A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (5 page)

“Fancy a drink?”

I smiled at her. “Thanks, but it’s a bit early for me.”

“Oh, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” She spread out the blanket, settled herself, and patted the space next to her. “Take a load off. I’m Ruthie. Haven’t seen you round here before.”

Ruthie looked like she could have led a tour through the Everglades in her youth. Even though I was sure she was quite a few years older than me, her tanned legs were still in good shape. She wore a cotton T-shirt, no bra, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. She tossed the straw hat onto the blanket revealing short white hair, smushed down in places by the hat, and gave her head a quick massage with both hands.

“Nice to meet you, Ruthie. I’m Daisy.” I sat down. “I only just heard about this place. A—um—friend of Bettina Waters told me about it.”

“Speak of the devil,” Ruthie said as a very attractive woman with a Portuguese water dog opened the gate. She wore white shorts, tennis shoes, and a navy V-neck shirt, and carried a camping chair in a bag on her shoulder.

Ruthie waved hello and Bettina waved back, a huge smile on her face. She had an amazing body, with lush dark hair, perfect white teeth, and breasts as pert as a teenager’s. The wine club group greeted her and shifted their chairs to let her into the circle.

A little while later, a couple of the women who had been chatting with Bettina strolled over to us. Without asking, they helped themselves to two glasses of Ruthie’s wine.

“Suppose you heard about Harriet Kunes, Ruthie.” The taller one with patrician features and perfectly coiffed gray hair peered down at us. She wore a pearl necklace with her culottes and striped top, and had a hint of a smoker’s growl. Or maybe it was from barking orders at her housekeeper.

Ruthie’s eyebrows shot up in question.

“Dead. Massive heart attack.” Pearl Necklace slugged down some wine and flicked a glance over me, but didn’t introduce herself.

I kept quiet as I didn’t want to disturb the flow of this conversation.

“Oh, my,” Ruthie said.

“I heard she was electrocuted,” said the other woman, who was shorter and jowly, with hair cut higher in the back than the front. One blond bang fell into her eyes, and she kept pushing it back with the hand that wasn’t clutching her plastic cup.

“Whatever. It was just as well,” said the tall one. “It would have cost Birch Kunes a
fortune
to get divorced. Guess he was willing to pay the price. Or maybe not. Maybe he didn’t feel like splitting everything.”

“Shh. Don’t talk like that.” Ruthie took a deep swallow. “Bettina is a receptionist at Birch’s medical practice, you know,” she whispered to me, her gaze a little unfocused.

“More like
gold digger
is her real job.” The shorter one filled up her glass again. There were red curved marks at the corner of her mouth. These two must have polished off their bottle of pinot noir and now were scraping the bottom of the barrel with Ruthie’s pink zin.

Pearl Necklace chuckled. “She’s had a lot of
work
done, too.” She made quote signs in the air with her long fingers.

Whatever it was, it was well done. Bettina was a beautiful woman, without the usual fish lips or frightened expression from plastic surgery. She simply looked well cared for. And just sixty seconds ago, these two had been acting like her best friends.

A cloud passed over the sun and I shivered, even though the afternoon was mild.

Like someone walking over my grave.

B
ettina left the park at that moment, tripping over the dog’s leash, her camping chair flopping open. As she struggled to put it back in the bag, she flashed a wide smile at us again. There was a smile on my face, too, as I watched her leave. Even though we hadn’t exchanged a word, I liked her. It was sort of endearing that such a beauty was also a bit of a klutz.

“She’s a very attractive woman,” I murmured.

“Humph.” Pearl Necklace peered down at me. “I suppose Birch Kunes is sitting pretty now, too. Don’t suppose Harriet ever changed her will. She was always hoping he’d come back to her one day, the dope.”

“Maybe if Harriet had cared more about her appearance,” said the blonde, blinking against a stray hair in her eye. “She was always more concerned with those stupid dollhouses of hers.”

After a while, they drifted back over to the main group with their coolers that were no doubt full of pricey pinot grigio and chardonnay.

“Who
were
those ladies?” I whispered.

Ruthie laughed, a raucous, gusty sound. “Is that what you call ’em? The tall one is Virginia Axelrod and the blonde is Bobbie Zwick.”

“It doesn’t bother you that they drink your wine like that?”

“Oh, hell, I got plenty more where that came from. In a box on my kitchen counter. Old Sourface Ginny would die if she knew she was drinking box wine. Sure you don’t want some?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Everyone shares if someone needs a drink. Anyhoo, I really only come here for Max’s sake.”

She fondly watched the shaggy gray dog amble after the pack. Jasper was having the time of his life, gamboling around, his tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth.

The sun had reappeared, and I leaned back on the soft blanket, drowsy in the meadow-like setting.

“Poor Harriet.” Ruthie filled up her plastic cup. “Wonder when the funeral will be?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess they’re doing the au-topsy now.”

