by Cate Price
“Oh, and I need to pick out some paint,” I told Jeanne. I scanned the shades on the wall, but couldn’t seem to find quite the right one. She showed me a catalog with more selections, and I finally found the perfect pale lilac hue.
“If I order it for you today, it should come in Monday or Tuesday.”
As I paid for the items, I thought of getting mad at Joe for spending money on his tools.
You’re such a hypocrite, Daisy Buchanan.
But it’s for Claire, I protested to my inner voice.
Jeanne had a quizzical expression on her face and I wondered if I’d spoken out loud. I was getting too accustomed to my conversations with Alice the mannequin. I mumbled good-bye and told her I’d see her next week for the paint.
My cell phone rang just as I walked outside.
It was Angus. “Hey, Daisy, we’re going to need help appraising all this stuff. These dolls look authentic, but I have a reputation to uphold. We need an expert.”
I rolled my eyes. Hadn’t I already told him that?
Never mind. I peered through the store window, where Ardine was still at the register, talking to Jeanne. “I think I know just the person.”
• • •
On Saturday morning, Joe said he was going to see Tracy McEvoy.
“I was talking to Mac at that show, and she said she’d give me some tips on making miniatures. Told me to stop by today if I wanted.”
I remembered the statuesque blonde in the red halter dress and my stomach tightened.
“Want to come with me?”
“Sure. Okay,” I said, as casually as I could.
When Angus was wrongly accused of murder, I’d spent a lot of time investigating the case before Serrano arrived in town. It had all worked out well in the end and I’d found the real killer, but Joe, patient to a point, felt neglected, to say the least. We were still feeling our way back to the former closeness we’d enjoyed.
We headed out toward Forty Acre Road, where the houses were few and far between, and where my friend Joy David owned an upscale bed-and-breakfast called the Four Foxes.
We missed the turnoff to Mac’s place a couple of times until I finally spotted the sign for Deerpath Road, almost hidden in the trees on the corner of a narrow country lane. It was another few hundred yards before we came to the mailbox for number nine Deerpath.
A gravel driveway led up to a cedar-shingled high-peaked contemporary house. There wasn’t a weed in sight, in spite of the length of the drive. The grass was recently cut and a gorgeous crimson and gold Japanese maple in front was pruned and well mulched.
The studio was behind the house, in the same contemporary construction with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and a brick patio. We parked where the driveway ended with landscaping timbers set against the grass.
A black cat darted across in front of us and disappeared into the woods.
A magical place.
The wide Craftsman door to the studio opened and Mac stood there, wearing paint-spattered jeans and a ripped T-shirt exposing her toned arms. I didn’t want to stare at her chest, but I thought I could make out a logo for Temple University. The shirt must have been red at one time, but was now a dull rose. It was probably round-necked originally, too, but she’d slit it down into a V-neck and ripped the sleeves off.
“You made it.” Her gaze swept over me, but it was a neutral appraisal. I couldn’t decide if she was irritated that I was along for the ride, or if she couldn’t care less.
“Come on in.”
We followed her into a light-filled space with natural oak floors. Wood beams lined the swooping curves in the roof, and the walls were off-white. Easels held paintings in progress, and finished works hung along the wall to our left.
I stopped to admire one in particular. “Hey, these are really good. I think a friend of mine has one of your paintings.” Eleanor had a similar one hanging above her fireplace, of a barn at sunrise and a man walking across snow-covered fields with his dog.
“I don’t sell many. I’d rather keep them.”
I stared after her as she strode through the studio toward the carpentry workbenches, the jeans that encased her long legs worn pale in places.
I hadn’t realized she was an accomplished artist as well as an expert in miniatures. Jeez. She had more business than she knew what to do with, a fabulous workspace, and obviously boatloads of cash. The paintings were simply a way to express herself, not to make money.
A display stand in the center held examples of the magnificent craftsmanship that was in such demand—an inlaid walnut bureau, a Queen Anne highboy with finials, a lowboy of cherry wood, a Chinese Chippendale cabinet, a four-poster bed.
“How did you get into making miniatures?” Joe asked.
“I was a carpenter for full-size furniture before I started this business. I made every stick of furniture in here. Built the house and this studio, too.”
“You built it?” Joe looked around with wonder. “By yourself?”
“Yes. Well, I had some help with pouring the basement and the roof, but I did the rest.”
“And the plumbing and electrical?” I asked. She was so tall I had to lean my head back to look up at her.
“The plumbing, yes, but Larry Clark did most of the electrical. I know a little. Enough to be dangerous.”
Mac nodded toward a bank of windows at the end that provided a peaceful view of the woods. There was a deck at ground level and French doors to the right. “I lived in a mobile home out there for a year and a half.”
“You’re quite the girl, aren’t you?” It would be hard to miss the look of admiration on Joe’s face. “Well done.”
At last, here was a hint of a smile on her face.
I wondered if what little she knew about electrical was enough to rewire a dollhouse. Did she have a reason to kill Harriet? With that, I reminded myself that I wasn’t just here as my husband’s chaperone. After all, Mac was the one who’d recommended Larry Clark to Harriet in the first place.
