A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (3 page)

With one glance back at us, he vaulted up and over the fence in one smooth move and was gone.

Heaving for breath, I stumbled to a halt. As frustrated as me, Jasper hurled himself up against the fence a few times, making the old metal clang and shudder.

I doubled over, praying that I wouldn’t cramp up. “Okay, boy, it’s over. Stop, Jasper. Stop.”

Gasping, I dug my cell phone out of my pocket and called 911. Then I called Joe and asked him to meet me at the store.

A few minutes later, after I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to convince Joe that I hadn’t intentionally put myself in danger, Detective Serrano pulled up in his black Dodge Challenger, a throwback to the muscle car of the seventies. He gave me a tight smile when he jumped out.

“I gotta tell you, Daisy, much as I like seeing you, this is getting ridiculous.”

“I know, I know. What can I say?”

After the store’s front and back doors had been fingerprinted, as well as my poor dollhouse, we went inside. Chilled to the bone now, I gave Serrano the lowdown on what had transpired.

“How’d he get in?” Serrano asked. “Again, no sign of forced entry. Did you lock the deadbolt on this front door when you closed up at the end of the day?”

“Yes, of course. I always do.” But then I remembered the passionate kiss Joe and I had shared before we left, the raindrops, and our hurry to get to dinner. Had I only turned the bottom lock on the doorknob and pulled the door shut? I couldn’t remember. “Well, um, I’m not
absolutely
sure I did tonight.”

“So there’s no alarm system here?”

“No, there isn’t,” Joe interjected. It was a sore point between us. He’d wanted one for ages, and I never wanted to make the investment.

“Was anything else taken?”

I quickly cataloged the more expensive items in the store. The French silks, the Amish quilts, and antique jewelry. All still there.

I shook my head. “Not that I can tell.”

We stared at the wreck of what used to be a beautiful dollhouse. The plate glass windows were smashed, the chimney was broken, one of the doors was lost in the melee, and the back panel that swung open to reveal the rooms inside was hanging off, damaged beyond repair.

Tears pricked at my eyes, which was sort of funny when I’d been so tough before.

“Don’t worry, Daisy. We can sort this out,” Joe said, slipping an arm around my shoulders.

Serrano cleared his throat. “So. What’s the big attraction with what you say is a relatively inexpensive toy?”

I bit my lip. “I wish I knew.”

• • •

T
he next morning, there was a commotion at the entrance to my store. The voluptuous redhead who swept in first was Martha Bristol, my best friend. She was carrying a vintage cake carrier of pink metal with a pinecone design.

“Good God, that doll gives me a funny turn every time I come in here,” she said, as she always did, referring to my salvaged mannequin in the corner.

“It’s not a doll, it’s a mannequin,” I responded, as I always did. I’d named her Alice, and dressed her up in clothing appropriate for the season. She surveyed Martha impassively now from under her long fake eyelashes.

Eleanor Reid, my fellow store owner, was next. She wore her usual outfit of all black. Black shirt and black pants. Her white hair was cropped short, and she was almost mannish in appearance, except for her sparkling gray eyes and elegant fingers with a pale pink manicure.

“You guys say the same thing to each other every day,” she said to Martha and me. “You know that’s a sign of getting old, don’t you? When you keep repeating yourself?”

Martha dumped the cake container on the counter. “Damn it, woman. I most certainly am
not
old. And I can prove it. Ask Cyril who kept him up all night last night.”

“La-la-la!” I stuck my fingers in my ears. “Too much information.”

Cyril Mackey was the owner of the local salvage yard, and Martha’s latest renovation project. She’d improved his toilette, smartened up his wardrobe, and he was now passably decent. Quite attractive, in fact, compared with his previous impersonation of a homeless person. Sort of like Mick Jagger’s long-lost cousin.

Yes, they were an odd couple, but when Cupid’s arrow finds you, there’s not much you can do about it.

Martha whipped the cover off the cake just as Detective Serrano strode into the store.

“Well, Detective Officer Sir, you are just in time for treats. White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake. Made by yours truly.” She beamed at him as she cut a massive slice and put it onto a plate. She was a fabulous baker and brought her creations into the store so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat them at home. But then she came here and ate them anyway.

“Looks amazing, Martha. Thanks.” He accepted the plate and leaned up against the counter. “How are you doing after the break-in last night, Daisy?”

