The Dollhouse Murders (7 page)

Downstairs the television murmured. A breeze lifted the curtains, and an owl hooted in the distance. Amy bent over her book and started to read again. The assignment was a detective story. She wished it were something else; a funny essay would have been nice. She was jumpy enough without reading about another dark old house full of secrets.

An hour later she closed the book. She'd jotted down the answers to the questions at the end of the story, and in the morning she'd copy them over during her second-hour study hall.

She undressed quickly. As she returned from the bathroom, the television clicked off downstairs. She heard Aunt Clare's light steps moving around the house as she turned out the lights. Amy closed the door of her room and jumped into bed, pulling the covers up to the tip of her nose.
Sleep
, she commanded herself.
Don't think. Sleep
.

But sleep wouldn't come. She listened to her aunt come upstairs, heard her go into her bedroom, to the bathroom, and back to her room again. What was she thinking now? Maybe she was deciding how to get rid of a no-longer-welcome houseguest.

The owl hooted again, closer this time. Amy felt herself drifting, half awake, half asleep. Strange thoughts fluttered through her head—scraps of dreams, bits of conversation. She saw Louann holding up a potholder that glittered with golden threads and sparkled
with diamonds. She saw Mrs. Peck, her arm around Louann's shoulders, motioning Amy to go away. She saw Aunt Clare standing in front of the dollhouse, her mouth open in a silent cry.

Then she woke up.

The breeze had died down, and the curtains hung motionless. Amy raised her head and looked around the room. Someone was at her door. She stared, wide-eyed, as the old-fashioned metal knob turned ever so slowly in the moonlight.

Amy cowered under the covers. Her stomach churned. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing this to be another bad dream. But when she looked again, the knob was still turning. Something was out there in the hall, trying to get in.

A crash shredded the stillness. Amy screamed, a shrill wail that seemed to come right from her toes. The door flew open. Aunt Clare stood there, looking like a ghost in her long nightgown. Her face was as white as the gown.

“Aunt Clare! What's happening?”

Her aunt ran across the room to the window that overlooked the backyard. “It's those blasted raccoons again,” she said. “Two of them are running across the lawn.”

Amy sat bolt upright in bed, one fist pressed against her mouth. If she moved, she'd start screaming again.

“Amy, it's okay. Really! Just raccoons prowling for their dinner. I warned you that it might happen—”

“It—it's not j-just that—” Amy's teeth were actually
chattering. “I saw the doorknob turn—”

“Oh, my.” Aunt Clare came over to the bed. “I'm sorry. I wanted to peek in very quietly and see if you were asleep. I wanted to talk. . . .”

Amy leaped out of bed. For this moment at least, talk was impossible. The dollhouse, the angry scene in the attic, the moving door knob, and now the raccoons were too much. “I can't—” she began, and gave up. She raced down the hall, to the bathroom, both hands over her lips, and got there just in time.

When she returned, the lamp on the bedside table was lit, and Aunt Clare was sitting in the rocker. Her feet were drawn up under her gown, and she looked almost like a little girl. She waited while Amy climbed back into bed and pulled up the covers.

“Better now?”

Amy considered. “Some. But I'm cold. I can't stop shaking.”

“Shall I close the windows?”

“No. I'll be okay in a couple of minutes.” Amy remembered something her mother often said. “I have a nervous stomach.”

“Well, it's had plenty to be nervous about this evening,” Aunt Clare said. “I'm sorry I blew up at you, Amy. That's what I came to say—and scared you nearly to death in the process. I know I overreacted to that whole business up in the attic this evening.”

Amy took a deep breath. Aunt Clare believed she was telling the truth, after all.

“That's okay,” Amy said. “I just didn't want you to think I'd lie to you.”

Her aunt leaned forward. “I don't want you to think you
have
to lie to me,” she said. “That's what's bad about all of this. We're friends—we should be able to be honest with each other.”

Aunt Clare
didn't
believe her.

