A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  “Ah wanted to get as much done as I could before we went away.”

  I walked around it, lost in wonder. “Oh, Cyril, this is fantastic. I can’t believe you did it so quickly.”

  “All that’s left to do is to put the furniture and the rugs in. Maybe Joe can tackle the lighting. I’m no expert, and after what happened . . .”

  I nodded quickly, forcing the image of the electrocuted Harriet out of my mind.

  We spent the next half hour installing rugs and furniture, gluing books on shelves and anchoring ceramics and other tiny accessories with florist’s clay.

  I was about to put the framed pictures back on the living room wall when I choked on my tea. “Wait a minute! I think these are actual photos of the Rosenthal family.” I peered at one of them. “Yes, here’s Sophie.” It was a tiny version of her portrait on the wall of the Historical Society.

  I handed the minute frame to Cyril. “Here’s another. This couple must be Sophie’s brother and his wife.” I picked up the last one and studied it.

  It was a picture of a young blond girl, presumably the stepdaughter. There was something familiar about her, but what was it? The picture was so tiny, it was hard to make out any details.

  “There’s one missing,” Cyril muttered.

  I gasped. He was right. The picture of Chip Rosenthal.

  Did Sophie have time to pull his photo down from the wall to finger her killer before she died?

  • • •

  After I’d thanked Cyril effusively and promised him coffee every morning for the rest of his natural-born life, I staggered back to the store with the dollhouse safely cushioned in a cardboard box. By the time I made it inside the front door, my arms were shaking. With the last of my strength, I put it in the upstairs storage room.

  I covered the top of the box with a pile of quilts and stacked some bolts of fabric in front of it. I still hadn’t given the alarm company the go ahead to install a system, seeing as I didn’t exactly know what my plans were, but it should be safe enough. I’d make sure I locked the deadbolt when I left for the day.

  The doorbell tinkled and I hurried down the stairs. A young woman in a black peacoat and rose-colored scarf looked up at me and smiled. A real live customer!

  “Hi. Do you have any vintage needle books? My aunt is a collector, and I wanted to get her one for her birthday, but I had no idea where to find something like that until someone in Sheepville told me about your store.”

  “You came to the right place.” I happily pulled out my needle book collection. Nowadays they were utilitarian affairs, but decades ago, they were truly works of art.

  Gorgeous pictures adorned the covers and inside was a jewellike array of colored foils to hold the needles and threader. Bright green, pink, gold, red, and purple foils, some embossed with an intertwining spiderweb design to symbolize the industrious seamstress.

  I showed her my “Sewing Susan” needle books, from the thirties through the fifties, featuring the same group of women sitting around, laughing and sewing.

  “See how the women changed over the years? In the later books, they used brighter colors, with different hairstyles. Even the painting changed in the background.”

  Sometimes a Great Notion was a wonderful opportunity to combine my interest in antiques and history with my passion for teaching. People loved to hear stories about the things they bought so they could pass on tidbits of knowledge when they showed off their purchases to their friends.

  “That’s interesting,” she said. “I know absolutely nothing about sewing, but these are really neat.”

  “Some of these were produced as promotional giveaways to advertise insurance companies and supermarkets and the like. The travel theme was popular, too.” I showed her one in the shape of an ocean liner, and another with a view of mountains from a train window. “Probably because sewing was something you could do to pass the time on a journey.”

  She picked a book with a picture of a woman sewing in a garden surrounded by pink rosebushes. “This is pretty. I think I’ll take this one.” On the reverse was the same woman inside a drawing room, sewing with a child, and looking out of the window at those same pink roses.

  “That’s what we call ‘new’ old stock,” I said. “More often than not, the books have some needles missing or the cover has some wear and tear, but there are a few here that have never been used.”

  I helped her put together a nice selection of five needle books for her aunt. After she left, delighted that she’d found a thoughtful birthday present for under thirty dollars, I put the rest back on display. I picked up one of the Sewing Susan books again, musing over the pictures of the women on the cover.

  That picture of the stepdaughter in the dollhouse. Whom did it remind me of?

  It was like the thread of a dream that you remember when you first wake up, but the harder you try to think about it, the more awake you become and the further it disappears from reach.

  What I needed were more pictures of the Rosenthal family.

  I called Debby Millerton, the librarian over in Sheepville, and asked if she could help me locate some microfilm of the newspaper reports of Sophie’s death and also the accident that had killed her brother and his wife.

  Next I called Chip Rosenthal and left a message that I had an interesting proposition for him and would he please call me back as soon as possible.

  It was a busy day at the store, and when the last customer left around 5:30 p.m., I raced over to the Sheepville Library.

  I called the house on the way but got the answering machine. I left a message for Joe that I would be late and not to worry about making dinner.

  The library was an attractive two-story brick building on the corner of Main and Porter Streets. It had tall white Palladian windows on the first floor, and soaring wide arches inside formed impressive entryways between the various rooms. It was once the borough hall, and had served briefly as a polling place and senior center. It was actually quite a large library for a town the size of Sheepville.