“What break-in? What’s this?” Martha spun around to me. “Was anything stolen?”

“No. Only my dollhouse, but I got it back, thanks to Jasper.” I poured four mugs of coffee. “It’s a little worse for wear, though.”

Serrano’s blue eyes narrowed. “This might
seem
to be a simple break-in, but it could also be connected to a murder,” he explained, as he dug into the cheesecake. “Last night’s victim seemed overly interested in this item, and now that person is dead.”

Martha frowned, and placed her hands on her ample hips. “What victim?
Who’s
dead?” She was used to being the purveyor of news, not the last to know.

“Harriet Kunes,” I said. “And she offered me a ridiculous amount for it, and now she’s been electrocuted.”

“Good God.” Martha sniffed. “Well, I know who
my
main suspect would be if
I
was investigating this case.”

Serrano’s gaze met mine and I hid a smile. “Pray tell,” he said.

“Harriet’s estranged husband, Dr. Birch Kunes, of course. He wanted a divorce to marry Bettina Waters, his receptionist, but Harriet refused to give him one.”

“Wasn’t Harriet a lot older than him?” I asked, picturing Harriet’s lined, scowling face, and the good-looking endocrinologist with a practice in Doylestown.

“Yes. By at least ten years. She put him through medical school. They didn’t have any kids. And get this—even though Birch moved out of the house, he’s still renting a townhome in the same development because he wants to belong to the country club and play golf with his friends.”

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “That’s kind of weird.” She cut a piece of cheesecake even larger than Serrano’s and placed it on one of my nineteenth-century Rockingham floral plates.

Martha rolled her eyes at me and cut herself the barest sliver. Eleanor ate whatever she wanted and never gained an ounce, which was a never-ending source of frustration for her friends.

“I gotta agree with you, Martha,” Serrano said. “Kunes
is
the number one suspect in my book, but he seems to have an alibi. Says he was at a medical conference for three days and just got back this morning. But a cheating husband is, by definition, a liar. And once a liar, always a liar.”

He dinged the tines of his fork against the plate. “I’m going to ride him hard. Make the good doctor account for every minute of every hour of every day. And not just yesterday, but the whole fricking week.”

Eleanor shivered. “Ooh. What passion. What dedication.”

Serrano glanced at me again, but this time there was more of a plea in his eyes.

I grinned. “So tell me. How does a person get a divorce if their significant other won’t give them one?”

“Good question, Daisy. Under Pennsylvania law, Birch Kunes would have had to wait
two years
before he could request the court to finalize a divorce without Harriet’s consent. That might just have been two years too long.”

“Did you find anything at her house?” I took a bracing sip of the strong coffee. “Any evidence at all?”

He shook his head. “Nah. With the rain, there wasn’t much that we could get in the way of footprints. No prints on the dollhouse either, apart from hers. The breaker was wiped clean. Not much to go on at all apart from looking for someone with muddy shoes.” He chuckled, but without much humor. “There’ll be something though. You know what they say: the guilty party always takes something away, and leaves something behind.”

Serrano paused to shovel a section of cake into his mouth while we watched in fond appreciation.

“Fascinating,” Eleanor murmured.

He nodded. “It’s a tough one. The trick will be to find out
when
the dollhouse was tampered with. And who had the electrical knowledge to work on it? We questioned the cleaning people, who swear the house was locked up tight when they left earlier that day.”

Martha cut another sliver of cheesecake. “I don’t think Harriet had many friends. And she hadn’t spoken to her sister in years.”

“Who’s her sister?” I asked.

“Marybeth Skelton, the real estate agent. Skelton was Harriet’s maiden name.”

“Wow, really? I had no idea they were related.”

Eleanor set her empty plate down. “Harriet was friends with Sophie Rosenthal, too, right, Martha? I think she used to see her a lot.”

“Oh yes, that poor thing.” Martha laid a manicured hand across her impressive bosom. “Sophie was an agoraphobic, you know, Detective. They shared a passion for miniatures.”

“I never knew her,” I said, suddenly sorry that I hadn’t known Sophie, seeing as I felt such a strong connection to one of her possessions. The dear little dollhouse.

