A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  He took a few spools off the dowels, tossed them back into the basket, and moved on, leaving the lid askew. At the Welsh dresser, he opened up a neatly folded French damask tablecloth, and tossed it down, leaving it lumped in a white mound.

  I gritted my teeth. I’d need to straighten up this whole place when he left. I scurried after him, picked up the sewing basket, and brought it back behind the counter.

  He waved toward the envelope. “Why don’t you open it? Open it.” For all that he was well-dressed, his nails were red and raw. Bitten down to the quick.

  I picked up the package and pulled out two thick sheaves of paper.

  He lifted the lid of the hand-painted Hepplewhite blanket chest and let it fall down with a bang. The rack of vintage clothing was next, and as he swished through the hangers, one of the dresses slipped onto the floor.

  With an effort, I dragged my attention back to the lease and quickly scanned it for the salient points. I gasped when I saw the monthly rental amount.

  “But this is crazy! This is three times what I’m paying now. You can’t just raise someone’s rent this high and expect them to suddenly come up with the money.”

  “Sure I can. You’ve been paying way below market rent.”

  “But . . . but look at this village,” I stammered, my heart pounding. “Millbury is miles from anywhere. It’s not like we’re in the heart of the downtown Doylestown, for God’s sake.”

  Chip Rosenthal shrugged. He nodded at the antique quilts hanging on the walls. “From what I can see, you’re making a decent living.” He nibbled at his fingers for a second. “The ball’s in your court. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to make it happen and we’ll have a meeting of the minds.”

  I sucked in a breath and tried for a calm, rational tone, even as my adrenaline was raging.

  “Look, Mr. Rosenthal—Chip—I’ve always paid my rent on time. I’ve been a good tenant.”

  “That’s really great, yeah.” He glanced at his phone and pounded the keys on the screen. “And we appreciate that,” and then there was a pause as he finished typing his message, “but it’s time for a reality check.”

  If he used one more buzzword, I’d scream.

  He looked up and smiled, as if this was the point in the conversation where he’d planned to insert one. “At the end of the day, either you sign a new lease, or you have thirty days to get out.”

  “But what about all the work I’ve done? Refinishing the floors, installing the display windows, a new air-conditioning system . . .”

  He grabbed a copy of the lease and flipped through until he tapped on one page. “‘Article 10—Alterations, Improvements, and Trade Fixtures.’ All alterations, additions, or improvements to the demised premises shall on expiration of the term become a part of the building and belong to the landlord and shall be surrendered with the premises.”

  He tossed the document onto the counter. “Heard you bring a dog in here sometimes, too. We’ll need to up the security deposit.”

  “Why are you doing this?” I hated the quiver in my voice, but I couldn’t help it. “Do you want to see me fail?”

  He smiled again. “Of course not, but if you decide to leave, I have plans for this place. It’s up to you. I’ll be back in a couple of days to pick up the executed documents. Let’s make it happen, shall we?”

  Helpless with fury, I watched the hyper young man, so cavalier about ruining my business and my future, stalk out onto Main Street and slide into his new Audi.

  Guess he wasn’t wasting any time spending Sophie’s money.

  Damn it. What kind of businesswoman was I anyway? I should have locked into a long-term lease in the first place, when I opened the store.

  But you didn’t know how it would all pan out.

  Alice the mannequin didn’t actually speak, but I could see the compassion in her almond-shaped eyes.

  Yes, but I should have been braver. I should have had more faith in myself. And speaking of businesswomen, how could someone who owned commercial property die without making a will?

  Oh, Sophie. I wish I’d known you were my landlord, instead of some faceless property management company. Maybe I’d have contacted you earlier and this wouldn’t be happening.

