by Cate Price
“This is a nice bag,” she said, barely looking at the item nearest her, one eye on the stairs. It was an Edwardian silver mesh evening purse. “How much is it?”
I told her the price. It wasn’t cheap, but after she’d made a few more circuits around the shop and lingered as long as she could, she whipped out a credit card and signed without question. I wrapped it in tissue paper, tied a bow around it with my peacock ribbon, and placed it in one of my signature shopping bags.
With one last piercing look around, she picked up her purchase and swept out.
A couple of minutes later, I announced that the coast was clear and Serrano crept down the stairs.
“Hey, Tony, I could get a lot of sales this way. Thanks!”
“She’s stalking me. And it’s not just her. There’s a whole fricking pack of them.”
I hid a smile. A single, attractive man in a small town is automatically fair game, and a haunted male who also seems in dire need of a hug is an especially deadly combo.
Today he was wearing a faded denim shirt and jeans, with a hint of stubble on his face. I couldn’t decide which was sexier—the suave, elegant Serrano, or this slightly dissipated version.
As usual, my heart rate kicked up a notch in his presence. I was a happily married woman, and I might be fifty-eight, but hey, I wasn’t dead yet.
I stole a quick look in the mirror. I’d recently colored my hair, so the gray streaks were temporarily gone from the dark brown. I was even wearing a little makeup. Thank God.
“They keep baking me stuff. I must have put on at least ten pounds since I got here.” He rubbed his flat stomach, and nodded toward the window. “And I found that piranha waiting for me in front of my condo when I got home last night. She won’t leave me alone.”
Serrano rented a place in Quarry Ridge, near Claire and Patsy Elliott.
“Why don’t you just arrest her for harassment?”
The detective rolled his eyes. “Daisy, do you have any idea how the guys at the station would have a field day with that one? I’d never hear the end of it. The only way Serrano can control his women is put them in handcuffs?”
I smiled. “I see what you mean.”
“Besides, that was my first mistake. I’d heard about some women sucking down wine at the park, so I stopped down there to check it out. Make sure no one was drinking and driving.”
I busied myself with carefully straightening up the already neat pile of shopping bags at the end of the counter.
“Turns out most of them live nearby, so they walk, and the ones who don’t have a designated driver. One woman even has a limo that picks up a whole bunch of ’em. And the fricking dogs.” He blew out a long, shuddering breath. “When I asked to be transferred to Bucks County, PA, I thought it would be a nice, quiet existence.” He shook his head. “Thank God for you. And Martha and Eleanor, too, of course. The only sane females in this town.”
“Ha! That’s pretty sad, considering how crazy we all are.” I chuckled as I went over to the Welsh dresser and picked up two corners of a Wilendur yellow tablecloth with a lily-of-the-valley design. Customers were notorious for inspecting linens and not refolding them properly. Or at least not to my standards. Without being asked, Serrano took the opposite ends and we worked together to fold it into a perfect rectangle.
I’d never asked what he was doing out here in the back of beyond, but I wondered for the hundredth time—what deep, dark secret was he hiding?
“So. Thought you’d like to know Joe was right,” he said as he followed me over to the vintage-clothing rack, where I picked up a velvet jacket that had fallen to the floor. “Our guys checked Harriet’s dollhouse over and the wiring was tampered with.”
He straightened the dresses on the hangers, one by one. A Bob Mackie mint green strapless gown of pleated silk, a light blue taffeta number with matching bolero jacket, and a black chiffon evening dress. “Apparently the main power cord should only be connected to the primary winding. If it’s connected to the secondary, the way it was, it can produce an extremely hazardous voltage when it’s plugged in.”
He pulled the green dress out from the rest and draped it across one arm, as if picturing a dancing partner’s body inside. “This is a very well-made garment.”
“Well, it is a Bob Mackie, after all.”
Watching his tanned fingers slide slowly down the silky material, I could almost feel that hand against my own waist and I shivered involuntarily.
“Harriet Kunes had some lighting added to the house in preparation for the show,” he continued. “According to the electrician, Larry Clark, he showed her how it operated in front of some other customers at his shop. It worked fine then, and didn’t fry anyone. Clark was really shaken up about the whole thing when we questioned him.”
He frowned and switched the hanger holding the black chiffon gown so that it was next to the other two black gowns on the rack. “These should all be together. Right?”
I stifled a smile. “Sure. That’s fine. Now, Harriet came to my store when I’d just opened. Did she pick up her dollhouse right after that?”
“Yeah. Then she brought it home. The cleaning people from The Dazzle Team said it was just after they got there, around noon. She left them in the house and went to Tracy McEvoy’s place to pick up some custom pieces. Interestingly enough, Mac was the one who recommended that Harriet use Larry Clark in the first place.”
“Hold on a minute. Why couldn’t one of the cleaning people have messed with the dollhouse?”
“They could have, except Harriet put the fear of God in them to never, ever dust the collectibles. They all swore they never touched it.”
I pictured Harriet coming in with her groceries late that afternoon, not even stopping to put them away, bursting with anticipation to check out her perfect dollhouse, and install the finishing touches that she was sure would win her first prize in the competition.
