A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (25 page)

“Well . . .” My voice trailed off as I thought about how he had practically commandeered me away from my store for today’s adventure.

“Hey! Whose side are you on, Brat?”

I mustered a wan smile. “What about counseling?”

“It’s too late for that. She’s already moved out.”

“Wow. I’m so sorry, Angus.”

“Yeah, well, I haven’t lost hope yet. Maybe if I let her spread her wings, she’ll come flying back one of these days.”

I wasn’t so sure. His wife had done a radical transformation. A total three-sixty. Sometimes people who knew the “old” you could never reconcile themselves to the person you’d become. I’d be willing to bet she knew in her heart that Angus could never accept the new and improved Betty Backstead.

“I’m going to hire Patsy full-time now to work at the auction house,” he said.

Even as I silently cheered that Patsy Elliott would be able to quit the diner and work at something she loved, my heart went out to Angus. My boisterous, bossy, exasperating, but bighearted friend.

“Well, I’m sure Pats will be a huge help,” I said. “She adores working with you. In fact, that last auction for Harriet’s dolls gave her enough money to hopefully afford a house for herself and Claire.”

“Yeah, talk about irony. Betty said it’s that same damn auction that gave her the idea to leave me.”

“
What?
”

“She knew that night that I’d made enough money to buy her out of the house and the business, and that she was finally free to go.”

“Jeez.” I shook my head at how one event could trigger so many others.

How often did I take Joe for granted? It didn’t matter how old you were, nothing was ever permanent. People changed, and the marriage needed to keep up. It was a work in progress. Something to be cherished and protected and nurtured. Always.

“Check this out, Daisy.” Angus, apparently done with the heart-to-heart, strolled over to a table that looked like it held the contents of an attic. He picked up an antique duck decoy. “These things are worth a fortune,” he whispered in my ear. “He’s asking $185, but that’s still cheap. I’m going to offer a buck and a half.”

After a little haggling, Angus tucked it under his arm and winked at me.

For my part, I couldn’t resist a vintage hand-sewn tea towel that said “Home Sweet Home Cooking” with a farmhouse that looked like so many of those around Sheepville, surrounded by various red-stitched chickens and other farm animals. It would sell in a second. If it ever made it out of my house, that is.

I was drawn to another table with Victorian paper dolls, antique toile, and lace trim. A yellow Vaseline glass vase from around 1900 that sort of resembled a squid caught my eye. I knew it wasn’t anything to do with sewing notions, but it was so quirky and unusual, I had to have it for the store. I’d never not sold anything I’d picked up this way.

Angus and I made a trip back to the truck and unloaded our stuff.

“Fancy a hot dog?” Angus asked. “To hell with my diet.”

Suddenly starving, I nodded. “I’ll take two.”

We stopped at a stall and bought chili cheese dogs. Angus slathered on every condiment on the counter and I did the same.

Just like the good old days.

The food stalls were over near the sellers with merchandise like designer-style handbags, airbrushed T-shirts, and handmade woolen socks. Produce, garden accessories, Amish meats, and baked goods were also on display.

“This is the newer stuff.” Angus wiped his mouth with a napkin. “We need to head back in the other direction.”

I followed him to a table near the factory building that was filled with license plates, vintage cameras, lodge pins, motorcycle kidney belts, a train set, and even a brass spittoon.

The vendor had a display of sterling silver forks with all the tines bent down except for one. If the tines were fingers, the one sticking up would be the middle finger. They were advertised as pickle or olive forks.

“I
have
to get one of these for Eleanor,” I told Angus.

After I paid, I wandered over to where he was sorting through a stack of automotive and oil promotional signs propped up against the brick wall. These old signs were like catnip for Angus. He pulled out a dented red and black metal one.

“Oh, yeah, I remember this,” he said. “This shop used to be where Jake’s Hardware is now. Fred Smalls. Ardine’s father. He was the only electrician in town for years.”

I peeked over his shoulder. The sign said
SMALLS ELECTRICAL
.

“Angus!” I gasped. “How come you never mentioned this before?”

