A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  Finally we moved over to the study.

  I swallowed hard, seeing the space on the rug where Harriet had lain. The display table was empty now, the Tudor mansion taken away to the police station for evidence.

  “You okay, Daisy?”

  Poor Harriet.

  Not even dead for a week, and already the rapacious widower, the one who’d been desperate to be her ex-husband, was getting rid of her prized possessions. Not just getting rid of them, but about to make a very nice windfall.

  I gritted my teeth. “Yes. Let’s get on with it.”

  Angus had filled five sheets on his legal pad, and we’d nearly reached the top of the stairs, counting dolls all the way, when Birch caught up to us.

  “Sorry about that. Duty calls, you know?”

  I concentrated on examining a pair of vintage Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls, awake on one side, asleep on the other. These were the real deal and should fetch a pretty penny.

  Angus and Birch reached the top of the stairs ahead of me and I scrambled after them.

  The finishes on the second floor were as upgraded as downstairs, with crown molding and five-inch baseboards throughout, or what little I could see of them. I’d thought the first floor was crammed, but it was nothing compared with this. A wide hallway had been whittled down into a slim lane by the dollhouses arranged along its length.

  We walked into the first bedroom, with its custom drapes and high-end light fixtures. I trailed my fingers across the brushed nickel handle and glanced back at Angus, catching his almost imperceptible nod. It was like we were picking again, and we could read each other’s minds.

  This door handle alone probably cost fifty bucks.

  The room was stuffed with dolls. French dolls in gorgeous clothes that would make any collector’s mouth water. There were German dolls, too, but without the same fancy attire. Those were often sold naked or with a simple shift, the idea being that the German child would learn to sew.

  I stared at a whole row of French “Bebe” dolls from the 1880s, with their jaunty hats, soulful brown eyes, and bisque heads. There was about thirty thousand dollars sitting on that one shelf alone.

  “Some of these are German,” Birch said. “Simon and Halbig, I think? There’s plenty of those, and then she got on a Jumeau and Bru kick.”

  Birch actually knew more than he realized. He reminded me of my daughter, Sarah, who professed to have no interest in the store, but unconsciously absorbed information by osmosis when she became immersed in my world for a while on one of her infrequent visits home.

  A group of boudoir dolls sat on the bed, as they were designed to do, seeing as they were not meant to be played with by children. I was inspecting a porcelain doll with bushy bangs and a smug expression when Birch’s phone rang again.

  “Whoops. So sorry,” he whispered, and disappeared into the hallway.

  As I’d told Angus, I wasn’t an expert, but I could tell these dolls were really old and really unusual, which is the key with most collectibles.

  “Angus, there’s a fortune in this place,” I murmured.

  He set the notepad on the bed and flexed his fingers. “This is going to take a couple of weeks to pull together. I’ll tell you Daisy, this could be the biggest auction Backstead’s has ever had.”

  I nodded. I could see people coming from hundreds of miles away, eager to add a rare doll like one of these to their collection.

  “I’m fairly sure they’re real, but you may want to consult an expert once you get them back to the auction house.” I picked up one of the Bebe dolls. “Look at the body for a start to check for fakes. Someone might be able to duplicate the face, but an older body is harder to do.” I showed him the numbers on the back showing the mold mark and size. “Often the heads and bodies were made in different places and this helped match them up.”

  “Yeah, I had one of these at auction last May,” he said as he took it from me.

  I smiled at the sight of the fragile figure in his massive, but gentle grasp. “The closed-mouth ones are twice as valuable as the openmouthed,” I said.

  Angus nodded. “Yup. I can see why Kunes is anxious to get his paws on the cash from this lot.”

  We cataloged the rest of the room and moved down the hallway to the second bedroom.

