A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  I glanced at Ardine’s scuffed, down-at-heel white pumps and stifled a chuckle. Although PJ didn’t have much room to talk. She wasn’t exactly a fashion maven herself.

  She clicked off a couple more photos of the crowd. “Yeah, so, like, I’m doing a series of articles on collectors. I interviewed Harriet Kunes on Wednesday. Thought it was good prep cuz she was pegged to be the winner.” She chuckled without humor. “That was a waste of time.”

  “What did you think of her?” I held my breath.

  She lowered the camera and stared at me with eyes that were almost purple, but again, not the kind of color to be found in nature.

  “Harriet was the type of person who went for the jugular,” she said quietly. “The type of person who made enemies easily.”

  I lifted my eyebrows at this quick and effective assessment. She might make a good detective if she ever decided to change her line of work. “And how about Birch Kunes?”

  “Don’t know much about him, but his future bride belongs to a group of women who meet at the dog park. I call them the ‘wine club.’ They bring wine and cheese and let the dogs play. You could probably walk your mutt and run into Bettina Waters there.”

  I regarded her more closely. How did someone I’d never even met know I owned a dog? Although I supposed Jasper and I were a regular sight on the streets of Millbury.

  PJ shoved the camera into her bag. “I might do a piece on them next. All these rich bitches who have nothing better to do. If nothing else, it’d be cool to watch ’em all get stoned.”

  She grinned, and the smile transformed her face from determinedly sour to fresh and alive. She was quite pretty in a tree sprite kind of way.

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out.”

  “See ya.” She disappeared into the crowd and I headed back to find Joe.

  I passed a few men with their sons, engrossed with a miniature garage, motorcycle shop, or fishing cottage.

  Maybe I didn’t feel so guilty after all.

  He was standing in front of a display with a card in front identifying the furniture as made by Tracy McEvoy.

  Joe turned to me, a fierce excitement in his eyes. “Daisy, I could do this.” He was a talented carpenter himself and had created or restored many of the pieces in our home. “I’ll make a fortune!”

  I smiled at him, glad to finally see him so passionate about something, the way I was about Sometimes a Great Notion.

  • • •

  The next afternoon I followed PJ’s directions and drove Jasper over to Ringing Springs Park. It was a few miles south of Millbury, near a bucolic neighborhood full of old money, where mill owners had settled in years gone by. Gentlemen’s farms, of stucco over stone, sat on pastoral acres with streams, ponds, and mature trees. Some had been built in the mid-eighteenth century and expanded several times over the succeeding years.

  I passed long gated driveways, and could just picture the interiors: mellowed pine board floors, deep sill windows, huge wood-burning fireplaces, and gracious formal rooms.

  Some were only a couple of decades old, built in the style of a French manor home or an English country estate. Here and there was a heated outside pool and spa, or lighted tennis courts, on professionally landscaped grounds. Inside these mansions would be yards of granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and custom cabinetry.

  Another magnificent place was a veritable compound, complete with guest house, outdoor riding ring, four-story bank barn, and stone creamery building. There was no number on the pillar, just the name. Sugar Hill.

  But my favorite was a more modest farmhouse, surrounded by cottage gardens, where the slate patio on one side had a built-in barbecue and fire pit, and the rear deck had been constructed around a century-old tree. I could just picture myself sitting out on that deck, reading a book in one of the elegant gray loungers, shaded from the ferocity of the sun by the benevolent old beech.

  When we pulled into Ringing Springs Park, I managed to find a space in the lot, which was already fairly full. Jasper and I scrambled out of the car.

  I breathed deeply of the earthy air. I longed to follow the trail that led into the woods where boulders littered the sides of the dry creek bed. In the distance I glimpsed the remains of an old mill.

  But it wasn’t hard to spot the wealthy-looking women with their coolers and folding chairs in the fenced-in area just off the parking lot.

