A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (4 page)

Jeanne obviously hadn’t heard the news of Harriet’s untimely demise. “Ardine Smalls?”

“Oh, she’s another collector. They’re usually the top two favorites in the competition, don’t you know.”

I cleared my throat. “I guess you didn’t hear. Harriet Kunes was found dead last night.”

“Oh, dear.” Jeanne straightened the flaps of her denim shirt. “Well, I suppose Mac will probably sell her creations to Ardine now.”

I blinked at this rapid acceptance of the news of Harriet’s death.

The phone rang and Jeanne bustled off to answer it. I selected the building supplies I needed, as well as some Victorian double doors, gingerbread trim, and window boxes for the first floor. Perhaps a hanging fern for the wraparound porch, too. I also couldn’t resist a tiny toaster oven with two pieces of toast sticking out, and a silver toast rack, because it reminded me of Cyril. Lastly, I picked up some Halloween decorations in honor of Claire’s birthday—a little bag of pumpkins, and a spell book with a candle.

Eighty-seven dollars later, I walked out of the store, wondering if this dollhouse was really a present for Claire, or for me.

“J
oe, you know how much I love you, right?”

My long-suffering husband nodded, a wry smile on his face, as we entered the Bucks County Expo and Conference Center on Saturday morning.

The Seventh Annual Dollhouse and Miniatures Show was sort of like Jeanne’s shop, but exploded a million times over. Speaking of Jeanne, she had two booths side by side near the entrance, and she waved gaily when she spotted me.

I waved back, but then I grabbed hold of Joe’s arm. “Remind me that I’m here to try to find out something about Harriet’s murder and why someone would want my dollhouse so badly,” I whispered. “
Don’t
let me spend any more money.”

He grinned. “Come on, you nut. Let’s get this over with.”

We strolled down the aisles, past traditional dollhouses and one-room displays in a box, all the way down to tiny scenes in a teacup. Some vignettes were in fun containers, like a fruit crate or an old spice cabinet.

“Look at this one,” I said. Someone had taken a favorite vacation photo and recreated it in a room box. A bistro on a quaint Paris street, with red umbrellas and a chalkboard sign outside. The actual picture was pinned to the top.

“That’s clever,” Joe said.

In addition to the displays, there were vendors galore. One made all kinds of mini food items like donuts, pies, and crusty, floury baguettes barely an inch long. Another had fruits and vegetables displayed in boxes like a regular farm stand. I could have stayed there for an hour looking at the glassware alone—canning jars, water pitchers, wineglasses, punch bowls, and candy dishes.

We stopped at a garden display featuring two Adirondack chairs, a tiny lawnmower on the grass, a hose, and a bird feeder. The vendor used real plants—slow-growing dwarf-sized varieties—and Joe soon got into a deep conversation.

Gardening was something he could relate to.

“Hi, Daisy!” Dottie Brown, one of my friends who owned a yarn and fabric store in Sheepville, waved to me from the next aisle over. Her granddaughter was with her.

“I’m just going to say hi to Dottie,” I said. “Be right back.”

Joe nodded vaguely in acknowledgement as he asked another question about the watering and maintenance of the mini cypress and hemlock.

“You really do have an excellent husband,” Dottie said when I caught up to her.

I laughed. “Poor Joe. Yeah, I think I’ll keep him. How’s Sam?”

“Oh, God, he entered the giant pumpkin contest again this year. You know, it started out as just a hobby. Now he’s consumed by it. He spends four hours or more a day in the garden pampering those pumpkins.” Her mouth thinned. “Time he could be spending with his grandkids.”

I smiled at the little girl.

“I didn’t know you were into dollhouses, Dottie.”

“I’m not, exactly, but I’ve started a line of crocheted and knitted clothes for miniature dolls. You know, in this economy, you’ve got to keep moving or you get swept under by the current. And let me tell you, Daisy, there’s
money
to be made here.”

Thinking of how much I had just spent at Jeanne’s, I could certainly agree.

We chatted a bit more, until her granddaughter gently tugged on Dottie’s hand, and they moved on.

There was something about dollhouses that spanned generations. I saw several other grandmothers with grandchildren. I smiled at the wonder on the face of the child, but also at the expression of the older woman who had been transported back in time to her childhood.