“I took shop in high school before it was acceptable for girls to do so.” Mac stuck both hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Yeah, I was never into sewing, or girly stuff like that.”
I gritted my teeth. “Your work is exquisite.”
“Thank you,” she said, but with no smile for me. “I studied art in college, and worked in a restoration shop part-time. Just got into it, I guess. Bought some tools, and here I am.”
She picked up a tilt-top tea table and turned it over to show Joe the construction underneath. “This table was originally made in Philadelphia around 1770. It’s walnut, over a birdcage support.” She ripped a tiny piece off a sheet of finishing paper and began sanding. “It’ll get five coats of shellac with sanding in between. Lastly a good rubbing with paste wax of French polish.”
I stared in awe at the precise baluster turnings, and the three carved cabriole legs with snake feet. The detail was incredible for something so small.
“Harriet was the one that got me into the miniatures in the first place. She commissioned me to create a Windsor chair. I discovered I liked the challenge.” Mac blew gently on the table and inspected it. “She was an opinionated bitch, but so am I, so we got along.” The faint smile reappeared for an instant until her face scrunched up in concentration again.
Joe sank down on a stool. I stood behind him.
How old was she? That shirt had to be at least ten years old, so perhaps she was mid to late thirties. Her body was in such good shape, it was hard to tell.
“Here’s a sample of the grandfather clock I made for this last show. It actually runs. Solid mahogany with box inlay, and the clock face is hand-painted paper over metal. Except Harriet’s was bigger, of course. It nearly drove me to drink, but I finished at the last minute. I was up for twenty-four hours straight getting it done.”
Joe never
took his eyes off her, hanging on to her every word. I couldn’t exactly blame him. There was a lot to look at, with the tight jeans and the top that hung loosely on her toned frame. When she bent over slightly to set the clock down, I caught a glimpse of pale breast and red bra.
“Harriet came over here to pick it up?” My voice sounded as raspy as the scratch of the sandpaper.
Mac frowned. “Yeah. And I already told that annoying cop everything. What a pain in the butt he is.”
Was Mac the only female on the face of the planet who was immune to Serrano’s innate sex appeal? Heck, I ramped up the air-conditioning in the store whenever he stopped by, no matter what the weather. Was she gay? Was Harriet?
Suddenly nervous under her glare, I chattered on about my dollhouse and how I was fixing it up and having trouble choosing what to put in because there were so many choices.
She eyed me closely. “Many miniaturists allow one style to predominate. But in real life, people often have a variety of pieces they’ve inherited and accumulated. If you’re trying to document an historical record, it’s probably best to keep the same period together, but otherwise, do what feels right.”
I pictured our house, with its mix of modern, antique, and what was actually authentic for a Greek Revival. The old steamer trunk in the study, the butcher-block table in the kitchen from the turn of the century, and the modern leather couches.
She turned to Joe. “The fine-grained woods are best. Oak is too coarse, so you want to use birch to look like oak.” She gestured to the tools on the bench—the pliers, files, tweezers, and chisel. “You have these, right?”
Joe nodded eagerly. Like me in my conversation with Ardine the other day, I could see that he was trying to soak it all in.
She showed him some drawer pulls made with a jeweler’s lathe and carvings done with dentist’s burrs. “These tools are delicate enough for the most intricate work. It would probably be good for you to take a jewelry class at some point.”
Oh, great. Something else to spend money on.
She slipped on a pair of head magnifying glasses. “You need a hell of a passion for detail to do this type of work. You might be able to get away with an imperfection in a larger piece, but not in miniature.”
“I don’t know if my big old fingers will get in the way,” Joe said.
Mac grinned at him, and as she worked, she relaxed even more. “You could specialize, too, Joe, depending on what you’re drawn to. One guy I know makes ship models, another woman only makes wing chairs. The world of miniatures uses almost every craft from pottery to textiles.”
“Why were you mad at PJ for writing that article about you?” I asked. Nice transition. Smooth, Daisy. I could practically hear Serrano’s mocking voice in my ear. “Um, it’s just that I would have thought more business was a good thing.”
“I was mad because I specifically asked her not to,” Mac said, slowly and carefully. “She went off and wrote the damn thing anyway. I don’t like having to turn customers away.”
I blinked. This Amazon struck me as someone who wasn’t afraid of saying no.
“Many craftspeople have more orders than they can handle.” She nodded at Joe. “In fact, I have some leads I can turn you onto when you feel you’re ready.”
Joe smiled at her, his dark eyes glowing.
“But it was the fact that PJ plowed ahead like a steamroller, intent on her own agenda, that pissed me off. The fact that she didn’t take no for an answer.”
I winced. She could have been describing me. I didn’t dare look at Joe. I knew the corners of his mouth would be turning up.
“She just gets into everyone’s business, she’s nosy, and—”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I snapped.
Mac raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment.
