the front wheel off, and slid it into the vast trunk of the Crown Victoria. I was worried about him getting grease on his suit, but before I could even voice my concern, it was completed with one smooth movement. The way he did everything.

I pulled a leaf out of my hair before I got into the car. Serrano didn’t need to know that I had been poking around in the woods. God forbid he’d infer that I didn’t think the police could handle their jobs.

The passenger seat was well-worn and comfortable, and I relaxed against it as the cruiser ate up the miles between the environs of Sheepville and Millbury.

“Hey, guess who I saw golfing together?” I said. “Tracy McEvoy and Marybeth Skelton. What do you make of that?”

“There’s no law against playing golf, Daisy.” There was a weary note to his voice.

I frowned. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all. “But one of them, most probably Mac, could have been the person that Harriet was expecting that night. As members of the club, they wouldn’t have had to sign in as her visitors.”

“Or it could have been Kunes,” he said. “He knew the code, and was used to running under the garage door. He rents a place in the development. He wouldn’t have to sign in as a visitor either. And he has the best motive of all the suspects.”

“I don’t know, Serrano. He seems like a nice guy.”

“Sometimes the obvious suspect is so for a good reason. And it’s often the guys who are too nice, too helpful, that you need to consider.”

“Look, I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

He made no answer. Serrano was as immaculate as ever today, but there were fine lines at the corner of his eyes, and he was so perfectly shaved, it was as if he’d taken extra trouble with his appearance.

“Do I look okay?” he inquired.

I blushed. “Yes, you look very nice.”

He exhaled. “God, I’m tired. I found a strange woman waiting for me in my bed last night when I got home.”

He looked so glum about it that I had to cough against the laugh that rose up in my throat.

“She was wearing nothing except high heels and a frilly black apron, and she was holding an apple pie.”

“An
apple
pie?”

He frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“Well, I would have thought chocolate mousse was sexier.” A grin escaped that I couldn’t hold off anymore.

Serrano shook his head, but there was a trace of an answering smile as he glanced at me. “All right, Ms. Buchanan, you can mock, but it was a severe invasion of my privacy.”

“How’d she get in?”

He sighed deeply. “She told the cleaning people that she was my sister, and seeing as burglars usually don’t bring pies, they let her in. My Spanish is limited, but I think I got through to them not to do it again.”

“Did you arrest the woman?”

“I told her to get dressed and then I escorted her out of the development. Then I went home and washed the sheets.”

There was silence in the car as we swung up onto Sheepville Pike.

“So, did you ever check out where Chip Rosenthal was on the day of Harriet’s murder?” I asked.

“In his office mostly, but there are gaps of time when no one can confirm his whereabouts,” Serrano said, reluctantly. “When we tried to interview him, he refused to answer any questions without his lawyer present. Sniveling and whining the whole time. Pathetic.”

“You see? Guilty!” I cleared my throat. “Um, do you think you could take a look at the file on the recluse, Sophie Rosenthal? There’s some talk that she may have been murdered, too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have anything substantial to back this up?”

“Not exactly, but you know how lazy Ramsbottom was. It’s unlikely he conducted a thorough investigation.” The detective that Serrano had replaced was not only slipshod, but had in fact been suspended for questionable activities.

Serrano pulled up in front of Sometimes a Great Notion. As he hoisted my bike out of the trunk and attached the wheel again, I asked, “Why are you gunning so hard for Birch Kunes? Why are you so convinced he’s the guilty party?”

“Just have a real problem with guys who cheat. Long story. There’s something else,” he said, lowering his voice, “and this is just between you and me, Daisy. We’ve discovered a sizeable payment from Birch Kunes into Marybeth Skelton’s bank account. I gotta wonder if this guy’s some kind of serial cheater, or what?”

“Maybe he felt guilty over how his wife treated her younger sister, and he’s trying to make amends.”

Serrano’s expression was grim. “Or maybe it’s payment for a job well done.”

• • •

T
he next morning, before I even got out of bed, I knew I’d be paying the price for yesterday’s adventure. I moved slowly, stretching muscles that were determined to punish me for the unaccustomed vigorous exercise.

I took Jasper for a walk, wincing as he pulled on the leash and my back cried out in protest. Piles of leaves lined the sidewalks and he dove, burying his head underneath and then coming up for air, shaking them off like so many water droplets. After the oppressive humidity of summer, he’d found renewed vigor in the crisp fall.

The tree in front of the one-room schoolhouse had exploded into a fiery burst of burnt peach, smoky lemon, and spicy lime. Halloween decorations were already up on some of the houses, and I admired the arrays of mini pumpkins and mums lining the doorsteps. Ghosts made of white scarves swung from the eaves of porches, and the dried stalks and pods of summer flowers made a spooky display. We passed one place with plastic gravestones planted in the yard, and Jasper gave a startled bark as a motion detector set off an eerie chuckle of laughter.

At Sweet Mabel’s, pumpkin ice cream was the special of the day, and a sign invited customers to
COME IN AND SIT FOR A SPELL.

I hoped Serrano had taken me seriously about reviewing Sophie Rosenthal’s file. Maybe a clue had been overlooked. Some small detail or photo that would give a hint as to the real cause of her death.

We walked past the Browns’ house, and I slowed down, enchanted at the sight of the giant pumpkin. Like a scene from a fairy tale in the foggy quiet of the morning. It was far bigger than the other two now. I could picture mice turning into coachmen and vines swirling up around it to make carriage wheels.

In spite of the early hour, Sam was already working in the patch, pulling up weeds.

“Georgia seems like she grows every time I see her,” I said.

“Oh, yes, giant punkins are incredible when they get going. They can grow thirty to forty pounds in a day.”