I frowned, remembering the mugs and the bags on the counter. “What time did it say on her grocery receipt?”
Serrano grinned. “Nice, Daisy, you’ll make a good detective yet. 4:32 p.m.”
I smiled back. I’d felt a sudden kinship with him the moment we’d met, and it wasn’t just because we were both transplanted New Yorkers. Joe and I had lived in the city for most of our lives, until we sold the condo to Sarah and retired to Millbury.
I appreciated the fact that Serrano trusted me with confidential information, and I considered my role of his sounding board as providing good community service. Although I didn’t know whether to be flattered that he valued my friendship or mortified that I was apparently so old and safe that he felt comfortable with me.
He flicked a glance toward the window.
“Let’s go into the prep room,” I suggested. “No one can see us there from the street.”
He followed me and sat down at the maple two-piece dovetailed workbench that had a recessed portion in the middle for sorting and separating items.
“According to the guard at the gate, Harriet arrived home about twenty minutes before you and Joe,” he said. “There were no other visitors.”
I flashed back to the scene outside the house and I gasped. “Wait a minute. I forgot to tell you this before. I saw a movement in the woods when we were standing outside. I only caught a glimpse—it could have been a person or a deer—I’m not sure. But that could have been our perp.”
“I hate to break it to you, Daisy, but real cops don’t say perp.”
“Oh. Well, what do you say, then?”
“Just the guy.” There was a bag of vintage buttons on the bench from a recent box lot I’d bought at auction, and while he talked, Serrano didn’t seem to be able to help himself. He tipped the bag out, and started moving the Czech glass with their iridescent finishes to one side, the ivory buttons to a separate pile.
“As far as alibis, Birch Kunes was one of the feature
d speakers at the medical conference he was at, so it’s easier to account for his movements, but his girlfriend might have had the opportunity to drive back and forth. He got kinda prickly when I brought it up, though. He’s real protective of her.”
I was concentrating on the cut steel and the Bakelite, but I looked up from my button sorting. “Did you know she’s pregnant? I mean, I probably shouldn’t say anything as I don’t know for sure, but . . .”
“Interesting.” Serrano’s gaze narrowed. “Cheating bastard.”
“How about Chip Rosenthal?”
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Well, Harriet thought that Sophie did in fact write a will. Maybe whoever killed Harriet did so to stop her talking? Someone who wanted the fact that Sophie died intestate to prevail. Like Chip Rosenthal, for instance.”
Serrano grunted as if he thought I was grasping at straws. “Okay, I’ll check on him. Harriet’s sister, the real estate agent, was showing houses that day, and has clients who can confirm where she was. That strange woman who was her main competitor—”
“Ardine Smalls?”
“Yeah. She’d already installed her dollhouse at the Expo Center. People saw her fussing with it all day. The only one without a real alibi is Tracy McEvoy, who was alone in her studio. Apart from when Harriet visited to pick up her stuff, that is.”
Serrano ran a hand across his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “I gotta tell you, Daisy, these collector biddies are too much for me. Could I ask you to keep your eyes and ears open for any relevant information, seeing as everyone congregates in this place anyway?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Once the buttons were sorted, I did a quick reconnoiter outside to see if the coast was clear before he gingerly exited Sometimes a Great Notion.
• • •
The weather degenerated into a gray funk, and a fine drizzling rain misted over the village. An annoying rain, as it was too warm for a raincoat. The humidity was back, with days in the seventies. Typical of the fickle Philadelphia area climate in the midst of September.
It had been raining the night of the murder, too. Why did Harriet park on her driveway? Why not drive into the garage and enter the house that way?
I knew that Joe would tell me to mind my own business and let the police handle things. After I almost got myself shot this summer, he was still a little sensitive on the subject. But Serrano had practically given me a gold-plated invitation, hadn’t he? Besides, just gathering some useful clues wouldn’t be that dangerous.
I rearranged a display of various boxes—an orange five-finger Shaker box, a Kingsford Silver Gloss Starch wooden crate, and a wonderful trifold Victorian sewing box with a writing slope covered in its original blue velvet.
Marybeth Skelton called to say she was lining up a few more places for us to see. I thanked her with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. After I hung up, I realized I hadn’t told Serrano about the Ohio Valley land and her resentment toward her older sister, Harriet.
Because you don’t want to see your real estate agent arrested until she’s found you another place?
I glared at Alice. “Now, that’s not fair.”
Her eyes with their long lashes slanted speculatively toward me, and I gritted my teeth.
It was a slow morning at the store and an even slower afternoon. My only sale all day had been Serrano’s stalker, and I was considering closing early when the phone rang.
It was Angus Backstead, the auctioneer. My best friend in the world, apart from Martha and Eleanor.
“Daisy, I need your help.”
“Sure, what is it?
“Birch Kunes wants to clean out Harriet’s house in preparation for a sale. He’s going to send the collectibles to auction. I’ve had some dolls through the auction house from time to time, but I could use your help with the appraisal. I’m going over there tonight.”
