A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (19 page)

“Or a honey badger?” I offered.

“He’s not as young as you think,” Eleanor snapped. “Besides, we’re just friends. He appreciates a mature woman who can sit and have an intelligent conversation with him instead of hiding behind a tree with an apple pie.”

I’d seen Eleanor in action with men before. She had this mysterious appeal to the opposite sex. Something remote, yet attractive, like the push/pull of a magnet.

It was the way she carried herself, I decided. That kind of been there, done that, world-weary attitude, like nothing would surprise her, yet she seemed ageless, with a quirky way of expressing herself.

“I learned a long time ago that people will think what they want, regardless of the facts. Just live your life so you can look yourself in the mirror every day. That’s my motto. We enjoy each other’s company, and apart from that, it’s nobody’s business.”

Debby helped me carry the baked goods back into the kitchen. “Do you suppose they, you know . . .” she whispered to me. “Serrano and
Eleanor
?”

“Let your imagination be your guide,” Eleanor called. She might be in her early sixties, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

As I put some of the brownies in the freezer, I mused that when I was young, I thought sex must end at forty. I simply couldn’t imagine older people doing it. Boy, was I wrong. In some ways it was even better as I got older—slower, yes, but more in tune, more relaxed, more
fun
, in fact. Although I preferred to believe that Eleanor and Serrano were just friends.

“Have you figured out what to do about the store?” Eleanor asked as I came back up to the counter.

“I’m staying. Or at least, I hope I am. I need to convince Chip Rosenthal to let me sign a lease for twelve months. I’ve left him a couple of messages, but he hasn’t called me back yet. If I’m careful, I think I can make it, even with the crazy rent. And a lot can happen in a year. Maybe something else will open up on the street.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I didn’t tell them about Ronnie. I wasn’t a very good liar, and with my luck, I’d spill the beans on what she’d said about my infatuation with the hot detective.

Martha twisted the chains around her neck. “God, I can’t wait to get away so Cyril and I can reconnect,” she burst out. “I haven’t seen him since Saturday. He never answers his phone. He could be dead for all I know.”

“Oh, I saw him yesterday. He’s fine,” I said blithely until I was forced to suck in a breath because Eleanor was treading on my right foot.

There was a tense pause.

“You know, because he asked me to watch his cat,” I managed, through clenched teeth. “He had to give me a key.” Desperate, I picked up the carafe. “Would anyone like some more coffee?”

Debby held out her mug, Eleanor stepped back, and I rushed over to fill it.

“Aargh!” I stubbed the already injured foot on a hard, immovable object on the floor, and looked down to see the sad iron. “That damn thing!”

I’d set it on the counter, but Laura must have moved it back to the floor.

“Jeez, would you look at the time?” Eleanor said, glancing at her wrist although she never wore a watch.

Martha sniffed, still quivering with injured pride. “Yes, I must be going, too. I just hope Cyril arrives to pick me up.”

“Have a good trip,” I said as I hugged her, even though she was only driving six miles away. Debby said she had to go, too, and they all hurried out. I had just finished cleaning up when the door to the store banged open.

A sullen PJ Avery stood on the threshold.

“T
hanks a lot, Daisy.” She scuffed her way toward the counter, glaring at me with eyes that were now a greenish hazel, no longer the ugly purple. “Thanks for ratting me out to the freaking cops.”

From force of habit, I opened my mouth to apologize. My daughter, Sarah, had trained me well throughout her teenage years to tread lightly around angry, emotional people.

But the events of this past summer had taught me that the fear of confrontation could actually be worse than the standoff itself. I took a deep breath. “Hey, you should be thankful that I didn’t press charges for breaking into the store and smashing up my dollhouse. How did you get in here, anyway?”

PJ shrugged one thin shoulder. “Didn’t take much to pop the lock on that old door. Just used a credit card. You really should get an alarm system.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Thank you
so
much for the information.”

She sighed and slumped down on the counter with her elbows propped on top. I saw her gaze travel to the coffee carafe.

“Look, PJ, what the heck is going on here?” I said, my voice softening. “Why did you leave? Or more important, why did you come back in disguise?”

I poured her a mug of coffee, and she reached out to snatch it with both hands.

“I came back to pay my respects. Chip never even bothered to let me know that Sophie had died, the jerk, so I missed her funeral.”

“And no one’s recognized you this whole time?”

She slugged down some coffee, and glanced up at me, her eyes still cold and wary. “Nope. No one except for Harriet. She used to see me when she came over to the house to visit Sophie, so perhaps she knew me better than most.”

Or maybe she was used to paying attention to detail from working with the miniatures.

Her mouth hardened. “Chip passed me on the street in Sheepville the day I arrived. He didn’t even give me a second look.”

I offered the tin of shortbread, but she shook her head.