  A veritable sea of dolls crowded the bed and the carpet and ebbed up to about three feet from the door. A multi-faced one sitting on the windowsill seemed like it was staring right at me. A fine sweat prickled my forehead. It wasn’t an especially warm evening, but suddenly I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

  Angus snorted as we hovered in the entryway. “Damn. Guess ol’ Harriet wasn’t planning on having any guests sleep over. This place is stuffed with stuff!”

  I steeled myself to edge inside. In this room was more of a variety. Kewpie dolls, Madame Alexanders, and Izannah Walker cloth dolls from the 1870s. I bent and picked up a tiny World War I era doll with a body of papier-mâché, a bisque head, mohair wig, and painted-on shoes.

  “Jeez, Angus. Some people are only interested in a certain kind of doll, but it appears Harriet was an equal opportunity collector.”

  “She sure knew how to spend money, I’ll give her that.”

  There was even a first-edition Barbie doll in her zebra-striped bathing suit, still in the original box. I smiled ruefully to myself as I thought about Sarah’s Barbies; their golden ponytails restyled into choppy bangs with a pair of scissors and barbed wire tattoos added with a black marker.

  Angus did his best to make an inventory, and I called out as many different dolls as I could spot.

  Next was the master bedroom and adjoining sitting room with their high tray ceilings. There was one very large doll, about three feet tall, sitting in a rocking chair, and numerous others covering the bed. It was tough to see how Harriet could have slid in between them to sleep, no matter how skinny she was. While I inspected a Victorian tin dollhouse near the bathroom, and Angus was busy counting the dolls on the bed, Birch Kunes finally caught up to us.

  I didn’t look at him, but I sensed his appraisal.

  “I don’t know what you must think of me, Daisy,” he said softly.

  Was my contempt that easy to read? And why should he care what I thought of him, anyway?

  “I did love her once, you know.” He gestured to a silver photo frame on the dressing table. It was a picture of Harriet, a younger Harriet, and I caught a glimpse of the woman he must have fallen for. She was on a boat, wearing a black maillot swimsuit, her body slender, not yet painfully gaunt. She was laughing at him, her blond Adonis, with her hair swept back in the breeze. Even though she was ten years older than Birch, I couldn’t see much of a difference between them in this picture.

  Wow. Harriet had aged rapidly. And badly.

  “After we tried unsuccessfully to have a baby early on, she shut me out. She became obsessed with her collecting, with no room for anything or anyone else in her life. Literally.”

  Birch ran a hand through the now artificially streaked blond hair. In the unforgiving light shining up from the table lamp, I could see the bags under his eyes, and the lines around his mouth showed his four-plus decades on this earth. He looked more like a distracted scientist than a successful doctor.

  He frowned slightly, not from anger it seemed, more like he was pondering a puzzle. “We moved to Meadow Farms about five years ago. I’d hoped it would be a fresh start for us, but unfortunately nothing changed. She managed to fill this place with junk in a relatively short period of time.”

  Very expensive, very collectible junk.

  Birch sighed and straightened the picture frame. “After a couple of years, I guess I finally gave up. That’s when I met Bettina.”

  He brightened at the sound of her name, the lines of exhaustion disappearing for a moment. “She was a patient. She was getting divorced at the time
and needed a job. Even though she didn’t have a medical background, she made a great receptionist. Not only was she warm and friendly, but being diabetic herself, Bettina could sympathize with my patients, especially the younger ones who had just been diagnosed. Diabetes is tough for anyone to deal with, but especially kids, when they’re with their friends who want to go to the Dairy Queen . . .”

  His voice trailed off and out of the corner of my eye I could tell he was still carefully watching my expression.

  My heart rate sped up again.

  Come on, Angus. How long was this going to take?

  “Harriet and I had been living separate lives for a long time before she died, and long before I ever started a romantic relationship with Bettina.”

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “I’m not quite sure how it happened, but my wife became an absolute bitch, through and through. Don’t think I’m an awful person, will you Daisy, but I can’t say I’m sorry Harriet’s gone. Maybe I’ll have a chance at some happiness now. Do you know what it’s like to live with someone who’s completely obsessed?”