  Debby met me in the lobby, where there was a fireplace and comfortable couches to sit and enjoy a good book. She brought me back through the reading tables and endless aisles of bookshelves, through the used-book sale area, and finally to a back room, with beige filing cabinets and a table holding the microfilm reader. “We only have a limited collection of newspapers, but I think you’ll find what you need. I’ve pulled out the Sheepville Times for the dates you asked about.”

  I sat down in front of the reader, and she showed me how to set the reel on the spool and feed the film through the guide.

  “What’s going on, Daisy?” she whispered, even though no one else was around. “Are you involved in a top-secret investigation again?” Her eyes sparkled. Debby was a film buff and everything was dramatic and exciting if she could make it that way. She’d been writing a romance novel in her spare time for the past five years, but she’d never let anyone read it.

  I shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Just one of my hunches.” I looked around and lowered my voice to a whisper, too. “No one knows if Sophie’s death was from an accidental overdose of insulin, or if she killed herself because she was depressed over the death of her brother. I was hoping to find some clues in these articles.”

  “Well, it’s strange that Sophie Rosenthal renewed her library books online the day before she died if she was planning to commit suicide.”

  “Really?” I stared at her. That wouldn’t be enough of a clue for Serrano, but as far as I was concerned, it was another nail in the coffin for Chip Rosenthal.

  Debby left me alone then, and I settled down to read.

  Apparently Charles Rosenthal, his wife, and stepdaughter had gone to a New Year’s Eve party. Driving home, their car skidded on some ice on Swamp Pike and crashed over the barrier, plunged down a hill, and slammed into a tree. Charles Rosenthal and his wife wer
e killed instantly. The only survivor was the girl, who had been thrown from the car, but miraculously sustained only cuts and bruises and managed to crawl up the snow-covered hill and flag down a passing car for help.

  I enlarged the photo that was captioned “Margaret Jane Rosenthal.” She was a beautiful, if slightly chubby blonde. I shook my head, catching that wisp of a remembered fragment of a dream again.

  Margaret Jane Rosenthal.

  A picture of the monogrammed heart Laura had used for her necklace flashed into my mind. But the initials were MAJ, which didn’t fit.

  I gritted my teeth and scrolled through more of the microfilm. I read all the accounts I could find on the accident and then changed the reel for one brief account of Sophie’s death, but there was no additional information there.

  I stared at Sophie’s photo. The arched brows, the prominent nose. A steely look in her eye that was tempered by a softness to her smile. Definitely a moneyed air about her, and I could see where she might have been a high-maintenance chore for the stepdaughter.

  The grainy images on the screen were making my eyes water.

  I switched off the microfilm and started searching on the Internet. I typed in Charles Rosenthal and found news items about his various business deals over the years. I was just about to give up and head home when I stumbled across their wedding announcement.

  Charles Rosenthal to Dana Avery. Apparently Margaret’s mother used to be married to someone with the last name of Avery, before he died and she married Sophie’s brother.

  Margaret Jane Avery. And wasn’t Peggy sometimes a nickname for Margaret?

  With shaking fingers, I reinstalled the reel of the date of the accident. I adjusted the magnifying lens and enlarged the photo as much as it would go, of the blond girl with scratches across her face and badly bruised eyes.

  I squinted, trying to imagine her without the mass of blond hair and thinner, to the point of emaciation. I then added purple contacts, cut her hair, and dyed it black.

  PJ Avery, the Sheepville Times’ star reporter, stared back at me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I hurried out of the file room, at what I hoped was a dignified fast walk past the people sitting at the reading tables.

  Debby was at the reception desk. She read my body language instantly, dropped the books she was checking out for a startled patron, and rushed over to me.

  “You’ve done it! You’ve cracked the case, haven’t you, Daisy?” Her voice was hoarse in its whispered excitement.

  I grabbed her hands. “I don’t know yet, but thanks for your help. I’ve got to run now. Call you later.”

  With that, I broke into a real run, out of the heavy front doors and hell for leather along Main Street to the intersection with Sheepville Pike. It was faster than moving the car and trying to find another parking spot.

  The sergeant on duty was singularly unimpressed with my frantic plea to see Detective Serrano on a matter of grave importance. He finished making notes on his pad in what had to be the worst cursive in the world, and took his time dialing Serrano’s extension, while I paced up and down, panting.

  Too bad that monogrammed heart wasn’t the right letters. So close, but no cigar.

  Suddenly I gasped and almost slapped my forehead. “Oh, silly Daisy! The initials do fit.” On an old-fashioned monogram, the center letter signified a person’s last name. “So MAJ is Margaret Jane Avery. And she must have been the one who broke into my store that night.”

  The sergeant gave me a quizzical look, and I realized I’d spoken out loud.

  Finally he opened the gate and gestured for me to go down the hallway toward Serrano’s office. It wasn’t really an office, more like a corner of a large room, but it looked a lot different from the last time I’d been here. Back then I’d had to run the gamut of detectives lolling around, chatting, some giving me curious once-overs as I hurried to where the former detective in charge, Frank Ramsbottom, reclined in his chair in slothful splendor.

