Mix-up in Miniature (14 page)

It was hard not to feel sorry for Paige, until I remembered that there was a better than even chance that she’d lied to me about being familiar with the mysterious dollhouse now in my atrium. I shook my head, playing tough. “I’m not sure what I can do for you, Paige. You haven’t been completely forthcoming.”

Paige hung her head and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes with what seemed an alarming pressure. “I know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Porter. I just didn’t know what to do when I saw the dollhouse in your house. I wasn’t sure it was the right one.”

“What would be the right one?” The midsize Tudor?

“It’s very complicated.”

I started to laugh and stopped when I realized that Paige wouldn’t get the significance of the Phrase of the Week. “Try me.”

Paige dropped her arms on the table with a thud that made me wince. I hoped she hadn’t hurt herself. I made a note to remind the people watching behind the pseudo-mirror that if they were going to keep her overnight, they needed to be sure she was kept safe from harming herself.

“Okay, I got this strange series of text messages and emails, all within about an hour the night before Varena was killed. This guy said Varena might be in danger but he wasn’t in a position to go to the police. He said he had evidence, some documents that he put in an envelope, and hid in one of Varena’s dollhouses. Then he said I should find the envelope and take it to the police.”

“Did he tell you which dollhouse? Did you look for it?” It was hard to control the mounting excitement as I felt I was getting closer to the story behind the special-delivery dollhouse. If Varena’s murder was directly connected to the dollhouse, everything could be cleared up at home and on the Heights.

“The messages were all really short,” Paige said. “Like, I think he must have been at a café or something and the connection kept timing out. This was late at night. I was tossing around, couldn’t sleep. My phone was on in the charger and when it beeped that I had a text, I opened it and that’s what it said, what I just told you. I texted back and asked him all kinds of questions, like yours. We went a few rounds, sometimes by email, but when I asked him why he couldn’t just tell me why Varena was in danger, and who was she in danger from, and where exactly was this envelope, he didn’t write any more.”

“Did you try to reach him yesterday or today?”

“Yeah, of course. When I found Varena the next day, I knew it hadn’t been just some nut case on the phone. But there was nothing else from him and the account he used was closed or something. I kept looking around at Varena’s houses, which are all over the estate”—here I took a minute to picture the dream acreage with dollhouses everywhere—“but I didn’t have any idea what kind of house he was talking about, so how was I supposed to know? He didn’t tell me the style or anything. Then when I saw one of her dollhouses in your home, I thought that might be the one.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why. Maybe just because it was in a different place. I thought maybe he put it there.”

“So you recognized the house in my atrium as one of Varena’s? You’re sure of that?”

“Yes.”

I had a very important question. “Where did you see the dollhouse before you saw it in my atrium?”

“Upstairs at the estate. In one of the guest rooms, the Lord Weatherly Room, where it always is. It belongs on a table that’s supposed to look like a beach, with fake sand and all.”

“When did you receive the last message from the man?”

“Late. Maybe midnight Sunday night. And like I said, there’s been no word from him at all yesterday or today.”

I thought of Maddie, who’d seen an envelope in the secret room. I no longer doubted the existence of the room or its contents, but I wanted to move step by step, for the benefit of my onlookers.

“Did you search all the houses that are still at the estate for the letter that was supposed to be there?”

“Sure. I love the dollhouses, you know.”

“Yes, I think Laura told me that you’re also a miniaturist. I’m surprised you didn’t take a minute to look at mine when you stopped in. I suppose they’re not as grand—”

“No, no, that wasn’t it. First, I don’t tell too many people because, like Laura, they’ll assume that’s why Varena picked me. And then when I saw the modern-style beach house right there in your atrium, I got flustered.”

“Back to the emails, Paige. You checked all the dollhouses at some time before Varena died?”

“Uh-huh, I peeked in all of them and moved some furniture a little, but, I mean, how can you hide something as big as a life-size envelope in a dollhouse? You look in, and it’s either there or it isn’t, right?”

