A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (14 page)

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.

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.”

It hadn’t taken me long at the park to realize it wasn’t the dogs you had to worry about, it was the owners. A nervous, insecure human invited aggression by making his or her pup feel as though it had to step up and take charge.

I sipped the zinfandel. It was sweeter than I liked, but hey, it was wine.

“Doesn’t Bettina Waters come to the park anymore?” Alice asked. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”

“She’s preggers, you know.” Ruthie glugged down the rest of the pink liquid in her glass. “At least he’s going to make an honest woman of her. I hear they’re getting married next month.”

Alice made a harrumphing sound. “She’s a nice girl, but she—well, she can be rather odd at times.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my ears pricking up.

“My husband and I had a dinner party once, and I found her in my family room, going through my photo albums. Apparently she’s so self-conscious about the way she used to look that she removes her old photos when she visits people’s houses.”

Was there some deep dark secret that would jeopardize Bettina’s upcoming marriage to Birch if he found out? She had a motive to kill Harriet, but why Sophie, too? Unless Sophie had some incriminating evidence against her. But would a person really commit murder over an unflattering photo?

Ridiculous, Daisy. Have some more wine.

Caroline came back with the tiny dog in her arms. “I am
so
not speaking to Ginny Axelrod,” she declared. “You know how hard it is to find good cleaning people? She just stole the woman who works for my good friend Rachel.”

She sat cross-legged on the blanket, balancing the wriggling dog and her glass of wine. “My husband likes my girl—too much so for my liking. He says he’s not attracted to her, just her laid-back personality. But I’m keeping Angel. She’s the best I’ve ever had, and no one’s going to steal her from me.” She gave a derisive nod in the direction of the other clump of wine club participants. “So,
too bad
, people!”

Ruthie leaned closer to me. “There’s always a battle going on to find the best, and they all poach from each other.”

“The one I had before Angel?” Caroline continued. “Ohmigawd, if I told the woman once, I told her a thousand times. Put the forks in the dishwasher with the tines up and the knives pointing down! How hard is that to remember, I ask you? She never stacked the dishes right, either. She’d put plastic on the bottom, shove pots and pans in there, she did everything wrong. It drove me
crazy
.”

“Cheese and crackers,” Ruthie muttered in my ear. “I have the same cleaning woman as Marybeth Skelton.
She’s
the best. I pay through the nose, but it’s worth it to keep her. Don’t tell this lot,” she whispered as Caroline commiserated with Alice Rogan about the paid help who used Tilex on travertine tiles, and were seemingly oblivious to smears on stainless steel appliances.

I zoned out a little as they talked about the correct way to fold laundry.

Would there have been any reason for Bettina to go over to Sophie’s house the night she died? Perhaps with an emergency supply of insulin? Could a patient order insulin to be delivered directly from a medical supply place, or did it have to go through her doctor? I didn’t know how that worked, but made a mental note to find out.

Alice was delivering a monologue about her four grown children and grandchildren, as if she were in charge of every aspect of their lives. I envisioned a massive whiteboard in her house dotted with multicolored Post-it notes where she kept track of it all, like a detective’s situation room in a murder investigation.

“What about The Dazzle Team, the cleaning company that Harriet Kunes used?” I asked Ruthie. “Are they good?”

“Heck, yes. They also clean the Historical Society buildings.”

Well, there was proof that they were completely trustworthy. No one would dare cross Eleanor.

“Speaking of Harriet,” I said, “did you ever hear about her sabotaging other competitors’ dollhouses? Like she did to Ardine Smalls?”

“Oh, you mean the old cockroach story?” Ruthie barked with laughter. “Not sure if that’s urban legend or not, but I heard it was the other way around.”

Was Ruthie confused? In her rosé-soaked reality, it might be tough to keep things straight.

She got up and picked up her backpack. “I’m taking the RV to Florida in the morning. Max and I will be there all winter.”

I grinned as I got up and helped her fold the blanket. I hoped I had half her spunk when I reached her age. “Have a good time. Drive safely. See you in the spring?”

“If you’re lucky.” She winked at me. “I don’t buy any green bananas these days.”

I noticed a woman with a Great Dane heading off toward the woods, towing it slowly behind her like a small pony. “Where’s she going?”

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Alice said. “That path takes you all the way to Millbury. It comes out near that house with the big pumpkin patch. It’s about a mile and a half walk if you’re up to it.”

“That’s great.” I wouldn’t have to take the car anymore and use precious gas. Why hadn’t I figured this out before? Grist Mill Road twisted around on its route from Millbury, but I could see now how this path could cut straight through.

Today I’d have to drive the car back, but next time I’d give it a try.

I got up, gave Ruthie a hug good-bye, and called to Jasper.

More of the wine club drifted over, including Ginny Axelrod, who ignored me as usual.

“Heard that Marybeth finally found a buyer for the Rosenthal place,” she said to the group. “It’s always tough when someone died in a house. Turns buyers off.”

I bent down, pretending to adjust Jasper’s leash.

“With the age of the places around here, there’s a good chance that
someone
died in them at some point in time,” Alice pointed out in a reasonable tone.

“Where did Sophie live, anyway?” someone else asked.

“Up on Cook Hill Road. A Tudor-style house,” another woman replied.

Thanks for the information.
I stayed in my half-crouched position. I think they’d forgotten I was there.

“Yes, Marybeth is doing very well for herself,” Ginny said. “Apparently there’s a new waterfront development in the works and she’ll be the broker of record.”

The talk moved back to cleaning services and the troubles with their particular employees. I straightened up, one painful vertebra at a time, and strolled to the car with Jasper.

As I was pulling out of the road that led from the park, I jammed on the brakes as a black Audi came flying by, with a white Mercedes on its tail, both occupants driving like maniacs.

“Jeez. Coincidence?” I said to Jasper. “I think not. Where are those two going?”

I followed as closely as I dared, hanging back on the corners like I’d seen in the movies, and when Chip Rosenthal and Marybeth Skelton pulled onto Cook Hill Road, I kept going past the street and then doubled back.

A minute later, I drove down Cook Hill, keeping a constant speed and slumping down in the driver’s seat as I passed Sophie’s house, where Marybeth was already attaching a
SOLD
banner to the sign on the lawn. In my rearview mirror, I saw Chip jump out of the Audi. He was wearing a black knit cap, gray hoodie, and black sweatpants.

I banged a hand on the steering wheel when I saw the knit cap.
Gotcha.

Once I was far enough away, I made a U-turn and parked in the shade of some trees growing close to the road.

“Jasper, I’ll be right back. Be good, okay? Just for a few minutes?”

He panted at me and began whining. As I opened the car door, he gave a sharp bark. “Oh, come on then, but please keep quiet. Good boy.”

We crept slowly up the road, lingering behind a privet hedge on the next-door neighbor’s yard. I strained to hear their conversation, but it was hopeless. I was too far away.