  Now the walls had been repainted, desks straightened up, and this crew looked like they were auditioning for the pages of GQ. They were on the phone, on the computer, all on point.

  It was true that management style trickled downhill.

  Even though Serrano was as immaculately dressed as his men, the haunted look in his eyes was more apparent than when I’d seen him outside Meadow Farms. I hoped one day he would trust me enough to tell me about the demons that tortured a man who seemed to have everything else going for him.

  “Serrano, I found a picture in the library of Charles Rosenthal’s stepdaughter. I’m convinced it’s PJ Avery.”

  My words tumbled over each other as I explained to the bemused detective about bumping into Laura with the box of jewelry remnants and how she’d picked everything up off the floor, including the monogrammed necklace. “PJ must have lost it while trying to steal the dollhouse. At first I thought it was Chip who broke in, because he has a black knit cap, too, but then I realized the person I saw that night was too short and too thin to be him. It had to be PJ.”

  “So what do you wanna do, Daisy? Arrest this chick for breaking and entering?”

  I sighed. “Not really. I just want to find out what’s going on. I mean, why would someone go to such lengths to conceal their identity? And by all accounts, she was the one who took care of Sophie the most. She would have known the ins and outs of her insulin routine.”

  Although I hoped against hope that PJ had nothing to do with Sophie’s death. I’d grown fond of the quirky reporter.

  Serrano frowned at his pencil. “I heard she did some time in the Peace Corps. Wonder if she picked up some electrical training there? And perhaps some B&E skills, too.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “It might make sense that PJ would kill Sophie, assuming she thought the woman planned to leave her something in her will, but once she found out there wasn’t one, it doesn’t make sense to do away with Harriet as well. After all, Harriet was trying to find the proof that might make PJ the heir, and not Chip.”

  I slumped back in my seat.

  There was silence between us for a few moments.

  “So. Did you have a good time at Eleanor’s the other night?” I asked.

  I held my breath as I waited for his reply.

  The lazy smile flashed, but only for a moment. “She’s an interesting woman. Very interesting.”

  • • •

  When I got home, there was a note from Joe on the kitchen counter saying he’d gone with Tracy McEvoy to her studio so she could help him finish up an order. He advised me not to wait up, and that she would give him a ride home.

  I glanced at the clock. It was 7:30 p.m. I let Jasper outside and he peed for about two minutes straight. “Poor puppy,” I said, gritting my teeth and taking the leash off the wall.

  Would it have been too much for Joe to call and let me know that he wouldn’t be home to let the dog out?

  “Good boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Jasper and I took what was becoming our regular route toward the south end of Millbury and the Browns’ house, the giant pumpkin calling me like a siren. I’d miss it when it went off to the competition.

  A couple of blocks away, I heard the singing.

  If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the aria from Roméo et Juliette, when Romeo sings up to his love on her balcony.

  I stopped in the shadow cast by the side of the house. In the twilight I saw the diminutive barber standing in the middle of the pumpkin patch, surrounded by leaves the size of dinner plates, his hands held up to the regal fruit in supplication. Above him, dark spikes of high tree branches pierced the indigo sky, and the moon was a milky blur behind the clouds.

  His soaring tenor resonated around the garden with gorgeous, lush tendrils of sound, and I fancied I could almost see the leaves trembling. Even Jasper sank unbidden into a sitting position
, his ears pricked and head slightly cocked to one side.

  I closed my eyes, the melody washing over me, sometimes tender and soft, sometimes heartbreaking in its passionate entreaty.

  “Bellissimo,” I whispered.

  If that didn’t encourage Gloria to thrive, I didn’t know what would.

  When we got home, Joe was still out. I watched television for a while, but finally went to bed. It was close to 10 p.m. by the time I heard a car pull up outside, the front door open, and the stairs creak as he made his way upstairs.

  I slipped out of bed, drew on my robe, and met him in the hallway.

  He took a step back. “Oh, Daisy, you’re still up? Thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  I swallowed, hardly knowing where to start.

  “Look, Joe, I don’t know if you should be spending a lot of time alone with that woman. I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.”

  His face was in shadow in the dim hallway and I had trouble reading his expression.

  “Why not?” he said. “You hang out with Angus. You meet up with that playboy Serrano whenever you like. I don’t get jealous of that, do I?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, when I spied the smile playing around his lips, and I released the breath I was holding. “It’s just that there’s something a little creepy about her. And she could be a killer!”

  Joe hugged me to him. “You’re a nut. You and your imagination. Come and see what I have for you.”

  He pulled me into the bedroom, turned on the overhead light, and patted the bed. “Sit. And close your eyes.”

  Obediently I climbed onto the bed and felt him place something wrapped in a soft cloth into my hands. I opened my eyes, unwrapped the package, and looked up in wonder.

  His face was flushed with success. “It’s the dining table for Claire’s dollhouse.”

  “Oh, Joe.” The mahogany table had delicately carved spiral twist legs, and there were eight tiny side dining chairs and two armchairs. His usual perfectionism had been zoomed down into exquisite miniature. It was magnificent.