  As soon as we were inside the gate and I unclipped his leash, Jasper, the extrovert, charged toward the other dogs. I watched his easy assimilation into the pack as they happily sniffed each other’s private parts.

  Some of the women glanced my way, and I smiled and called hello, but they carried on with their conversations. I clutched the leash, standing there uncertainly, hearing the unmistakable pop of a cork. There was a trill of laughter and I told myself I was being paranoid if I thought it was directed at me.

  Never mind. It was fun to watch Jasper. I delighted in his joy as he ran free, galloping around with his ungainly puppy stride, followed by a young golden retriever, a schnauzer, a giant poodle, and a couple of shih tzus.

  I was about to find a place to sit in the shade near the dry stone wall, when an elderly woman came into the park carrying a backpack.

  She bent down and set the bag on the grass, nearly losing her battered straw hat in the process. Out came a red tartan blanket and a carafe of what looked like pink zinfandel.

  Her shaggy gray hound came up to me with a stiff-legged gait, gave me a friendly sniff in the crotch, and then ambled off to join the other dogs. With some more rummaging around in the pack, she retrieved some plastic wineglasses and attached a stem to one of them.

  “Fancy a drink?”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks, but it’s a bit early for me.”

  “Oh, it’s five o’clock somewhere.” She spread out the blanket, settled herself, and patted the space next to her. “Take a load off. I’m Ruthie. Haven’t seen you round here before.”

  Ruthie looked like she could have led a tour through the Everglades in her youth. Even though I was sure she was quite a few years older than me, her tanned legs were still in good shape. She wore a cotton T-shirt, no bra, khaki shorts, and hiking boots. She tossed the straw hat onto the blanket revealing short white hair, smushed down in places by the hat, and gave her head a quick massage with both hands.

  “Nice to meet you, Ruthie. I’m Daisy.” I sat down. “I only just heard about this place. A—um—friend of Bettina Waters told me about it.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Ruthie said as a very attractive woman with a Portuguese water dog opened the gate. She wore white shorts, tennis shoes, and a navy V-neck shirt, and carried a camping chair in a bag on her shoulder.

  Ruthie waved hello and Bettina waved back, a huge smile on her face. She had an amazing body, with lush dark hair, perfect white teeth, and breasts as pert as a teenager’s. The wine club group greeted her and shifted their chairs to let her into the circle.

  A little while later, a couple of the women who had been chatting with Bettina strolled over to us. Without asking, they helped themselves to two glasses of Ruthie’s wine.

  “Suppose you heard about Harriet Kunes, Ruthie.” The taller one with patrician features and perfectly coiffed gray hair peered down at us. She wore a pearl necklace with her culottes and striped top, and had a hint of a smoker’s growl. Or maybe it was from barking orders at her housekeeper.

  Ruthie’s eyebrows shot up in question.

  “Dead. Massive heart attack.” Pearl Necklace slugged down some wine and flicked a glance over me, but didn’t introduce herself.

  I kept quiet as I didn’t want to disturb the flow of this conversation.

  “Oh, my,” Ruthie said.

  “I heard she was electrocuted,” said the other woman, who was shorter and jowly, with hair cut higher in the back than the
front. One blond bang fell into her eyes, and she kept pushing it back with the hand that wasn’t clutching her plastic cup.

  “Whatever. It was just as well,” said the tall one. “It would have cost Birch Kunes a fortune to get divorced. Guess he was willing to pay the price. Or maybe not. Maybe he didn’t feel like splitting everything.”

  “Shh. Don’t talk like that.” Ruthie took a deep swallow. “Bettina is a receptionist at Birch’s medical practice, you know,” she whispered to me, her gaze a little unfocused.

  “More like gold digger is her real job.” The shorter one filled up her glass again. There were red curved marks at the corner of her mouth. These two must have polished off their bottle of pinot noir and now were scraping the bottom of the barrel with Ruthie’s pink zin.

  Pearl Necklace chuckled. “She’s had a lot of work done, too.” She made quote signs in the air with her long fingers.