“Although at least she had a will. Sophie Rosenthal never even wrote one. She was Harriet’s best friend, you know.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Probate only just closed. Son of a biscuit. These things take so long to settle.”

Ruthie shook her head. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, looking out into the field, one age-spotted hand holding her wine. “Sophie never married and didn’t have any kids. Everything
would
have gone to her brother, but he and his wife died in a car crash about a month before Sophie herself passed away. Terrible. Her nephew got everything. The whole kit and caboodle.”

Jasper came over to me now, panting, his ribs heaving, mouth open in a wide grin. He hadn’t stopped running for a second since we arrived at the park.

I ruffled the fur on his ears. “Hey, boy. Did you have a good time with all those other dogs?” I made a mental note to bring a bottle of water and a dish for him next time.

Ruthie smacked her lips after draining the last of her wine. “There was a stepdaughter, too, but no one really knew her. Strange girl. Took off after her parents were killed. Supposably to join the Peace Corps. But no one has heard from her since.”

“What did Sophie die of?” I asked.

“Overdose of insulin. Diabetic.” Ruthie shook the last drops out of her plastic glass and tossed it in the backpack. “Accident or suicide, who knows, but she was real tore up by the loss of her brother. Some say it’s the grief that killed her.”

Ruthie mumbled that it was time for her to go and I helped her fold the blanket and put everything away. She gave me a little wave and staggered off toward the gate. Even the dog stumbled.

I watched them for a minute to make sure she wasn’t going to get into a car, but a couple of minutes later, she trudged up the driveway of an old stone Colonial not far from the park entrance.

• • •

I
opened up Sometimes a Great Notion early on Monday morning. According to Laura, last Friday had been an unusually busy day, and I’d need to replenish some of the displays. I slipped a Pink Martini CD into the sound system and started the essential pot of coffee.

For a few moments, I leaned on the ten-drawer seed counter, manufactured by the Walker Bin Company, breathing in the store’s familiar smell of furniture polish and soothing lavender, and perhaps a hint of wash day from the crisp linens and well-laundered tablecloths and aprons.

The counter had glass-fronted loading bins that housed all manner of sewing notions, ribbons, and hair accessories. Thanks to my recent assistance with a criminal investigation, it now had a nice bullet hole in the front of it.

To my way of thinking, it only enhanced the value. People loved it when a particular item had a story attached. And provenance was key. Not that I would ever sell this prized possession.

Alice, the mannequin in the corner, also had a bullet hole. Right through her left breast. One that was meant for me.

It was carefully covered now with a Bob Mackie–Ray Aghayan dress, a psychedelic, slinky full-length number in a black, white, rose, and orange design of stripes and flowers that came up to her neck in a V-shape, but left her beautiful shoulders and collarbone bare.

I shook off the wisps of bad memories like so many cobwebs with a feather duster and hurried upstairs to fetch a couple of boxes. The main shop was situated in what used to be the front parlor and living room, but thanks to Joe and our friend Angus, the walls between had been opened up to make one space. The dining room served as an office and prep area, and there was a kitchen and powder room in the back.

From one of the boxes I unearthed a stash of Ocean Pearl buttons, still on their original cards. I lingered over a Lady Prim needle book from “Old New York” with a green, gold, and rust design of city buildings.

Next were some exquisitely embroidered linen napkins and a vintage tea towel that I was tempted to keep for myself. I trailed my fingers across its hand-stitched wicker basket of strawberries and wildflowers, but I’d learned early on that I needed to let go of these treasures. I was only their caretaker for a short time.

I came back downstairs and placed them gently in the Welsh dresser that sat against one wall, its drawers open to show a wealth of top-quality placemats, napkins, and tablecloths.

The doorbell clanged and a slim young man with black hair and a well-cut dark suit stepped across the threshold and closed the door firmly behind him. Most men entered this store tentatively, somewhat at sea in the milieu of sewing notions, but he walked straight in as if he knew where he was going.

“Chip Rosenthal.” He stuck out his hand to me and I shook it. It was a good firm handshake, but unfortunately his palm was moist.

I stared at him. “Sophie’s nephew?”

“That’s right.”

The nephew who’d inherited everything.

Had he come for the dollhouse, too? I was about to make up a little white lie that I’d sold it, but he slapped the package he was carrying down on the counter.

“Two copies of a new lease,” he muttered. “Sign both and you’ll get a fully executed original back for your records.” His voice was a rigid monotone, only enlivened by a hint of nasal stuffiness, as if he had allergies.

“A lease?” I struggled to adjust to the fact that this wasn’t about the dollhouse. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”

He frowned, staring at me with eyes that were set deep into their sockets, so deep they were in shadow. “You know. A
lease
. For this place.”

He waved a hand in the air around his head. “You’re month-to-month right now. We need to get you back on a fixed-term basis again.” He frowned harder, harsh lines prematurely etched between his brows. “Or, I guess you could always move out.”