“Then I talked to the lawyer to see what Sophie left in her will. I mean, I expected Chip would get most of her estate, but I thought I’d get
something
. I couldn’t believe she never even wrote one. And, as a result, zip for me. Nada. After everything I’d done for her.”

She lapsed into a brooding silence.

I poured some coffee for myself and waited. Even though patience wasn’t one of my strong points, I’ve learned that most people can’t stand the quiet and feel compelled to fill it. I didn’t have long to wait before PJ obliged.

She pushed away from the counter and began her usual pacing.

“At first I thought maybe I could reason with him, make him see what’s fair, but when Harriet told me how Sophie died, I got a bad feeling. She wasn’t the type to kill herself. I was sure it wasn’t an accident either. That’s when I decided it might be better to go incognito.”

She grabbed one of the shortbread fingers on one of her flybys past the counter.

“Harriet came up with the idea to dye my hair. She hooked me up with her optician for the colored contacts and paid him enough to keep his trap shut. Getting the job at the
Times
was easy enough. I’d done some reporting abroad, so I showed them writing samples and they hired me on the spot. Being a reporter, I figured I could get into places that I wouldn’t otherwise. Find out what happened to Sophie.”

“But you’re so much thinner now than in the photos. How did you do that so quickly?”
Was she taking drugs, or what?
“Did you really run away and join the Peace Corps?”

PJ paused for a moment. “Not the Peace Corps. Too structured for me. It was just a nongovernment volunteer place in Nicaragua, where we brought tourists on hikes round the volcanoes. We raised money to keep kids off the streets and give them some education. Four to six hours of hiking a day, most days a week. It was a workout, trust me.”

She swiped another biscuit from the tin. “And you should see what they eat there.” She stuck her tongue out. “Cow’s udders, bull’s testicles, pigskins—yuck. I stuck to the fruit, and sometimes rice and beans. I lost a ton of weight without even trying.”

“And you left in the first place because . . . ?”

“I left because I was upset.” She glared at me, waving the shortbread in the air. “Jesus. My mother had just died two weeks before. My stepfather, too, although he was a useless waste of space. Not awful like Chip, just useless. He spent all her money on his idiotic schemes.”

She blew out a shaky breath, and I had to sip my coffee and wait until she was ready to talk again.

“We went to a New Year’s Eve party. My mother insisted we go, although I don’t think Charles wanted to. When we left, it was snowing. I told them it was stupid to drive, and the people who had the party said I could stay, but I didn’t want to be left behind in that house either. Bunch of old people, and one old fart who kept leering at me.” She paused as if seeing that winter’s night tableau in front of her. “Charles took a corner too fast and the car spun around on the ice. Last thing I remember is my mother screaming. Then nothing.”

My heart ached for her and I wanted to hug her, but she was on the move again.

“Sophie blamed my mother for the accident, of course, even though it was her brother who was driving. A couple of weeks later, Chip and I got into a huge fight, and Sophie took Chip’s side. It was so unfair. Even though he treated her like crap, she stuck up for him because he was her flesh and blood. I’d had enough of the whole stupid family. There was nothing keeping me here, so I took off.”

“Weren’t you worried about leaving Sophie?”

PJ rolled her eyes. “She wasn’t as bedridden as she made out. She could cope pretty well on her own. She just liked the attention and being waited on hand and foot. Plus she had Harriet coming over every day.”

“What happened to her? To make her shut herself away from the world like that, I mean.”

“She got mugged. When she was shopping in downtown Philly one afternoon. The guy beat her up pretty bad. Her cheekbone was crushed and had to be rebuilt. She looked fine, but she was always self-conscious about it, and she was afraid to go out in public again.”

PJ concentrated on finishing the shortbread. “Sophie could be difficult in her own way,” she mumbled, mouth full. “Demanding, clingy, but she wasn’t half as bad as that witchy Harriet. I can see why they got along. I was on my way over to Harriet’s that night to make plans to get your dollhouse back. It was lucky I didn’t go in or I might be zapped now, too.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “Do you think Chip would know how to rewire a dollhouse?”

“Not sure. He’s not exactly handy. He could have hired someone to do it for him, I suppose.” Her hazel eyes flashed, and she punched a fist in the air. “I do know he’s a soulless jerk. Sophie kept asking him to arrange for the lawyer to come to the house so she could write a will, and he kept promising, but he never did.”

She looked straight at me, intense and unwavering. “Now he’s screwing you, too, with raising the rent on your store. Yet another example of what a creep he is. But I’m going to find a way to fix him.”

“PJ, please don’t do anything illegal.”

“Don’t worry about it, Daisy.” She grinned at me with a touch of the old cockiness. “Hey, I’m just glad I don’t have to wear those freaking contacts anymore.”

• • •

A
fter she left, I decided it was time to sort out my future once and for all. I called Warren Zeigler and asked if he would intercede for me with Chip Rosenthal, who wasn’t returning my calls. After the last fiasco, maybe it would be better to let a professional handle it. Not only was he a very good lawyer, but if anyone could finesse Chip without ruffling his feathers, it would be Warren, with his quiet old-fashioned courtesy.