“It's been such a dreadfully long time since I was twelve years old,” her aunt continued. “Kids are different now—you see so much violence on television and in the movies, I guess I can understand how you might be fascinated by . . . by what happened to your great-grandparents. It was just that seeing the dolls put into the rooms where Grandma and Grandpa were found that night brought back so much pain. . . .” She sighed. “I really am sorry I made such a scene about it.”

Amy opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. If she denied moving the dolls again, it would only make Aunt Clare angry once more. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “I know you want to forget all that.”

“Yes, I do. And not just for the obvious reasons—the ones you read about in the newspapers. This was a very unhappy house, Amy—at the time Grandma and Grandpa were killed and for quite a while before. I was engaged to a man they didn't like at all. He was several years older than I was, very handsome, very headstrong. He drank quite a bit. Grandpa and Grandma didn't drink at all, and when he came to the house drunk one night, they ordered him out and said I was never to see him again. I was furious! We fought for
months! I kept on seeing him secretly, then came home to their lectures. It was—awful.” She had tears in her eyes. “I told them I hated them,” she said in a whisper. “They died thinking that was true.”

Amy sat up. “Oh, but they didn't believe that,” she said. “People say lots of things they don't mean. I do, when I'm mad at my mother. But she knows I'm sorry later. You can't still blame yourself, after all this time.”

Aunt Clare stretched her legs and stood up. “Oh, yes, I can,” she said softly. “You don't know how much.” She patted Amy's arm. “You go to sleep now,” she said. “I know I shouldn't burden you with all this, but after my outburst tonight, I think you have a right to know a
little
more about what happened. And why I'm the way I am—even after all these years.” She smiled. “Shall we forgive and forget?”

“Sure.” Amy lay back. “Thanks for telling me, Aunt Clare.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

The door closed, leaving Amy with the uncomfortable feeling that Aunt Clare had told only part of what was troubling her. What had really happened in this house so many years ago? Amy wondered if she'd ever know. And what strange things were happening here now?

This is a sad place
, she thought, as she had before. The sadness was not just upstairs in the dollhouse; it was all around her.

It was nearly five when Amy biked into the driveway of her own house. She had never thought much about the house before—it was just the place where she lived—but now she knew that dark-gray clapboard and white shutters were the prettiest combination possible. Red and yellow tulips were in full bloom on either side of the front walk, and the lilac bush next to the back door filled the air with its scent.

The garage was empty, which meant that her mother was not yet home from work. Amy used her key to let herself in, then wandered from room to room. She looked at her mother's crewel work on the walls and Louann's crayon drawings taped to the refrigerator. In front of her father's big armchair Amy stopped for a moment; then she sat down and pressed herself into the
cushions. The chair smelled of pipe smoke, and there was a scattering of tobacco in the ashtray on the table. Amy picked up the tray and emptied it in the wastebasket under the kitchen sink.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she laid her tape player on her bed and sorted through a stack of tapes to find the ones she wanted. There were other things she needed as well—the Charlie bath powder that had been a Christmas gift from Louann, the I-love-pizza-and-pizza-loves-me T-shirt she planned to wear at the party. Dental floss. An extra ballpoint pen. As she was dropping her things into a shopping bag, a car door slammed.

Amy dashed downstairs and threw her arms around her mother. Then she hugged Louann. Louann's face was flushed and smiling.

“Look, Amy,” she said and plunged a hand into a sack she carried. “I made a puppet today. Look, Amy, look!”

Louann fitted the sock puppet over her hand. She poked a finger up into the stuffing inside. The head bowed and nodded, and Louann laughed. “Like the puppets at the mall,” she cried. “Only nicer. Isn't he nicer, Amy?”

“Yes, he is,” Amy agreed. “Did you make that at school?”

“Mrs. Peck showed us how. I love Mrs. Peck. We make things every day.”

Amy and her mother exchanged glances. “Each afternoon they decide what they're going to do the next day,” Mrs. Treloar said with a funny little grimace.
“Louann can hardly wait to get there after school. Tomorrow they're going to take a bus to the mall together—Mrs. Peck and Louann and Marisa. Mrs. Peck thinks the girls should learn how to take the bus by themselves.”

