A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (11 page)

Ardine frowned. “Not sure what you mean, but yes, Harriet was very confrontational.”

A few raindrops spattered on the bench, and she scrunched up her nose as she looked skyward. “We’d better get going.”

The wine club was busy packing up their coolers, and I smiled at the golden retriever owner who smiled back. Maybe they weren’t all bad.

As Ardine struggled to put the leash on her annoying terrier while he snapped at her, Jasper suddenly wrestled him to the ground. He looked at me, his huge paw still pressing down on the little dog’s shoulder, as if to say,
Sorry, Mom, but I couldn’t take it anymore
.

Silently I cheered, but said, “Stop it, Jasper!”

“It’s okay, Daisy, this dog needs someone to straighten him out.” Ardine grinned as she clipped the leash.

She put up her umbrella. One of the spokes was broken. “Thanks for being so nice to me.”

I watched as she hurried to her car, the umbrella flying up in the rain.

T
he next morning, Mother Nature provided a taste of impending winter. It was lashing with rain so hard that the storm sewers couldn’t keep up, and there was standing water on the street corners. Jasper loved it—the wetter and muddier the better—but I cursed as I struggled to manage the umbrella and the leash. When we got home, it took longer to dry him off with a slew of old towels than it had taken for the walk.

As it was Friday, Laura was managing the store, so I stopped at Cyril’s to check on the progress of Claire’s present. He was working on the roof, painstakingly attaching the shingles, one at a time. I handed him a cup of coffee from the diner and hid a grin when I spotted a library book about building dollhouses.

“Aye up, you can snicker, but look at this. Queen Mary’s dollhouse. It were a right grand place.” He opened a page and pointed at some photos. “Four years to plan and build. Elevators from basement to top floor. Door handles that close and clocks that tick. It even had water pumped up from the basement.”

I marveled over the description of water running into the tub and the marble-topped sinks in the king’s bathroom. The details were incredible: the wine cellar with its honeycomb walls that held a hundred dozen bottles of wine, a strong room for the crown jewels, the tiny piano equipped with real strings, hammers, and ivory and ebony keys. In the library, each minuscule book bound in leather and embossed with gold leaf was actually readable.

No expense had been spared. The kitchen was constructed with thousands of tiny sections of oak, rooms were paneled in rosewood, and there was silver and porcelain throughout.

“Ah’m worried about this ’ouse being historically accurate,” Cyril said.

My eyes widened as I stared at him.

He jabbed a finger toward the front porch. “Ah don’t know about these here winder boxes.”

“It’s okay, Cyril. It’s for a little girl to play with. I know what you mean, and we’ll do our best, but only to a point. I still want my toaster oven.”

He looked unconvinced.

“Look. Think of it like a real Victorian house, bought by a person who loves the period and wants to preserve the beauty of the home, but lives there in the current day and needs modern conveniences.”

He grunted and attached another shingle. “Did tha find another store to rent yet?”

“Not yet. Marybeth is setting up more appointments.”

I’d have to ask Laura to work an extra day. The familiar panic at the thought of leaving Millbury twisted inside me and I made a sudden decision. “You know what, I’m going to call Chip Rosenthal today and see if we can work something out. Get him to see reason.”

“Mebbe you just got off on the wrong foot before.”

I blew out a breath. “And maybe he’s the one who murdered miserable Harriet because she knew that her best friend Sophie did, in fact, write a will. And maybe he’s the one who came to my store that night trying to steal the dollhouse because he thought the will might be hidden inside.”

Cyril pulled the lid off the coffee and stirred in a couple of creamers. “Getting a bit carried away, Daisy?”

“I don’t think so. And I’ll see you Harriet’s murder and raise you one. There’s a possibility that Sophie was murdered, too. And guess who benefited most from dear old Aunt Sophie’s death?”

He nodded. “Young Chip.”

“Exactly. Serrano is convinced that Birch Kunes killed Harriet, but I have a bad feeling these two deaths are connected, and the linchpin is my new landlord.”

Suddenly I remembered Ardine’s comment about the wallpaper. I got up and peered inside, inspecting the walls for a clue, but as hard as I looked, nothing seemed like writing to me. It was simply a classical Greek ornamental design.