Not if it has a secret room, which apparently wasn’t made clear to Paige by the mysterious man who deposited the envelope.

“Did you tell all this to the police this afternoon?”

“No, I sort of said I had some information about the real killer, but I didn’t think I should talk to them too much without a lawyer, and I can’t afford one, and I didn’t want them to think I called one because I’m guilty and…well, the reason I’m here in the first place is that the cops got an anonymous tip to search my room and I pooh-poohed it and told them it was ridiculous to believe anything anonymous, and then here I am giving them an anonymous tip of my own?” Paige went into a frenzy of gestures, sending her too-big sweater off one shoulder. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

The shift gave me a chill, as if my own sweater had fallen off. The room seemed to be too cold one moment and too warm the next. I wondered if the powers-that-be were manipulating the temperature, another of Skip’s “tricks of the trade” that was “just routine.”

I sat back, trying to put together the pieces of Paige’s story. “It sounds like a lot of trouble for someone to go to. I don’t understand why the person who sent the messages didn’t just take the information to the police.”

“It’s not like I had a real conversation with him. All I know is what was in the texts and the emails. He did say once that it wasn’t safe for him to appear—that was the word he used, ‘appear’—until the killer was in prison.”

I let out a breath. “I don’t know, Paige. There are so many questions and things that don’t make sense. Why didn’t he name the person he thought might harm Varena? Why did he pick you to talk to? Why didn’t he call in an anonymous tip to the police himself? Or why didn’t he tell you exactly in which dollhouse he hid the information? He could have done a million things that would have been so much simpler than what you’re describing.”

Paige’s eyes grew wider with each of my “why” tick points. She seemed to be holding her breath. “I don’t know, Mrs. Porter,” she nearly screamed. “I wish he didn’t pick me. I wish…everything you said. I thought maybe Laura killed her but I don’t know now, and I’m really scared that the killer will come after me if he knows that I know about this envelope and the evidence.”

It was one thing to think about suspects, evidence, and motives in the abstract, but another to picture someone lifting a heavy sword and bringing it down on a person’s head. And then to have that killer on the loose to strike again. I could understand why Paige was frightened. I hoped the image in Paige’s head didn’t match the grisly one forming in mine.

I waited until Paige settled down. “Could you tell where the messages came from? Did the person sign any of them?”

“The address was in the form of some nonsense syllables, like spam. You know, a string like ‘czd#k&h%y$.’ ” Paige spouted off random letters and characters, using her finger to punctuate, as if she was typing them in the air between us. “But here’s the really crazy part. He signed it just, ‘Varena’s brother.’ ”

With great effort, I turned my gasp into a reasonable-sounding throat clearing. “Varena’s brother?”

“Yes, but Mrs. Porter, Varena doesn’t have a brother, except one who died a long time ago.”

“What do you know about her brother, Paige?”

“Not a lot. Varena mentions him now and then, and once she said a character she was developing was based on him. She named him Caleb, too, except the character in the book doesn’t die in an accident. Why would someone claim to be Varena’s brother, Mrs. Porter?”

“I have no idea, Paige,” I said, truthfully. “But I think it’s time we tried to find out.” I looked back at the two-way mirror-cum-window, to where I hoped Skip was standing.

I sent a questioning, eyebrows-raised look to where I estimated his head would be: Now do you believe me?

Skip’s tiny cubicle
had now been made smaller by a roll-in filing cabinet that took up most of the opening between the partitions. I squeezed by the metal box and took a seat across from him on his rolling guest chair. I was too excited to wait for him to begin, and afraid he’d throw cold water on the investigative avenues my interview with Paige had opened up, so I plunged in before he had a chance.

“Even if you don’t believe her whole story, Skip, you have to admit it’s an enormous coincidence that both the missing Corazón Cruz and the framed Paige—”

“Allegedly missing and allegedly framed,” Skip said, but with enough of a grin that I wasn’t offended.

