A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (15 page)

Okay, genius. Now what?
What would Serrano do?

The property was a fine old Tudor, but in need of some major landscaping and TLC. There was a huge oak tree to the left side of Sophie’s house, its great branches almost touching an upstairs window.

As I crouched there uncertainly, Chip and Marybeth disappeared inside the house.

“Come on, Jasper.” I sprinted for the old tree, and the dog, delighted by my unaccustomed speed, bolted with me. Once I was behind the trunk that was wide enough to hide us both, I realized I was no better off. The windows were shut. I could see them in the downstairs living room, but couldn’t hear a thing.

Marybeth stroked a long red fingernail down his chest, while Chip, who was facing my way, looked as if he was about to choke.

Suddenly he strode toward the window and my heart lurched in my chest.

He threw up the sash and leaned out a little, sucking in air. “God, it’s stuffy in here. Sophie always kept this place locked up like a tomb.”

“Well, it’s sold now, and you know how I can’t wait to get started on our next project together, Chipper.”

“For the last time, don’t call me that.” He gritted his teeth. “And I already told you, things are right on schedule, so chill out. The site plan’s been reviewed by the county planning commission. It’s at the township for approval.”

She shook her head. “I still can’t believe it. Good old Sophie owning all those prime acres along the Delaware River.”

Aha. Guess I could kiss any help with the zoning good-bye. Marybeth was snuggled up in bed with Chip, and would have his best interests at heart. Maybe that’s why she’d been so accommodating to try to find me another location.

“The bank has assured me financing won’t be a problem,” Chip said. “As soon as we have the building permit, you can start taking deposits.”

Jasper was pulling on the leash, so I fumbled in my pocket and found a single dog biscuit. I broke off one minute crumb at a time and fed it to him. He looked at me as if to say,
I knew you were cheap, Daisy, but this is ridiculous
.

“This development will be an asset to the waterfront, and the township knows it,” Chip said. “Plus we’re improving the roads and adding connections to the public sewer, which should keep everybody happy.”

Jasper nudged my pocket and gave a muffled whine, and I searched frantically for another treat.

“Did you hear that?” Marybeth came to the window and scanned the yard while I gently cupped my hands around Jasper’s mouth. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

“What?” Chip’s cell phone rang. It was the theme from Pink Floyd’s “Money,” and the sound of cash registers and falling coins drowned her out.

The window slammed shut, and soon after that I heard the sound of the front door closing. I waited until both cars had driven off down the street before I headed back to the Subaru.

Could the unholy alliance of Chip and Marybeth have killed Sophie to get the prime commercial land, and then Harriet, too, to shut her up about the will?

Nothing like killing two old birds for one condo development.

O
n Friday, I was at Sometimes a Great Notion, looking through my auction listings when Eleanor walked in. “What are you doing today, Daisy?”

“There are a couple of auctions I’m interested in, but I’m not sure I should be buying more merchandise with the way things are going. Where’s Martha?”

“Shopping for her big romantic getaway. And
you
need a day off to forget about your troubles. Come with me to Fabric Row.”

I grinned. “Now that does sound tempting.”

“Come on. It’s the best offer you’ve had all week and you know it.”

My mouth watered at the idea of silk chiffon and vintage buttons.

Eleanor tapped her foot on the floor. “Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

When Laura arrived, Eleanor and I hurried out of the store, but I stopped in dismay when I saw the red Vespa parked outside.

“Oh no, I’m not riding to Philly on the back of that thing. We’ll take my car.”

Eleanor shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

We walked back down Main Street toward the house. Across the street, a sign in the psychic’s window advertised palm readings for ten dollars.

“I wonder how long a psychic can stay in business here at those prices,” I mused, visions of vacant storefronts dancing like spots before my eyes.

“Have you ever gone in there? Had your fortune read?”

I clicked open the locks on the car. “Not sure I believe in that stuff.”

“You’d be surprised,” Eleanor said, giving me an arch look as she slid into the passenger seat. We made a quick stop at the diner for coffee to go, and we were off.

Just under an hour later, we were wandering down historic Fabric Row in Philadelphia, situated roughly between South and Catharine Streets. At the turn of the twentieth century, there would have been pushcarts trundling along here, where Jewish immigrants plied their trade and eventually opened brick-and-mortar establishments.

It was full of dressmakers, upholsterers, costumers, and drapery workrooms. One shop sold nothing but bridal accessories. Another was just for sewing notions, and others sold blinds and shades, bedding and pillows.