  Whatever it was, it was well done. Bettina was a beautiful woman, without the usual fish lips or frightened expression from plastic surgery. She simply looked well cared for. And just sixty seconds ago, these two had been acting like her best friends.

  A cloud passed over the sun and I shivered, even though the afternoon was mild.

  Like someone walking over my grave.

  Chapter Five

  Bettina left the park at that moment, tripping over the dog’s leash, her camping chair flopping open. As she struggled to put it back in the bag, she flashed a wide smile at us again. There was a smile on my face, too, as I watched her leave. Even though we hadn’t exchanged a word, I liked her. It was sort of endearing that such a beauty was also a bit of a klutz.

  “She’s a very attractive woman,” I murmured.

  “Humph.” Pearl Necklace peered down at me. “I suppose Birch Kunes is sitting pretty now, too. Don’t suppose Harriet ever changed her will. She was always hoping he’d come back to her one day, the dope.”

  “Maybe if Harriet had cared more about her appearance,” said the blonde, blinking against a stray hair in her eye. “She was always more concerned with those stupid dollhouses of hers.”

  After a while, they drifted back over to the main group with their coolers that were no doubt full of pricey pinot grigio and chardonnay.

  “Who were those ladies?” I whispered.

  Ruthie laughed, a raucous, gusty sound. “Is that what you call ’em? The tall one is Virginia Axelrod and the blonde is Bobbie Zwick.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that they drink your wine like that?”

  “Oh, hell, I got plenty more where that came from. In a box on my kitchen counter. Old Sourface Ginny would die if she knew she was drinking box wine. Sure you don’t want some?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Everyone shares if someone needs a drink. Anyhoo, I really only come here for Max’s sake.”

  She fondly watched the shaggy gray dog amble after the pack. Jasper was having the time of his life, gamboling around, his tongue hanging out of one side of his mouth.

  The sun had reappeared, and I leaned back on the soft blanket, drowsy in the meadow-like setting.

  “Poor Harriet.” Ruthie filled up her plastic cup. “Wonder when the funeral will be?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess they’re doing the au-topsy now.”

  “Although at least she had a will. Sophie Rosenthal never even wrote one. She was Harriet’s best friend, you know.”

  “Yes, I heard.”

  “Probate only just closed. Son of a biscuit. These things take so long to settle.”

  Ruthie shook her head. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, looking out into the field, one age-spotted hand holding her wine. “Sophie never married and didn’t have any kids. Everything would have gone to her brother, but he and his wife died in a car crash about a month before Sophie herself passed away. Terrible. Her nephew got everything. The whole kit and caboodle.”

  Jasper came over to me now, panting, his ribs heaving, mouth open in a wide grin. He hadn’t stopped running for a second since we arrived at the park.

  I ruffled the fur on his ears. “Hey, boy. Did you have a good time with all those other dogs?” I made a mental note to bring a bottle of water and a dish for him next time.

  Ruthie smacked her lips after draining the last of her wine. “There was a stepdaughter, too, but no one really knew her. Strange girl. Took off after her parents were killed. Supposably to join the Peace Corps. But no one has heard from her since.”

  “What did Sophie die of?” I asked.

  “Overdose of insulin. Diabetic.” Ruthie shook the last drops out of her plastic glass and tossed it in the backpack. “Accident or suicide, who knows, but she was real tore up by the loss of her brother. Some say it’s the grief that killed her.”

  Ruthie mumbled that it was time for her to go and I helped her fold the blanket and put everything away. She gave me a little wave and staggered off toward the gate. Even the dog stumbled.

  I watched them for a minute to make sure she wasn’t going to get into a car, but a couple of minutes later, she trudged up the driveway of an old stone Colonial not far from the park entrance.

  • • •

  I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion early on Monday morning. According to Laura, last Friday had been an unusually busy day, and I’d need to replenish some of the displays. I slipped a Pink Martini CD into the sound system and started the essential pot of coffee.

