Mix-up in Miniature (23 page)

“He kept the bloody cloth in his home?”

“We have to test it, but I’m guessing the blood is the victim’s. He hid the cloth in his garage.”

“Doesn’t that seem strange? A meticulous man like Charles Quentin keeping a bloody cloth around, no matter whose blood it is?”

“I thought this would make you happy, maybe help you sleep better tonight. It’s what we needed to make the case against him for murder.”

“I am happy. I mean, I’m glad you found evidence if that’s what it is. It just seems strange, that’s all.”

“Sometimes we have to take ‘strange,’ ” Skip said.

He had a point.

I gave my guests the good news, though I still held onto its strangeness. When there were no more stories, no more big questions in our minds, the party broke up.

No one ventured to ask when we might see each other again.

—

I looked
in on Maddie, who seemed to have grown more quickly this week. I wished I could take away any residual pain she was feeling from her own misbehavior and perceived alienation from the people she loved.

I knew it wouldn’t be the last time something like this would happen to her but as I kissed her forehead, I invoked her good fairy and her guardian angel, just in case they might be listening.

—

Dum,
ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum.

By now I should have expected a call from Alicia right at pillow time.

“Geraldine, I can’t believe this. The police arrested Charles. They’re saying he stole from my mother and now they’re trying to prove he killed her because she found out.”

“I know.”

“You know? Did you put them up to this?”

I wouldn’t have phrased it that way.

“The police are doing their job, Alicia.”

“I don’t believe this. Charles has been a father to us, a friend. What’s happening to my family?”

I wished I could give her the answer, that there was good news mixed with the bad. I fell asleep wondering if Caleb would find a place in the new Rockwell household.

Or if I would.

After a good
night’s sleep, I was ready to take on Alicia again. I needed to settle the disposition of the house that Caleb built and to ask nicely if I could have the Tudor that Varena had promised me for the bookmobile fund-raising drive.

I wanted so badly for Alicia and Adam to be reunited with their uncle, I’d almost spilled the beans last night on the phone with Alicia. But I knew it wasn’t my place to tell her about the living, breathing Caleb.

I was less worried about Adam’s reaction, feeling that Caleb would be able to win him over with a trip to a hot dog stand. But I suspected Alicia’s loyalty to Charles was even greater than she’d have to an uncle she barely remembered.

With Maddie in school and Henry off to a crafters meeting of his own, I had some quiet time to call the estate. Laura picked up the phone.

“You were on my list to call this afternoon,” she said, with the same uninterested attitude she’d taken with me on our first meeting. “There’s going to be a special magazine article on Varena’s dollhouse collection, and Alicia thought you might like to help choose which ones to feature.”

Was I going to get my tour after all?

“I’d love to participate. Where will the article appear?”

“It will be in the newsletter of a romance writers group in the Midwest. I’d have to check my files for the exact name of the group.”

“That’s very exciting. It’s nice that Varena will have so many tributes.”

“I’m in a rush, Geraldine, so let me know if you can make it. Otherwise I have a couple of other people I can call.”

“No, no. I’ll be there,” I said.

It hadn’t taken long for Laura Overbee to get back to her ornery self once she no longer needed to cooperate with me. “Fine, how soon can you get here?”

I checked my watch and added an hour to change my clothes and get up the hill. “How about noon?”

“Noon is fine.”

For some reason, I didn’t think there would be an elegant lunch on the patio this time.

—

It
would have to be gusty today, making the curvy road to the estate even harder to deal with. The closeness of the trees to the narrow road caused the tips of their branches to touch at times as the shifting winds set them dancing.

I’d chosen a more casual pale green shell and cardigan instead of my cashmere sweater set for this meeting. I was annoyed with Laura and her tone. I was annoyed with myself for attributing any kind of specialness to the Rockwell Estate. The residents and staff of the mansion were like any other family in the flats, with their share of saints and sinners, graciousness and rudeness. Good and evil, when it came right down to it.

If Laura or anyone else didn’t like my outfit, it was their problem. I was beyond trying to fit in or impress them.

I was still eager to see as many dollhouses as Laura would allow, but I was glad my time traveling this road was almost over. I wouldn’t miss the angst that was palpable throughout the property now that Varena was dead.

