Murder in Miniature (2 page)

“Table 8, Mabel,” I told her, pointing to the first row. I’d assigned her a spot close to the restrooms and snack counter at the front of the hall, so she wouldn’t get lost on her breaks, and far enough from the Children’s Corner where the puppet shows and clowns would simply confuse her more.

“You’re the best, Gerry,” Mabel said. “Nothing miniature about your heart.” She laughed at the line she’d probably rehearsed on the ride to the school. Linda’s moods aside, most crafters were a good-humored lot, and I had many friends among them.

I smiled broadly as the room boxes and dollhouses rolled in, their satisfied architects behind them, pulling the structures on luggage wheels or staggering under their weight. Most of the ladies were members of our local crafts group, and I’d seen many of the pieces in formative stages—Karen’s Cape Cod (“I’m all about symmetry this year”), Gail’s split-level ranch (“My hipped-dormer idea failed”), Susan’s Frank Lloyd Wright (“I’m in my low-slung, prairie phase”), and Betty’s Tudor mansion (“Crown me now and have it over with”).

All were for sale, and all were eligible for the big contest. They’d be displayed on the individual crafters’ tables until Sunday morning, when they’d be moved to the annex and the final votes would be tallied. As chair this year, I wasn’t eligible to enter my own pueblo dollhouse, and these masterpieces told me it was just as well.

I usually spent more money than I took in at crafts shows, and I could see that this weekend would be no exception. I wandered through the aisles, making a mental list of what I “needed.” A half-scale red metal ladder that would be perfect for the garage scene I’d begun as a present for a neighbor. A floral ladies’ desk set for my next Victorian shadow box. A decorator pack of wallpaper and a mahogany bookcase, to have on hand. A three-inch wicker porch swing, just because.

I flourished my clipboard and inspected each vendor’s compliance with the rules. No more than two folding chairs behind any one table, no spreading of cloths or merchandise onto a neighbor’s table, and nothing taller than eighteen inches, except for two-story dollhouses, which were assigned end tables so as not to block the view of other treasures. And a new mandate this year—no cell phones inside the hall.

“Thanks for all your work, Gerry,” I heard repeatedly, as my friends-turned-vendors prepared their tables and cash boxes. Popcorn erupted from the giant machine we’d rented and filled the hall with an appetizing aroma, finally masking the stale, leftover odors of the summer school lunch menu. I basked in the fresh, salty smells and in the warmth of camaraderie.

When I reached the back of the hall, I was surprised to see that Linda had abandoned our corner, leaving both our tables unattended. Not that there was a big worry, but sometimes children could be careless and might knock over a tiny bowl of Fimo-dough fruit, or upset small pieces like the kuchibana, the lovely Japanese vases Linda crafted after lessons from one of our Asian American members.

Maybe Linda had had a bathroom emergency. I scanned our tables for a note. No message, but I noticed that the Governor Winthrop desk was missing. I had the crazy thought that Linda might have taken it to the restroom with her. It was her pride and joy, and she’d have been reluctant to leave it behind even for five minutes. She’d planned to add it to her dollhouse entry at the last minute.

I stepped over to the nearest occupied post, Table 29, where Karen Striker, one of our younger crafters, was repairing a shingle on her Cape Cod house. “Did Linda say where she was going?” I asked. “Or ask you to watch our tables?”

Karen looked up from her work and stared blankly at me, as if she’d been called back from a visit to the southern tip of Massachusetts. “Sorry, I’m totally not paying attention to anything but getting this set up,” she said. “I didn’t even know Linda was gone. Is there a problem?”

“No problem,” I said, a bit annoyed at Linda’s apparent unreliability.

For a distraction, and a moment of pleasure, I turned on the power to the rotating stand under my pueblo-style dollhouse. The building was roofless, all the rooms visible from the top, so the turntable was hardly necessary. Still, I liked the effect of the motion and let it roll.

I made one more pass up and down the aisles. I opened Mabel’s bottle of water for her, exclaimed over a quarter- scale tea ceremony arrangement and a thatched cottage on adjacent tables, and used my thumb and index finger as a vise while Betty repaired the strawberry plant in front of her Tudor.

“Hard to believe the first real Tudors were in filthy, unhealthy towns infested with rats and flies,” Betty said.

“Thanks for that,” I said, with a smile.