I shifted on my stool. “Um. I was thinking about adding some lighting to my dollhouse. Do you know anything about that?”
“Some purists say that since light can’t be scaled down, it shouldn’t be used at all.” Mac smiled at me for the first time, and I wondered if she was just humoring me. “But the simplest technique is to use a regular bulb and splice the bulb socket directly to the line cord that plugs into the wall. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.” She paused and blew a fine layer of dust off the table. “Not unless you want to commit suicide, that is.”
I sucked in a breath, while Mac and Joe discussed why toy train transformers were also dangerous to use. I backed away and wandered around the studio, ostensibly to look at the paintings, but my mind was in a whirl.
Had Harriet killed herself? No one had even considered that possibility. Why not? She could have been depressed over her husband leaving. She’d certainly seemed on edge when she came into my store.
Because she’d never give Birch Kunes the satisfaction, that’s why not.
And if someone was planning on doing themselves in, why would they make elaborate preparations for a competition the next day?
“A ten-volt doorbell transformer should be okay,” Mac was saying, “and it can light some wheat-of-grain bulbs. Then you can hide it behind a wall or inside the ceiling. But make sure the bulbs are well ventilated.”
Joe smiled benevolently at her, as if he hadn’t spent most of his life as head of an electricians’ union.
She’d explained everything so carefully. Would she really reveal all this knowledge if she was the killer? Or maybe she was being extra clever to divert attention away from herself. But what would Mac have against Harriet?
“It sounds like Harriet was a good customer,” I said. “Did she ever keep you waiting for payment? Did she owe you for the pieces she’d just commissioned?”
Mac laughed, a short hacking sound. “Oh, no, she always paid on time.”
I could feel Joe’s eyes on me, silently pleading. Stop playing investigator, Daisy.
After another twenty minutes or so, Mac announced that she had a lunch appointment, so Joe and I got up to leave.
“This was fantastic,” he said. “I learned so much. Thank you.”
“Feel free to stop back anytime.”
I’d bet my last dollar that the invitation did not include me.
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning, after a restless night, I took Jasper out early. It was still dark. Actually more like a strange half-light in the diaphanous transition between night and day. We hurried down Main Street, where the streetlights were still on and the wind whipped stray leaves in tumbling circles alongside us.
I mentally rehearsed my pitch to Chip Rosenthal as I trudged, glad of my warm gloves and scarf. I would be calm, pleasant, and persuasive, and I’d get him to see reason. The more I practiced, the more my confidence grew. I wasn’t leaving this town without a fight.
A bread truck passed us on its way to the diner. In the distance I could see the yellow glow from the old trolley car, already serving meals to the night shift.
Joe had spent the rest of the weekend down in the basement, putting his new ideas to work, inspired by our visit to Tracy McEvoy’s. Mac had been a female version of Cyril—gruff and off-putting—but Joe didn’t seem to notice. All the way home in the car, he kept saying what a great girl she was.
Suddenly I gasped, the dry air biting the back of my throat. I stood stock still on the street while Jasper looked back at me in surprise.
I should have asked her about Sophie. If Sophie was as avid a collector as Harriet, I’d bet Mac had done some work for her, too. And seeing as Sophie was agoraphobic, she may have had to go to Sophie’s home. I wondered how I could approach her to find out. Mac had erected such a wall between us, I wasn’t sure I’d ever manage to scale it.
I headed toward the south end of Millbury, and found myself walking past Dottie Brown’s house. To the right of the above-ground pool that was covered now for the winter, Sam had created his pumpkin patch. It encomp
assed almost half of the backyard. Bet Dottie was thrilled about that.
There were three large pumpkins growing amid a vast bed of waist-high dark green leaves. Sam had erected wooden shelters above them, presumably as protection from the wind, and in the chill of the morning, they were also lovingly covered with blankets. The largest was snuggled under a Thomas the Tank Engine comforter.
Sam waved and came over to the split-rail fence when he saw me and Jasper.
“How are the pumpkins coming along, Sam?”
“Oh, well, you know, it’s a full-time job, what with watering, fertilizing, and weeding. You have to watch them all the time.”
“They’re amazing. I can see where it could be quite a project.”
“I’ve developed a new program this year. Molasses, fish kelp, and milk.” He held up a canister with a sprayer attached. “They say the reason punkins split is because they’re calcium deficient. I bathe them every day with my secret recipe.”
He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Think I might have a chance this year though. Especially with Georgia over there.”
He pointed toward the biggest pumpkin.
“She’s a beauty. Good luck, Sam. See you later.”
Jasper and I headed home, and like a montage in a movie, we gradually walked into morning. The daytime sky was now a wintry white.
• • •
When I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion, a message from Angus was on the answering machine saying Ardine Smalls was doing a fabulous job. She’d been at the auction house with him for most of the weekend, writing up descriptions of each item for the auction catalog. I smiled as he raved about her vast knowledge of collectibles, and how she’d given him lots of contacts to advertise the event.
Marybeth also left a message asking if I was available to visit some more retail locations.