A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  He’d obviously been working on the day’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper, but quickly shoved it aside.

  “Need any help with that last clue?” I inquired politely.

  “No, ah bloody don’t!”

  I sat down at the spotlessly clean breakfast table and told him the story about Harriet and the intruder. “Look at this dollhouse, Cyril. It needed a little work before, but it’s all messed up now.” I blew out a long sigh. “And I so wanted to give it to Claire for her birthday.”

  “Don’t get yer knickers in a twist,” he muttered. “We’ll make it right as rain.”

  I knew he would, which is why I’d brought it here. Cyril was a genius at fixing things.

  He hefted it out of the box and set it on the table. It was just over two feet tall from the base to the top of the turret, and almost as wide.

  “This back panel needs to come off for a start. Not sure I can salvage this. It might ha’ to be replaced.” He squinted at the house from all angles. “Aye up. Everything’s cockeyed. Staircase is falling down, too. Think I’ll have to take roof off and mebbe some outside walls, and start from scratch to make it true again.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Actually it’ll be much easier for me to clean it and fix the peeling wallpaper that way.”

  He rummaged in a kitchen drawer and took out a petite screwdriver. As he worked, I looked out of the window.

  In the field beyond was a graveyard for old cars. A Ford pickup was dark brown with decades of rust. Purple morning glory had grown over the pickup bed and was trailing its way toward the cab. A ray of sunshine stabbed me in the eye, and I turned, cupping my hand against the glare.

  In the harsh daylight, Cyril looked tired. Exhausted, in fact.

  As if sensing my appraisal, he muttered, “She’s going to be the death o’ me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The woman won’t leave me alone. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’m completely paggered, I tell you.” He gently pulled off the back panel and set it aside. “And I’m an owd man.”

  “You’re not that old.”

  He shook his head, his striking green eyes troubled. Cyril, a man of few words, struggled with the handful he allowed himself each day.

  “See, Daisy, ah’ve been used to comin’ and goin’ as I liked. Don’t get me wrong, Martha is a fine lass. More than fine, and at first I was happy as a pig in muck, but now I’m suffocating. She’s got tickets for the theater, reservations for a bed-and-breakfast, and God knows what else.”

  I blew out a breath. I really didn’t want to hear any of this. I’d become friends, if that’s what you could call our somewhat antagonistic relationship, with him, long before he and Martha started dating. Now it was strange for me to be stuck in the middle. And, well, sometimes you just don’t need the visual.

  “Let’s take a good look at this dollhouse, okay?” I said brightly, to take his mind off things. “Maybe we can figure out why it’s in such high demand.”

  I removed every piece of furniture and we inspected it carefully. We looked in all the rooms and inside the three fireplaces, as well as up in the attic.

  Cyril shook his head. “Nowt here, far as I can tell.”

  He was right. There was no hidden jewelry, no wad of cash, no bag of cocaine. Whatever had caused the fascination with this house, it was long gone.

  We did find a secret tower room under the lift-off turret that would enchant Claire, but it was also empty. Still, the dollhouse would be safer here than at the store, at least until my alarm system was installed.

  The bay window on one side would need to be replaced and the balustrade for the second-floor balcony was gone. I pulled out a notepad from my bag and made a list.

  “Can I leave it here with you, Cyril? I’m going to buy some replacement parts in Sheepville this morning.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  While I took some measurements, he ran his hand over the roof. “Those are real hand-painted wooden shingles. Someone must ’ave stuck them on one at a time.”

  A bunch of them were missing now. I winced at the amount of work it would require. “That should keep you out of trouble for a while.”

  “Oh, aye?” He grimaced, but he didn’t say anymore. I could see he was intrigued with the challenge.

  I usually brought him coffee every morning, so I figured I had a few goodwill dollars stored up in my Cyril Mackey bank account. I also thought I’d steal an idea from Harriet’s house and paint this one that same soft lilac color with pale yellow on the gingerbread trim.