I wandered over to check out the competition tables, and marveled at the room boxes with different interpretations based on one standard kitchen design. These were truly kitchens to drool over, with their travertine tile backsplashes, maple cabinets, and pendant lighting. I decided that the best designs looked as if someone had just left the room.

The one with a first-prize ribbon had a salad in mid-preparation on its center island, together with an open bottle of wine and a basket of French bread. I cheered to see the tiny dog bowl in the corner. These people had a dog!

“Prepare to spend a lot of time bent over at this show.” The voice was young, raspy, and almost accusatory.

I straightened up and turned around. Too quickly. I sucked in a breath and pressed a hand against the writhing muscle in my back.

The person in front of me was thin to the point of emaciation. Jet black hair framed her pixie face. An unnatural black. She wore olive painters pants, a wrinkled white T-shirt, and a military dog tag necklace.

“You look familiar.” She cocked a finger at me. “Didn’t you help solve the Angus Backstead case a few months back?”

“Um, yes, that’s me. I’m Daisy Buchanan.”

I held out my hand and she shook it firmly with a hand laden with silver rings and leather and braid bracelets. No limp fish there, I noted with approval. So many women didn’t know how to shake hands properly.

“PJ Avery. Reporter for the
Sheepville Times
.”

She swayed slightly from the ball of one foot to the other as if she were preparing to take a jump shot. It was tough to say how old she was. From her slight figure and the way she dressed, she could be a high school kid, or anywhere into her late twenties.

“Heard about the break-in. Where’s the dollhouse now?” she demanded, in a clipped tone.

“At the repair shop,” I answered in the same abrupt way, frowning at her. Why was
she
so interested in it?

A very tall blonde in a red halter dress that showed off her toned shoulders and legs strode by. It would have been hard to miss the look of disdain she shot in our direction.

“That’s Mac. The chick who makes the furniture.” PJ shoved her hands in the pockets of her pants. “She’s pissed at me because of all the business she has now from the article I wrote. Go figure.”

I shook my head, even as I kept massaging my back. “You know—um—PJ—I have to confess I’m a little confused by that. Isn’t more business a
good
thing?”

She shrugged her frail shoulders. “You know. Artists. They’re so temperamental.”

A microphone crackled as one of the show organizers stepped up to announce the winner of the dollhouse competition. “Please join me in congratulating the winner of this year’s show. Ardine Smalls.”

“First time she ever won,” PJ muttered as a woman hurried to the front of the crowd.

Ardine was probably in her late forties. She had shoulder-length dark hair with wiry gray strands poking through the surface. The kind of hair that had never been colored or straightened. She wore a black-and-white polka-dot dress with padded shoulders and an electric blue belt.

Her face was alight with triumph. I could see this was a Big Deal for her.

“You know, I never realized that dollhouse collecting was such a big business,” I said to PJ under cover of the applause. “And people are so competitive. The world of sewing notions seems pretty tame in comparison.”

She snorted. “You have no idea what these women are like. They’re
obsessed
.”

Ardine Smalls was gesturing for her fellow competitors to come together for a group shot. She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, with her eyes darting from side to side. Two of the women stayed, but the rest drifted away. My heart ached as Ardine’s wide smile drooped.

PJ rolled her eyes. “Oh, crap. I gotta cover this. Get some kind of brain-dead quote from her. Hold on a minute.”

She pulled a camera with a huge lens out of a tote bag on her shoulder.

A minute later she was back. “Guess I felt like being nice today. I didn’t take a shot of the
shoes
.”

I glanced at Ardine’s scuffed, down-at-heel white pumps and stifled a chuckle. Although PJ didn’t have much room to talk. She wasn’t exactly a fashion maven herself.

She clicked off a couple more photos of the crowd. “Yeah, so, like, I’m doing a series of articles on collectors. I interviewed Harriet Kunes on Wednesday. Thought it was good prep cuz she was pegged to be the winner.” She chuckled without humor. “
That
was a waste of time.”

“What did you think of her?” I held my breath.

She lowered the camera and stared at me with eyes that were almost purple, but again, not the kind of color to be found in nature.

“Harriet was the type of person who went for the jugular,” she said quietly. “The type of person who made enemies easily.”