  For a few moments, I leaned on the ten-drawer seed counter, manufactured by the Walker Bin Company, breathing in the store’s familiar smell of furniture polish and soothing lavender, and perhaps a hint of wash day from the crisp linens and well-laundered tablecloths and aprons.

  The counter had glass-fronted loading bins that housed all manner of sewing notions, ribbons, and hair accessories. Thanks to my recent assistance with a criminal investigation, it now had a nice bullet hole in the front of it.

  To my way of thinking, it only enhanced the value. People loved it when a particular item had a story attached. And provenance was key. Not that I would ever sell this prized possession.

  Alice, the mannequin in the corner, also had a bullet hole. Right through her left breast. One that was meant for me.

  It was carefully covered now with a Bob Mackie–Ray Aghayan dress, a psychedelic, slinky full-length number in a black, white, rose, and orange design of stripes and flowers that came up to her neck in a V-shape, but left her beautiful shoulders and collarbone bare.

  I shook off the wisps of bad memories like so many cobwebs with a feather duster and hurried upstairs to fetch a couple of boxes. The main shop was situated in what used to be the front parlor and living room, but thanks to Joe and our friend Angus, the walls between had been opened up to make one space. The dining room served as an office and prep area, and there was a kitchen and powder room in the back.

  From one of the boxes I unearthed a stash of Ocean Pearl buttons, still on their original cards. I lingered over a Lady Prim needle book from “Old New York” with a green, gold, and rust design of city buildings.

  Next were some exquisitely embroidered linen napkins and a vintage tea towel that I was tempted to keep for myself. I trailed my fingers across its hand-stitched wicker basket of strawberries and wildflowers, but I’d learned early on that I needed to let go of these treasures. I was only their caretaker for a short time.

  I came back downstairs and placed them gently in the Welsh dresser that sat against one wall, its drawers open to show a wealth of top-quality placemats, napkins, and tablecloths.

  The doorbell clanged and a slim young man with black hair and a well-cut dark suit stepped across the threshold and closed the door firmly behind him. Most men entered this store tentatively, somewhat at sea in the milieu of sewing notions, but he walked straight in as if he knew where he was going.

  “Chip Rosenthal.�
� He stuck out his hand to me and I shook it. It was a good firm handshake, but unfortunately his palm was moist.

  I stared at him. “Sophie’s nephew?”

  “That’s right.”

  The nephew who’d inherited everything.

  Had he come for the dollhouse, too? I was about to make up a little white lie that I’d sold it, but he slapped the package he was carrying down on the counter.

  “Two copies of a new lease,” he muttered. “Sign both and you’ll get a fully executed original back for your records.” His voice was a rigid monotone, only enlivened by a hint of nasal stuffiness, as if he had allergies.

  “A lease?” I struggled to adjust to the fact that this wasn’t about the dollhouse. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”

  He frowned, staring at me with eyes that were set deep into their sockets, so deep they were in shadow. “You know. A lease. For this place.”

  He waved a hand in the air around his head. “You’re month-to-month right now. We need to get you back on a fixed-term basis again.” He frowned harder, harsh lines prematurely etched between his brows. “Or, I guess you could always move out.”

  “Do you mean Sophie owned this building?” I gasped. “I had no idea she was my landlord. I’ve always paid my rent check to the Bucks Mill Company.”

  He exhaled, as if resenting the waste of precious seconds to explain, and moved over to the center of the store where a collection of wooden crates were stacked together. “They’re a property management company. And that’s what management companies do—protect the owner’s identity.”

  I watched as he flipped through some fabric remnants, tossing them back into an untidy pile. “I fired them. I have my real estate license. I know how to do this, and I don’t feel like paying extra fees.” Next he pulled the lid off a yellow Harvey sewing basket. Little wooden dowels inside the round wicker container held nine spools of thread, and it was also filled with notions such as a sock darner, a vintage can of Singer sewing machine oil, bits of trim, buttons, and tailor’s chalk.