“Do you mean
Sophie
owned this building?” I gasped. “I had no idea she was my landlord. I’ve always paid my rent check to the Bucks Mill Company.”

He exhaled, as if resenting the waste of precious seconds to explain, and moved over to the center of the store where a collection of wooden crates were stacked together. “They’re a property management company. And that’s what management companies do—protect the owner’s identity.”

I watched as he flipped through some fabric remnants, tossing them back into an untidy pile. “I fired them. I have my real estate license. I know how to do this, and I don’t feel like paying extra fees.” Next he pulled the lid off a yellow Harvey sewing basket. Little wooden dowels inside the round wicker container held nine spools of thread, and it was also filled with notions such as a sock darner, a vintage can of Singer sewing machine oil, bits of trim, buttons, and tailor’s chalk.

He took a few spools off the dowels, tossed them back into the basket, and moved on, leaving the lid askew. At the Welsh dresser, he opened up a neatly folded French damask tablecloth, and tossed it down, leaving it lumped in a white mound.

I gritted my teeth. I’d need to straighten up this whole place when he left. I scurried after him, picked up the sewing basket, and brought it back behind the counter.

He waved toward the envelope. “Why don’t you open it?
Open it
.” For all that he was well-dressed, his nails were red and raw. Bitten down to the quick.

I picked up the package and pulled out two thick sheaves of paper.

He lifted the lid of the hand-painted Hepplewhite blanket chest and let it fall down with a bang. The rack of vintage clothing was next, and as he swished through the hangers, one of the dresses slipped onto the floor.

With an effort, I dragged my attention back to the lease and quickly scanned it for the salient points. I gasped when I saw the monthly rental amount.

“But this is
crazy
! This is three times what I’m paying now. You can’t just raise someone’s rent this high and expect them to suddenly come up with the money.”

“Sure I can. You’ve been paying way below market rent.”

“But . . . but look at this village,” I stammered, my heart pounding. “Millbury is miles from anywhere. It’s not like we’re in the heart of the downtown Doylestown, for God’s sake.”

Chip Rosenthal shrugged. He nodded at the antique quilts hanging on the walls. “From what I can see, you’re making a decent living.” He nibbled at his fingers for a second. “The ball’s in your court. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to make it happen and we’ll have a meeting of the minds.”

I sucked in a breath and tried for a calm, rational tone, even as my adrenaline was raging.

“Look, Mr. Rosenthal—Chip—I’ve always paid my rent on time. I’ve been a good tenant.”

“That’s really great, yeah.” He glanced at his phone and pounded the keys on the screen. “And we appreciate that,” and then there was a pause as he finished typing his message, “but it’s time for a reality check.”

If he used one more buzzword, I’d scream.

He looked up and smiled, as if this was the point in the conversation where he’d planned to insert one. “At the end of the day, either you sign a new lease, or you have thirty days to get out.”

“But what about all the work I’ve done? Refinishing the floors, installing the display windows, a new air-conditioning system . . .”

He grabbed a copy of the lease and flipped through until he tapped on one page. “‘Article 10—Alterations, Improvements, and Trade Fixtures.’ All alterations, additions, or improvements to the demised premises shall on expiration of the term become a part of the building and belong to the landlord and shall be surrendered with the premises.”

He tossed the document onto the counter. “Heard you bring a dog in here sometimes, too. We’ll need to up the security deposit.”

“Why are you doing this?” I hated the quiver in my voice, but I couldn’t help it. “Do you
want
to see me fail?”

He smiled again. “Of course not, but if you decide to leave, I have plans for this place. It’s up to you. I’ll be back in a couple of days to pick up the executed documents. Let’s make it happen, shall we?”

Helpless with fury, I watched the hyper young man, so cavalier about ruining my business and my future, stalk out onto Main Street and slide into his new Audi.

Guess he wasn’t wasting any time spending Sophie’s money.

Damn it. What kind of businesswoman was I anyway? I should have locked into a long-term lease in the first place, when I opened the store.

But you didn’t know how it would all pan out
.

Alice the mannequin didn’t actually speak, but I could see the compassion in her almond-shaped eyes.

Yes, but I should have been braver. I should have had more faith in myself. And speaking of businesswomen, how could someone who owned commercial property die without making a will?

Oh, Sophie
. I wish I’d known you were my landlord, instead of some faceless property management company. Maybe I’d have contacted you earlier and this wouldn’t be happening.

I’d never met Sophie, but I’d seen her portrait hanging on the wall of the Historical Society. Jet black hair pulled into a bun, dark eyes with an intelligent twinkle, not as deep-set as Chip’s, and a strong, almost Roman nose. Although she was older than Harriet, her downy skin was beautiful, and the slight roundness of her chin softened an otherwise hawkish appearance. A red and black paisley scarf was draped around her throat, fastened with a cameo brooch. In the way of women of her generation, she wore vivid lipstick but not as much eye makeup, which gave her an odd, unbalanced appearance.