I lifted my eyebrows at this quick and effective assessment. She might make a good detective if she ever decided to change her line of work. “And how about Birch Kunes?”

“Don’t know much about him, but his future bride belongs to a group of women who meet at the dog park. I call them the ‘wine club.’ They bring wine and cheese and let the dogs play. You could probably walk your mutt and run into Bettina Waters there.”

I regarded her more closely. How did someone I’d never even met know I owned a dog? Although I supposed Jasper and I were a regular sight on the streets of Millbury.

PJ shoved the camera into her bag. “I might do a piece on them next. All these rich bitches who have nothing better to do. If nothing else, it’d be cool to watch ’em all get stoned.”

She grinned, and the smile transformed her face from determinedly sour to fresh and alive. She was quite pretty in a tree sprite kind of way.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out.”

“See ya.” She disappeared into the crowd and I headed back to find Joe.

I passed a few men with their sons, engrossed with a miniature garage, motorcycle shop, or fishing cottage.

Maybe I didn’t feel so guilty after all.

He was standing in front of a display with a card in front identifying the furniture as made by Tracy McEvoy.

Joe turned to me, a fierce excitement in his eyes. “Daisy, I could do this.” He was a talented carpenter himself and had created or restored many of the pieces in our home. “I’ll make a fortune!”

I smiled at him, glad to finally see him so passionate about something, the way I was about Sometimes a Great Notion.

• • •

T
he next afternoon I followed PJ’s directions and drove Jasper over to Ringing Springs Park. It was a few miles south of Millbury, near a bucolic neighborhood full of old money, where mill owners had settled in years gone by. Gentlemen’s farms, of stucco over stone, sat on pastoral acres with streams, ponds, and mature trees. Some had been built in the mid-eighteenth century and expanded several times over the succeeding years.

I passed long gated driveways, and could just picture the interiors: mellowed pine board floors, deep sill windows, huge wood-burning fireplaces, and gracious formal rooms.

Some were only a couple of decades old, built in the style of a French manor home or an English country estate. Here and there was a heated outside pool and spa, or lighted tennis courts, on professionally landscaped grounds. Inside these mansions would be yards of granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and custom cabinetry.

Another magnificent place was a veritable compound, complete with guest house, outdoor riding ring, four-story bank barn, and stone creamery building. There was no number on the pillar, just the name.
Sugar Hill
.

But my favorite was a more modest farmhouse, surrounded by cottage gardens, where the slate patio on one side had a built-in barbecue and fire pit, and the rear deck had been constructed around a century-old tree. I could just picture myself sitting out on that deck, reading a book in one of the elegant gray loungers, shaded from the ferocity of the sun by the benevolent old beech.

When we pulled into Ringing Springs Park, I managed to find a space in the lot, which was already fairly full. Jasper and I scrambled out of the car.

I breathed deeply of the earthy air. I longed to follow the trail that led into the woods where boulders littered the sides of the dry creek bed. In the distance I glimpsed the remains of an old mill.

But it wasn’t hard to spot the wealthy-looking women with their coolers and folding chairs in the fenced-in area just off the parking lot.

As soon as we were inside the gate and I unclipped his leash, Jasper, the extrovert, charged toward the other dogs. I watched his easy assimilation into the pack as they happily sniffed each other’s private parts.

Some of the women glanced my way, and I smiled and called hello, but they carried on with their conversations. I clutched the leash, standing there uncertainly, hearing the unmistakable pop of a cork. There was a trill of laughter and I told myself I was being paranoid if I thought it was directed at me.

Never mind. It was fun to watch Jasper. I delighted in his joy as he ran free, galloping around with his ungainly puppy stride, followed by a young golden retriever, a schnauzer, a giant poodle, and a couple of shih tzus.

I was about to find a place to sit in the shade near the dry stone wall, when an elderly woman came into the park carrying a backpack.

She bent down and set the bag on the grass, nearly losing her battered straw hat in the process. Out came a red tartan blanket and a carafe of what looked like pink zinfandel.

Her shaggy gray hound came up to me with a stiff-legged gait, gave me a friendly sniff in the crotch, and then ambled off to join the other dogs. With some more rummaging around in the pack, she retrieved some plastic wineglasses and attached a stem to one of them.