“Well, not many people did. She used to belong to the Historical Society with Eleanor and me until she shut herself off from the world. You know, it was funny, whenever we visited, she was always perfectly made up, her hair always recently colored and set, whether she was expecting guests or not.”

I glanced over to where I’d stacked some vintage train cases, all stuffed full of makeup when I’d purchased them from the same auction as the dollhouse. I’d thrown the contemporary cosmetics away, but kept some of the Art Deco compacts and silver brush sets. I imagined Sophie sitting at a vanity table, carefully applying lipstick for the guests who might or might not appear.

“Well, we used to
try
to visit her sometimes,” Eleanor said, “but that miserable old bag Harriet was always there.”

“Yes. Made us feel most unwelcome, I must say.” Martha sniffed at the memory.

I watched Serrano taking this all in. This must be a long way from what he was used to. I pictured him on the backstreets of New York, tackling drug dealers, running down the mob, and now here he was, surrounded by a bunch of aging, gossipy females.

He stood up and placed his mug and plate carefully on the counter.

“Thanks for the cake and conversation, ladies. Stellar, as always.”

We watched him leave. Nobody spoke until he got into his car. It was simply a pleasure to watch him walk, the way he moved, like a prowling mountain cat.

“He certainly is a fine figure of a man, I have to say.” Martha made a small sigh of satisfaction.

Eleanor’s gray eyes were thoughtful. “That man is a mystery all by himself.”

A
t ten o’clock, my part-time helper, Laura Grayling, arrived. I’d recently hired her to come in once a week on Fridays so I could attend some auctions and replenish my stock. The business was doing so well, I could barely keep up.

I’d met her at a multi-dealer antiques collective housed in an old barn just outside of New Hope. She made one-of-a-kind jewelry with scraps of Victorian wallpaper, fabrics, buttons, pieces of pocket watches, and the like, and we’d hit it off right away.

With her slender limbs and shy manner, Laura appeared delicate, fragile even, but she was the one who’d had the gumption to ask if I needed any help. In addition to giving her a paycheck, I also let her display some of her merchandise in a corner next to the vintage clothing rack and keep whatever money she made. She was wonderful with my customers, so it was a good deal for both of us.

Instead of the auctions this morning, I planned to head over to Sheepville and see if I could find some replacement parts for the dollhouse. “By the way, Laura, there’s a guy coming today to give us a quote for a new alarm system.”

“Okay.” She set down the battered suitcase that contained her jewelry-making supplies. She wore a long cotton print dress, topped by a crocheted cardigan, and a green scarf that contrasted nicely with her dark chestnut hair.

“You’re finally going to spring for an alarm?” Martha said as she gathered up the dessert plates.

Eleanor smirked. “Yeah, won’t moths fly out when you open your wallet?”

I slung my pocket book over my shoulder and made a face at her. “Isn’t it time
you
opened your store?”

She shrugged. “Suppose so.”

“Oh, one more thing, Laura, before I forget. Again.” I went behind the counter to grab a box of odd lot jewelry that I’d bought for eight dollars. Apart from a few items I’d taken out to sell, the rest was mostly junk, like broken necklace chains, one earring missing a mate, and brooches without the back clasp.

“Here you go. Work your magic on these.”

“Thanks so much, Daisy.”

As I reached for my keys, we bumped into each other and the contents of the box spilled onto the floor. I still wasn’t used to having to maneuver around someone else behind the counter. Laura apologized profusely, her pale face flushed under her freckles, as she picked everything up.

Martha and Eleanor were busy fixing another pot of coffee.

Nothing like leaving the kids home alone.

I said a prayer for the well-being of my business and walked back to the house. I grabbed the large box containing the beaten-up dollhouse and put it in my Subaru station wagon.

When I got to the end of Main Street, I crossed over the intersection with Grist Mill Road and drove down the dead-end road that led to the salvage yard. The fence surrounding the property was overgrown with weeds and vines, and dotted with rose of Sharon flowers and shiny tendrils of poison ivy.

I parked the car as far inside the enclosure as I could before the piles of rusty junk blocked my way. Among chrome shower doors, radiators, and barbecue grills, I spotted an old carnival wheel with most of its colored paint missing. The kind that you grab the pegs and spin to take a chance. I picked my way through, carrying the cardboard box.

Past a pink octagonal pedestal sink, a portion of ornamental iron fencing, and a copper weather vane in the shape of a horse, a four-by-six-foot Coca-Cola porcelain sign was propped up against the side of the trailer.