“Ah’ll fix the broken chimney today, and the balustrade on the second-floor balcony. We’re going to need more shingles to finish the roof.”

I broke the news to Cyril that I wanted to paint it, too, but to my surprise he didn’t explode.

I had a feeling he was getting into this as much as me, sharing my fascination with the perfect little world inside the dollhouse.

Not like the messy real one, with its evil landlords, murdered women, and cheating husbands.

• • •

O
n my way to Sheepville, I had to swerve around several downed trees that were partially blocking the road. I cursed as one car driving too fast in the opposite direction kicked up a huge wave of water, dousing my windshield while I drove blind. Some yards were already completely underwater, and
ROAD CLOSED
signs were up on the side streets that crossed over the creeks.

When I got to Jeanne’s, I pulled out my cell and called Chip Rosenthal. He wasn’t in, but I left a message saying I’d like to discuss the lease, and asking if he could meet on Monday.

I picked up the shingles I needed and spent a few minutes admiring the displays. In the attic of one house was a myriad of enticing items—ice skates, a Victorian pram, some luggage, a bare light bulb in a socket with pull string, and a wood violin with bow and velvet case. Even a mousetrap.

I couldn’t resist the bare light bulb for Claire’s attic. I selected a three-tier petit four stand for the dining table, and was lingering over some tiny kitchen utensils when Jeanne came up to me.

“Aren’t these darling?”

“Yes, Jeanne, but before I get too carried away, I want to try to stay as authentic as possible.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry about it too much, sweetheart. Just have fun.”

Ardine Smalls came around the corner of an aisle, carrying a box. “Yes, you don’t have to worry about it unless you’re going to be the next Mrs. James Ward Thorne.” She giggled, showing those uneven teeth.

“Who
was
this paragon?” I asked.

“She created remarkable rooms in the early twenties. They’re at the Art Institute of Chicago now. Totally historically accurate through five centuries, from the sixteenth to the twentieth. She designed all the textiles inside, too.”

“You’ve discovered my little secret, Daisy,” Jeanne said as she pointed at the box Ardine was holding. “Ardine designed a lot of the displays here in the store for me.”

“They’re beautiful.”

Ardine beamed at me. “I love doing them. It’s kind of like interior design and stage design rolled into one.”

She set the box down and I peered into an open-plan kitchen and living room. On the kitchen counter, I saw a bowl of batter and balls of chocolate chip cookie dough set out on a baking sheet. It was so clever and realistic, I felt my mouth water.

In the living room, there was authentic clutter—projects in progress, a bookshelf crammed with books, and a coffee table holding some knitting, a sewing pattern, and tiny needles.

“It’s good to suggest movement and a sense that someone has just left the room.” Ardine bent down next to me. “Look at your composition from every angle. Also think of where the traffic lanes are.”

I felt myself zooming down to one inch tall. I would have simply positioned the furniture in my dollhouse wherever it looked good. But could I really pass between the parlor table and the fainting couch?

“This is fascinating, Ardine. I had no idea that so much went into it.”

We both straightened up, although it took me a little longer.

“And the most important thing?” Ardine waggled her finger. “A room has to have a
personality
. Finding the rhythm in a room is a subtle thing. Like music, you have to get it just right.”

I nodded and picked up a steamer wardrobe travel trunk. I knew that was proper Victorian detail and would appeal to Claire, too. She could pretend the occupants of the house were packing for a journey. Speaking of which, they would need toiletries. I added a bar of soap and a hot water bottle to my pile. There was even a chamber pot, but I passed on that. I chuckled as I imagined Claire’s reaction.
Ew!

“Oh, and I need to pick out some paint,” I told Jeanne. I scanned the shades on the wall, but couldn’t seem to find quite the right one. She showed me a catalog with more selections, and I finally found the perfect pale lilac hue.

“If I order it for you today, it should come in Monday or Tuesday.”

As I paid for the items, I thought of getting mad at Joe for spending money on his tools.

You’re such a hypocrite, Daisy Buchanan.

