A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Cate Price

  “Egg salad on rye, please,” I said. “And a side of curly fries and an iced tea.”

  “Is the corned beef exceptionally lean here?” Warren asked.

  Patsy raised an eyebrow. “Are there mustaches in Mexico?”

  “That’s fine, then. With a dab of mustard, not too much. And plain water to drink, please. No ice.”

  She rolled her eyes at me, scribbled on a green pad, and swept away.

  I asked Warren to request a year’s extension at the higher rent, and he agreed to contact Chip. He also suggested building options into the lease that I could exercise if I wanted, but that weren’t automatic renewals.

  Our lunch arrived in about ninety seconds and I thought back to that morning at my store, and how this whole thing had started with Harriet trying to buy my dollhouse.

  “You know, Warren, I’m wondering if Sophie even wrote a will at all. Harriet Kunes seemed convinced she did, but maybe she never got around to it. But let’s say that a will does turn up. What happens then?”

  “Probate could be reopened, I suppose, although there might be a statute of limitations. Probably a year.” He peeled back the bread, inspected the corned beef, and apparently satisfied, picked up his sandwich. “Actually, and this is in the strictest confidence, Daisy . . .”

  I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Sophie Rosenthal contacted me shortly before her death. Said she was thinking about changing lawyers. She seemed convinced her attorney couldn’t be trusted anymore.” He took a delicate bite. “I thought she sounded a bit paranoid at the time, but who knows?”

  “Was Chip trying to get power of attorney over her or something? Manipulating her somehow?”

  Warren shrugged his slender shoulders. “She didn’t say. It was as if she was afraid someone was listening in on the line. She abruptly said, ‘Never mind,’ and hung up.”

  I dunked a curly fry in a pool of ketchup. “I wonder if these two deaths could be about something else entirely, and not Sophie’s estate at all.”

  “It’s possible, but as it turns out, there’s an awful lot of money involved, what with Sophie’s house, your store, and the waterfront acreage.” Warren sipped his water, his eyes solemn behind the round spectacles. “If I had to hazard a guess, and a conservative one, I’d say we’re talking close to three million dollars.”

  • • •

  The next day, Friday, I hurried out of the store as soon as Laura arrived. Warren had promised to contact Chip today, and I was confident that by early next week, I could put the matter of my lease renewal behind me. Which still left the puzzle of what happened to Sophie and who had rigged Harriet’s lethal dollhouse.

  I considered my list of suspects. Who was the only person with a concrete connection to both victims?

  Birch Kunes.

  I decided I needed to educate myself on the subject of diabetes, and see what else I could find out about Birch’s relationship with his patient, Sophie Rosenthal. My efforts to run into Bettina Waters at the dog park had proven fruitless, so I grimly got back on my bicycle, for what promised to be over an hour’s ride in my current out-of-bike-shape to Doylestown.

  I wasn’t quite sure what I’d say when I got there. In the back of my mind was some half-baked plan about saying I had an elderly relative who’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and I wanted to learn as much as possible about her condition.

  At first, my muscles were tight and sore, but surprisingly after about twenty minutes on the road, I felt better. It was one of those glorious fall days where the sky is a cloudless blue, and the air is cool, but not frigid. Leaves were turning color more and more now, and the red maples were ablaze. Majestic sycamores with their towering trunks and peeling bark like beige camouflage spread fiery orange crowns overhead. Delicate river birches sprinkled the ground with pale yellow confetti.

  As I headed down Sheepville Pike, not far from the Wet Hen pottery studio, I passed Ardine Smalls running in the opposite direction. She waved at me, and I risked letting go of the handle bars for a second to wave back.

  I wouldn’t have pictured her for a runner, but she ran in the same nerdy way she did everything, with arms flailing, and legs almost going in circles as she went. Her sneakers were so old they were retro. I’d bet a hundred dollars they were the same ones she’d had in college.

  I kept going, past the cornfields and The Paddocks riding stables, a smile on my face.