I was satisfied to have helped even a little to bring her killer to justice, but I knew I shouldn’t have accepted the mission from Alicia in the first place. She’d never thank me for my role in sending Charles to prison. In hindsight, I saw that she wanted her mother’s killer to have been a scruffy kid from the far reaches of Lincoln Point’s housing projects, someone in a hoodie who happened to get through the gate and make his way to the Lord and Lady Morley room, and…

I shook my head to get rid of the drama running wild in my imagination. The one bright spot had been meeting Caleb Swingle. I tried to recall the wonderful evening with him and my crafter friends.

Maybe I should have quit while I was ahead instead of coming up here at all. I hoped I’d at least be driving away with a midsize Tudor in my trunk.

—

I parked
as usual at the edge of the wide driveway. To my surprise, the front door of the house opened and Laura Overbee walked out. She wore yet another sweater set I hadn’t seen before, this one a mustard yellow that was not her best color.

She held the cardigan close against the wind and seemed in a hurry to get to me.

Uh-oh. Here it comes. She’s canceling. Terrific.

Her frantic gait puzzled me, and I attributed her missteps to a combination of wind, high heels, and a desire to send me back down the hill. She knocked on the passenger window, a conciliatory smile on her face. I wondered what creative excuse she’d have for not at least calling my cell phone to alert me that she had something better to do.

I pushed the button to unlock the passenger door.

At the same time, I saw the wildness in her eyes.

Too late.

Laura Overbee was in the passenger seat of my car, turned slightly, the better to aim her gun at me.

My mind raced
to catch up to this new reality.

I flashed back to what had been nagging me since Henry and I ran into Laura at the French bakery. I heard Laura again, as she sipped her pink iced drink and babbled about the décor in Paige’s dorm room, with its bunk beds and makeshift bookshelves.

But Paige had been very clear that no one from the estate had ever been in her room. Except the person who planted the murder weapon.

Laura’s startling presence in my car—hair disheveled, makeup gone south—confused me. Her wild expression and gun were in conflict with her perfect yellow sweaters and manicured fingernails.

Another picture formed, of Laura in a black sweater set on the afternoon of Varena’s murder. The frightening thought emerged. She hadn’t been merely efficient, changing into a mourning color for the occasion. Laura been hiding evidence of her crime. The blue set she’d worn earlier that day was probably now in the landfill outside Lincoln Point, bloodstains and all.

“Geraldine!” Laura wanted my attention.

I tried to erase the image of my own pale green sweater set, with bullet holes and bloodstains, at the bottom of a trash heap. I wondered if she had a different plan, to frame someone as she’d tried to frame Paige, and then Charles by putting a bloody cloth in his home. Would the police find my sweater set in Henry’s home? One of my crafter friends’ toolboxes?

“I know you’d figure it out sooner or later, Geraldine. That stupid remark I made about Paige’s dormitory room. Good old innocent, naïve Paige told me you were asking questions.”

I wanted to explain that the questions were simply me being me, probing. I hadn’t put it together at all and probably never would have, not until she’d pointed a gun at me. She might have been able to get off scot-free. Charles Quentin would very likely have been convicted for Laura’s crime, besides his own.

But I couldn’t utter a word, let alone ask a heavy question: Laura Overbee, did you kill Varena Young, your boss, because she wouldn’t boost your writing career?

Laura went on with no queries from me. “I couldn’t believe it when Varena told me she was going to surprise Paige at her Lifetime Achievement ceremony. She was going to announce that Paige had done the majority of the work on the last two books.”

“Was it true?” Why did I care? If Laura’s gun was real and I was reading her eyes correctly, all that mattered was, how many more minutes did I have to live?

“So what?” Laura asked, from which I gathered that Paige had indeed taken over Varena’s writing. “Anyone could have written those books. In case you haven’t noticed, they all have the same formula. Varena didn’t give preferential treatment to Paige because she had some special talent. It was all about the dollhouses. Her own daughter couldn’t have cared less about them, but Varena and Paige would spend a whole afternoon in front of one of them fixing something or painting a wall or…some other bit of child’s play.”

In spite of my possible imminent death I felt a thrill to think that Varena actually did work on the houses, even if only to add a notion or tuck in the draperies in a miniature living room or Victorian boudoir.

I wished I could have joined her.

Right now, I needed to engage Laura, sympathize with her somehow, to buy time. I had to figure out a way to escape.

