Mix-up in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  —

  It wasn’t that long a distance to the steps of the house, but long enough for another call to come in. This one was from the police. I stood in place this time.

  “Hey, Aunt Gerry. You did it again, with that brother thing.”

  Even a poorly worded compliment gave me a lift. “The thing worked out? You found Caleb?”

  “We found out where he’d been all those years. In prison in Chicago. Sentenced to thirty years for embezzlement, served twenty-five. The guy is now eighty-three years old.”

  I soaked up the information, trying to do arithmetic at the same time. When had Varena and her brother gotten back together? I needed a calculator.

  In the absence of a verbal response from me, Skip continued. “It’s a pretty steep sentence for a nonviolent offender; someone must have had it in for him. We’d been looking for a Rockwell in California. And since the states don’t share that well, we missed a Swingle who was in prison in Illinois and got out eighteen years ago.”

  Though I’d guessed Caleb’s history from Varena’s A Family Betrayed, hearing Skip’s confirmation was still a bit of a surprise. Surprise that I’d guessed correctly? Probably. It seemed a long road from my nephew’s doubting my ability to understand Corazón Cruz’s accent to the actual existence of a living brother for Varena.

  I walked back a few steps to sit on the granite bench.

  Did this new information mean that Caleb was in fact one of the men in the argument I heard shortly before Varena was beaten to death? I shuddered at the image and wished I could stop flashing back to the details of the murder.

  “What else can you tell me, Skip?”

  “I have a fax here with the basics. Nothing very creative in the guy’s life except for his crime. He was an executive vice president for a real estate investment company and needed money for gambling debts, so naturally he took it from the company. He finally paid off all the money and a court-ordered fine a few years ago. His last known address is in Chicago.”

  “Not Arizona?”

  “Not Arizona.”

  I sent a pouty, disappointed breath over the line. Or over the waves from the towers that carried cell phone messages.

  “But I can tell you who recently moved here from Arizona and still has the old plates on his red truck.”

  I drew in my breath, now excited. “Who?”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Skip!”

  “Just thought you might have missed my teasing while we were estranged.”

  I wished he hadn’t used that word. Estrangement meant a thirty- or forty-year separation, like Varena and her brother had undergone.

  “You’re right. I’m glad to be teased. Now, who?”

  “A guy we interviewed on the scene. Roberto Sedonis. He’s one of the estate’s drivers.”

  “Thanks, Skip. A lot of things are starting to fall into place.”

  Everything but who killed Varena.

  As I clicked off my phone, I heard the same rustling noise as earlier from behind me. I should have known better than to come back to the bench. It would serve me right if a raccoon or a gopher hopped up beside me. Or worse, a skunk. I wasn’t comfortable with animals that didn’t have names and collars with ID tags.

  I walked quickly away from the bench. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white flash that turned out to be the sun reflecting from an envelope. I was sure it wasn’t there when I sat down, either time.

  I stood as still as I possibly could, held my breath, and listened. The traffic and construction noise at the intersection of Gettysburg and Springfield might as well be two counties away. Not a sound reached this part of the Heights except that from a slight breeze rushing through the eucalyptus. I looked back at the engraved bench. Should I pick up the envelope? Call Rockwell security? Run for the front door? Make a beeline for my car?

  I was frozen with fright and indecision.

  Two things were clear. One, that the envelope was placed there for me. Two, that it hadn’t been deposited by a bobcat.

  —

  I figured such a thin envelope couldn’t hold a ticking bomb, and the chances of an elaborate anthrax plot against a miniaturist from a small California town seemed slim.

  When I could finally unfreeze my stance, I gingerly picked up the unmarked business-size envelope, then rushed back to my car, trying to cover three hundred and sixty degrees of surveillance as I hustled.

  Thanks to good planning and the construction-free route I’d taken to the Heights, I still had a few minutes to open the missive and compose myself before I needed to appear for my meeting with Charles.

