A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (7 page)

The only sound in the car was the subtle hum of the climate-controlled airflow and the occasional click of Marybeth’s fingers against the steering wheel.

While it was obvious she was bitter toward Harriet, why kill her now, years later? And whoever the guest was that Harriet was expecting that night, it certainly wasn’t her sister.

We cut off River Road onto Lower York Road, passing more signs of civilization—a Dairy Queen, a gas station, an Italian restaurant, traffic lights, and shopping centers, until we came to our next destination, just past Peddler’s Village.

A nice cluster of one-story white buildings with black shutters and plenty of parking in front.

“Here’s the one I wanted to show you,” Marybeth said as she swung into the lot and parked in front of a freestanding building. “It’s a former antiques store, and the other shops are an art gallery and a saddle and tack shop. This is a great location, Daisy. You’ll capture the tourists coming from New Hope and Lahaska.”

She was right, but the busy thoroughfare didn’t quite have the small-town charm of Millbury.

“This one’s not even on the MLS yet. The owner is listing with me for thirty days first.”

The store had large, open rooms and nice display windows, and I could see how it would be a good possibility. I tried hard to seem interested, and not like a spoilt child who there was no pleasing.

Next we headed to Doylestown, and a shop on West State Street. Doylestown was a beautiful town of tree-lined streets, with a mix of Victorian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal buildings, some with gloriously ornate architecture.

Streetlights were adorned with hanging baskets of flowers. It was the county seat, so there were lots of lawyers’ offices, and also upscale gift shops, fashion boutiques, and chic restaurants.

The shop was about eight hundred square feet, and the rent was double what I was paying now. It was very pleasant, but it didn’t have the soul of my current Victorian either.

“The price includes water, sewer, and common-area maintenance,” Marybeth said.

I took a deep breath. “Well, I can see that parking might be an issue, although there’s lots of foot traffic.”

“Increased traffic means increased business.”

On our way through town, we passed the Starbucks at the corner of North Main and West State Streets, and I begged for coffee. It was situated in the Fountain House tavern, an enormous whitewashed three-and-a-half-story building that was over two hundred and fifty years old.

We sat inside and enjoyed our lattes, and I relaxed a little as I felt the caffeine surge through my veins. This was more like it.

“What did you think of that last place?” Marybeth carefully licked the froth off her expertly lined lips.

“It was very pretty, but a bit small.”

“But how much room do you really need? Is there any wasted space in your current location?”

I thought about all the stuff upstairs in my shop that I could consolidate.

She tapped a nail on the table. “In my opinion
this
is where you should be. It’s a lovely town, with lots of visitors, and you’d do well here.”

I had to admit Marybeth knew her stuff. I hadn’t given her much notice yet she’d found several places that would have been great for me.

If I wasn’t so in love with Millbury, that is.

This would mean a half hour commute each way. Driving to Doylestown would be like entering the workforce again and going to a real job. I wondered how long before I’d resent the trip. The farthest I drove now was the five miles to Sheepville, and that was only once a week for major grocery shopping.

The few yards’ walk down the street from our house to Sometimes a Great Notion was a pleasure, not a commute.

I felt like crying and told myself to stop being such a baby. It was business, after all.

“The rent is also higher than I’m paying now,” I mumbled.

“Everything’s going to be more than you’re paying now. Face the facts, Daisy. You’ve been paying well below—”

“Market rent. Yes, yes, I know.” I tried to wash the irritation out of my voice. “Thanks for taking me out today, Marybeth. I just need to think things over a bit.”

“Don’t take too long. The good places don’t last. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

After she dropped me back in Millbury, I hesitated on the street, unsure of what to do next. I should probably go into the store, but seeing as I was paying Laura for the day anyway, I decided not to inflict my foul mood on her. I’d go see the one person who wouldn’t care because he was usually in the same frame of mind.

A quick stop inside the house for my bag of dollhouse supplies and I was off to Cyril Mackey’s place.

Past one yard where the homeowner was pushing a lawnmower behind his white picket fence, making one of the last cuts of the season. The tang of random onion stalks mixed with the scent of freshly mown grass. Impatiens, tall and straggly, and basil leaves turned spotted brown all signaled the final last gasp of summer. A white hydrangea bush boasted glorious pointed puffs of blooms, bigger than snowballs and tinged with a blush of pink at the tips.