“I can’t believe they spent the day playing,” I said. “I suppose you were at your desk working at some boring task.” I
tsk-tsk
ed with as much sympathy as I could muster for a crazy woman with a lethal weapon.

“Are you kidding? Boring doesn’t begin to cover it. I spent hours calling the airlines to make sure she had an aisle seat, bugging the hotel about her preference for down pillows, liaising with the bookstores to make sure lime water would be available, and on and on.”

I surveyed the property outside my car. Where was everyone? Visiting Charles in jail? Where was Mr. Sedonis, the driver, or the chef who’d prepared the luncheon feast yesterday? How about Alicia and Adam, who’d spent a great deal of time here in the last few days?

How had Laura been able to arrange for us to be alone when I was the one who initiated this meeting?

A brilliant plan, I thought. She must have known I’d be calling sometime about the dollhouse for the library auction and simply bided her time and set her plan in motion.

What was her plan? Dare I ask?

Not yet.

I looked at Laura’s eyes, which never strayed from my face.

“And now you were going to have to manage all those pesky details for Paige, too. Making the arrangements, and then watching Varena and Paige fly off together on tour.”

Laura’s eyes went wider than ever, as if she’d never thought of that particular angle. Maybe I’d gone overboard with my scenario.

“I tried to talk to Varena that afternoon. She was on her way to the Morley room to get back to you. I walked with her, hoping she’d hear me out. Do you know that the great lady wouldn’t even give me a measly one-liner that would have meant the difference between a contract or no contract? All she had to do was introduce me as a writer to her own publisher.”

“You can still—”

Thud.

The gun crashed against the dashboard as Laura whipped her arm around. She’d apparently had enough of my soothing voice.

“What are you going to do with me, Laura?” I blurted out.

“I wish I didn’t have to do anything with you, Geraldine, but you’re too smart for your own good.”

“No—”

She grabbed my arm with her left hand. I closed my mouth.

I wanted badly to tell her how I’d thought Charles murdered Varena and that I could be persuaded to return to that theory, if only she’d put her gun away.

“You’re going to turn around and drive down the hill at a normal pace,” she said, with a calmness that worried me as much as her lunacy. “There’s a spot about five hundred yards ahead on the right with a path that leads into the woods. You’ll just pull over and we’ll get out.” She laughed, pleased with her own strategy. “For some reason, you decided to take a stroll today, perhaps do some bird watching, and, oh dear, you were shot. Security at Robert Todd Heights isn’t what it used to be, and some ne’er-do-well got in.”

Laura laughed again while I bit my lip, thinking. Under no conditions was I going to drive the curvy road behind me with a crazy woman holding me hostage.

I came up with my own strategy.

“Turn the car on, Geraldine.” Stern now.

I checked the interior environment and rehearsed the movements in my head. I still had my seat belt on; Laura hadn’t buckled up. A good thing.

I turned the key and shifted to Drive.

Laura seemed to be satisfied that her plan was underway.

I wished I’d read the manual for my new car more carefully. I shouldn’t have skipped the parts about how long to accelerate how many feet, and what all the airbag features were.

I had to take a chance that I knew enough to free myself from the car and Laura.

“Go, Geraldine. Back up and go down the hill.”

Not a chance.

I hit the accelerator as hard as I could. The car leapt into action. At the same time I reached down with my left hand and put my seat as far back and at as much of an angle as I could, until I was reclining enough to take a nap.

Or to receive minimum impact when the airbag inflated.

Which it did, when I hit the granite garden bench head-on.

The bang was as loud a noise as I’d ever heard close-up, like a shotgun in a movie. The air filled with dust and whatever presumably harmless gas that had been inside the bag, setting us both to coughing.

I’d successfully pushed myself nearly out of range of the bag, but Laura, unrestrained and taken by surprise when the deployed bag assaulted her, got the full force of the blow. I saw blood coming from her nose and now she seemed unconscious, leaning on the airbag as if it were a pillow.

I used the window of opportunity to rush from the car, grabbing my cell phone from the side pocket on the door. I ran down the hill, glad that I’d worn casual flats.

It took three tries to hit the nine-one-one buttons correctly.

I didn’t dare look back until I reached the guard’s gate at the entrance to the Heights. “I crashed my car and someone is hurt up there,” I said to the young man on duty, my breathing labored.

I grabbed the gate and hung on to it as if I’d just crossed a finish line.