  I took the back roads to avoid heavy traffic as much as possible, and about 11:15 a.m. I rolled into Doylestown.

  I parked the bike close to Kunes’s medical practice, and locked it to one of the antique black gas lamps. His office was on State Street, not far from the hospital.

  I opened the glass door and walked into a large, open, and very modern reception area. The light fixtures were like flat neon spaceships overlapping on the ceiling. Orange and aqua armless sectional seating curved through the space in long wavy lines. What appeared to be a glass partition around the waiting room was actually a row of fish tanks, as tall as a man’s body.

  I could imagine the same two words coming out of every kid’s mouth that came in here for the first time. Wow. Cool.

  “Hi, Daisy!” Bettina was at the circular front desk and she stood up and gave me a broad smile, showing those impossibly white teeth, with a hint of dimples. She was wearing a long black cowl-neck sweater and regular dress pants. If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have been able to tell she was pregnant.

  “Wasn’t the auction so much fun? I’m still pinching myself at how well it went. I talked Birch into keeping a couple of the Barbie dolls, just in case we have a girl.”

  She laid a hand across her stomach, the very picture of health, with glowing peach skin and thick, shiny hair. “He’s hoping it’s a girl, but I don’t mind, either way.”

  I smiled back. “Yes, it was a great success. Have you found a house yet?” With the amount they’d made on the auction, they probably wouldn’t even need to wait for Harriet’s to sell.

  “Yes. One that just came on the market. It’s a lovely farmhouse near Ringing Springs Park. It has a deck in the back that’s built around an old tree.”

  “Hey, I know just the one you mean. That’s a gorgeous house.”

  “You’ll have to come over in the summer. I’m sure we’ll do lots of entertaining out there.”

  “I’d love to.” Assuming your husband isn’t in jail by then. “And how are the wedding plans coming along?”

  “It’s a very small affair. Just a couple of people from this office, a few close friends, and my parents. Sixteen of us. We’re having dinner at a private room at the Bridgewater Inn.”

  “You’re not inviting the wine cl—I mean, the ladies from the park?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “No. We’re keeping it very low-key.” She paused, as if trying to figure out if this was just a social call. “Birch is over at Meadow Farms with Angus right now doing the final clean-out of the house.”

  At that moment, a teenage boy came up to the counter. “How are you doing, Jason?” she said. She handed him a small device and promptly knocked over a pile of files. “Whoops.” Bettina laughed at her own clumsiness as she gathered the papers together.

  “I’m good,” he said, grinning at me. Jason was probably about sixteen or seventeen, with a hint of acne, and showing the slim, muscular build that would develop into a powerful physique when he matured.

  Bettina picked up the mouse and glanced at the computer in front of her. “Only the nurse practitioner is here right now, Daisy. Did you need an appointment?”

  “No, actually, I, ah, you see, I have this relative with diabetes and I was hoping to find out a bit more about it. You know, so I can help her out.”

  I crossed my fingers inside the pockets of my windbreaker and hoped my good intentions w
ould outweigh a little white lie.

  “You should tell them to get a pump with a remote, like I have,” Jason said to me. “They’re awesome. Especially if you play sports.”

  “Let me guess. Football?” With his blond hair and all-American good looks, I bet he drove the girls crazy at school.

  He grinned again. “Yeah. It’s so much better than having to inject yourself all the time. It connects to a cannula under the skin. See? Here’s my site.” He whipped up his shirt and quickly reconnected the device. “The pump has a disconnect port so you can take it off to shower, or if you’re not allowed to wear it when you play. You just program it to give a tiny dose every few minutes. It’s easier to maintain your glucose levels ’cause you can adjust your basals on the fly.”

  I smiled at him. Far from diabetes putting a crimp in his style, it seemed like he really got a kick out of his high-tech gadgets.

