A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  Get real, Daisy.

  The police had scoured this area, I was sure. I went as deep as I could before the brush blocked my way, trying to imagine I was mowing grass, making straight overlapping lines back and forth. As I made another route back toward the house, I caught my breath. A young deer stood staring at me, only about six or seven feet away. There was a moment when neither of us moved, and I drank in the sight of its liquid brown eyes and soft fur. A bird cried out, and suddenly spooked, he crashed away in a flurry of spiky legs and white tail.

  It had probably been a deer that night, too. So much for my overactive imagination.

  A minivan with a logo saying THE DAZZLE TEAM zoomed down the street, radio blaring with some kind of joyous music with a throbbing drumbeat. It ground to a halt in front of the house across from Harriet’s.

  I slipped behind a tree and hoped they wouldn’t notice my bicycle. Four women tumbled out of the van, laughing and chatting. I watched for a few minutes, as they went in and out of the house with cleaning supplies.

  Harriet’s house must have been sort of a sweet deal, come to think of it. Only one person living there, with no pets. They would only have had to vacuum a narrow pathway through the hallways. Most of the bedrooms were inaccessible, being stuffed to the gills with collectibles, which they were forbidden to dust anyway.

  As I hid behind the tree, wondering when I could make my getaway, I saw the garage doors rise, and two of the women, one wearing a bright red bandana around her hair, pulled the trash cans to the curb for pickup next morning. They went back inside the house, leaving the garage open.

  Was that how the killer entered the house? It wouldn’t be too hard to slip inside, and hide somewhere that the cleaning people wouldn’t go, like the unfinished basement. Or heck, even in Harriet’s garage, if they squeezed behind one of those towering piles of totes and boxes. Once the crew left, it would be a simple matter for the killer to tamper with the dollhouse, hit the door closure, and scoot under the garage door, just the way Birch had done.

  I checked my watch. Damn. Already 9:45 a.m. I’d need to haul it back to Millbury. No doubt I was going to be late opening the store. The question was how late. As I swung my leg over the crossbar, I had a bad feeling I’d overdone it. What had seemed like a great idea suddenly seemed reckless, if not plain stupid.

  I rode along Burning Barn Road, thigh muscles aching, and toyed with the idea of calling Joe to pick me up.

  A car was coming from the opposite direction, and I gasped as the one behind me suddenly passed, leaving barely six inches between its mirrors and my handlebars. I swerved, the bike wobbled, and I fell off into the undergrowth by the side of the road.

  I lay there for a minute, praying that my bike wasn’t covered in lilac and yellow paint.

  Lights flashed in my peripheral vision. I groaned as I twisted around and saw an unmarked police car with Serrano at the wheel.

  I sat up as he sauntered over to me. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a sky blue tie that matched the color of his eyes.

  “Whatcha doin’, Daisy?”

  Looking like an old fool. “Saving money.”

  “By getting run over and ending up in the hospital?” He held out a hand and I grasped the steely warmth as he pulled me gently to my feet. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods anyway?”

  “I just bought some paint for my dollhouse.” I picked up the cans. They were a bit dented, but thankfully intact.

  “At Meadow Farms?”

  I sucked in a breath. “Look, Serrano, I think I know how the killer got into Harriet’s house.” I explained about seeing the cleaning women leaving the neighbor’s garage doors open.

  “You can’t see that particular street from the gate.”

  I gritted my teeth. “All right, all right. I may have talked the guard into letting me check out the clubhouse.”

  Serrano shook his head, whether in exasperation or admiration, I couldn’t tell.

  “See, someone could have snuck in when the cleaners were busy, rewired the dollhouse, and then exited through the garage, the same way Birch Kunes did.”

  “You have a point there,” he said. “Most people leave the door unlocked from the garage to the mudroom or kitchen, and leave that alarm zone turned off. But what about the front door being ajar?”

