A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (17 page)

I winced and said a little prayer for Serrano’s safety as she drew him toward the exit.

“And I’m starving,” Angus announced. “Let’s go out for pizza.”

Ardine Smalls was standing at the edge of our group, twisting the handles of her large old-fashioned black purse between her fingers.

“Smalls, you coming?” he barked.

She hesitated for a moment, the way she’d done with me, as if she couldn’t believe he meant it.

Angus strode over and threw an arm around her shoulders in a crushing half hug. “Pop’s Pizza and a cold beer would hit the spot right about now. Come on, missy.”

A smile that illuminated her whole face was his answer.

Twenty minutes later we were installed in a booth at Pop’s. I was squeezed in between Martha and Cyril, and facing Angus and Ardine.

I took a grateful sip of my cold beer. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “I can’t decide which hurts more—my back or my feet.”

“It’s the back,” Martha moaned. “No, it’s the feet. Good God, what a night.”

Cyril drained half of his beer glass in one swallow. “All that money on a bunch of dolls? I’m fair gobsmacked.”

Angus rubbed a hand across his thick white shock of hair. “I can’t believe it, either. Did you see the price that that Thomas Edison talking doll brought? Jesus, I thought those two old biddies were going to come to fisticuffs.”

Ardine sipped her Coke through a straw. “It’s because you hardly ever see them on the market, not in that condition, except once in a blue moon.”

He made an exaggerated show of peering out the window. “It’s almost a full one, but I dunno about the blue part.”

She giggled, hiccupping on her soda.

Good old Angus. Like me, I knew he thought Ardine was an odd duck, and sometimes she tried a bit too hard, but he was always kind, no matter what. Angus often talked about karma when we went picking. Treat people right and it would repay you many times over. Treat them badly and you never knew what would turn up.

He grinned at me and then nudged Ardine with his huge shoulder.

“You spent a bundle, too, tonight, didn’t you, missy?”

Ardine rushed to explain, embarrassment making her stumble over her words. “I know, but you see, I make quite a good living selling medical supplies, and, well, the house is paid for and, well—”

He roared with laughter. “I’m just kidding with ya.”

“Ardine, this is a tough crowd,” I said, smiling. “You shouldn’t take too much notice.”

Tonight was just like old times. Except not quite. Angus was drinking soda, too. This time last year, he would have had a whole pitcher of Bud to himself.

“How’s that beer?” he asked, ogling my glass. “Tell me it tastes like crap.”

I stuck out my tongue. “Ugh, it’s terrible. Like soapy dishwater. Blech!”

“You’re a terrible liar, Daisy Duke.”

“I know.” I reached across and took his meaty hand in mine. “But you’re doing great, Angus. I’m so proud of you.”

After we’d polished off two large pizzas, two sodas, and a pitcher of beer, we headed back to the auction house. I’d promised to help Ardine bring her dollhouses home. She could fit two on the backseat and one on the front, but the other two were too tall to fit in the trunk of her car, so I put them in my station wagon.

She lived on the outskirts of Sheepville, not far from Hildebrand’s garage, owned by Betty Backstead’s brother. Right where the zoning changed from commercial to residential, which was a mixture that stripped the existing homes of much of their comfort zone.

Ardine’s house was a plain rancher on a corner lot, painted a light green, with a rusted wire fence and a statue of the Virgin Mary in the center of the front yard. There were no flowers, no bushes, no landscaping at all.

Ardine gave me a shy smile as I got out of my car. “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

“I’d love to.”

Nothing going on at home anyway.

I picked up one of the dollhouses and followed her inside.

“Where do you want it?”

“In this back room.” Ardine led me to a tiny sunroom off the kitchen. “I’d like to display some in the living room, but there’s nowhere to put them. I haven’t changed anything since Mother died.”

We went back for another load, and when we came back inside, I stood for a moment, surveying the living room. The furniture was huge. Monstrous, in fact. A wraparound beige sectional sofa encompassed almost all the available floor space, and a massive entertainment center crammed with knickknacks dwarfed the wall facing the front door.

I knew from the rooms she’d created for Jeanne that Ardine had a good sense of design. Quite an elegant sense of style actually, which one would never guess from her appearance. Or from this space.

“Horrible, isn’t it?” Ardine came up behind me.

“Do you really need all this furniture? Can’t you get rid of some of it?”

She gasped at this heresy. “Oh, no, Mother picked it out, and it’s only ten years old.” There was a pause while she chewed on her bottom lip. “But what do you think?”

“I could see one pretty love seat and two armchairs in here, and there would still be plenty of room for a display table in front of the window.”

I could almost see Ardine’s mind working. I knew from her buying spree at the auction she must have plenty of money, and she’d probably saved a lot by living with her mother all these years.