  I’d never met Sophie, but I’d seen her portrait hanging on the wall of the Historical Society. Jet black hair pulled into a bun, dark eyes with an intelligent twinkle, not as deep-set as Chip’s, and a strong, almost Roman nose. Although she was older than Harriet, her downy skin was beautiful, and the slight roundness of her chin softened an otherwise hawkish appearance. A red and black paisley scarf was draped around her throat, fastened with a cameo brooch. In the way of women of her generation, she wore vivid lipstick but not as much eye makeup, which gave her an odd, unbalanced appearance.

  I didn’t know what happened to the brooch, but the scarf was sitting on top of my Welsh dresser. I picked it up now, a hint of the expensive floral scent she’d worn still clinging to the material.

  I was still standing there gripping the scarf, when Martha breezed in carrying the pink metal cake container. She was wearing a wrap dress in a leopard print, stretched to the limit of its elasticity across her generous curves, and an amber necklace and earrings that complemented her fiery hair.

  “Good God, I have the most splitting headache, here you go, I made a Madeira cake, do you know a remedy for migraines, I have to feel better by tonight, I’m taking Cyril to the Pennsylvania Ballet at the Merriam Theater and—”

  Her gaze narrowed on me. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the store, Martha.” I explained about Chip and the new lease and the hideous increase in rent.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I shook my head, numb with worry.

  “Where’s Eleanor?” she demanded.

  “I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Do you think the little creep owns her building, too? Come on. Let’s go see if we can catch him in the act.”

  I hung a BE RIGHT BACK sign on the door and Martha banged the cake tin down on the counter. Eleanor didn’t allow food in her immaculate establishment.

  We hurried across the street to A Stitch Back in Time. But when we entered, the place was empty. No sign of Chip Rosenthal.

  Or of Eleanor either, for that matter.

  Her building had taller ceilings than mine, probably twelve feet high. The walls were painted an eggshell shade, and she’d added some Ionic fluted columns for drama throughout, with strategically placed mannequins wearing antique wedding gowns. One wore a dress that had been cut in half with one side cleaned and restored to show the “before and after” effect.

  The only decoration was a vase of white roses and fragile greenery adorning the gargantuan mahogany table that served as a place for Eleanor to consult with her clients and inspect the merchandise. On the right was a massive mirror and in front of it, a step stool.

  “Hellooo?” Martha yelled.

  “I’m back here,” came a faint cry.

  Martha and I knew enough to take off our shoes before we took another step. We’d been through this routine before. There was also a brusque sign at the entrance demanding compliance and a wicker basket full of crisply laundered white gloves.

  We dutifully slipped on the gloves and followed the paper runner as it crunched beneath us, me in my socks and Martha in her bare manicured feet, past the dressing rooms until we found Eleanor. While the front of the store was airy and Spartan in its elegance, the back room was jam-packed, although still impeccably clean.

  The walls of shelving held spools of thread, glass jars full of various sizes of pearls and beading, and a plethora of salvaged pieces of fabric, silk, lace, and other trims to repair old garments. Over to the right were four worktables. Some dresses hung on forms near the center of the room, and on one table a silk quilt was awaiting repair.

 
; To the left was a deep double sink, and Eleanor was standing over it, stirring some kind of bath of steaming liquid with a long wooden handle.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Martha exploded. “You look like one of Macbeth’s witches.”

  She grinned at us. “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble . . .”

  In spite of my troubles, I had to smile back. Dressed in black, with her white hair and sharp features, boiling up her signature concoction to safely take stains out of yellowing antique fabrics, she did slightly resemble one of Shakespeare’s ancient hags.

  One of the things I’d learned from Eleanor when buying a bolt of fabric was to unroll the whole thing. Brown stains might be lurking inside that aren’t visible in the first pristine layer. She’d rescued several items for me with her secret recipe that had something to do with Borax and hot water.

  “Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog—”

  Martha waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, never mind all that nonsense right now. Look here. Daisy has a serious problem.”

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Eleanor let go of the handle in the milky brew.

  I found that not only was I incapable of standing upright, I’d lost the power of speech. Shaky, and more than a tad dizzy, I sat down at a worktable that held an old Singer sewing machine and a gooseneck desk lamp.