  “When Harriet got home, she was probably so excited about seeing the dollhouse, she forgot to close it properly.” Now that I’d stopped cycling, I could feel my leg muscles cramping up again and I rubbed a hand against the small of my back. “We assumed it was from someone running out, but maybe not.”

  “Want a ride?”

  I nodded. To heck with my pride. “Yes, please.”

  Serrano picked up my bike, slipped the front wheel off, and slid it into the vast trunk of the Crown Victoria. I was worried about him getting grease on his suit, but before I could even voice my concern, it was completed with one smooth movement. The way he did everything.

  I pulled a leaf out of my hair before I got into the car. Serrano didn’t need to know that I had been poking around in the woods. God forbid he’d infer that I didn’t think the police could handle their jobs.

  The passenger seat was well-worn and comfortable, and I relaxed against it as the cruiser ate up the miles between the environs of Sheepville and Millbury.

  “Hey, guess who I saw golfing together?” I said. “Tracy McEvoy and Marybeth Skelton. What do you make of that?”

  “There’s no law against playing golf, Daisy.” There was a weary note to his voice.

  I frowned. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all. “But one of them, most probably Mac, could have been the person that Harriet was expecting that night. As members of the club, they wouldn’t have had to sign in as her visitors.”

  “Or it could have been Kunes,” he said. “He knew the code, and was used to running under the garage door. He rents a place in the development. He wouldn’t have to sign in as a visitor either. And he has the best motive of all the suspects.”

  “I don’t know, Serrano. He seems like a nice guy.”

  “Sometimes the obvious suspect is so for a good reason. And it’s often the guys who are too nice, too helpful, that you need to consider.”

  “Look, I really think you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

  He made no answer. Serrano was as immaculate as ever today, but there were fine lines at the corner of his eyes, and he was so perfectly shaved, it was as if he’d taken extra trouble with his appearance.

  “Do I look okay?” he inquired.

  I blushed. “Yes, you look very nice.”

  He exhaled. “God, I’m tired. I found a strange woman waiting for me in my bed last night when I got home.”

  He looked so glum about it that I had to cough against the laugh that rose up in my throat.

  “She was wearing nothing except high heels and a frilly black apron, and she was holding an apple pie.”

  “An apple pie?”

  He frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, I would have thought chocolate mousse was sexier.” A grin escaped that I couldn’t hold off anymore.

  Serrano shook his head, but there was a trace of an answering smile as he glanced at me. “All right, Ms. Buchanan, you can mock, but it was a severe invasion of my privacy.”

  “How’d she get in?”

  He sighed deeply. “She told the cleaning people that she was my sister, and seeing as burglars usually don’t bring pies, they let her in. My Spanish is limited, but I think I got through to them not to do it again.”

  “Did you arrest the woman?”

  “I told her to get dressed and then I escorted her out of the development. Then I went home and washed the sheets.”

  There was silence in the car as we swung up onto Sheepville Pike.

  “So, did you ever check out where
Chip Rosenthal was on the day of Harriet’s murder?” I asked.

  “In his office mostly, but there are gaps of time when no one can confirm his whereabouts,” Serrano said, reluctantly. “When we tried to interview him, he refused to answer any questions without his lawyer present. Sniveling and whining the whole time. Pathetic.”

  “You see? Guilty!” I cleared my throat. “Um, do you think you could take a look at the file on the recluse, Sophie Rosenthal? There’s some talk that she may have been murdered, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you have anything substantial to back this up?”

  “Not exactly, but you know how lazy Ramsbottom was. It’s unlikely he conducted a thorough investigation.” The detective that Serrano had replaced was not only slipshod, but had in fact been suspended for questionable activities.

  Serrano pulled up in front of Sometimes a Great Notion. As he hoisted my bike out of the trunk and attached the wheel again, I asked, “Why are you gunning so hard for Birch Kunes? Why are you so convinced he’s the guilty party?”