A minute before six o’clock and all was well. Time for Just Eddie to open the doors. But where was he? He had a habit of “disappearing” even during normal work hours—we all wondered what was in his daily thermos. He was supposedly doubling as security guard for this event, but had clearly caved under the weight of the extra weekend work. I went up to the front doors and removed the rope across the opening myself. Crafts lovers and potential customers poured in.

I returned to my table, number 31, at the back of the hall, where I’d be stationed until it was time for the first raffle drawing.

Still no sign of Linda.

But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chuck Reed, Linda’s second ex-husband, head for the side door by the dining area.

Puzzle solved. Linda and Chuck were meeting in the parking lot, no doubt, to engage in one of their regular feuds. One week it was over money (neither had much), the next it was over their adopted son, Jason. The next it was back to money, and so on.

No problem. I dragged my chair three feet to my left, halfway between our two tables. It was quite clear which items belonged to Linda and which to me. Unwilling to admit that I didn’t have the patience or the skill to be the miniaturist Linda was, I invented a theory that my furniture was more attractive to children and beginning crafters, since my pieces were clearly easy and inexpensive to make. This would attract more and more children to miniatures and keep the hobby alive. This theory had served me well for many years, and kept me from having to be the perfectionist Linda was.

I was ready to handle both tables. The only downside to Linda’s absence was how humbled I’d be to admit that the exquisite pieces on Table 30 were not mine.

I felt like a one-fingered puppeteer. I did my best to
manage Linda’s table plus my own as people crowded the aisles. Even with the glow of a battery-lit stoneware lamp, Linda’s magnificent room-box den seemed darker than usual. Its Shaker-style desk and bookcases appeared edgy, as if they were aware their true mistress had abandoned them.

“Please sign our guest list,” I said, offering a beaded pen (I hadn’t been able to resist an early purchase from Mabel) to a woman with a baby strapped to her chest. She’d just bought one of Linda’s lovely nursery scenes and talked for several minutes about where she planned to put it. Usually I loved hearing customers’ stories, but this evening I was distracted by the need to take care of twice as many items. I hoped the new mother didn’t notice how little attention I paid her chatter.

The largest of the wares overflowing my table was the southwestern pueblo with its beehive hearth. I’d enjoyed getting my hands muddy with the earthy materials and keeping my fingers active with the colorful, woolly fabric of the rugs I’d hung on the walls and strewn over the bumpy tile floors. I was pleased with the final look—straight from the heart of Santa Fe—though today the hearth reminded me of Linda’s hairdo. I felt a pang of worry at her absence.

I scanned the mass of people swarming around the tables, hoping Linda got involved in shopping on her way back from meeting (fighting with?) Chuck. I knew I’d soon hear all the details.

I estimated a hundred people had already entered the hall, talking excitedly, mostly women and children in summer clothes and clicking sandals. From years of crafts fair experience, I was pretty good at distinguishing among the various categories of visitors: the window-shoppers, the serious buyers, the collectors (even more serious buyers), and those looking for free advice and quick tips. And on an uncomfortably warm evening like this Friday in July, I suspected a few had come just for the air-conditioning.

“How did you get these blankets to drape so nicely?” a red-haired woman asked me, while her daughter, about eight years old, looked longingly at my ski lodge scene. “When I cut up real fabric, the small pieces are too rigid to fall realistically,” she moaned.

Ken would always tell me not to give away all my secrets, but I was interested in sharing my craft and couldn’t have cared less that someone might steal my idea and cash in on it in some way.

I pulled out a tip sheet on glue baths for my potential customer and explained how dragging fabric or paper towels through the bath resulted in just the right pliability for a realistic draped effect.

In between sales, I became more and more annoyed with Linda. I broke one of the rules I’d helped formulate—I switched on my cell phone and tried calling hers. No answer. Of course not, I realized—she probably forgot her phone was off. It also explained why Linda hadn’t called me, either, to explain her absence.

That was a relief. Still, I queried Just Eddie (he had finally showed up again) when he came within shouting distance of my table.

“No sign of her,” he said. “Probably had some emergency or she’s off messing up her kid again.” A reminder of how small a town Lincoln Point was, and how Just Eddie was not the most sympathetic guy in the world. In spite of his weathered dark face, Just Eddie appeared to be a few years younger than Linda and me. He’d moved to Lincoln Point only a couple of years ago. Besides keeping his last name secret, the short, dumpy man also refused to tell us where he was from or where he lived now. There were rumors that his residence was in a trailer park farther south, toward San Jose. Maybe Just Eddie wanted to be closer to that fun city.