“Thank you for clarifying that, Detective. Now, continuing—that they both came up with a brother who’s supposedly dead?”

Skip’s smile broadened. “Yeah, I got the point of your look, Aunt Gerry. Sweet work with that interview, by the way.” He waved his floppy notepad at me. “I even took notes.”

I listened for a sign of sarcasm and didn’t find one. It was nice to hear a compliment from my nephew on something other than my ginger cookies. I pointed to his laptop computer, imagining it contained an infinite number of databases at his disposal, whereas I’d been at a disadvantage without even Maddie’s enthusiasm and help. “Can’t you look that up?”

“Actually, we did. We came up with nothing, no brother, but we did check it out.”

“You did? Based on what I told you yesterday, you tried to find Varena’s brother?”

Skip nodded and sent a sheepish grin my way, a familiar expression that had marked his preteen years. “Just because I don’t jump up and down when you tell me something, it doesn’t mean I completely discount what you say.”

“Why did you let me think so?”

He shrugged. “We have to separate the wheat from the chaff. We don’t have the manpower to track down absolutely every little lead, as much as we’d like to. Part of detective work is to decide what to do immediately, what to put on the back burner, what to trash.”

“You expect to be able to do it all without help from people like me, outside the department?”

“Not at all, we count on the cooperation of everyone involved. I’ve told you this before. Most of our cases are not solved by exotic forensic science, like on television. You know, where they trace a single blue carpet fiber to one manufacturer and then to the one store in the state that sold it between the years two thousand-six and two thousand-eleven.”

“Then they go to that store and the records are there, with the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of every customer who bought that particular color carpet in the last five years.”

Skip let out a raspberry worthy of the kind Maddie blew. “Our best input comes from talking to people, finding not just on-the-spot witnesses, but people six degrees of separation away. You don’t just flick a switch for that. It takes time, but we don’t dismiss anyone. Heck, don’t I even use an eleven-year-old sometimes?”

It wasn’t often that Skip spoke at length about his job this way and I enjoyed listening.

“I take it your search came up with nothing about a brother for Varena,” I said, back to the case at hand.

“No brother, either alive or dead. We checked under ‘Rockwell’ and ‘Young’ both, thinking maybe he changed his name to match hers. Or maybe he’s also a writer with a pen name.”

Doubtful. I shook my head. “Many of the authors I read now have pseudonyms, sometimes more than one, but you can always find out their real names. It’s not a secret the way it used to be, such as when Mary Ann Evans had to take a man’s name, George Eliot.”

“You sound like June, going all feminist on me. Men changed their names too, like Mark Twain and Lewis Carroll.”

I’d have to remember to pursue the rather pouty reference to his girlfriend at another time, but for now, something else jogged my memory.

“Swingle. Did you try Swingle?” I asked. Skip gave me a funny look. “I was looking up romance authors’ bios, and…” I started. Then, to avoid a long explanation of my own attempts at research, I switched to, “Please, just try the name Caleb Swingle. It might lead somewhere.”

“I told you, I’m open, and I trust you not to be frivolous about it. You wouldn’t believe the calls we get.” Skip took a breath. “That’s not your problem, though. I’ll get the computer guys on Swingle. I’m surprised you didn’t use the eleven-year-old for this yourself, by the way.”

I debated whether to tell Skip that Maddie was computer-grounded, and why. I thought about the special relationship they had, now one of mutual admiration. His cubicle had more pictures of Maddie than anyone else, going back to her first school photo, with untamed red curls and a pinafore that she hated.

When Maddie was born, Skip was finishing high school, and to everyone’s surprise, the fatherless boy reacted as though he’d been waiting all his life for an infant to take care of. He carried her around with his large hand under her head, instructing us to be sure to do the same, as if he’d just come from a pediatrics course and was the only one trained in baby care.