  “Just have a real problem with guys who cheat. Long story. There’s something else,” he said, lowering his voice, “and this is just between you and me, Daisy. We’ve discovered a sizeable payment from Birch Kunes into Marybeth Skelton’s bank account. I gotta wonder if this guy’s some kind of serial cheater, or what?”

  “Maybe he felt guilty over how his wife treated her younger sister, and he’s trying to make amends.”

  Serrano’s expression was grim. “Or maybe it’s payment for a job well done.”

  • • •

  The next morning, before I even got out of bed, I knew I’d be paying the price for yesterday’s adventure. I moved slowly, stretching muscles that were determined to punish me for the unaccustomed vigorous exercise.

  I took Jasper for a walk, wincing as he pulled on the leash and my back cried out in protest. Piles of leaves lined the sidewalks and he dove, burying his head underneath and then coming up for air, shaking them off like so many water droplets. After the oppressive humidity of summer, he’d found renewed vigor in the crisp fall.

  The tree in front of the one-room schoolhouse had exploded into a fiery burst of burnt peach, smoky lemon, and spicy lime. Halloween decorations were already up on some of the houses, and I admired the arrays of mini pumpkins and mums lining the doorsteps. Ghosts made of white scarves swung from the eaves of porches, and the dried stalks and pods of summer flowers made a spooky display. We passed one place with plastic gravestones planted in the yard, and Jasper gave a startled bark as a motion detector set off an eerie chuckle of laughter.

  At Sweet Mabel’s, pumpkin ice cream was the special of the day, and a sign invited customers to COME IN AND SIT FOR A SPELL.

  I hoped Serrano had taken me seriously about reviewing Sophie Rosenthal’s file. Maybe a clue had been overlooked. Some small detail or photo that would give a hint as to the real cause of her death.

  We walked past the Browns’ house, and I slowed down, enchanted at the sight of the giant pumpkin. Like a scene from a fairy tale in the foggy quiet of the morning. It was far bigger than the other two now. I could picture mice turning into coachmen and vines swirling up around it to make carriage wheels.

  In spite of the early hour, Sam was already working in the patch, pulling up weeds.

  “Georgia seems like she grows every time I see her,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, giant punkins are incredible when they get going. They can grow thirty to forty pounds in a day.”

  We both stared at it, and I fancied I could see the pale monstrous fruit swelling before my eyes.

  “The right seed is the key,” Sam said as he came over to me. “This year I crossed a 1472 Meklin with a 1323 Ames. Walter Ames won last year with a fifteen hundred pounder. I don’t expect to equal the real heavy hitters, but I would like to get above a thousand pounds before I die.”

  He smiled at my expression. “You think I’m crazy, but you should see some of these guys. I know one guy who has his punkin attached to all this monitoring equipment. He can tell you how much it grows every hour. He’s got graphs, pollination records, and a seed collection like you wouldn’t believe. And some of them have huge fields on their farms. I’m just doing it in my backyard.”

  I smiled back. I’d always thought of Sam Brown as an amiable, if rather dull sort of man, but in talking about his pumpkins he was transformed, his eyes alight, the energy fairly crackling from him.

  I’d always been fascinated by people who were fully engaged with something, whatever it was. So many people never found their passion in life.

  Marybeth was due at 10 a.m., so I said good-bye to Sam and hurried home to get ready. But when I opened Sometimes a Great Notion, there was an apologetic message on the machine. Apparently she’d tried to line up a couple of places, but one of them had just rented, and the owner of the other decided it wasn’t ready to show.

  I gritted my teeth. Marybeth probably just wanted to go golfing again.

  When Laura arrived, I explained that I wasn’t going out, but I could still use her help. We set to work cleaning out the upstairs bedrooms, which was one of those projects I’d been meaning to get to, but never had.

  Numerous yard and estate sale purchases were piled up against the wall, mainly things that needed repair or were missing a match. I cheered to discover some vintage postcards from an auction I’d attended in the spring. Somewhere in this mess was a collection of old valentines, too, and I’d planned to display them together.