“What?” He craned his head to look up at me from his kneeling position.

“The dollhouse that killed Harriet Kunes. My God, don’t you remember? Someone messed with the wiring!”

Angus eased himself slowly to his feet and scratched his thick shock of white hair. “I know what you’re thinking, Daisy Duke, but you’re dead wrong.”

I blew out a breath, trying to control my exasperation. I had to remind myself that not everyone was trying to do the police department’s job, like me. “But don’t you think it might be just a
tad
relevant?”

“I dunno. There’s lots of electricians round these parts, let alone their kids. They can’t all be murderers.”

Yes, but it only takes one.

W
hen Angus dropped me off at home, I hurried toward the sunroom at the back of the house where I had a corner workstation and laptop setup. I stopped for a moment to admire the kitchen, where Wayne had obviously finished the final touch-ups this morning.

Apart from his invoice on the counter neatly marked “Paid,” it was hard to tell that anything had ever been torn apart. It was perfect, and a welcome relief to have my kitchen back. There was also a note from Joe that he’d taken Jasper out for a walk.

I smiled, shaking my head in exasperation. Joe could never quite get used to the idea of leaving a message on my cell phone. How he expected me to read this note unless I’d happened to stop home, I don’t know.

I set my flea market purchases down, pulled up “Kunes Medical Associates” on the computer and skimmed Birch’s bio. He’d done his residency at Hahnemann University Hospital, and then after his fellowship, he’d gone into practice with nine other doctors in Langhorne before he’d opened his own office. I typed the name of the practice into the search menu, wrote down the address on a scrap of paper, and shoved it in my pocket.

With any luck, someone who had worked there back then would still be on staff, and I’d find out some more information on both Birch and Ardine. I didn’t hold out much hope, but it was all I had.

I added a line to Joe’s note that I was taking the car and I’d see him for dinner.

Forget the bike. Langhorne was too far.

The group practice was easy to find—a modern, one-story building on the perimeter of the Langhorne Hospital grounds. I parked and walked up to the entrance. The balmy air from this morning was gone, and I zipped up my windbreaker against the sudden chill.

Pretending to be checking messages on my phone, I lingered, watching the reception desk through the plate glass window. I wasn’t exactly sure of the time line, but if Birch joined the practice when he was in his early thirties, it could be close to fifteen years ago now.

One middle-aged woman with frosted blond hair piled high caught my eye. Even from here, I could see she had deep dimples and wore lots of makeup. Her white silky shirt was a size too small and the buttons strained, puckering the material against her generous bosom. She looked like she was in charge of the others. She was certainly talking a lot, which was a good sign, so she was the one I headed for first when I approached the desk.

“Hi. I’m—um—looking for a woman called Ardine Smalls,” I said. “I heard she works here?”

“Oh, God, she left here ages ago, honey. Why are you looking for her?”

“Well, she’s become rather friendly with a friend of mine. In fact, he’s spending a lot of time with her.”

I crossed my fingers inside my pockets. Ardine
had
been spending a lot of time with Angus. It wasn’t a total lie. “And—um—I just wanted to ask her to lunch. Get to know her a little better, if you know what I mean . . .”

I let my voice trail off, hoping there was a wealth of meaning in what I wasn’t saying.

She looked at me, her eyes outlined with blue liner suddenly shrewd. “I do know what you mean.” She grabbed her wallet and shrugged into a fake fur coat. “I’m on my way to pick up lunch for the girls. You can come with me if you want to chat on the way. What’s your name, honey?”

“Daisy. And that would be great, thanks.”

“Marge. Nice to meet ya.”

Hardly able to believe my luck, I scurried after her. She smelled good, like a very expensive talcum powder. “Have you been here long, Marge?”

“Oh, yes, I helped Dr. Wilson open this practice. It was just him and me at first, you know. Then he took on more associates, including Birch Kunes. I’ve been here for almost twenty years now. Hard to believe.”

“So you worked with Ardine? You remember her?”