It was bad enough for Maddie that her grandmother and Henry knew of her fall from grace. And maybe her father’s punishment would involve having Maddie tell everyone who received a tainted present how it came about. I wouldn’t put it past Richard to come up with a twelve-step program for naughty children. But Maddie had been caught, she’d said, before she could bestow a gift on Skip or his mother, her Aunt Beverly.

Maybe they didn’t have to know.

I finally answered Skip. “She’s been busy with schoolwork,” I said.

If he knew something else was up, he didn’t say. Instead, he returned to the notes he’d taken during my talk with Paige.

“What was all that about a dollhouse and a hidden envelope? Is Paige referring to the big dollhouse I saw in your atrium last night? I didn’t realize it belonged to Varena Young.”

I nodded. “I wasn’t sure it was hers until Paige verified it a few minutes ago,” I said. I briefed Skip on the appearance of the dollhouse and my inexpert canvassing of my neighbors to trace its origins. “It might have been delivered in a red pickup with Arizona license plates.”

“Someone saw it?”

“Esther Willoughby,” I answered. I lowered my voice, as if to soften the impact of the age of my source.

“The hundred-year-old lady across the street?”

“Ninety-something, and remember what you said about not discounting anyone?”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Skip said, making a great show of writing down “Arizona truck” and underlining it several times.

“Maybe Varena Young’s brother—going by the name of Swingle—lives in Arizona,” I offered.

Skip slapped his notebook shut. “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe one of Varena’s dollhouses really does have an envelope that contains all the evidence we need to solve this case.”

His tone hovered between sarcasm and sincerity. I decided not to push him on it. Instead, I came up with another way to push him.

“With all of these possibilities now, can’t you let Paige go? I don’t think she killed Varena. The story’s too preposterous to be fiction.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“What does your gut say?”

“We’re waiting on fingerprint results on that fragment of sword we found in her dorm room,” Skip said, not in a gut-sharing mood.

“But she practically lived with Varena. She might have touched it at any time. I touched it, in fact.”

“So you told Detective Rutherford.”

“I won’t leave town.”

As I stood to leave, I was accosted by one more thought from my overtaxed brain.

“Since you were surreptitiously following up on my suggestions yesterday—did you ask anyone on the staff if they heard arguing as I did just before I left Varena’s home?”

“Yeah, that turned out to be nothing. I looked at the interview reports the guys handed in. Two of the statements mention a brief shouting match between Charles Quentin and an unidentifiable male. If I remember correctly, one of them reported that Varena Young was also part of the argument.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Skip anticipated my question, good detective that he was. “Quentin says there was a dispute with one of the estate’s drivers over the schedule. The driver verified it. So that’s a nothing lead.”

Maybe, maybe not. “What’s the driver’s name?”

Skip laughed. “Sedonis. He’s Hispanic, so don’t try to talk to him.” He gently guided me to the exit, such as it was, out of his cubicle and into the maze of office space.

“We can finish up later,” I said.

The mention of drivers provoked anxiety, emphasizing the indisputable fact of how narrow the scope of my so-called investigation was. I’d been focusing on the small number of people I knew to be at the estate that afternoon, and who had motives I’d been aware of.

But surely there were others who stood to benefit from Varena’s death or who had an unresolved issue with her. Did the estate have a cook? A butler? A maid? It must have a gardener or two. The magnitude of the real job of detection overwhelmed me.

If it weren’t Varena Young who’d been murdered, I’d have given serious thought to calling Alicia Rockwell and resigning immediately.

—

Maddie
and I had a tacit agreement that we’d talked enough about the credit card episode and needed a break, at least until I talked to her parents.

On the way home, we reviewed her activities of the last hour, which included watching someone get fingerprinted without ink and having way too many snacks from the vending machine in the officers’ lounge. We talked about the life of Amelia Earhart, whose biography she’d just finished. More than once Maddie mentioned the boy who sat in front of her in school and the éclairs from the new bakery that I promised were waiting at home for her.