But it’s for Claire
, I protested to my inner voice.

Jeanne had a quizzical expression on her face and I wondered if I’d spoken out loud. I was getting too accustomed to my conversations with Alice the mannequin. I mumbled good-bye and told her I’d see her next week for the paint.

My cell phone rang just as I walked outside.

It was Angus. “Hey, Daisy, we’re going to need help appraising all this stuff. These dolls look authentic, but I have a reputation to uphold. We need an expert.”

I rolled my eyes. Hadn’t I already told him that?

Never mind. I peered through the store window, where Ardine was still at the register, talking to Jeanne. “I think I know just the person.”

• • •

O
n Saturday morning, Joe said he was going to see Tracy McEvoy.

“I was talking to Mac at that show, and she said she’d give me some tips on making miniatures. Told me to stop by today if I wanted.”

I remembered the statuesque blonde in the red halter dress and my stomach tightened.

“Want to come with me?”

“Sure. Okay,” I said, as casually as I could.

When Angus was wrongly accused of murder, I’d spent a lot of time investigating the case before Serrano arrived in town. It had all worked out well in the end and I’d found the real killer, but Joe, patient to a point, felt neglected, to say the least. We were still feeling our way back to the former closeness we’d enjoyed.

We headed out toward Forty Acre Road, where the houses were few and far between, and where my friend Joy David owned an upscale bed-and-breakfast called the Four Foxes.

We missed the turnoff to Mac’s place a couple of times until I finally spotted the sign for Deerpath Road, almost hidden in the trees on the corner of a narrow country lane. It was another few hundred yards before we came to the mailbox for number nine Deerpath.

A gravel driveway led up to a cedar-shingled high-peaked contemporary house. There wasn’t a weed in sight, in spite of the length of the drive. The grass was recently cut and a gorgeous crimson and gold Japanese maple in front was pruned and well mulched.

The studio was behind the house, in the same contemporary construction with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a brick patio. We parked where the driveway ended with landscaping timbers set against the grass.

A black cat darted across in front of us and disappeared into the woods.

A magical place.

The wide Craftsman door to the studio opened and Mac stood there, wearing paint-spattered jeans and a ripped T-shirt exposing her toned arms. I didn’t want to stare at her chest, but I thought I could make out a logo for Temple University. The shirt must have been red at one time, but was now a dull rose. It was probably round-necked originally, too, but she’d slit it down into a V-neck and ripped the sleeves off.

“You made it.” Her gaze swept over me, but it was a neutral appraisal. I couldn’t decide if she was irritated that I was along for the ride, or if she couldn’t care less.

“Come on in.”

We followed her into a light-filled space with natural oak floors. Wood beams lined the swooping curves in the roof, and the walls were off-white. Easels held paintings in progress, and finished works hung along the wall to our left.

I stopped to admire one in particular. “Hey, these are really good. I think a friend of mine has one of your paintings.” Eleanor had a similar one hanging above her fireplace, of a barn at sunrise and a man walking across snow-covered fields with his dog.

“I don’t sell many. I’d rather keep them.”

I stared after her as she strode through the studio toward the carpentry workbenches, the jeans that encased her long legs worn pale in places.

I hadn’t realized she was an accomplished artist as well as an expert in miniatures.
Jeez.
She had more business than she knew what to do with, a fabulous workspace, and obviously boatloads of cash. The paintings were simply a way to express herself, not to make money.

A display stand in the center held examples of the magnificent craftsmanship that was in such demand—an inlaid walnut bureau, a Queen Anne highboy with finials, a lowboy of cherry wood, a Chinese Chippendale cabinet, a four-poster bed.

“How did you get into making miniatures?” Joe asked.

“I was a carpenter for full-size furniture before I started this business
.
I made every stick of furniture in here. Built the house and this studio, too.”

“
You
built it?” Joe looked around with wonder. “By yourself?”

“Yes. Well, I had some help with pouring the basement and the roof, but I did the rest.”

“And the plumbing and electrical?” I asked. She was so tall I had to lean my head back to look up at her.

“The plumbing, yes, but Larry Clark did most of the electrical. I know a little. Enough to be dangerous.”