“Yes, I do. Strange little thing.” Marge shook her head. “I think Birch only gave her a job because he felt sorry for her.”

We crossed a wide pavilion with stone benches and tables and a canopy of wooden beams overhead. In the summer this would be a pretty spot for people to sit and have lunch, but in late September the wind was slicing across the open area, and Marge and I hurried across to the doors that led into the hospital.

Once we were walking through the cafeteria, she turned to me and lowered her voice. “Don’t repeat this, honey, but I heard she was forced to leave the hospital because of a messy affair.”

“An affair? Seriously?” I couldn’t picture the nerdy Ardine having a steamy liaison.

“Oh, now, see, I’m using the wrong word. It was more of a messy
situation
.”

Marge approached the counter and called out a rapid-fire list of five different sandwiches with a multitudinous list of toppings and breads. The woman behind the line took it in stride.

Maybe the office ordered the same thing every day so it wasn’t as confusing as it sounded to me.

“She developed this obsession for one of the doctors.” Marge lowered her voice, glancing around every few seconds to make sure we weren’t overheard, as if she were some kind of zaftig Russian spy. “She sent him love letters, called him all the time, the whole bit. Practically
stalking
the poor guy.”

I ordered a large coffee and we shuffled along with a line of people toward the cash register.

“Eventually she was dismissed and came to work for Birch.” Marge grabbed a pile of napkins and plastic utensils and shoved them into the paper bag filled with sandwiches. “I guess she’s getting crazy over your friend now, right? That’s why you’re here?”

“Something like that, yeah,” I mumbled as I emptied a couple of creamers into my cup.

We paid, left the cafeteria, and opened the main doors to brave the elements again.

“When Birch left to open his own practice, he didn’t ask Ardine to go with him,” Marge yelled at me above the rush of the wind. “My boss let her go soon after that, using the excuse that there wasn’t enough work for her. She was a bright girl, but too weird.”

We skirted the tables, and I cursed silently as hot coffee slopped over my fingers.

“She didn’t get along with everyone else and it made things uncomfortable. He gave her a good recommendation, though. I think she got a job with a medical supply company in the end.”

“Oh, okay, thanks,” I said, as we neared the office building. “I’ll try to track her down that way. Thanks so much for all your help.”

I said good-bye to Marge and retraced my steps to the pavilion. Even though it was freezing outside, I needed a quiet space to collect my thoughts.

Did Ardine do the same thing with Birch? Develop some kind of crazy obsession over him that spurred her to kill his wife? I shook the droplets from my fingers as I sucked down a gulp of the hot, bracing liquid. But Ardine had been at the house when Birch and Angus were cleaning out the garage. Everything had seemed perfectly cordial between them. I hadn’t noticed any tension then, or at the auction.

Not to mention the fact that Bettina should have been her target now if that was the case.

Serrano said Ardine had an alibi for Harriet’s murder because she’d been at the conference hall all day preparing her exhibit. But I’d seen more than a few women at the show with shoulder-length gray hair and somewhat frumpy attire. It might have been easy to mistake Ardine for someone else from the back.

With her nursing background, she’d know how to operate a remote for an insulin pump. But why on earth would she want to kill Sophie, too?

I shivered inside my windbreaker, clasping the cup for warmth. I’d just taken another sip when Marybeth Skelton hurried out of the hospital doors.

She didn’t glance in my direction as she headed for the parking lot, but even from this distance, I could see she had a big white bandage on her right hand.

• • •

I
choked on my mouthful of coffee. What the heck was
she
doing here in Langhorne? Why not go to Doylestown Hospital? It was much closer to Millbury and Sheepville.

Unless she’d deliberately picked a place that was so far out of the way she wouldn’t see anyone she knew while being treated for a nasty cut. From a wine bottle, for instance.

I fumbled for my phone and when I got Serrano’s voice mail, I blurted out my findings on both Ardine and Marybeth.

I hurried to the Subaru, eager to get out of the bitter chill, and drove back to Millbury. When I reached the house, I’d barely opened the front door before Joe came rushing out.