“Are you ready to try again on that secret room project?” I asked her.

“Yes, yes, I thought of something else to do but I won’t tell you until I get it to work.”

“That’s great, sweetheart,” I said.

In fact, however, I was ready to tear the dollhouse apart, an inch at a time, and get to the secret room the sure way. Both Paige and Maddie claimed the existence of a room and an envelope. That was enough for me.

I weighed that assumption against the possibility that the dollhouse in my atrium was a simple one, earmarked for the library auction or another worthy cause, should the midsize Tudor come through. Paige had verified only that the house came from Varena’s collection; she had no idea if it held the envelope for certain.

It would be a shame to destroy a perfectly good house on the basis of hearsay, but it was time to face the reality that it might have to be sacrificed for the sake of the investigation.

Maddie’s mind hadn’t been idle while being pampered by the LPPD. “Even if I can’t use the computer, I can help you and Uncle Skip,” she said now, a passenger in my car again. “I can sit next to you and tell you what to do.”

Had no one ever explained the concept of “the spirit versus the letter” of the law to my granddaughter? “I don’t know…”

“I won’t touch the keyboard or the mouse. It’ll be like I’m just talking to you.”

“We’ll see.”

Maddie slumped back in her seat. “I know what that means.”

Someday she’d find out that expression had been working its wonders in families throughout the ages.

—

My
message machine was in a schizophrenic mode. Laura Overbee called to express her great relief that Varena’s killer, that is, Paige Taggart, had been apprehended. Alicia Rockwell left a message asserting that Paige was most definitely not the killer, and she hoped I was still working on finding the one truly responsible for her mother’s death.

A surprise call from Charles Quentin was more circumspect, offering to meet me at my convenience. He left a number for his direct line. I moved him to the front of the queue for callbacks and hit redial for his number.

Maddie came into the kitchen, and snacks and ice cream notwithstanding, attacked the cookie jar. I took the hint and multitasked. While I waited for Charles to answer, I pulled a package of ground beef out of the fridge and held it up. “Cheeseburgers?” I asked.

Fortunately, Mary Lou had given no instructions nor had she set restrictions regarding Maddie’s feeding.

Maddie nodded and grinned, hoping, I was sure, that no vegetables would be involved. She got out the small grill, a container of cheese, and—her own touch—the ketchup.

I watched my granddaughter move around the kitchen, a bit clumsy when her long, skinny legs were tripped up by her bulky athletic shoes, but supremely confident. I wished I could remember the exact day that she became strong enough to lift a saucepan, tall enough to reach the dials on the range top, bright enough to put together a whole meal, even if it was devoid of anything green.

“This is Charles Quentin,” said a voice in my ear. I was caught off guard by the visitor to the reverie in my kitchen.

“Good evening, Charles,” I said, adopting the most formal tone possible while simultaneously clearing my throat. “This is Geraldine Porter, returning your call earlier today.”

“Yes, hello, Mrs. Porter. Alicia tells me you’re assisting the police detectives with their investigation and I wondered if I might have a word with you.”

I liked a man who got right to the point. “Certainly. What would be convenient for you?”

“I’m afraid this whole tragedy has set us all at sixes and sevens and it’s hard for me to get away just now. Can you come to the estate?”

The fiscal head of the Rockwell Estate had no time for pleasantries and no time for travel to the lowlands. Not a problem. I was only too happy to make a date for tomorrow morning at the house on the hill.

What investigator, professional or not, doesn’t want to return to the scene of the crime?

—

Maddie
was progressing nicely with the cheeseburgers. The rolls were warming in the oven as she poured herself a glass of milk. The least I could do was set the table.

I had one more call to make in the next room before I could relax with dinner. I owed my daughter-in-law that much. I hit the number for Maddie’s parents and didn’t hide my relief when Mary Lou, instead of Richard, picked up.