The door banged open and Cyril Mackey stood there on the stoop. His hair was straggly and he wore a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. “Hell’s fire! Can’t a person eat his jam and toast in peace of a mornin’ wi’out someone mithering him?”

“Jeez, Cyril, seems like you’re a bit
down in the dumps
today.” I grinned at him. “Cheer up. I’ve brought you an interesting conundrum.”

He snatched the box from me, still grumbling, and marched back inside. I followed him into the sunlit kitchen. He acted like a rabid dog, but I’d felt his bark and bite before and survived. Cyril was originally from Yorkshire, England, and had followed a twisting journey over the years through the coal mines and junkyards of Western Pennsylvania to end up here, getting more ornery by the mile.

He’d obviously been working on the day’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper, but quickly shoved it aside.

“Need any help with that last clue?” I inquired politely.

“No, ah bloody don’t!”

I sat down at the spotlessly clean breakfast table and told him the story about Harriet and the intruder. “Look at this dollhouse, Cyril. It needed a little work before, but it’s all messed up now.” I blew out a long sigh. “And I so wanted to give it to Claire for her birthday.”

“Don’t get yer knickers in a twist,” he muttered. “We’ll make it right as rain.”

I knew he would, which is why I’d brought it here. Cyril was a genius at fixing things.

He hefted it out of the box and set it on the table. It was just over two feet tall from the base to the top of the turret, and almost as wide.

“This back panel needs to come off for a start. Not sure I can salvage this. It might ha’ to be replaced.” He squinted at the house from all angles. “Aye up. Everything’s cockeyed. Staircase is falling down, too. Think I’ll have to take roof off and mebbe some outside walls, and start from scratch to make it true again.”

I nodded. “Okay. Actually it’ll be much easier for me to clean it and fix the peeling wallpaper that way.”

He rummaged in a kitchen drawer and took out a petite screwdriver. As he worked, I looked out of the window.

In the field beyond was a graveyard for old cars. A Ford pickup was dark brown with decades of rust. Purple morning glory had grown over the pickup bed and was trailing its way toward the cab. A ray of sunshine stabbed me in the eye, and I turned, cupping my hand against the glare.

In the harsh daylight, Cyril looked tired. Exhausted, in fact.

As if sensing my appraisal, he muttered, “She’s going to be the death o’ me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The woman won’t leave me alone. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’m completely paggered, I tell you.” He gently pulled off the back panel and set it aside. “And I’m an owd man.”

“You’re not that old.”

He shook his head, his striking green eyes troubled. Cyril, a man of few words, struggled with the handful he allowed himself each day.

“See, Daisy, ah’ve been used to comin’ and goin’ as I liked. Don’t get me wrong, Martha is a fine lass. More than fine, and at first I was happy as a pig in muck, but now I’m suffocating. She’s got tickets for the theater, reservations for a bed-and-breakfast, and God knows what else.”

I blew out a breath. I really didn’t want to hear any of this. I’d become friends, if that’s what you could call our somewhat antagonistic relationship, with him, long before he and Martha started dating. Now it was strange for me to be stuck in the middle. And, well, sometimes you just don’t need the visual.

“Let’s take a good look at this dollhouse, okay?” I said brightly, to take his mind off things. “Maybe we can figure out why it’s in such high demand.”

I removed every piece of furniture and we inspected it carefully. We looked in all the rooms and inside the three fireplaces, as well as up in the attic.

Cyril shook his head. “Nowt here, far as I can tell.”

He was right. There was no hidden jewelry, no wad of cash, no bag of cocaine. Whatever had caused the fascination with this house, it was long gone.

We did find a secret tower room under the lift-off turret that would enchant Claire, but it was also empty. Still, the dollhouse would be safer here than at the store, at least until my alarm system was installed.

The bay window on one side would need to be replaced and the balustrade for the second-floor balcony was gone. I pulled out a notepad from my bag and made a list.

“Can I leave it here with you, Cyril? I’m going to buy some replacement parts in Sheepville this morning.”

“Suit yerself.”

While I took some measurements, he ran his hand over the roof. “Those are real hand-painted wooden shingles. Someone must ’ave stuck them on one at a time.”