“Glad you’re here, Daisy. I need to get to the hardware store for some more supplies before it closes.”

Bemused, I waved good-bye as he hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Looks like it’s going to be raining cats and dogs here soon,” he called as he drove off down Main Street.

I went into the sunroom and gathered together my finds from the flea market. I wanted to give Laura the skeleton keys before she left for the day.

Cats and dogs.

Holy crap. Cyril’s cat! When was the last time I’d fed him?

A chill ran through me as I struggled to remember. Sunday? Yes, Sunday, that was it. And now it was Tuesday afternoon. Cyril had said he’d be fine on his own for a couple of days, but still . . .

I was a horrible person and a worse pet sitter. I’d go see the little guy right now.

I raced down to the store with my armful of vintage treasures. Laura was just about to lock up, so I gave her the antique keys and told her I’d see her on Friday.

After she left, I put the squid vase in the front display window and was scurrying to set the linens down on the Welsh dresser when I tripped over the sad iron.

Aargh!

Stars danced around inside my eyeballs and I huffed out a long series of agonized breaths. As if that could seriously dull the almighty pain that stabbed through my big toe. I’d be lucky if the damn thing wasn’t broken.

Why wouldn’t someone buy this stupid thing already? And why the
hell
did Laura keep moving it around?

My toe throbbing, I hopped around some more, conjuring up all the choice words I could remember from my days in the high school teachers’ break room.

Alice didn’t exactly raise her eyebrows, but I could clearly see the reproof in her eyes.

“Sorry, Alice,” I gasped. “It’s just that I’ve banged my toe on this freaking thing for the last time. I can’t take it anymore.”

I know. I’d bring it with me to Cyril’s. It would feel at home there with the other old crappy rusty things. Screw the five bucks I might get by selling it. It wasn’t worth all this agony.

I dumped the offending item in my bag and tentatively tried taking one step, and then another. The sooner I got back home and put some ice on my foot, the better.

The walk to the salvage yard took a lifetime. The sad iron skulking in my pocketbook had increased its weight by at least a hundred pounds and the strap cut savagely into my shoulder. This had to be the most ludicrous idea I’d ever come up with.

Finally I opened the door to the trailer, set my bag on the kitchen floor, and picked up the container of dry cat food.

I knelt down and poured some kibble into the dish and suddenly my heart almost stopped as I heard the magnificent sound of a cat purring.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. The tiny black cat padded closer to the bowl. He paused to rub slightly against my side before he delicately lowered his head and began to eat. I smiled as I heard the soft crunching noise between his little teeth.

I’d never heard anything so wonderful.

I hadn’t killed Cyril’s pet.
Thank God
. He even had some water left.

Cyril and Martha were due to come home tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be a minute too soon for me. I missed them both, more than I’d ever imagined.

I watched until the cat had eaten about half of the food, and refilled the water bowl with fresh water.

“See you later, His Nibs,” I whispered, and picking up my pocketbook, I let myself out. I locked the door and turned around to see Ardine Smalls standing in the semidarkness.

“Hi, Daisy.”

I tried to swallow in order to be able to speak, but I couldn’t.

She grinned, showing those horse-like teeth. “Marge called. Said you were poking around, asking all kinds of questions about me.”

Shock loosened the wedge in my throat. “Marge? But she seemed so . . .”

“Like your best friend, right?” She stepped over a grappling hook and came closer. “Yeah, Marge is anybody’s best friend for the right price. We have a real sweet deal going on. She sends me patients, and I give her a cut of the commission.”

Ardine wrinkled her nose as she looked around. “It should be easy enough to hide a body somewhere in this pile of junk,” she murmured, as if to herself.

She took a long syringe out of her old-fashioned purse. God knows what was in it. All I knew was that if I let her get close enough to stick me with that thing, I was toast.

My heart bounced. “You killed Harriet and Sophie.” It didn’t seem worth beating around the bush.

“Yep, and now I’m going to get rid of you, too.”

There was only one clear path up to the trailer among the piles of miscellaneous salvage, and she was standing in it.