“But they can't!” Amy exclaimed. “They'll get lost, Mom.”

“Will not!” Louann thrust the puppet into Amy's face. “Will not!” she roared. “I can do it!”

“Calm down,” Mrs. Treloar ordered. “We'll talk to your father about it tonight. Mrs. Peck has Marisa doing a lot of things Louann doesn't do. She goes to the grocery store all by herself, and she has a little garden, and—”

“Marisa is older,” Amy said. She pushed away the stocking puppet impatiently. “Marisa is—” She was going to say “smarter,” but the look on Louann's face stopped her in time. Besides, she didn't really know Marisa, except for a glimpse or two when the girls got off their school bus. “Marisa is different,” she finished lamely.

“Not!” Louann shrieked. “We're just the same.”

Amy shrugged. She couldn't figure out why the thought of Mrs. Peck teaching Louann to do things was so irritating. But it was. Clearly, Mrs. Treloar wasn't especially pleased either.

Louann is ours
, Amy thought.
That's it. We know what she can do and what she can't do. We don't need any Mrs. Peck trying to change things
.

But that was a silly way to feel. They did need Mrs.
Peck—at least, Amy did, if she was going to enjoy the visit with Aunt Clare.

“Well, it's up to you and Dad, I guess,” Amy told her mother in a low voice, while Louann sniffed and rubbed her eyes. “I'd better go—I told Aunt Clare I'd be back early because we have some stuff to do tonight to get ready for the party—” Darn! The word had slipped out before she could stop it. Amy almost groaned out loud. This was certainly her day for saying the wrong thing.

“Party?” The puppet dangled, forgotten, from Louann's hand. “What party? I want to go, too. Mom!”

Mrs. Treloar shook her head. “Amy's having a few friends over at Aunt Clare's tomorrow night—nothing special. We'll have her
real
birthday party right here when she comes home again. We'll have a cake and we'll play games, and you can invite Marisa—”

But Louann was not to be sidetracked. “I want to go to the party at Aunt Clare's house,” she cried. “I want to go to
that
party.”

“Well, you can't.” The words were sharper than Amy had intended. She was disgusted with herself, and she was angry at her mother, too.
Why does she always make me feel like a selfish monster? Why can't she—just once!—say “This is Amy's birthday party, and she and her friends have a right to be alone”?

That would never happen. With a despairing look at Louann's tear-streaked face, Amy ran upstairs to her bedroom. The shopping bag lay at the foot of the bed; she grabbed it and raced back downstairs.

“I have to go,” she said. She felt strange and stiff, as
if she were talking to strangers instead of to her own family. “Say hi to Dad for me.”

Her mother followed her to the front door, edging around Louann. “I'll have your birthday cake ready tomorrow afternoon,” she said coolly. “Your father can drop it off on his way to Madison. He has a weekend seminar, and he wants to be there tomorrow night. The meetings begin early Saturday morning.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Amy didn't meet her mother's eyes. “I'm sorry. . . .” They both looked at Louann, who had turned her back to them and was leaning against the wall.

“I suppose you are,” Mrs. Treloar said with a sigh. “It seems like such a little thing—including your sister in your birthday party—but it's up to you. I guess I can take her out for a hamburger or something when I get home from work.”

Amy fled to her bike. She fairly flew down the driveway, steadying the shopping bag that was crammed into the bike basket, and swung out onto the street. Houses streaked by, blurred by her tears.

Right now, she had Aunt Clare to go to. But Aunt Clare didn't want to stay in Claiborne; she could hardly wait to get back to Chicago.

What'll I do then?
Amy wondered.
When she leaves, where will I run?

The smell of hot caramel met Amy when she opened the back door. Aunt Clare was at the kitchen table, gently stirring a huge batch of popcorn to coat it with syrup.

“Soup and salad for supper tonight,” she announced when she saw Amy. “We have more important things to do than cook dinner.”