A bunch of them were missing now. I winced at the amount of work it would require. “That should keep you out of trouble for a while.”

“Oh, aye?” He grimaced, but he didn’t say anymore. I could see he was intrigued with the challenge.

I usually brought him coffee every morning, so I figured I had a few goodwill dollars stored up in my Cyril Mackey bank account. I also thought I’d steal an idea from Harriet’s house and paint this one that same soft lilac color with pale yellow on the gingerbread trim.

While Cyril was inspecting the staircase, I slid the newspaper over and picked it up. I would only have a few seconds before it was ripped out of my hands.

Nine across. An eight-letter word.
Consumed by repairs.

As expected, he snatched the paper. “Be off wi’ ye, now.”

I was still thinking about the clue as I trudged off to my car. Thoughts whirled inside my head. People obsessing over dollhouses. Cyril always fixing things.

As I backed the Subaru out beyond the fence, I rolled down the window.

“Fixation,” I yelled.

Cyril Mackey shook his fist at me.

• • •

N
ext stop was Sheepville, a neighboring town about five miles away, where I’d heard there was a wonderful store that sold miniatures and dollhouses.

It was located in a strip-style shopping center near the center of town. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but once I stepped inside the door, I entered a magical wonderland of tiny delights.

There was anything you could want to decorate a dollhouse—from a box of Christmas ornaments to put in the attic to a potluck casserole and candelabra for the dining table. Hundreds of parts in packets hung on hooks along one wall. I should be able to find my missing door and chimney there. Display cases held finished houses and dollhouse kits, and counter cases were full of dolls, teddy bears, furniture, and carpets. The shelves dazzled with all kinds of building components and accessories, from wallpaper and roof shingles to kitchen paraphernalia, plants, and even tiny dogs and cats.

I quickly found out that the owner, Jeanne, loved to talk about her merchandise.

“We have everything here you could possibly think of. Even usable miniature toilet paper for the bathrooms.”

“You’re kidding me!”

“Nope,” she said proudly. Her white hair was cut in an old-fashioned pageboy style, and she wore a T-shirt with appliquéd rosebuds under an open denim shirt and stretchy pants. When she smiled, her dimples deepened into long curves on each pink cheek. “How long have you been collecting, sweetheart?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’m a
collector
. I just want to fix up an old dollhouse I bought to give to someone as a present.”

“Ah, yes, well, now you see, there are different schools of thought among collectors, from people who gaily mix and match furniture from various periods, perhaps someone such as yourself . . .” Here Jeanne chuckled and coughed lightly. “To those who consider that if it
looks
authentic, it’s good enough. And then, of course, you have the historically accurate collector who wants drawers that actually open and close.”

She kept talking about scale and historical detail while I wandered through the store with her. I gave myself a mini-lecture to be patient because I might learn something. I already knew that dollhouses were a one-inch to one-foot scale, although the very old ones didn’t always conform.

A whole street of shops and houses that looked a lot like Millbury sat on one long display table. I bent down and peered inside the window of the dressmaker’s store, admiring the replica of a vintage Singer sewing machine, the spools of ribbon, pairs of scissors, and the little dress form holding a half-finished dress.

But it was the display in the middle of the store of finely crafted miniature furniture that really caught my eye. “Wow, Jeanne. This is incredible stuff.”

Jeanne clasped her hands together. “Oh, yes, aren’t they? They’re made by Tracy McEvoy, a local artist. Everyone calls her “Mac” though. Aren’t they wonderful?”

“I assume they’re quite expensive?” The highboy would be perfect for one of the bedrooms of the Victorian, but I winced in anticipation of the price.

“Um, well, yes, I suppose so.” Jeanne beamed at me. I couldn’t tell if she was truly ingenuous or just a brilliant saleswoman. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it because Mac is completely backed up with orders. For at least the next year or so.”

“A
year
?”

She nodded. “A local reporter wrote an article about her, which gave her more business than she could possibly handle. Plus there’s an important dollhouse show and competition coming up tomorrow. Here’s a brochure.”

As we walked on, Jeanne lowered her voice. “She’s been pushed to the absolute breaking point by Harriet Kunes, who
commandeered
her to work on several pieces for the show. Mac’s grandfather clock, for instance, takes three weeks to create, and she’s had no time to make anything for anyone else. Ardine Smalls was spitting bullets.”