  I bit my lip as I remembered the other bedrooms and my near panic attack.

  “She took great pleasure in telling me she would never give me a divorce. Deliberately stonewalling me and not letting me get on with my life.”

  There was a moment of silence while he swallowed so hard I could see his Adam’s apple move in his throat. “Bettina is so different, so sweet. She’s pregnant. Did you know? Not quite what we’d planned, but I couldn’t be happier.”

  If he’d killed Harriet, he seemed unusually open and willing to talk. He was obviously proud about the pregnancy, but in a quiet way.

  Grudgingly, I felt my anger at his cheating fade somewhat and I looked at him for the first time that evening. “Will Bettina be okay? I mean, being pregnant with diabetes? Isn’t that a risk?”

  He swallowed again. “She’ll be all right. She deals with her condition very well, and we’ll monitor her carefully.”

  “I’m sure she’s in good hands,” I murmured.

  Wait a minute. Diabetes. “Did you know Sophie Rosenthal?”

  “Yes, Sophie was my patient.” He slid his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. “I’m still upset that I didn’t realize how depressed she was. Perhaps I could have helped her more.”

  “Could it have been an accidental overdose?”

  “Suppose so, but it’s doubtful. Sophie was a type 1 diabetic, and had been for most of her life. She was very familiar with how to administer insulin correctly.” He slipped his glasses back on and blinked a few times. “Would you excuse me?” He gestured toward a row of wax dolls. “I’ve never liked those. Something funeral-ish about them. I’ll meet you guys downstairs, okay?”

  After he disappeared, Angus and I made our way to the last guest room, which was full of nothing but bisques.

  “Angus, these are Bru dolls. There’s about fifty of them at a quick count. They can go anywhere from a couple of thousand each to twenty, thirty, or more, depending.”

  Angus scratched his head. “I’m running out of zeros on my calculator.”

  I felt an overwhelming sadness. This type of manic spending was a sickness, even as beautiful as this vast collection was. “I have to get out of here soon, Angus.”

  “Me, too. If I were still drinking, I’d go have a shot and a beer after this.”

  There were four bedrooms upstairs, and two and a half baths. Much too big for one person, unless, like Harriet, they had enough merchandise to fill a chain of retail stores.

  We found Birch Kunes downstairs, sitting at the kitchen table, staring morosely at the pretty lilac dollhouse.

  Angus explained that he could give Birch a more exact presale estimate once everything was back at the auction house and he could go through the items from the garage.

  “I trust you, Angus. I don’t even know what the hell is in there anyway.”

  “The garage alone will take a full day even if I bring a couple of guys with me. We’ll tag and inventory everything and give you a complete list for your records. My company is fully insured and bonded—”

  Birch waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes. That’s fine.”

  “It’ll be a specialized auction,” Angus said. “Give me some time to advertise in all the trades.”

  “I don’t care when the auction is, as long as I can start marketing the house for sale,” Birch said. “But I need to get this crap out of here first.”

  I had to agree. I’d heard real estate agents advise clients to declutter, but this was ridiculous.

  “It’s a beautiful property,” I said. “It should sell quickly. But wouldn’t you want to live here? It’s such a great location—one of the best in the development.”

  “God, no. Bettina would never agree to that.” He looked up at us. “I just want to hand over the keys to Marybeth and let her do her thing. I need to buy something else before the baby comes.”

  I stifled a gasp. He was letting Harriet’s estranged sister list the house?

  “Why don’t you guys go on out the front door and I’ll lock up.”

  As Angus and I walked down the brick path, I hissed, “Angus, don’t you think that’s a bit weird? Harriet and Marybeth Skelton hated each other.”

  He shrugged. “Well, she is the best real estate agent around here.”

  “True enough. I just think it’s odd that Harriet’s husband would have no loyalty to his dead wife.”

  “Yeah, and he’s on a real tight schedule, ain’t he?”