  Still, it took a while for my shaky fingers to extract the single piece of paper from the envelope.

  I read the neat printing: HOLD DOWN THE RED CIRCLE. WATCH OUT FOR CQ.

  Maybe the note wasn’t for me after all.

  Figuring out the significance of the note in the short time I had was hopeless, except that CQ must refer to Charles Quentin. How handy that I’d be calmly sitting across from the man soon, with this new directive to watch out for him floating around my head.

  I decided to risk being late for my meeting and spend a minute or two putting together the new information from Skip with miscellaneous tidbits from Alicia. I needed to figure out the timeline of Varena’s and Caleb’s lives. If I didn’t, I’d be even more distracted while trying to conduct an interview with Charles.

  Alicia was told that her Uncle Caleb died when she was two years old. Around the same time, her mother’s writing career began to take off and the family moved from Chicago to California.

  Adding in the admittedly questionable source material I’d gleaned from the Internet, this would mean that Mildred Swingle, a high school dropout from the farmlands of the Central Valley of California moved to Chicago and wrote romances under the pen name Varena Young. When her brother went to prison—died, in her mind—she moved back to California, this time as the mistress of the Rockwell Estate in the affluent South Bay Area.

  Another piece of trivia from Skip when he called to tell me my friend had been murdered: Varena had two ex-husbands. I wondered which one was Rockwell? And, how uncouth would it be to ask Alicia?

  As for Caleb, now eighty-three, he’d served a twenty-five-year prison term and then worked many years at paying off the fine that was part of his punishment. Now, for some reason, Caleb was back and skulking around the woods surrounding his sister’s home. When he wasn’t stuffing papers into secret dollhouse rooms or upstairs in the Rockwell mansion, arguing with Varena and CQ, for whom I had to watch out.

  No wonder I was dizzy.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap sounded on the window nearest my head.

  “Geraldine?”

  I gasped, jumped, and banged my knee on my steering wheel, almost at the same time. Not that I was on edge.

  Things got better when I saw that it was the lovely Alicia Rockwell at my window, and not an especially dexterous jackrabbit.

  —

  As I made my third approach on the lion’s head knocker, this time with Alicia, I took a chance that she’d fire me for rudeness and asked her the freshest question on my mind.

  “I’m curious, Alicia, which of your mother’s husbands was Rockwell?”

  Alicia laughed. “You know about my mother’s dramatic habit of loving and leaving? Neither marriage lasted very long. Actually, Adam and I have different fathers, which might account for the vast differences in our personalities. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

  “Same here.”

  “Adam kept his father’s name. My brother is Adam George. I think it’s a shortened form of a long Greek name. Mother married my father, Bernard Willis, who, she told me, was a philandering artist. She divorced him when I was still an infant and went back to her maiden name. She changed mine at the same time. Alexandra Rockwell was her maiden name.”

  Of course it was.

  “Thanks, that clears things up,” I said.

  Alicia had a lot to learn
about her family history.

  “Adam and I were very fortunate as kids. By the time we were in grade school, Mother’s books were very popular and her publisher released three or four a year.” We’d reached the bottom of the stairway. Alicia spread her arms to encompass this estate on the hill. “All of this is from romance. Can you believe it?” she asked.

  I wondered if romance, fame, and fortune had also brought Varena’s violent death.

  —

  Alicia went off to make an overseas call while I waited for Charles in the same room I’d enjoyed before I met Varena Young. A tall, narrow oil painting that dominated one wall, behind the grand piano, was of a black-suited gentleman from a century ago. The imposing effect was spoiled by my new knowledge that the man wasn’t a Rockwell ancestor, and that the portrait might have come with the mansion or with the purchase of the fancy frame.

  While I’d waited for Varena in this music room on Monday afternoon, I worried that she might be aloof and hard to talk to. Once I met her, I found her to be warm and giving. Now that her death had unearthed her secrets, the lies she told her family, I didn’t know what to think of her.