“I was going to be in Millbury today, anyway,” he said. “Do you want to take me to that nice three-course lunch at the Bridgewater Inn you promised me and we can discuss?”

“Um, how about the diner?”

He chuckled. “That’s fine, too. See you at noon.”

Warren arrived precisely at twelve o’clock, and I hung a
CLOSED FOR LUNCH
sign on the door and we walked up to the Last Stop Diner. I normally didn’t like to leave the store, but desperate times called for desperate meals.

The former trolley car was doing a roaring business, but we found a booth near the back, and slid onto the lumpy red vinyl seats. I tried to perch on a spot where I didn’t sink down into a hole. Warren looked bemused by the menu that was six double-sided pages long.

“Yo, Daisy, Warren. What can I do you for?” Patsy came up to our table and leaned against the side of his seat. Her face was slightly flushed, and people were still coming in and lining up at the front counter. There would be no time for idle chitchat today.

“Egg salad on rye, please,” I said. “And a side of curly fries and an iced tea.”

“Is the corned beef exceptionally lean here?” Warren asked.

Patsy raised an eyebrow. “Are there mustaches in Mexico?”

“That’s fine, then. With a dab of mustard, not too much. And plain water to drink, please. No ice.”

She rolled her eyes at me, scribbled on a green pad, and swept away.

I asked Warren to request a year’s extension at the higher rent, and he agreed to contact Chip. He also suggested building options into the lease that I could exercise if I wanted, but that weren’t automatic renewals.

Our lunch arrived in about ninety seconds and I thought back to that morning at my store, and how this whole thing had started with Harriet trying to buy my dollhouse.

“You know, Warren, I’m wondering if Sophie even wrote a will at all. Harriet Kunes seemed convinced she did, but maybe she never got around to it. But let’s say that a will does turn up. What happens then?”

“Probate could be reopened, I suppose, although there might be a statute of limitations. Probably a year.” He peeled back the bread, inspected the corned beef, and apparently satisfied, picked up his sandwich. “Actually, and this is in the strictest confidence, Daisy . . .”

I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Sophie Rosenthal contacted me shortly before her death. Said she was thinking about changing lawyers. She seemed convinced her attorney couldn’t be trusted anymore.” He took a delicate bite. “I thought she sounded a bit paranoid at the time, but who knows?”

“Was Chip trying to get power of attorney over her or something? Manipulating her somehow?”

Warren shrugged his slender shoulders. “She didn’t say. It was as if she was afraid someone was listening in on the line. She abruptly said, ‘Never mind,’ and hung up.”

I dunked a curly fry in a pool of ketchup. “I wonder if these two deaths could be about something else entirely, and not Sophie’s estate at all.”

“It’s possible, but as it turns out, there’s an awful lot of money involved, what with Sophie’s house, your store, and the waterfront acreage.” Warren sipped his water, his eyes solemn behind the round spectacles. “If I had to hazard a guess, and a conservative one, I’d say we’re talking close to three million dollars.”

• • •

T
he next day, Friday, I hurried out of the store as soon as Laura arrived. Warren had promised to contact Chip today, and I was confident that by early next week, I could put the matter of my lease renewal behind me. Which still left the puzzle of what happened to Sophie and who had rigged Harriet’s lethal dollhouse.

I considered my list of suspects. Who was the only person with a concrete connection to both victims?

Birch Kunes.

I decided I needed to educate myself on the subject of diabetes, and see what else I could find out about Birch’s relationship with his patient, Sophie Rosenthal. My efforts to run into Bettina Waters at the dog park had proven fruitless, so I grimly got back on my bicycle, for what promised to be over an hour’s ride in my current out-of-bike-shape to Doylestown.

I wasn’t quite sure what I’d say when I got there. In the back of my mind was some half-baked plan about saying I had an elderly relative who’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and I wanted to learn as much as possible about her condition.

At first, my muscles were tight and sore, but surprisingly after about twenty minutes on the road, I felt better. It was one of those glorious fall days where the sky is a cloudless blue, and the air is cool, but not frigid. Leaves were turning color more and more now, and the red maples were ablaze. Majestic sycamores with their towering trunks and peeling bark like beige camouflage spread fiery orange crowns overhead. Delicate river birches sprinkled the ground with pale yellow confetti.

As I headed down Sheepville Pike, not far from the Wet Hen pottery studio, I passed Ardine Smalls running in the opposite direction. She waved at me, and I risked letting go of the handle bars for a second to wave back.

I wouldn’t have pictured her for a runner, but she ran in the same nerdy way she did everything, with arms flailing, and legs almost going in circles as she went. Her sneakers were so old they were retro. I’d bet a hundred dollars they were the same ones she’d had in college.