“You could always sell this sectional or donate it to the church for needy families,” I suggested.

She brightened. “The church is a good idea. I don’t think Mother would mind that as much.”

“I think she’d just want you to be happy.”

She shook her wiry gray head vigorously. “Mother disapproved of me spending money. I always had to make do. That’s probably why Harriet won the competitions.”

Ardine walked out of the room and I followed. She stopped at the base of the staircase that led upstairs and jiggled the banister. “I need to get this fixed.” She stared at me. “That’s how she died, you know. She leaned on it and lost her balance. Fell down the whole flight of stairs. I found her unconscious when I came home. I called the ambulance, but it was too late.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, Ardine, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started talking about your mom. I really need to learn to mind my own business.”

“It’s okay, Daisy. And you’re right. She’s been gone for two years now. It’s about time I redecorated.”

We went back into the sunroom and she showed me one of her completed houses.

“You need to train your eye to see one material as another. Like this.” She held up a flowerpot, which I realized was actually a wooden thread spool. “This table is made from a poker chip, and the chandelier is made of toothpicks, beads, and bits of jewelry.”

“That’s very clever. They should have given you marks at those competitions for creativity.”

Ardine bit her lip with her protruding teeth. “Harriet looked down her nose at it. Sophie, too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with saving money,” I said firmly. “Nothing at all.”

“I’m always on the lookout for common objects that I can repurpose. This pedestal base is a chess piece. This oriental rug is a piece of a paisley scarf.”

“This is great!” My mind was whirling with possibilities. “Hey, these would be fun projects to do with Claire. I must have tons of stuff at the store that I can use—buttons, thimbles, ribbons, and other odds and ends.”

“That’s great, but don’t overdo it. The art of miniaturizing is to use only what’s needed to complete the setting.” Ardine tapped on the side of one house. “This family doesn’t get along with the family in the Vermont country house next door. It all started when Mr. Murphy cut down Mrs. Johnston’s hollyhocks by accident.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “Mrs. Murphy would like to make up, but her husband wouldn’t approve.”

Thankfully, I managed to stop myself from rolling my eyes.

“Here’s a new dinner service that Jeanne gave me for the last room design,” she said, showing me a Staffordshire china set. “I think I’ll give it to the Johnstons to make up for the hollyhocks. You know, then maybe Mrs. Johnston might invite the neighbors over for dinner. This could be a new start for everyone.”

Suddenly I saw how real this had become to her. As a teacher, I knew that playing with dolls was a way for children to be in charge. But what did it say about a grown woman? It seemed a bit weird for someone her age, and then I pictured me playing with Claire and making up stories. But that was different.

Oh, yeah? How’s that?

“Ardine, you really know your stuff. Have you ever thought about teaching?”

There was that brief, bright smile. Like a student that glowed under just a little attention and positive reinforcement.

“I mean it. I think you’d be great. You have so much knowledge to share.”

“Oh, Daisy, you’re so nice. Your friends are so nice, too,” she said. “I’m so glad I met you.”

W
hen I got home, Joe was still down in the basement. I called hello, and he answered, but he didn’t come upstairs, so I grabbed Jasper’s leash and headed out for a walk with the dog.

I found myself going down to the south end of Millbury and past the Browns’ house. Sam was sitting out in a rocking chair on the porch, and he jumped up and waved to me.

“Come on in, Daisy. Come and see Georgia.”

Jasper and I went through the gate, and we walked over to where the pumpkin sat in all her peach-colored glory, swelled to the bursting point and glowing in the moonlight. Like a fairy princess who’d sunk to the ground with her ball gown puffed up around her.

I held Jasper back while Sam hovered over her like an expectant father. “You know, you get real attached to them,” he said, stroking her skin. “Like a child or a pet. From starting the seed to the final weigh-in at Doylestown, it’s a nine-to-ten-month process.”

Like a pregnancy. I thought of Bettina growing larger by the day with Birch’s baby.

“Until the day comes that you have to cut the vine to take it to the show. You hold your breath until you get the punkin on the truck. It’s like cutting the umbilical cord. It won’t grow any more after that. In fact it starts losing weight.”

“But how do you know how much it weighs before you go?” I asked.

“You don’t. You just have to estimate by measurements, but it’s not exact, and you don’t know what’s going on inside.” He rubbed a hand across his weathered face. “I had one that went down last year. Damn squash borers got to it and ate a hole through the side. I cried like a baby.”

I swallowed. Somehow I’d developed an attachment to the giant fruit, too. I prayed that this one would make it.

“Then there’s the woodchucks. Don’t even get me started on those. I seen one creeping round here the other night. I’m ready for him though. Got me a twenty-two rifle. I’ll get the little bastard.”