  Was she devious, hiding not just her older brother’s criminal past, but perhaps her own? Or was she simply trying to protect her children from the discriminatory practices people who rose from poverty often had to abide?

  Ten-twenty A.M. Charles was now officially late. My first meeting with him, when Henry and I (as Mr. and Mrs. Porter) had driven up to offer our condolences, had been short and perfunctory. He’d refused to acknowledge my need for Corazón Cruz’s forwarding address and was eager for me to leave.

  I remembered the only uncharacteristically polite question he’d asked on that day—had I seen or heard anything that might have upset me?

  Was he asking if I’d seen him kill his boss?

  Charles Quentin had better come soon, before my imagination led me to claim that I’d witnessed him standing over Varena’s body with the lethal sword in his hand.

  —

  Not Charles, but eventually I had a visitor to the room. A whiff of rosewater seemed to precede Laura Overbee as she came my way in a pale green sweater set.

  “Geraldine, how nice to see you again,” Laura said, taking a seat across from me. A large vase of white chrysanthemums nearly shielded her face. I shifted on the plush sofa. “Charles is running late. He apologizes profusely.”

  “It will give us a chance to visit,” I said, with just the right amount of investigative tone in my voice, I thought. “I suppose you’re busy making plans?”

  I meant “looking for a new job,” but didn’t have the heart to be so direct.

  “There’s still a great deal to do here. There are two more Varena Young books coming out in the next few months and they have to be dealt with.”

  I gave her a questioning look.

  “Promoted,” Laura explained.

  “You’ll be promoting the book of a deceased author?”

  “Certainly. The estate is owed the royalties from the books. And, of course, Varena’s fans will be very excited to have a few more hours of pleasure from new releases. In fact, Missy Beaumont, another Regency romance author from the San Francisco area, has generously offered to include Varena’s books as she launches her own in the next months.”

  There was a lot I didn’t understand about the publishing business. I was happy with my status as reader. Since Laura was in a friendly mood and I was in a fact-finding mood, I did my own bit of promotion.

  “I’m trying to tie up some loose ends for my report to the police,” I said, with a great show of sincerity. As if Skip would take field notes from his aunt. “Would you be able to put me in touch with one of your drivers, a man named Roberto Sedonis?”

  “How’s that investigation coming? I thought it was all wrapped up when the police arrested Paige.”

  “They didn’t arrest her. They asked her additional questions.”

  “Well, they should have just put her in jail. Did they ask her why was she down that hallway in the first place?”

  I thought of defending Paige, but pulled back. Laura could think what she wanted. “The police are doing their jobs and I’m doing mine. I’m sorry to impose on you about seeing Mr. Sedonis. I’m sure your responsibilities have nothing to do with him or other employees.”

  Laura fairly jumped up from her hands-folded seated position on the velvety chair. “Not true. I’ll find Roberto and send him over.”

  She left abruptly, leaving her rosewater trail. I followed her with my gaze as she walked toward the corridor that ended in the Lord and Lady Morley room.

  I had no desire to visit the Morleys’ house today. Not even the thought of another look at the walnut-and-maple lap harp in their miniature music room could entice me down the hallway.

  I wasn’t at all happy with whoever had turned my fantasy into horror.

  —

  I took out my phone and punched in Henry’s number. I’d been about to call him when Alicia had interrupted me in my car.

  “Shouldn’t you be at your meeting with Charles Quentin?” he asked.

  “He’s running late.”

  “He’s scared of you.”

  Leave it to Henry to make me laugh when I least expect to.

  “I found the pieces of wicker I was looking for and also a very nice pull chain,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will.” I also liked picturing Henry in his corduroy pants and thick wool vest, going about his business. “What’s next?”

  “I’ll spend the next forty-five minutes or so in the library, then I’ll head over to Maddie’s school. We should be home by twelve-thirty. I’ll take her to your house since Taylor doesn’t get picked up till three. Anything you want us to do to get ready for your crafters meeting tonight in case you’re late?”