  It was so much faster and nicer with someone to share the job. Laura was always so amenable and willing to work hard. I promised myself I’d do whatever I could to take care of her, no matter what happened with the store.

  Although she came to an abrupt halt when she picked up a pale green glass plate.

  “Laura? What is it?”

  “Sorry. This reminds me of my mom.” She ran her fingers lightly over the intricate beaded pattern.

  It suddenly struck me that I didn’t know that much about her. She’d never revealed a lot about her family or her background. Who was Laura Grayling?

  “Your mother collected sandwich glass?” I asked gently, aware of the brightness in her eyes.

  She nodded. “I don’t remember that much about her. She died when my little brother was five.”

  “That must have been hard for you.” I thought of my wonderful, quirky daughter, off on a film set in Spain. Sarah had been adored and spoiled her whole life and still gaily complained about anything and everything.

  Here was a girl who’d had a lot more to deal with and had still found her way.

  “I expect you had to grow up fast, taking care of your brothers and sisters.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t mind. We’re very close.”

  She didn’t seem to want to say any more, so I said briskly, “Okay, let’s move some of this stuff downstairs for sale.”

  As I set out some postcards from the turn of the last century on the Welsh dresser, the terse inscriptions made me smile.

  One from Weatherly, PA, sent in 1916, said, “This town is much nicer than I thought. Wish you were here. Your wife, Elsie.” Another from the Devil’s Pool, Wissahickon Creek, Philadelphia, was inscribed simply, “Having a fine time,” and signed with the sender’s initials.

  The lost art of letter writing.

  I found a boudoir dresser scarf in another box, and knew immediately where it had come from. There was that elusive scent of Sophie’s again, still clinging to the navy silk. The scarf was hand-embroidered with baskets of roses and lilacs at each end.

  Now I remembered why I hadn’t displayed it right away. The metallic trim had separated in a couple of places, but it was an easy fix. I sat down right then and there with a needle and thread. There was no sense in leaving this exquisite scarf languishing in a cardboard box a moment longer.<
br />
  As I sewed, I wondered what had happened to the regal, intelligent woman who owned all these lovely things? In spite of the fact that I’d never met Sophie, I had to admit I was much more interested in learning the truth about her death than the spiteful Harriet’s.

  Laura uncovered a set of wooden alphabet stamps, and we set them next to the postcards. She also found a Victorian necklace of a real butterfly mounted on mother-of-pearl. The chain was broken, which was why it had been stored upstairs.

  “I can fix this, Daisy. No problem.”

  Little by little, over the course of the next few hours, I coaxed more memories out of Laura, especially about her mom. She wasn’t the type to open up right away, and patience was not my strong suit, but eventually she relaxed.

  At the end of the day, I was amazed at how much we’d done, and I hoped that the telling of long-buried stories had helped her in some small way.

  “Thanks so much, Laura. I think we accomplished a lot today.”

  I left her to close up and took Jasper to the park.

  • • •

  I found Ruthie on her old tartan blanket, holding court with a couple of the wine club members. One was the matronly golden retriever owner and the other was so unbelievably thin, Martha would have wanted to take her home and feed her a plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

  “Glass of wine?” Ruthie asked.

  “Actually, yes, thank you, I will.” I sat down on the blanket next to her. “It’s been a long week already.”

  I smiled at the other two. “Hi, I’m Daisy Buchanan.”

  The golden’s owner was the first to hold out her hand. “I’m Alice Rogan. Nice to meet you.”

  “Alice! Hey, I have a—um—another friend called Alice,” I said, but I didn’t elaborate.

  Before the second woman told me her name, she cried out, jumped up, and ran into the pack of dogs to pick up a snarling Chihuahua.

  “That’s Caroline,” Ruthie said. “She’s always doing that, because she’s afraid her dog’s going to get hurt, but he’s the one who starts most of the fights.”