  While Cyril was inspecting the staircase, I slid the newspaper over and picked it up. I would only have a few seconds before it was ripped out of my hands.

  Nine across. An eight-letter word. Consumed by repairs.

  As expected, he snatched the paper. “Be off wi’ ye, now.”

  I was still thinking about the clue as I trudged off to my car. Thoughts whirled inside my head. People obsessing over dollhouses. Cyril always fixing things.

  As I backed the Subaru out beyond the fence, I rolled down the window.

  “Fixation,” I yelled.

  Cyril Mackey shook his fist at me.

  • • •

  Next stop was Sheepville, a neighboring town about five miles away, where I’d heard there was a wonderful store that sold miniatures and dollhouses.

  It was located in a strip-style shopping center near the center of town. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but once I stepped inside the door, I entered a magical wonderland of tiny delights.

  There was anything you could want to decorate a dollhouse—from a box of Christmas ornaments to put in the attic to a potluck casserole and candelabra for the dining table. Hundreds of parts in packets hung on hooks along one wall. I should be able to find my missing door and chimney there. Display cases held finished houses and dollhouse kits, and counter cases were full of dolls, teddy bears, furniture, and carpets. The shelves dazzled with all kinds of building components and accessories, from wallpaper and roof shingles to kitchen paraphernalia, plants, and even tiny dogs and cats.

  I quickly found out that the owner, Jeanne, loved to talk about her merchandise.

  “We have everything here you could possibly think of. Even usable miniature toilet paper for the bathrooms.”

  “You’re kidding me!”

  “Nope,” she said proudly. Her white hair was cut in an old-fashioned pageboy style, and she wore a T-shirt with appliquéd rosebuds under an open denim shirt and stretchy pants. When she smiled, her dimples deepened into long curves on each pink cheek. “How long have you been collecting, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m a collector. I just want to fix up an old dollhouse I bought to give to someone as a present.”

  “Ah, yes, well, now you see, there are different schools of thought among collectors, from people who gaily mix and match furniture from various periods, perhaps someone such as yourself . . .” Here Jeanne chuckled and coughed lightly. “To those who consider that if it looks authentic, it’s good enough. And then, of course, you have the historically accurate collector who wants drawers that actually open and close.”

  She kept talking about scale and historical detail while I wandered through the store with her. I gave myself a mini-lecture to be patient because I might learn something. I already knew that dollhouses were a one-inch to one-foot scale, although the very old ones didn’t always conform.

  A whole street of shops and houses that looked a lot like Millbury sat on one long display table. I bent down and peered inside the window of the dressmaker’s store, admiring the replica of a vintage Singer sewing machine, the spools of ribbon, pairs of scissors, and the little dress form holding a half-finished dress.

  But it was the display in the middle of the store of finely crafted miniature furniture that really caug
ht my eye. “Wow, Jeanne. This is incredible stuff.”

  Jeanne clasped her hands together. “Oh, yes, aren’t they? They’re made by Tracy McEvoy, a local artist. Everyone calls her “Mac” though. Aren’t they wonderful?”

  “I assume they’re quite expensive?” The highboy would be perfect for one of the bedrooms of the Victorian, but I winced in anticipation of the price.

  “Um, well, yes, I suppose so.” Jeanne beamed at me. I couldn’t tell if she was truly ingenuous or just a brilliant saleswoman. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it because Mac is completely backed up with orders. For at least the next year or so.”

  “A year?”

  She nodded. “A local reporter wrote an article about her, which gave her more business than she could possibly handle. Plus there’s an important dollhouse show and competition coming up tomorrow. Here’s a brochure.”

  As we walked on, Jeanne lowered her voice. “She’s been pushed to the absolute breaking point by Harriet Kunes, who commandeered her to work on several pieces for the show. Mac’s grandfather clock, for instance, takes three weeks to create, and she’s had no time to make anything for anyone else. Ardine Smalls was spitting bullets.”