I glanced at him in alarm and hoped he wouldn’t shoot any unsuspecting walkers with their dogs.

Sam held a finger to his lips. “Ssh. I shouldn’t talk like this around the punkins. That’s why I don’t let Dottie near ’em. She’s got bad energy. It stresses them out.”

We turned and strolled back toward the house. “Sometimes I play music for them,” he said. “Brahms mostly, but the romantic tunes, not his melancholy stuff.”

“So the pumpkins like music?”

A seed of an idea was sprouting in my brain.

He nodded vigorously. “I know it helps them grow. I can almost see the leaves move.”

“Sam, have you ever heard Tony Zappata sing?”

• • •

O
n Wednesday morning, before I opened the store, I trudged up to the salvage yard. It had been raining, and I probably should have taken the car, but I was still on my kick of trying to save every penny I could. I picked my way around deep puddles along the muddy road, past green wooden shutters with crackled paint, and Victorian iron gates and fencing. There was a new stack of rusty radiators near the trailer and a gap where the carnival wheel used to be.

Cyril looked glum as he met me at the door, once he saw that I’d come without coffee from the diner. I followed him inside and he made a big production of filling the teakettle and banging it onto the stove. The phone rang and he glared at it.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?”

He shook his head and sighed deeply. “Ah know it’s Martha. She’s called three times this mornin’. Ah can’t even splash my boots wi’out her asking me what I’m doing.”

I winced, and pressed a finger to the corner of my eye, which was beginning to twitch. “Maybe some quality time alone with you will help her relax.”

Or maybe he needed a vacation from Martha.

He still looked unconvinced. “Here’s tha spare key.”

I stowed it carefully in my bag.

“His Nibs won’t stay inside, but don’t worry about it. He’s used to roaming around at night, but he comes back in t’morning. Just put food and water down and he’ll be all right.”

The cat was as eccentric as its owner, and had an unnerving habit of hiding in strange places and then suddenly flying across the room like some feline ninja.

Cyril set out two mugs and sighed again. “Hopefully we’ll be straight in, straight out, just like the Special Forces.”

I bit my lip. I knew Martha would be heartbroken if things didn’t work out. I wondered if I should say anything to her about backing off a bit and giving him some space. Or maybe I should just mind my own beeswax.

There was no question they were a strange match. As far as I knew, she’d never even set foot in this rusty place of his, but they really did care for each other. Hopefully some time away would do them both a world of good.

“What do you think o’ this?” He brought out the weather vane I’d seen outside last time. It was beautifully polished now and the copper horse and brass directional arms gleamed in the sunlight. “Thought ah might give it to her for a Christmas present.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes, but I smiled at him anyway, and breathed a sigh of relief.

“I think she’d love it.”

If he was already planning ahead to Christmas, that was a good sign. The ornate weather vane was a bit over-the-top, but then so was Martha, and so was her huge Victorian house, with its elaborate gingerbread in various shades of pink, rose, and cream.

Next he produced the dollhouse. The roof was complete, the porch repaired, the trim attached. Everything was perfect. And he’d painted the whole thing, too. It was as beautiful as Harriet’s house, only better.

“Ah wanted to get as much done as I could before we went away.”

I walked around it, lost in wonder. “Oh, Cyril, this is fantastic. I can’t believe you did it so quickly.”

“All that’s left to do is to put the furniture and the rugs in. Maybe Joe can tackle the lighting. I’m no expert, and after what happened . . .”

I nodded quickly, forcing the image of the electrocuted Harriet out of my mind.

We spent the next half hour installing rugs and furniture, gluing books on shelves and anchoring ceramics and other tiny accessories with florist’s clay.

I was about to put the framed pictures back on the living room wall when I choked on my tea. “Wait a minute! I think these are actual photos of the Rosenthal family.” I peered at one of them. “Yes, here’s Sophie.” It was a tiny version of her portrait on the wall of the Historical Society.

I handed the minute frame to Cyril. “Here’s another. This couple must be Sophie’s brother and his wife.” I picked up the last one and studied it.

It was a picture of a young blond girl, presumably the stepdaughter. There was something familiar about her, but what was it? The picture was so tiny, it was hard to make out any details.

“There’s one missing,” Cyril muttered.

I gasped. He was right. The picture of Chip Rosenthal.

Did Sophie have time to pull his photo down from the wall to finger her killer before she died?

• • •

A
fter I’d thanked Cyril effusively and promised him coffee every morning for the rest of his natural-born life, I staggered back to the store with the dollhouse safely cushioned in a cardboard box. By the time I made it inside the front door, my arms were shaking. With the last of my strength, I put it in the upstairs storage room.