  “I’d better not be that late, but it would be a big help if you set up the buffet table. Maddie knows what to put out.”

  “Will do.”

  I still marveled at having found this wonderful “will do” kind of guy. We’d reconnected at the faculty table of an ALHS reunion that neither of us had wanted to attend. We’d hardly been apart since, and neither had our granddaughters.

  I went through a quick internal debate about whether to tell Henry about the note I’d either received or intercepted. Maybe he’d be able to figure out what it meant for the investigation. It occurred to me that I always seemed to be giving my friend errands to do for me, puzzles to figure out, problems to solve. I’d spare him this one.

  One of these days I was going to ask Henry Baker on a normal date.

  Chapter 19

  Somewhere in the enormous house a clock struck eleven. For all I could tell, the sound was coming from one of the working grandfather clocks in the Lord and Lady Morley dollhouse. Thinking of my short time with them brought on a wave of sadness, as if they were a real couple who’d just suffered a loss.

  Not even my doctor or my hairdresser was this late for an appointment. I was beginning to think I was being stood up by CQ. I stood to stretch my legs and considered stepping outside to get some air. But did I want to risk missing Charles? Did I want to inadvertently forgo what was probably an elegant lunch, the menu something to talk about with my favorite cook, Henry?

  An even more critical question: Did I want to risk another visit from the postman in the woods?

  While I was ruminating, a short, dark, formally dressed man appeared in the massive archway between the foyer and the music room.

  “Mrs. Porter?” he asked, taking off a cap that screamed chauffeur. “Ms. Overbee said you like to talk to me?”

  I detected a slight Hispanic accent, much less pronounced than Corazón Cruz’s. I wasn’t happy about another opportunity for Skip to accuse me of misunderstanding a member of the Rockwell household staff.

  “Mr. Sedonis?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m expecting Mr. Quentin any minute, but perhaps we can have
a short chat?”

  “Mr. Quentin, he’s tied up with some important people,” the timid man said.

  I was used to hearing that at the Rockwell Estate, where everyone was more important than I was.

  I invited Mr. Sedonis to take a seat on the sofa. He declined with a shake of his head. Maybe he felt even less important than I did, less worthy of the rich, velvety fabric. Or maybe his theory was that interviews conducted while both parties were standing tended to be short.

  “By any chance, did you deliver a dollhouse to my home on Monday afternoon?” I asked.

  Mr. Sedonis held his cap by the edge of the brim and turned it around and around. “Sí, sí. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Porter.”

  “Why are you sorry?”

  “The”—Mr. Sedonis put his hat under his arm and used his hands to make what might have passed for a rectangle—“the corner?”

  I shook my head, still not getting it.

  “We bang it a little.”

  “You banged the corner of the dollhouse?”

  “Sí, it was very heavy, Mrs. Porter, and the doorway—”

  “Is that why you thought I wanted to see you? Because there’s damage at a corner of the dollhouse? I didn’t even notice it. Please don’t worry about it, Mr. Sedonis.”

  Mr. Sedonis’s whole body relaxed. A smile came to his dark face. “Thank you, Mrs. Porter.”

  “If you could answer just a couple of questions for me?”

  He would be only too happy to.

  “Do you always use your own vehicle for deliveries?” I asked.

  “No, but the truck that belongs to the estate, it is in the shop and the dollhouse would not fit in any of the cars, so my cousin and me, we use the truck we travel here in.”

  “From Arizona,” I said. Just making sure we were talking about the same red truck.

  He nodded.

  I wondered if the Rockwell Estate—“the Swingle Estate” didn’t have the same ring to it—had as many vehicles as dollhouses.

  “What time did you leave here with the dollhouse?”

  “I don’t get back to the estate until almost four-thirty, then we have to pack it so it doesn’t fall out of the truck and that’s why we get to your house so late. You are not home, so we leave it in front of the door.”