I trudged along Main Street, glancing in the store windows.

Damn all these new tenants. If not for them, I could have given Chip Rosenthal the finger and moved into another space.

The five stages of grief were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’d done the anger part, but now I was stuck on depression, and definitely a long way from acceptance.

I went into the Last Stop Diner and picked up a couple of BLTs for me and Cyril. The diner operated out of an ancient trolley car sitting on the corner of Main Street and Grist Mill Road. A real old-fashioned diner with sky-high pies, endless coffee, and abusive waitresses.

Cyril seemed almost cheery as he unpacked the sandwiches, stuffed with thick crispy rashers of bacon. The Last Stop got most of its produce from the local farms, and my mouth watered in anticipation.

“So, Cyril, how did you like the ballet?”

He rolled his eyes. “It were all right if you like watching a bunch of blokes poncing about in their knickers.”

We sat at his kitchen table, and I gave him the lowdown on the exorbitant new rent for my store and how I might have to move.

“Aye, well, that’s why I bought this land outright. I’ll never be in debt to no one.”

“You sound like Eleanor now.” I knew he stubbornly insisted on paying for everything when he took Martha out for the evening, even though she was a very wealthy widow. It exasperated her to no end, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

I rubbed my forehead. I had a splitting headache, whether from worry or hunger, I couldn’t tell.

“Here. Make yerself useful. Finish this puzzle.” He threw the newspaper in front of me.

I looked up at him, openmouthed. Cyril never even let me see the crossword, let alone ask for my help. I wrestled with the clue while we munched on our sandwiches.

Furniture for some squirrels?
Nine letters.

What the heck could that be?
Tree house?
The letters would fit, but a tree house wasn’t really furniture. Perhaps something to do with hoarding?
Cup hoard?

Oh, jeez, Daisy. Not enough letters anyway.

I frowned as I picked up the last bacon crumb. I’d finished my lunch and still hadn’t figured it out. And my headache was even worse.

“All right. Enough o’ that.” Cyril whisked the newspaper away. “You’re mekking yerself barmy o’er it.”

He went into the living room and came back wheeling a cart with the dollhouse sitting on top. I could see he’d made good progress already. He’d created a new back panel, fixed the staircase, and repaired the rotted boards on the porch.

“Wow, this looks great, Cyril. Thanks!”

“We can rebuild it. We have the technology.”

“Yes, yes, let’s just get on with it.” I grinned and waved a hand at him, suddenly glad I’d asked Cyril to help. Joe was too preoccupied with his miniatures right now, plus he’d never finish in time for Claire’s birthday. I’d had the experience with my husband of projects at the house that mushroomed into giant undertakings when all I’d wanted was a new towel bar. Weeks later, there’d still be no towel bar, but a ripped-apart, unusable bathroom. Oh, it would all get done eventually, and be gorgeous in the end, per Joe’s exacting standards, but I didn’t have that kind of time.

Cyril was bare-bones practical. Plus he had a soft spot for Claire, too.

I set to work repairing the wallpaper, smoothing it out millimeter by millimeter and gluing it back into place. There was only one patch in a corner that I couldn’t fix and I decided I’d put a potted plant there.

I closed my eyes briefly, and thought I could still catch a hint of Sophie’s haunting floral scent, clinging to the dollhouse as it had to the paisley scarf.

While I cleaned, Cyril stained the double doors in preparation for installation on the porch. In companionable silence, we repaired the windows with new glass panes and before I knew it, a couple of hours had passed and the light was fading outside. Dusk was coming earlier these days.

I’d been so lost in the world of the dollhouse, I’d completely lost track of time.

“It’s getting dark, I’d better go. Thanks, Cyril. Thanks for everything.”

He nodded. “Aye up.”

We still had a lot to do, but I felt better, knowing we’d finish on schedule now. There were a few projects left: fixing the rest of the roof shingles and the outside trim, painting the exterior, installing the lighting, and putting the furniture back. The fainting couch, carved rosewood bed, marble-topped parlor table, and Chippendale desk.