We entered the first shop, enjoying the familiar sight of bolts of fabric crammed together, and battered cardboard boxes with yards of rayon cord valance, piping, and beaded trim spilling out over the tops. There was a long row of cutting tables in the back and, as usual, a wizened proprietor perched on a stool somewhere in the shadows.

“God, I’m exhausted,” Eleanor said. “That maniac, Tony Z, decided he has a crush on me. He’s been singing outside my bedroom window at all hours of the night.”

Tony Zappata, the barber, had a beautiful operatic tenor voice with which he entertained clients as he gave them a short back and sides.

“He really has a very nice voice,” I murmured.

“Not at three o’clock in the morning!” she snapped. “I finally called the police and had him arrested for disturbing the peace.”

“Ah, poor Tony. The perils of unrequited love.”

“It’s not funny, Daisy. You try listening to ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ when you’re trying to sleep.”

I was about to make a joke about catching some z’s, but after glancing at the grim set of Eleanor’s mouth, I decided against it. I felt sorry for Tony. The little barber was perennially sunny-natured, and it wouldn’t be a bad match.

Okay, he was rather short, but Eleanor wasn’t that tall herself.

What the heck was going on in Millbury? Was there some kind of aphrodisiac in the water supply?

We browsed as much as we could, although this particular store was so stuffed with fabric piled to the ceiling, it wasn’t easy. If you knew what you wanted though, chances are they had it stashed somewhere.

We walked back out on the street and continued our prowl.

“My grandmother was a milliner,” I told Eleanor. “I used to wander around the Garment District in New York with her looking in dusty windows just like this.” As a child, I was hypnotized by the towering displays of French ribbons, pearl buttons, glass beads, and velvet and satin passementerie that were used to trim hats.

The next shop had gold lettering on its display window proudly stating it had been in business since 1919. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside was a wondrous textile emporium.

A seamstress’s dream.

Eleanor made a beeline for a bolt of white gauzy material. “I need some of this English bridal net. It’s fantastic. Actually I’ll need lots of it.”

It struck me for the first time that Eleanor worked with brides-to-be all day long, yet she’d never been married. I knew she had a fiancé who had died at the very tail end of the Vietnam War. But at this point, it didn’t look like she’d ever get to wear one of her beautiful creations.

She was always so self-contained, yet how much pain did that prickly façade hold?

Even though Martha and Eleanor were both my good friends, I was probably closer to Martha. But of the two, Eleanor was the one who understood the thornier, crueler side of life.

We also shared a love of history, and a wedding gown could hold a wealth of stories and meaning. It truly was a piece of the past that needed to be conserved. Eleanor had a master’s degree in textile science, and sometimes gave lectures to local colleges on fabric preservation.

True bridal net crackles satisfyingly against your fingers, and I played with it while she picked out some seed pearls. Eleanor paid the forbidding old man at the counter for her purchases, getting the customary ten percent trade discount, and we moved on to the next store.

“I’m experimenting with different herbal teas to dye lace,” she told me. “I need to get an exact match on that lace I bought from you to repair some missing sections on Bettina Waters’s wedding dress. Apple cinnamon seems to work well, but I’m anxious to try orange pekoe.”

“How’s the dress coming along?”

“Almost done, and not a minute too soon, as a matter of fact. The woman had a complete meltdown in my shop the other day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when she was getting changed, I commented on the beautiful gold cross necklace she always wears. Apparently she’s extremely religious and it’s vitally important to her that the baby is born legitimate.”

“What would she have done if Harriet hadn’t conveniently died?”

Eleanor looked at me, her gray eyes somber. “Exactly. She told me how frustrated she was by Harriet’s refusal to grant Birch a divorce, and then she burst into tears. I mean, she went completely
hystérique
, screaming about how she couldn’t possibly wait two years. I fully expected her little head to turn around three hundred and sixty degrees.”

“Do you think it’s just pregnancy hormones?”

She shrugged. “When I reminded her that she was, in fact, getting married next month, and assured her that the dress would be ready in plenty of time, she calmed down. But it was touch and go there for a while.”

“Wow.”

Eleanor picked up some changeable silk, or shantung, of raspberry and chartreuse woven together. “Feel this, Daisy.”

“It’s gorgeous.” There was an almost guilty pleasure to the sensual slide of the fabric against itself.

“Better than sex, right?” she murmured.

“Well . . .”

“No, you’re right. But better than chocolate?”

“Not sure about that either, but I can picture the stunning lady’s evening jacket this would make. And there’s only one person who could carry it off.”

“Martha!” we both said at the same time.

I held on to the beautiful material. “Eleanor, I have a proposition for you.”

“God, it’s been a long time since I heard those words. Makes me feel like I’m back in the sixties again.”