  “You can hook it up to your computer, too, to see patterns of when you might need a higher basal. Then when you come into the office, the doctor downloads the pump data to see how your plan is working for you.”

  “Um, I’m sorry, but what’s a basal?” I asked.

  Bettina pushed the fall of her glossy hair over her shoulder. “There’s a basal dose that’s delivered continuously to maintain your blood glucose in target. A bolus dose, which is an extra amount, is given to cover the rise in glucose for meals or snacks, or because of a high reading. You can also use the remote to administer it.”

  She smiled at Jason. “These remotes are great. I have one myself.”

  “You do?” he said.

  “Yup. I was diagnosed when I was younger than you. Although they didn’t have cool stuff like these pumps back then. Just remember, don’t stay disconnected more than one to two hours without any insulin.”

  She showed both of us how her remote had features like a low-cartridge warning and a safety lock. “And don’t forget to carry your emergency kit at all times, Jason. It has quick-acting glucose tablets and spare batteries.”

  I hoped Jason was paying attention. He looked a little lovestruck.

  Bettina touched his shoulder gently. “I know it’s a lot to deal with, but you’re doing really well, and you have such a great attitude.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Waters.”

  I swallowed, seeing his face light up with a smile that could break a young girl’s heart. I didn’t know much, but I knew one thing. There was no way that Bettina Waters was a murderer. I’d stake my own life on it.

  After Jason left, I cleared my throat. “Bettina, I was wondering what would kill a person with diabetes.”

  She gave me a startled look.

  “God, I’m sorry, that was a very indelicate question. It’s just that I’m so concerned about my—um—relative. She’s an older woman. Like Sophie Rosenthal, for instance, who died from an insulin overdose. You know how older people get things mixed up, and I can see that the treatment can be complicated. Could it have been an accident?”

  “Not for that amount. It had to be suicide. What killed Sophie Rosenthal was a bolus—a big push of insulin she told the pump to deliver. Normally it would be because of a high reading during waking hours. Or at meal times. Not at 2 a.m.”

  A shadow crossed her face. “Birch still blames himself. He thinks he could have done more for Sophie if he realized how close to the edge she was.”

  I picked up the remote to inspect it, but Bettina quickly plucked it out of my hands with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Just don’t want you to give me a bolus by accident, Daisy.”

  “I understand. Don’t press the proverbial red button, right?” I chewed on my lip, thinking hard. “Hey, is it possible that someone could have stolen Sophie’s remote to deliver that fatal dose?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, but they’d have to be close. Like in the same room.”

  She gave me that kind, sweet smile.

  “Diabetes can be a tricky thing, Daisy, especially for someone who’s had it for a long time, like Sophie. Even though I’m very careful, I had an episode myself back in February, right when she died. It gave me the shivers, let me tell you, when I heard what happened to her.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I got back on the bike and headed toward Sheepville. I cursed myself that I hadn’t brought my phone with me. I could have called Serrano, instead of having to ride all the way to the police department. Plus it wasn’t too bright of me to be out on the road without one.

  As I rode, I wondered how the heck I was going to prove, months later, that Sophie Rosenthal had been murdered. She was dead and buried, the house cleaned out and sold, and her best friend, the only person who might have shed some light on the situation, pardon the pun, had been electrocuted.

  The desk sergeant took one look at me and dialed Serrano without being asked this time. I hurried through the back room toward his desk, conscious of my leggings, windbreaker, and sneakers in the midst of all these male fashionistas.

  Serrano leaned back in his chair. “What’s up, Daisy?”

  I tried to control my breathing. “Can you pull the file on Sophie Rosenthal, please? Now? It’s urgent.”

  He let the chair fall forward onto its legs with a crash and ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Why the hell did I ever ask for your help? I must have been mad. Or delirious from lack of sleep.”

  “Come on, Serrano. I need to see the part that talks about her insulin pump and remote.”

  He exhaled and subjected me to that penetrating blue gaze.

  I stared right back.