  Jeanne obviously hadn’t heard the news of Harriet’s untimely demise. “Ardine Smalls?”

  “Oh, she’s another collector. They’re usually the top two favorites in the competition, don’t you know.”

  I cleared my throat. “I guess you didn’t hear. Harriet Kunes was found dead last night.”

  “Oh, dear.” Jeanne straightened the flaps of her denim shirt. “Well, I suppose Mac will probably sell her creations to Ardine now.”

  I blinked at this rapid acceptance of the news of Harriet’s death.

  The phone rang and Jeanne bustled off to answer it. I selected the building supplies I needed, as well as some Victorian double doors, gingerbread trim, and window boxes for the first floor. Perhaps a hanging fern for the wraparound porch, too. I also couldn’t resist a tiny toaster oven with two pieces of toast sticking out, and a silver toast rack, because it reminded me of Cyril. Lastly, I picked up some Halloween decorations in honor of Claire’s birthday—a little bag of pumpkins, and a spell book with a candle.

  Eighty-seven dollars later, I walked out of the store, wondering if this dollhouse was really a present for Claire, or for me.

  Chapter Four

  “Joe, you know how much I love you, right?”

  My long-suffering husband nodded, a wry smile on his face, as we entered the Bucks County Expo and Conference Center on Saturday morning.

  The Seventh Annual Dollhouse and Miniatures Show was sort of like Jeanne’s shop, but exploded a million times over. Speaking of Jeanne, she had two booths side by side near the entrance, and she waved gaily when she spotted me.

  I waved back, but then I grabbed hold of Joe’s arm. “Remind me that I’m here to try to find out something about Harriet’s murder and why someone would want my dollhouse so badly,” I whispered. “Don’t let me spend any more money.”

  He grinned. “Come on, you nut. Let’s get this over with.”

  We strolled down the aisles, past traditional dollhouses and one-room displays in a box, all the way down to tiny scenes in a teacup. Some vignettes were in fun containers, like a fruit crate or an old spice cabinet.

  “Look at this one,” I said. Someone had taken a favorite vacation photo and recreated it in a room box. A bistro on a quaint Paris street, with red umbrellas and a chalkboard sign outside. The actual picture was pinned to the top.

  “That’s clever,” Joe said.

  In addition to the displays, there were vendors galore. One made all kinds of mini food items like donuts, pies, and crusty, floury baguettes barely an inch long. Another had fruits and vegetables displayed in boxes like a regular farm stand. I could have stayed there for an hour looking at the glassware alone—canning jars, water pitchers, wineglasses, punch bowls, and candy dishes.

  We stopped at a garden display featuring two Adirondack chairs, a tiny lawnmower on the grass, a hose, and a bird feeder. The vendor used real plants—slow-growing dwarf-sized varieties—and Joe soon got into a deep conversation.

  Gardening was something he could relate to.

  “Hi, Daisy!” Dottie Brown, one of my friends who owned a yarn and fabric store in Sheepville, waved to me from the next aisle over. Her granddaughter was with her.

  “I’m just going to say hi to Dottie,” I said. “Be right back.”

  Joe nodded vaguely in acknowledgement as he asked another question about the watering and maintenance of the mini cypress and hemlock.

  “You really do have an excellent husband,” Dottie said when I caught up to her.

  I laughed. “Poor Joe. Yeah, I think I’ll keep him. How’s Sam?”

  “Oh, God, he entered the giant pumpkin contest again this year. You know, it started out as just a hobby. Now he’s consumed by it. He spends four hours or more a day in the garden pampering those pumpkins.” Her mouth thinned. “Time he could be spending with his grandkids.”

  I smiled at the little girl.

  “I didn’t know you were into dollhouses, Dottie.”

  “I’m not, exactly, but I’ve started a line of crocheted and knitted clothes for miniature dolls. You know, in this economy, you’ve got to keep moving or you get swept under by the current. And let me tell you, Daisy, there’s money to be made here.”