  Martha waited a couple of seconds, and then answered for me. “She just found out she has a new landlord who’s tripled her rent!”

  “What? Who is it?”

  “Sophie’s nephew. Chip Rosenthal.” Martha flipped her red mane of hair over one shoulder. “God, it’s hot back here. He says she has to sign a new lease or has thirty days to get out. Do you believe that crap?”

  Eleanor swiped a hand across her brow, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. “I never met him, but I always heard he was a twit.”

  “How about you? Do you rent this store, Eleanor?” Martha asked.

  “Hell, no, I bought the building when I moved here. Paid cash for my house and the store. I don’t have a big home like you guys, but there’s no one holding a mortgage or a lease over my head. All done and paid for.” She smacked her hands together like a baker brushing off flour. Eleanor had been a former costume designer, and in fact had worked on some of the same film sets as my daughter. She’d made a lot of money and obviously invested it wisely.

  I slumped even farther down on my seat. “That’s because you’re a proper businesswoman. Not like yours truly.”

  “Maybe you can find another store to rent,” Martha suggested.

  “Look at this street.” I waved an arm in the general direction of Main Street. “It’s fully occupied now. There’s nothing available.”

  Sometimes a Great Notion was more than just a store. It was my peace, my sanctuary, my passion. It represented something I had finally done for myself, after years of scrimping, saving, and thinking of others.

  Eleanor unlatched a door in the four-door Moroccan storage cabinet in the corner of the back room. “Brandy?”

  “Eleanor, it’s ten thirty in the morning!” I protested.

  “So? Your heart doesn’t care what time it is. It just wants to stop racing.”

  I blew out a breath. Now that the shock and anger had worn off, I could indeed feel the thready race of my heartbeat, together with the peculiar sensation that my body was simply an empty shell. Nothing seemingly substantial inside. None of the usual stuff, like, oh, flesh and bones, for instance.

  “Okay,” I murmured.

  She poured brandy into three snifters, pressed one into my hands, and gave another one to Martha, who raised her eyebrows, but shrugged and accepted it anyway.

  “Don’t worry, Daisy, we’ll think of something,” Martha said. “You can’t leave Millbury. You’re a fixture here now.”

  “Hey, I have a tidbit of news for you,” Eleanor said, as she slugged down a good portion of her drink and then began pounding a piece of cotton backing into submission with something that looked like a medieval torture device. “Birch Kunes and Bettina Waters are getting married next month. She’s asked me to restore and restyle her grandmother’s gown for the wedding.”

  I choked on a mouthful of brandy. “Jeez. They’re not wasting any time, are they?”

  Eleanor smiled, a slow eye-slitted smile that made me think of a cat rather than a witch. “That’s because she’s enceinte.” Eleanor liked to drop French phrases into her speech. It impressed the clients.

  “On what?” Martha frowned at her.

  “Pregnant,” I said. “Wow, is she really?”

  Eleanor nodded and drained the contents of her snifter. “I noticed when I measured her for the alterations. She’s not very far along, but I could tell.”

  I sipped some more of my brandy. That was why Bettina hadn’t stayed too long at the wine club. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her drink a drop. That also meant Birch and Bettina had been carrying on their affair for a while—a few months at least.

  I gritted my teeth, suddenly sorry for the temperamental Harriet. Even though she had been a difficult character, to put it mildly, nobody deserved to be cheated on.

  Especially not with a younger and more attractive woman. No wonder she’d retreated into her safe, familiar world of miniatures and dollhouses.

  “Birch,” Martha said with disdain. “What a weird name.”

  “Let me guess, they’ll call the kid Sapling?” Eleanor snickered.

  “Yup. He’ll be a real sap.” They both roared with laughter.

  I stood up to test the waters, and feeling woozy still, leaned back against something that stabbed me painfully in the palm of my hand. “Ow! What the heck’s that?”