“Look, I’ll buy the fabric and you make the evening jacket. It could be our Christmas present to Martha. I’ve been wanting to do something for her for a while. She always brings treats into the store and never lets me pay her back.”

“What about you? You feed us coffee every day.”

“Well, yes, but it’s my store, and I benefit. A lively atmosphere attracts customers.”

I let the smooth silk slip beneath my fingers. Every time Martha moved there would be a hint of raspberry beneath the shimmery lemon and green.

It would be the perfect foil for her vibrant hair.

• • •

W
hen we arrived back in Millbury, Eleanor hurried over to A Stitch Back in Time to brew up the tea to color the lace.

It was still only 4 p.m.

I stared at the psychic reader’s shop. It didn’t have the typical neon sign hanging outside. That would never be allowed by Millbury’s zoning codes. Instead there was an elegant purple and gold wooden circle:
PSYCHIC ADVISOR, TAROT CARD, PALM READINGS.

There was also another sign, for Halloween, that said,
WITCH PARKING ONLY, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOAD.

At least this medium had a sense of humor.

What the heck.
As if my feet moved of their own accord, I crossed the street and peered in the window, where silver stars hung from silver threads. Hippie tapestries were tacked to the walls, and I spotted a wine bottle where numerous candles had dripped down its sides, forming a colorful stalactite. It looked more like a dorm room from my college days than a retail establishment.

I opened the door and entered the dim interior. Candles burned on top of the bookshelves lining both walls and on the round table near the back.

“Hello?”

No one appeared, so I browsed through the books, which were mainly on witchcraft and how to read the tarot. More candles, mortar and pestles, and silver pentagram jewelry were displayed for sale on a table in the center, and cinnamon brooms were propped up against it, the spicy scent competing with incense sticks smoldering in a jar on the counter.

Talk about being back in the sixties again.

It was smaller than my place, but like Marybeth said, I probably didn’t need all the room I had now. With some consolidation and careful space planning, I could make this work.

Suddenly beads on a hanging curtain clacked together and a robust woman materialized, her face a mask of pancake foundation that was practically orange. Her head was wrapped in a tie-dyed bandana, but what little I could see of her hair was platinum blond.

She pointed a long purple fingernail at me. “You are here because you vant my store!”

“What?” I stifled a gasp. Was my avaricious intent so easy to read on my face?

“No? You have come for reading?” Her eyes, heavy with black eyeliner, almost disappeared as she squinted at me.

“Um. Yes, I think so.”

She motioned for me to sit at the table. Once we were both seated, she moved the crystal ball in between us and placed both her hands on top.

Here we go. What a crock.

She was silent for a few moments until slowly her hands moved across it, as if she were feeling each minute imperfection of the glass.

“I see a man, no, two men, surrounding you. Both have vhite hair. Both are loving you. One is larger than the other.”

Angus and Joe?

“Here is another man—a dark and dangerous man.” She paused, frowning as she stared into the ball.

I drew in a breath. That must mean Serrano.

“He lives his life in the shadows. But this is the one you really vant. Yes?”

My heart started tripping. It was true that I was attracted to the good-looking, tormented detective, but I was a happily married woman.

Wasn’t I?

“And a fourth!” She eyed me speculatively and then peered closer into the globe. “This man has long hair. Looks a bit like . . . Mick Jagger . . . ?”

I jerked my head up in time to see the twinkle in her eye before she burst into uproarious laughter.

“I’m just joshing with ya.” The semi-Russian accent was gone, replaced by a South Philly dialect broader than Tony Z’s. “I know who you are, and I heard about your troubles with that dirtbag landlord of yours. Figured it wouldn’t be too long ’til you stopped in.”

She held out a hand with its purple talons. “How’re ya doin’? I’m Ronnie. My last name is Polish, and no one can pronounce it, so I just go by Ronnie. Or Madame Ronnie, if you wanna be formal-like.”

“Jeez, you had me going there for a minute, Ronnie.” I grinned as I took her hand. “So you can’t really read minds, or see the future, then?”

She shrugged a plump shoulder. “I dunno. Sometimes I do get a feeling, sort of, but a lot of it is intuition and good old life experience. When you grow up on the streets, you learn to size up people and situations real fast.”

I nodded. It was as I’d always thought. These psychics were just clever students of human behavior.

“But seriously, what is it that you want?” she asked.

I stared into her eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black. I felt myself being sucked into their enigmatic depths.

“To stay in Millbury.”

“At any price?”

I nodded slowly. In that moment, I decided I’d do whatever I could to get Chip to agree to let me sign a new lease, but only for a year. If I was very careful, I could make it, even at the ridiculous rate he was asking.