Hey, wait a minute . . .

“Cyril! Where’s that newspaper?” I grabbed it and scribbled in nine letters. “Ha! Chip ’n’ Dale. Get it?”

He looked blank.

“Oh, I forgot, you were probably still in England at the time. It was a cartoon from the fifties about two little chipmunks. Chipmunks are a type of squirrel. So . . . furniture for some squirrels. Chippendale. Chip ’n’ Dale. See?”

Cyril just shook his head in disgust. “Be off wi’ ye now.”

I trudged down the long overgrown potholed road from the salvage yard toward the main road. As I got closer to civilization, I caught a whiff of singed-meat smoke in the air. Someone must be grilling steaks for dinner. I walked a little faster, shadows falling across the pitted tarmac. It was still warm enough that I could wear sandals during the day, with no need for a coat or sweater, but the nights were deliciously cold, down into the fifties. I’d snuggle up to Joe, comfortable under the covers, but with the bedroom windows open, listening to Jasper’s light snoring and occasional close-mouthed barking as he replayed chasing rabbits and squirrels in his dreams.

• • •

T
he next morning, before anyone came into Sometimes a Great Notion, I called Warren Zeigler.

“Hey, Warren, could you turn off your lawyer meter for five minutes, please? Look, I need some advice, but I can’t afford a big bill. How about I buy you lunch next time I see you?”

He sighed, and I pictured the diminutive attorney taking his round spectacles off and rubbing his eyes like a sleepy dormouse.

I quickly explained about the lease and the huge rent increase.

“Ah, yes, I heard probate finally closed on the Rosenthal estate,” he said.

“Is there anything I can do? And before you tell me that I should have renewed the lease before now, I’m already kicking myself.”

“As to your business acumen, I couldn’t possibly comment,” Warren said, with a slight cough. He had a sense of humor drier than one of Eleanor’s Beefeater martinis. “But if you’re on a month-to-month basis, then yes, I’m afraid the landlord can give thirty days notice if he wants to, and you’re out. Have you tried negotiating?”

“Have you ever
met
Chip Rosenthal?” I thought I heard a faint chuckle on the end of the line. “Well, I might try that again, if it’s my last resort. And if I have to move, I’ll ask you to read things over this time before I sign. But what I don’t understand is that Sophie died in February, and I bought the dollhouse from her estate auction in June. How could any of her stuff be sold before probate closed?”

“Pennsylvania laws are more lax than most. They would probably let him settle some personal effects ahead of time. Seeing as there was only one heir, it would make things that much simpler.”

“Speaking of which, I heard that Sophie’s brother also had a stepdaughter.” In the back of my mind was some half-baked idea that I might try to find this girl and appeal to her for help.

“Stepchildren are not eligible to inherit when a person dies intestate,” Warren said, one step ahead of me.

“Really? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Quite possibly. But without a will, there are rules of succession. Sophie Rosenthal
could
have written a will and specified how her estate was to be divided if she was concerned.”

The doorbell jangled, and Martha and Eleanor came in. I thanked Warren, and he said he would look forward to his three-course lunch at the Bridgewater Inn.

I chuckled as I hung up the phone. I’d been thinking more along the lines of an egg salad sandwich at the diner.

Martha laid a flat rectangular container on the counter and whipped off the lid with a flourish. “Ginger Brandy Snaps. These are a labor of love, let me tell you.”

“Oh, thanks, Martha. I know they’re a lot of work, but the customers go crazy over these.” I hugged her and admired the mountain of delectable delights.

Eleanor edged closer and slid a brandy snap out from the side of the stack. “Daisy, remember how Detective Serrano made that crack about looking for someone with muddy shoes? And you know how I make everyone take their shoes off at the door?”

“We know,” Martha said, with an arch look at me.

“Well, when Bettina Waters came for her fitting on Monday, she was wearing sneakers. When I moved them to one side, I noticed they were damp.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And it wasn’t raining that day.”

Obligingly, I gasped. “Do you think she washed them? To get the mud off?”

Eleanor shrugged as she palmed two more of the brandy snaps. “Who’s to say? They looked very clean though.”