It had occurred to me that Jason was responsible for Linda’s absence. I wouldn’t dare call the police station and inquire, however (though my nephew, Beverly’s son, was one of its finest officers), lest Linda be upset at what could look like sheer nosiness.

One of my own favorite rooms sold quickly. I’d taken a half-gallon tub from Sadie’s, our popular local ice cream store, and formed an opening, cutting into about one-third of the curved surface. Inside, I had built a miniature soda fountain. Secretly, I’d hoped my granddaughter, Madison, who was visiting me for a month, would want it. But Maddie, like both her parents, was more into sports than dollhouses or anything remotely feminine. Served me right, I decided, wishing so hard for a little girl for my son and his wife. I’d neglected to ask for one who’d like pink. I had my first clue to her preferences when a beaded bracelet I’d made for her ended up wrapped around her soccer trophy. I blamed it all on the unisex name her Los Angeles–based parents gave her.

“Why name a child ‘Madison’?” I’d asked my son, Richard. Subtly, I thought. “With parents named Richard and Mary Lou.”

He gave me a trademark wink, learned at his father’s knee. “That’s why,” he said.

And here was Maddie now, running toward me, her auburn curls tucked into a backward baseball cap. My sister-in-law, Beverly, who was entertaining Maddie (or vice versa) while I was working the fair, was several feet behind.

“Hey, Grandma! We came to see all your pretty stuff,” Maddie said, barely containing a giggle.

“Nice try. I know how you feel about ‘pretty.’ If you think that’s going to get you pancakes and strawberry syrup in the morning, you’re right. I mean…mistaken.” My turn to giggle as I held her close.

Beverly picked up a room box with a theme I knew she liked—a hat shop. “I love this, Gerry. You’re the best at fabric,” she said. I hoped Beverly wouldn’t try to buy the piece, since I’d made her an even more elaborate shop for her upcoming birthday. Beverly swung her arm, looking toned in a sleeveless dress, toward the unstaffed table next to me. “Where’s Linda?” she asked.

“I wish I knew. Chuck was here and I suppose she’s off dealing with him, but that was”—I checked my watch. A twinge of annoyance mixed with concern rippled through my body—“almost two hours ago.”

One of the tiny lamps in my backyard barbecue scene flickered, and at the same time, I got a bright idea. “Bev, can you do me a favor? Do you think you could ask Skip to drive over to Linda’s house and see if she’s there?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

I clicked my tongue. “No. I’m a little worried. I can’t imagine what it would take for her to leave her station this long.”

Beverly, one hand on her hip, ran her fingers through her short, curly hair, so much like her brother, Ken’s, and now Maddie’s. “You want my son, Lincoln Point PD’s up-and-coming officer, to make a house call on Linda? What makes you think she’s even there?”

“Couldn’t he just zip by? What if something’s happened to her?”

I was happy that Maddie didn’t hear this. She’d wandered to the Children’s Corner, where the town postmaster, Brian Cooney, was setting up for the next puppet show. He and Just Eddie were engaged in some battle over a shoddy repair job on the steps to the stage. The rumor was that the two of them had an ongoing feud that started when Brian wouldn’t assign a post-office box to Just Eddie unless he gave a street address or phone number for the record. Unwilling to give in, Just Eddie had to drive ten miles to Middleboro, the next town, where apparently the rules were different, to get his mail. From what I could see, it appeared my handy-girl granddaughter was tacking the carpet to the stage while the men fought.

My focus returned to Beverly, whose response to sending her cop son to Linda’s house was still less than enthusiastic. She gave me a look, raising her perfectly shaped reddish eyebrows. I knew what was coming and realized how foolish I sounded.

“Remember Easter…was it ’81, ’82?”

“When Linda skipped our brunch to meet ex number one, Peter…excuse me,
Dr
.
Balandin
…thinking they might get back together?”

Beverly nodded, her fingers in position to tick off other instances of Linda’s delinquency. “Without ever letting us know. And then during that big rainstorm one winter…let’s see, it was—”

“Valentine’s Day, around ’85, when Pete married his young student. Linda took a hotel room in Palo Alto and didn’t show up until noon the next day. Zoning out, she called it.”

“Exactly. This is Linda being Linda,” Beverly said, pointing to the empty chairs behind Linda’s table.

“You’re right.”