I covered the top of the box with a pile of quilts and stacked some bolts of fabric in front of it. I still hadn’t given the alarm company the go ahead to install a system, seeing as I didn’t exactly know what my plans were, but it should be safe enough. I’d make sure I locked the deadbolt when I left for the day.

The doorbell tinkled and I hurried down the stairs. A young woman in a black peacoat and rose-colored scarf looked up at me and smiled. A real live customer!

“Hi. Do you have any vintage needle books? My aunt is a collector, and I wanted to get her one for her birthday, but I had no idea where to find something like that until someone in Sheepville told me about your store.”

“You came to the right place.” I happily pulled out my needle book collection. Nowadays they were utilitarian affairs, but decades ago, they were truly works of art.

Gorgeous pictures adorned the covers and inside was a jewellike array of colored foils to hold the needles and threader. Bright green, pink, gold, red, and purple foils, some embossed with an intertwining spiderweb design to symbolize the industrious seamstress.

I showed her my “Sewing Susan” needle books, from the thirties through the fifties, featuring the same group of women sitting around, laughing and sewing.

“See how the women changed over the years? In the later books, they used brighter colors, with different hairstyles. Even the painting changed in the background.”

Sometimes a Great Notion was a wonderful opportunity to combine my interest in antiques and history with my passion for teaching. People loved to hear stories about the things they bought so they could pass on tidbits of knowledge when they showed off their purchases to their friends.

“That’s interesting,” she said. “I know absolutely nothing about sewing, but these are really neat.”

“Some of these were produced as promotional giveaways to advertise insurance companies and supermarkets and the like. The travel theme was popular, too.” I showed her one in the shape of an ocean liner, and another with a view of mountains from a train window. “Probably because sewing was something you could do to pass the time on a journey.”

She picked a book with a picture of a woman sewing in a garden surrounded by pink rosebushes. “This is pretty. I think I’ll take this one.” On the reverse was the same woman inside a drawing room, sewing with a child, and looking out of the window at those same pink roses.

“That’s what we call ‘new’ old stock,” I said. “More often than not, the books have some needles missing or the cover has some wear and tear, but there are a few here that have never been used.”

I helped her put together a nice selection of five needle books for her aunt. After she left, delighted that she’d found a thoughtful birthday present for under thirty dollars, I put the rest back on display. I picked up one of the Sewing Susan books again, musing over the pictures of the women on the cover.

That picture of the stepdaughter in the dollhouse. Whom did it remind me of?

It was like the thread of a dream that you remember when you first wake up, but the harder you try to think about it, the more awake you become and the further it disappears from reach.

What I needed were more pictures of the Rosenthal family.

I called Debby Millerton, the librarian over in Sheepville, and asked if she could help me locate some microfilm of the newspaper reports of Sophie’s death and also the accident that had killed her brother and his wife.

Next I called Chip Rosenthal and left a message that I had an interesting proposition for him and would he please call me back as soon as possible.

It was a busy day at the store, and when the last customer left around 5:30 p.m., I raced over to the Sheepville Library.

I called the house on the way but got the answering machine. I left a message for Joe that I would be late and not to worry about making dinner.

The library was an attractive two-story brick building on the corner of Main and Porter Streets. It had tall white Palladian windows on the first floor, and soaring wide arches inside formed impressive entryways between the various rooms. It was once the borough hall, and had served briefly as a polling place and senior center. It was actually quite a large library for a town the size of Sheepville.

Debby met me in the lobby, where there was a fireplace and comfortable couches to sit and enjoy a good book. She brought me back through the reading tables and endless aisles of bookshelves, through the used-book sale area, and finally to a back room, with beige filing cabinets and a table holding the microfilm reader. “We only have a limited collection of newspapers, but I think you’ll find what you need. I’ve pulled out the
Sheepville Times
for the dates you asked about.”

I sat down in front of the reader, and she showed me how to set the reel on the spool and feed the film through the guide.

“What’s going on, Daisy?” she whispered, even though no one else was around. “Are you involved in a top-secret investigation again?” Her eyes sparkled. Debby was a film buff and everything was dramatic and exciting if she could make it that way. She’d been writing a romance novel in her spare time for the past five years, but she’d never let anyone read it.

I shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Just one of my hunches.” I looked around and lowered my voice to a whisper, too. “No one knows if Sophie’s death was from an accidental overdose of insulin, or if she killed herself because she was depressed over the death of her brother. I was hoping to find some clues in these articles.”

“Well, it’s strange that Sophie Rosenthal renewed her library books online the day before she died if she was planning to commit suicide.”

“Really?” I stared at her. That wouldn’t be enough of a clue for Serrano, but as far as I was concerned, it was another nail in the coffin for Chip Rosenthal.