  “You realize this is highly irregular,” he said, but he picked up the phone anyway.

  When a sergeant brought the file, Serrano quickly flipped through the pages. “This shows that she gave herself a large dose at 2 a.m. Coroner said hypoglycemic shock and then brain death. Apparently when the blood sugar drops too low, a person simply never wakes up.” He read further in silence, while I squirmed on my chair. “They assumed suicide, but there was no note.”

  “Yes, so what if someone stole her remote to give her the fatal dose?”

  Serrano ignored me and kept reading. “She was also taking sleeping pills. A prescription from Kunes to help after the death of her brother. Sometimes those sleep aids make you do weird things. You ever hear of people sleepwalking, making breakfast, going for a drive, and they have no recollection afterward? She might not have known what she was doing when she gave herself that bolus dose.”

  “Do you have a picture of Sophie’s house in the file?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Marybeth Skelton listed it for sale. I bet we can find it on the Internet.”

  Serrano sighed, but tapped some keys on his computer. I scooted around to his side of the desk and we both stared at the pictures on the real estate listing.

  “What are we looking for, Miss Marple?”

  “Look! See that tree?” I pointed at the screen and the huge oak tree to the left side of the Tudor house, its great branches close to the upstairs window. “Was that Sophie’s bedroom? The killer could have climbed in through the window and stolen the remote.”

  “That’s a lot of supposition, Daisy. Here at the police department we need to deal in cold hard facts.”

  I sucked in a breath at his condescending tone.

  “Plus a person would have to be pretty athletic to climb a big tree like that, shimmy along a branch, and pop in through a window.”

  I thought of PJ Avery, hiking and climbing rocky cliffs up the sides of volcanoes in Nicaragua, but pushed the thought from my mind. Anyway, her passport stamp put her in the clear. “Does the report say if a remote was found on the scene or not?” I couldn’t help the hint of impatience that crept into my voice.

  Serrano raised an eyebrow, but gestured to one of the detectives on the other side of the room. “Dodson. Come here.”


  I recognized the detective who ambled over. It was one of Ramsbottom’s old cronies. Serrano had cleaned house when he took over, but Dodson was a holdover.

  “Sophie Rosenthal,” Serrano said. “Insulin overdose last February. Remember seeing her remote anywhere? It isn’t mentioned in the report.”

  “Yeah, it was there. On the bedside table.” Dodson splayed his legs apart and crossed his arms.

  “Could someone have come in while she was sleeping?” I asked.

  “Negative. The house was locked up tight.”

  “Was the room cold when you went in? Colder than the rest of the house?”

  “Yes, but—” Dodson blew out a breath, his eyes dark and glittering. “Look, I already told you. The house was locked up tight. Windows, too.”

  “Who found the victim?” Serrano asked.

  “Harriet Kunes tried to call her that morning and couldn’t get an answer, so she dialed 911. The victim’s nephew was away in Boston on business, so we had to break the door down.”

  “Was there a visiting nurse or anyone else who might have had access?” I asked.

  Dodson shook his head. “Sir, is that all? I’m kinda busy right now.”

  I bit my lip. Sophie Rosenthal had died alone, in a locked-up house. Being an agoraphobic, she wouldn’t have gone into the outside world where someone could have had the opportunity to tamper with her insulin paraphernalia. The only people who had keys—PJ and Chip—were either out of the country or three hundred miles away.

  “Where’s the stuff from the crime scene?” I demanded.

  The husky cop glared at me. I probably wasn’t his favorite person for helping to put his old boss Ramsbottom in the slammer. He’d had a nice, cushy existence back then. Now he was actually having to put in a full day’s work.

  “It wasn’t a crime scene,” he snapped. “There was no reason to suspect foul play, so we didn’t take anything.”

  I slumped back in my chair.

  Dodson smirked at me. “That Kunes woman helped the nephew clean a lot of the personal stuff out of the house. But she’s a goner now, too, so I guess you’re outta luck.”