We didn’t have to catalog all the other times Linda had “disappeared” during our lives together. She had a way of taking off when she felt she couldn’t handle a situation. More than once, after looking all day for her, we’d found Linda in a movie theater or sitting on a bench at the Stanford shopping mall, reading a book, as if she hadn’t put all her friends through trauma by not showing up where she was expected. Once she pulled into her driveway at three in the morning, to find Beverly, me, and a Lincoln Point black-and-white all pooling resources to search for her. She didn’t understand what the fuss was about.

Beverly was right. This was another in a long list of Linda’s dramatic performances. It just wasn’t clear what the current impetus was for her bailing out. Something serious, I decided, like Jason and the robbery, to take her away from her precious crafts, but still, Linda being Linda. “Never mind,” I said to Beverly.

Beverly rubbed my shoulders, and I leaned back into the welcome touch. “Why don’t I have a seat and take care of her table for a while,” she said. “Maddie seems to be doing well with Puppeteer Postmaster Cooney over there. I’m sure Linda will be back before our little girl gets bored.”

“I think Maddie’s the only one who gets along with the old curmudgeon,” I said.

“Have you noticed—some people get along better with children than adults?” Beverly rubbed her palms together. “Now, let’s sell some miniatures.”

The voice of reason, and a helping hand. “Good idea. Thanks.”

Beverly gave me a final pat and settled her lean body onto Linda’s chair. I pictured Linda’s returning momentarily, with a scowl at Beverly for moving her chair or wrinkling her tablecloth. I felt better already.

Even so, when Just Eddie came by, I gave him a questioning look. He seemed to understand what I was asking—he frowned and gave me a “who cares” shrug.

Our newspaper advertising and posters paid off and business was good, a peak coming just after the dinner hour, about seven thirty. Many newcomers to the hobby this year, I noted. Fortunately, I never tired of explaining the different scales to novices, especially children.

“We call it
full-scale
when one inch equals one foot,” I explained to a little girl, about Maddie’s age, but wearing an adorable pastel yellow shirt with embroidered flowers (something Maddie would wad up and use to wipe down her bike). I used my arms and fingers to demonstrate the scales. “The sofa in your living room is probably about seven
feet
long, so a ‘full-scale miniature’ would be seven
inches
long.” I took out a ruler so the child could measure one of my sofas. I demonstrated half-scale from Linda’s table. Much of her work was in half-scale, where each foot converts to only a half inch, so her sofas were only three or four inches long.

“These are cuter,” said the little girl, not intending to insult me, I was sure. I agreed. Half-scale furniture was much cuter, but harder to handle and manipulate. Many crafters in our club worked in even smaller scales—one-twelfth, one twenty-fourth, and even one one-hundred-and-forty-fourth—which were nearly impossible for my old fingers.

Things moved along smoothly until the fight broke out in the back of the hall.

Postmaster Cooney had lost the cool one might expect of a puppeteer when Dudley Crane walked in and distributed flyers to vendors and customers. I glanced at the one that landed on my table and scanned the text, principally announcing a meeting at city hall on Tuesday afternoon. Red and blue bullets called attention to all the advantages of electing Dudley Crane to the city council and registering “a vote for progress.”

Crane, who operated the town jewelry store (the same one now minus some cash and inventory after last week’s robbery) was Mr. Pro-Growth for Lincoln Point; Cooney was one of the most vocal opponents of Crane’s plan. Now, everyone in the hall who was paying attention was treated to the sight of Postmaster Cooney tearing up Crane’s flyer.

There was nothing new in their arguments and name- calling.

“Why don’t we go back to pony express? You don’t do much better with our mail anyway,” from Crane.

“Why don’t we bulldoze every extra scrap of land and put up condos and fill them with people who need diamond rings?” from Cooney.

Just Eddie surprised me by assuming his security duties and breaking the men up. He was a good one to end the fight, being among those citizens who didn’t care which direction the city took, as long as they didn’t close any of the taverns or the convenience stores that sold discount cigarettes.

“It’s not over, Crane,” I heard Cooney say, as Just Eddie guided him back to the stage. “Don’t mess with my family.”

That was a new one, more personal, though not out of character for our postmaster, who never met a customer he liked. Curious, too, since as far as I knew, he had no family. Cooney, who never married, lived by himself since his mother died earlier in the year.

When we got back to normal bustle, Beverly and I were able to chat in between customers, some of whom had been my students a few years ago and a few buildings over on this campus. Beverly filled me in on her most recent volunteer project for the Lincoln Point Police Department—the monthly seat-belt survey. She wore her orange vest with pride.