  When we reached the end of the driveway, I looked back. Through the open garage doors, I watched as Birch set the alarm.

  “It’s also funny that he still has a key to her house, and she obviously never changed the alarm code after he moved out,” I whispered.

  Birch Kunes hit the garage door closure and made an athletic crouching run under the descending door like he’d done it a thousand times before.

  Chapter Eight

  It was a strange moon tonight. A full moon, but hazy and out of focus. Like a cracked meringue of the palest blue, tinged with rust.

  It was close to eight o’clock when I trailed into our Greek Revival. I stood in the foyer and inhaled deeply.

  My favorite game. Trying to guess what Joe was making for dinner.

  I only had a moment, though, before Jasper came barreling down the hallway, showing no signs of slowing down or veering off course. I stepped to one side, barely escaping being bowled over. I dropped to my knees and submitted to a tongue licking that left my whole face slightly damp. It might be a bit messy, but this was pure, unconditional love, and after my depressing experience at the Kunes place, I didn’t mind one bit.

  “Okay, boy.” I stroked his silky head and then dragged myself to my feet. I found Joe in the kitchen, wearing a striped apron, with a massive pile of chopped vegetables on the counter in front of him.

  “Daisy, you’re just in time. I’m trying out a new recipe. Hot and Sour Chicken. You’re gonna love it.” Joe kissed me, too, albeit not as sloppily as Jasper.

  I hugged him, reluctant to let go.

  “Tough day?”

  “Yeah.”

  He poured me a glass of Riesling. I slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, put my feet up, and gave a sigh of thanksgiving that he accepted my one-word response without question.

  Dear Joe.

  I sipped the wine and watched him cook. He sloshed some sesame oil into a wok and when it was hot, added pieces of chicken. Next came fermented black beans and red pepper powder.

  I had to monitor Joe with the spices because sometimes he got carried away if we were talking and would forget he already added the menu’s required allotment. And like the home repair purchases, he bought exotic ingredients that he’d probably never use again. There was a new bag from the hardware store on
the table, too.

  Joe and I would need to have a discussion about his spending habits, but not tonight.

  Tonight I was too tired to say anything.

  I thought about Harriet’s house and all those rare, expensive collectibles and wondered where my little dollhouse would have fit in. It wasn’t in the same league at all.

  Joe gaily threw piles of green peppers, bamboo shoots, carrots, and celery into the sizzling wok. He finely chopped some fresh garlic and ginger, and then added soy sauce, vinegar, and wine.

  I knew Birch Kunes was numero uno on Serrano’s list, and while I had also been more than ready to blame the good-looking but slightly nerdy doctor, too, he didn’t seem to have any real animosity toward Harriet. He didn’t even seem that concerned about how much she’d spent. More like simply worn out by her obsessions, and consumed by a desire to get on with his life.

  Of course, now he was infatuated with Bettina.

  Birch had said that if he and Harriet had had kids, things might have been different. When they couldn’t, that was the turning point, and she’d become addicted to miniatures. Before Sarah, I’d miscarried our first child and I’d become just as neurotic about our only daughter, trying to control every inch of her life until I learned that she could manage quite well on her own.

  It took both of us nearly getting killed this past summer for me to realize just how strong she really was.

  I drank more wine. Martha was obsessed with Cyril, Serrano was gunning for Birch Kunes, Sam Brown was passionate about his pumpkins, and the wine club woman was crazy about the hot detective. And me? I couldn’t stop thinking about Chip Rosenthal and the future of my store.

  I shook my head.

  “You okay, babe?” Joe glanced at me as he stirred some cornstarch into the mixture in the wok.

  “I’m just sad for Harriet, I guess.” How many other women were out there, my age, whose husbands cheated on them with younger women?

  There, but for the grace of God, go I.

  And here I was, worrying about Joe buying some fermented beans, for Pete’s sake. I was an ungrateful wretch, that was for sure.