  “Oh, sorry, it’s my needle board,” Eleanor said. “To iron velvet. You put the fabric nap side down and—”

  “Aargh!” I’d stepped forward in my agony and stubbed my toe on something else. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, sorry, it’s my sad iron.” Eleanor picked up an ancient-looking iron implement with a thick wooden handle.

  Martha raised an eyebrow. “Aptly named. It’s like a little shop of horrors in here.”

  I rubbed my sore hands. “Thanks for the drink, Eleanor, but I’ve got to get back.” I hugged them both, left my half-empty snifter on the table, and stumbled back across the street.

  Somehow I got through the rest of the day at the store, trying to ignore the queasiness in my stomach, and the malevolent package stuffed beneath the counter. I ate a piece of Madeira cake to soak up the alcohol and took out my calculator. In spite of how well the business was doing, I could only last another six months at that rate.

  I called Laura and asked if she could work tomorrow, and after she readily agreed, I called the only real estate agent I knew. Marybeth Skelton. Harriet Kunes’s sister.

  Chapter Six

  Joe enfolded me in his big arms when I got home that night, listening patiently as I blurted out the bad news. “Do you want me to talk to this guy for you, Daisy?”

  I sighed. “No, it’s okay. I can handle it.”

  “Maybe when you see him again, you’ll get him to see reason.” Before we retired, Joe had been the head negotiator for his electricians’ union, and he’d never met anyone who didn’t warm to him instantly.

  “I’m not sure. It was strange, Joe. Like he just didn’t care.” I thought back to the scene this morning with Chip Rosenthal, and the seeming lack of human emotion, as if he were missing some necessary gene. “He says I need to come up to market rent like everyone else.”

  “What is the going rate?”

  “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “I’m seeing a few places with Marybeth Skelton tomorrow for a plan B.”

  “Well, if you look at other places, you’ll know what’s reasonable. Do you have to have a brick-and-morta
r shop? A lot of your business is online now, right?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  It wasn’t just that. It was the camaraderie, the coffee, Martha’s treats, all of it, that I cherished. Walking into the store each morning was a pleasure that never got old.

  As a teacher, I’d spent years working on other people’s schedules, on someone else’s lesson plans, hours that I wasn’t paid for. Now the hours I put in were for myself, and it would rip my heart out to have to let it go.

  Joe maneuvered me gently down the wide hallway toward the kitchen. “Come and have some wine, and look at the fantastic stuff I bought for making miniatures.”

  On the kitchen counter, a mound of translucent sea scallops sat drying on a tea towel, ready to sear in the pan. Joe cooked a gourmet meal for me every night. I recognized his famous potato–celery root purée prepped in a baking dish next to a bundle of bright green asparagus. My stomach rumbled, seeing as it contained nothing but brandy and a slice of Martha’s cake.

  I poured half a glass of wine and tried not to think about how much the scallops cost.

  Joe pointed at the butcher-block table. “See this, Daisy? It’s a Dremel Moto-Shop jigsaw-workshop combination. I was talking to that girl Mac at the show, and she recommended I start with this.”

  I stared at the appliance that was about the size of a portable sewing machine.

  “It’s five power tools in one. Isn’t it great?” Joe was nearly bouncing up and down in his excitement. “And check out this X-Acto Deluxe Hobby Tool Set. There’s three knives, eight blades, a coping saw, pin vise, routers, you name it.”

  I sipped my wine, glad that he’d found something he was so passionate about. The timing wasn’t great, seeing as it looked as though money would be tight now, but I didn’t know how to begrudge him his dream when he had always been so supportive of mine.

  He grinned at me. “Think I still need a soldering iron and some C-clamps though.”

  Joe was the same way whenever he did a project at the house. Instead of looking in the toolbox for the three nails he needed for the job, he’d go to the hardware store and buy a brand-new pound. If he was painting, he’d buy another paint roller even though the one we had was perfectly fine. Heck, even the roller covers could have been reused if he’d washed and dried them carefully from the job before.