A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (18 page)

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 were 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.

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.”

• • •

W
hen 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.

“That’s what I was working on tonight with Mac. It also has two extra leaves to seat up to ten people.”

“It’s so beautiful. Thank you.” I swallowed hard and smiled up at his dear face, anger and insecurity evaporating in the warmth of my love for him. “Cyril finished the painting and repairs on the dollhouse, so we’re almost done.”

“I can handle the lighting for you.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “You have so much else going on.”

His mouth was firm. “Yes. I need to know it’s done right. For Claire.”

I got up, wrapped my arms around his neck, and drew him back down onto the bed.

• • •

T
he next morning, I was standing in the kitchen spooning coffee into a filter, when a drop of water landed on my head. I looked up to see a small wet patch forming on the ceiling.

I ran upstairs to see Joe coming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Joe, there’s water coming through the kitchen ceiling.”

“Hmm, okay, I’ll take a look at it.”

He didn’t sound particularly motivated. I knew he was anxious to get down to the basement and work on his projects, and after last night, I didn’t feel like nagging. I wanted to prolong the relaxed afterglow as long as I could.

After he jogged downstairs, I took a quick look at the bathroom floor. Joe was a sloppy bather. Sometimes he forgot to close the shower curtain all the way, or he jumped right out, splashing water everywhere. Oddly enough, it looked dry today. I shrugged and hurried to get ready for work.

I’d barely opened Sometimes a Great Notion when Martha swept in with Eleanor and Debby in her wake. She was wearing a beige traveling suit, with a creamy-colored tank top underneath, and miles of pearls and gold chains around her neck. Her red hair was twisted up into a chic knot.

“Cyril and I are leaving within the hour,” she announced. “I’ve baked you extra goodies. You can freeze these bars and brownies and take them out as you need them. Same with the cheesecake.”

I grinned and gave her a big hug. “Thanks, Martha. I was worried I was going to lose those last ten pounds while you were away.” She’d stocked me up. Not just with the treats to put in the freezer, but with shortbread and gingerbread in airtight tins.

“How did you sleep last night?” I said to Eleanor as I handed her a mug of coffee.

“Like a baby, as a matter of fact.” She wrinkled her nose. “Strangely well, now that you mention it.”

“No Tony Zappata singing outside your window?”

“No,” she said, and then she gasped. “Oh, God, is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Look, Eleanor, I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, but I think he’s found a new love. Her name’s Gloria, she weighs about eight hundred pounds, and she’s orange.”

“
What?
”

I told her about my brainwave to have him sing to the giant pumpkin.

Martha and Debby roared with laughter.

Eleanor pouted in mock dismay. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Passed over for a pumpkin!”

“I walked by the house this morning,” I said. “She must have put on another fifty pounds overnight. I think Sam Brown stands a very good chance in this year’s competition.”

“Daisy, you never called me to tell me what happened after you left the library yesterday,” Debby said, dancing up and down in excitement.

“Oh, I’m sorry, there’s been so much going on.”

“Like what?” Martha narrowed her gaze at me. “
What’s
going on?”

“Well, get this. I figured out that PJ Avery is really Margaret Jane Rosenthal, or actually Margaret Jane Avery, Sophie’s long-lost relative. I imagine she’s down at the Sheepville Police Department as we speak.”

Martha’s mouth dropped open. “
Well
. It’s a fine thing when people don’t confide in their best friends, I must say. The whole town probably knows by now.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think anyone else knows,” Debby as-sured her.

I winced as I saw a flush creeping up Martha’s neck, and I moved in between them to protect the innocent. Eleanor and I knew enough not to answer back. “Look, Martha, this only just happened yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to tell anyone.”

“So what’s this all about? Why did she hide her identity?” she demanded, hands on the hips of her elegant suit.

“That’s what I’d like to know. But I hate to think she might have had anything to do with Sophie’s death.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Serrano said her passport was date-stamped two weeks before Sophie died. She was out of the country, so there’s no way she could have done it. He had nothing to hold her with, seeing as you didn’t want to press charges about the break-in.”

Martha swung her attention to Eleanor. “And
you
. What the hell are you doing with that young detective? There has to be a twenty-year difference in your ages at least.”

Debby stared at Eleanor with what looked like a mixture of disbelief, jealousy, and awe. She was always dreaming of a white knight to sweep her off her feet and carry her away. Serrano fit the bill perfectly. “Oh, my, he could put his slippers under my bed any day,” she sighed.

“It’s ridiculous.” Martha smoothed a stray hair back into her bun. “This isn’t like a May-December thing. More like January to December. You’re not even a cougar. More like a ratty old mountain lion.”