“Well, I’m no expert either, but between the two of us, we might be able to wing it.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Don’t be silly. God knows I owe you, after all the work you’ve done around here. But how can he start selling her stuff? Doesn’t he have to wait for probate?”
I felt like I was becoming an expert in the ways of estate settlement.
“Apparently the house was titled in both their names, so it automatically rolls over to Birch. She never changed her will, so everything else goes to him, too.”
• • •
When I got to Harriet’s house, the only vehicle there was Angus’s Ford F-150 pickup. I parked behind him on the street, ran over to the passenger side, and hopped into the cab, just as I’d done so many times before on our picking adventures.
“What’s up, Daisy Duke?” Even though it was a big truck, Angus seemed to fill it up with his shock of white hair and mountain man physique. His meaty hands rested on the base of the steering wheel, and he wore his usual plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots.
I grinned at him. “Not much, Burger Boy.”
“Kunes is running late. He’s on his way.”
This past summer, Angus had been wrongly accused of a murder, and I’d done my best to get him acquitted. He hadn’t been much help in his own defense, appearing confused, belligerent, and frankly, like he was losing his marbles.
It turned out he was suffering from a brain tumor, which thankfully was benign. Since the surgery and his prison experience, Angus had radically changed his lifestyle. He was still a big guy, but now that he wasn’t drinking, he’d slimmed down and looked younger than his sixty-something years. His cheeks were no longer ruddy from Irish whiskey, but healthy and tanned, and the beer belly was almost gone.
“Thanks for coming, kid. Want some?” He held out a plastic baggie of wheat crackers and carrot sticks. This snack would have consisted of a couple of chili cheese dogs, a large order of fries, and some beef jerky a few months ago.
“No thanks. I’ll wait until I get home.”
“Joe cooking one of his gourmet feasts?”
“Expect so.”
“You’re a spoiled brat, you know that?” Angus punched me gently in the shoulder and shook his head. “My Betty’s taking a knitting class tonight. I hardly ever see her anymore.”
Betty Backstead, always dependent on her husband to take care of everything, had found a measure of independence during his incarceration.
I rubbed at my shoulder and hoped he hadn’t left a bruise.
He pointed a carrot stick at the view through the windshield of townhomes clustered around the golf course. “You know, I remember when all this was farmland. Shame that so much of the open space is gone now.”
In Bucks County, many of the old farms had been sold off for redevelopment. The builders had moved in and offered the farmers what must have seemed like a fortune and an opportunity to leave a hard life of relentless work behind.
At least this one had had some green sensibility in its development. The township had negotiated for a park preserve of fifty acres out of the three hundred.
As we waited, I brought him up to speed on the circumstances of Harriet’s death, the fervent interest in my dollhouse, and how Serrano considered Birch Kunes to be his number one suspect.
Angus grunted. “Speaking of Kunes, where the hell is he?”
At that moment, a white Land Rover came racing up.
Here’s the cheating bastard now.
Angus got out of the truck first, opened an umbrella, and came around to my side. It wasn’t raining hard, just the type of rain that clung to my hair and turned it into a frizzy mess.
Birch Kunes hurried up to us. He was tall, with dark blond hair, and still tanned, even though summer was over. Sort of what the all-American college preppie should look like a couple of decades after graduation.
“God, sorry I’m late. You know how it g
oes.”
The gorgeous effect was spoiled however by his rumpled shirt, and a stain of what looked like spaghetti sauce on his tie.
At least, I hoped it was.
“I’m not sure how much help I’ll be to you. I don’t know that much about dolls, but I’ll do my best.”
I couldn’t smile back. I could barely look at him. The boyish charm is wasted on me, pal.
Angus and I followed him into the house. The arched window above the front door that spilled light into the foyer was matched by one at the top of the grand curving staircases. I glanced over at Angus, seeing the same startled reaction in his eyes as I’d had when I first saw the dolls lining every step.
“Right. Well, let me show you around.” Birch coughed. “Um, sorry, I guess you were already here once, right Daisy?”
A faint flush colored his face under the tan. “Let’s start with the garage.” He walked to the right of the foyer and opened a white six-paneled door.
The cavernous space that could have held three cars was completely filled. Stacked from floor to ceiling with a mountain of cardboard boxes and totes. Through the clear plastic sides of the totes, I glimpsed dolls in their original boxes and hundreds of doll accessories and pieces of dollhouse furniture.
I sucked in a breath. So that’s why Harriet didn’t park inside the garage.
Birch hung back in the house, while Angus and I maneuvered our way into the narrow passageway that led to the garage doors.
“Holy smokes, Angus,” I whispered. “Harriet was a hoarder!”
He stared at me. “Hell, yeah.” He opened a few of the nearby crates. “This is crazy. We’re going to have to move all this stuff to the auction house before we can even begin to catalog any of—”
A phone rang and Birch appeared on the threshold. “Would you both excuse me for a moment?”
He strode off down the hallway toward the kitchen, his voice a soothing murmur to whomever was on the other end of the line.
Angus and I did our best in the garage, but it was only a guess as we couldn’t get to most of it. We then itemized everything in the living room and dining room while Angus scribbled furiously on his pad, and Birch was still missing in action.