  Thinking of how much I had just spent at Jeanne’s, I could certainly agree.

  We chatted a bit more, until her granddaughter gently tugged on Dottie’s hand, and they moved on.

  There was something about dollhouses that spanned generations. I saw several other grandmothers with grandchildren. I smiled at the wonder on the face of the child, but also at the expression of the older woman who had been transported back in time to her childhood.

  I wandered over to check out the competition tables, and marveled at the room boxes with different interpretations based on one standard kitchen design. These were truly kitchens to drool over, with their travertine tile backsplashes, maple cabinets, and pendant lighting. I decided that the best designs looked as if someone had just left the room.

  The one with a first-prize ribbon had a salad in mid-preparation on its center island, together with an open bottle of wine and a basket of French bread. I cheered to see the tiny dog bowl in the corner. These people had a dog!

  “Prepare to spend a lot of time bent over at this show.” The voice was young, raspy, and almost accusatory.

  I straightened up and turned around. Too quickly. I sucked in a breath and pressed a hand against the writhing muscle in my back.

  The person in front of me was thin to the point of emaciation. Jet black hair framed her pixie face. An unnatural black. She wore olive painters pants, a wrinkled white T-shirt, and a military dog tag necklace.

  “You look familiar.” She cocked a finger at me. “Didn’t you help solve the Angus Backstead case a few months back?”

  “Um, yes, that’s me. I’m Daisy Buchanan.”

  I held out my hand and she shook it firmly with a hand laden with silver rings and leather and braid bracelets. No limp fish there, I noted with approval. So many women didn’t know how to shake hands properly.

  “PJ Avery. Reporter for the Sheepville Times.”

  She swayed slightly from the ball of one foot to the other as if she were preparing to take a jump shot. It was tough to say how old she was. From her slight figure and the way she dressed, she could be a high school kid, or anywhere into her late twenties.

  “Heard about the break-in. Where’s the dollhouse now?” she demanded, in a clipped tone.

  “At the repair shop,” I answered in the same abrupt way, frowning at her. Why was she so interested in it?

  A very tall blonde in a red halter dress that showed off her toned shoulders and
legs strode by. It would have been hard to miss the look of disdain she shot in our direction.

  “That’s Mac. The chick who makes the furniture.” PJ shoved her hands in the pockets of her pants. “She’s pissed at me because of all the business she has now from the article I wrote. Go figure.”

  I shook my head, even as I kept massaging my back. “You know—um—PJ—I have to confess I’m a little confused by that. Isn’t more business a good thing?”

  She shrugged her frail shoulders. “You know. Artists. They’re so temperamental.”

  A microphone crackled as one of the show organizers stepped up to announce the winner of the dollhouse competition. “Please join me in congratulating the winner of this year’s show. Ardine Smalls.”

  “First time she ever won,” PJ muttered as a woman hurried to the front of the crowd.

  Ardine was probably in her late forties. She had shoulder-length dark hair with wiry gray strands poking through the surface. The kind of hair that had never been colored or straightened. She wore a black-and-white polka-dot dress with padded shoulders and an electric blue belt.

  Her face was alight with triumph. I could see this was a Big Deal for her.

  “You know, I never realized that dollhouse collecting was such a big business,” I said to PJ under cover of the applause. “And people are so competitive. The world of sewing notions seems pretty tame in comparison.”

  She snorted. “You have no idea what these women are like. They’re obsessed.”

  Ardine Smalls was gesturing for her fellow competitors to come together for a group shot. She laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, with her eyes darting from side to side. Two of the women stayed, but the rest drifted away. My heart ached as Ardine’s wide smile drooped.

  PJ rolled her eyes. “Oh, crap. I gotta cover this. Get some kind of brain-dead quote from her. Hold on a minute.”

  She pulled a camera with a huge lens out of a tote bag on her shoulder.

  A minute later she was back. “Guess I felt like being nice today. I didn’t take a shot of the shoes.”