A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (24 page)

She opened the front door before I even had a chance to knock, and I followed her past the dining room, where there were always fresh flowers on the table even in the middle of winter, past the French country-style kitchen, and down the hallway to the back staircase.

We walked up to her airy master bedroom that had gray walls and a wrought iron bed layered with soft antique quilts and white linen sheets. It was topped with hemp pillows decorated with French quotes in elegant lettering.

A stack of old valises served as a side table and the dressing table was salvaged and repainted white, with the addition of vintage glass knobs. The floors were whitewashed, and an armoire of the palest celadon stood in one corner.

It was the same minimalist, uncluttered décor as the downstairs level. Quirky, but elegant. Kind of like Eleanor herself.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “There are towels in the bathroom for you. Feel free to use anything else you like.”

Eleanor shut the door, and I lingered there for a moment, enjoying the peace of the romantic retreat.

I wandered into the adjoining dressing room, which was probably another bedroom at one time, and was now fitted with custom shelving and rods.

Eleanor didn’t have a lot of clothes. What she did have were hung neatly, with space in between the wooden hangers, not all squished together like mine. The original shallow closet set into the wall held her neatly arranged rows of shoes.

The dressing room led into the bathroom, which again, must have been an architectural redesign from the original Victorian layout. It had rectangular white subway tiles on the walls and tiny black-and-white tiles in a checkerboard pattern on the floor. A wrought iron hay rack on the wall held rolls of fluffy white towels. Another door provided access into the hallway.

I found myself checking the room for any sign of male occupancy, but the toilet seat lid was down and there wasn’t a single whisker in the immaculate white pedestal sink. The bathtub was also spotlessly clean. I brought my dollar store bottle of shampoo in with me, but as I stood under the rain shower nozzle, I inspected Eleanor’s selection of toiletries with interest—a bottle of luxurious European bubble bath with a pine forest scent, the kind of shampoo they sell at the hair salon that must have cost about ten of mine, lemon-basil body wash, and an expensive razor.

I used my own shampoo and towel, but once I was out of the shower, I couldn’t resist a dab of the rich buttery body cream from Provence that was sitting on the marble countertop.

Eleanor lived simply, but very, very well.

When I came back downstairs, clean and refreshed, I found her in the kitchen, standing by the stainless steel cubby that housed the espresso and cappuccino machine.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“About a thousand percent,” I said as I sat down on an industrial metal chair at the old pine table. “You don’t realize how much you rely on things like water and electricity until you have to try to do without them for a day or two.”

Eleanor set a latte in front of me. She’d drawn a fleur-de-lis design in the froth.

“Showoff.” I grinned at her and took a long, appreciative sip. “Yum. Thank you, Eleanor. Honestly, it’s been a hell of a morning. Our favorite detective was a tad peevish with me, to say the least.”

She pulled another cup from the machine. “Absinthe hangovers can be a bitch.”

I narrowed my gaze at her.
Don’t you have something you’d like to share with the class?

She looked at me and laughed. “Oh, Daisy, your eyes are full of questions! No, I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you want to know.”

Taking her latte, she slid into a chair opposite me. “At my age, it’s enough to be able to enjoy a friendship with a good-looking younger man. There doesn’t have to be any more to it than that.”

“Did he ever tell you what he’s doing here? Out in the back of beyond?”

I held my breath while Eleanor regarded me steadily with her dark gray gaze.

“I know you won’t repeat this, but he simply needed a place to heal. His older sister died last year after a long battle with breast cancer, his mother suddenly and unexpectedly passed away soon after that, and he was trying to escape his grief, I suppose. Not that anyone can. That’s just geography.”

I felt a spike of irrational jealousy that Serrano had told her his story. I should have been the one to hear it. I swallowed another gulp of my latte as I tried to swallow my disappointment, reminding myself that I didn’t hold any kind of rights over him. He wasn’t mine.

“I guess you can stay in the store now that the charming Chip is gone?” she asked.

I sighed. “I don’t know what the heck’s going to happen now. The funny thing is that Chip and I had worked things out. We’d come to an agreement that we could both live with, pardon the pun, except now he’s toast, and someone did him in before I could sign a new lease.”

Eleanor made a murmuring sound. “Well, let’s hope for the best. Where’s Joe today? Does he need to use the bathroom, too? He’s more than welcome.”

“No, actually he went to Angus’s to shower. On the way to see Tracy McEvoy.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Not exactly comfortable, but what can I do? I trust him.”

Eleanor took a careful sip of her latte. “Of course you do.”

O
n Monday morning, Angus, Wayne, and a couple of his helpers arrived at the house bright and early to work on the kitchen. Wayne assured me that as long as all went well, he could get the main stack replaced and the base cabinets and dishwasher reinstalled by the end of the day. He’d probably have to come back on Tuesday for the rest of the cabinets and paint touch-ups, but at least we’d able to use the plumbing tonight.

I thanked them all and strolled down the street to open Sometimes a Great Notion.

Once the coffee was brewing, the music turned on, and the front door unlocked, I sat down on a stool behind the counter.

I hated to consider it, but Serrano’s first instinct might be right. Of all the possible suspects, PJ was certainly the one with the best motive to kill Chip. She hated him with a passion he could only dream of, and like Serrano said, this was a crime of passion.

Although how could she be in two places at once?

Unless the medical examiner’s estimate of the time of death had been off. Maybe once the autopsy came back, there might be more clues. I pictured Chip’s poor beaten body. Someone had really done a number on his head and face. But wouldn’t the killer have had to be a man to do that kind of damage? And someone tall? PJ was tough, but she was slightly built and shorter than Chip.

I hopped off the stool and took some of Martha’s chocolate walnut brownies out of the freezer and unwrapped them, setting them on a majolica maple leaf cake stand.

It seemed so quiet here without her. I hoped that she and Cyril were having a good time. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I was already fond of Martha. I just wanted her back.

Although once she found out what she’d missed, she’d probably be hell to live with.

I straightened a length of antique feed-sack fabric with a purple and white morning glory design and wondered if Chip had prepared a will. He was young, but he struck me as the type who might have taken care of something like that, especially after what had happened with his aunt. Which brought up another question. Who would get Sophie’s properties now? And who was my new landlord? I guessed it would be Chip’s mother.

I sighed and poured myself a cup of coffee. What a mess.

The door swung open and Serrano strode in. “Am I in time for the morning coffee klatch?”

I saw the teasing light in his eyes, and I breathed out in relief. Things were back to normal. “Coffee yes, but the treats are still frozen.”

“That’s okay. I need to lose a few pounds anyway.” He rubbed his flat stomach and accepted the cup that I poured for him. “Thought you’d like to know that you were right all along, Ms. Buchanan.”

“I was?” I stared at him, openmouthed. “About what?”

“About our boy, Chip Rosenthal. We found the second remote that killed Sophie Rosenthal. In his apartment. He didn’t even bother to hide it, the gavoon. It was sitting right there in his bathroom cabinet.”

He took a deep slug of his coffee. “That’s Sophie’s murder accounted for, anyway. We still don’t know who killed Harriet.”

I sank back on my stool while I tried to marshal my scrambling thoughts.

Serrano smiled at me as I frowned in concentration. “
Now
what’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Somehow this all seems too pat, too convenient.”

He eyed the brownies on the cake stand as if willing them to defrost. “What if PJ made up the story about that will that Sophie might have written? All we have to go on is what she’s fed us from her supposed conversations with Harriet. What if she planned to kill Chip all along and concocted this whole story to throw us off the track?”

“I can’t believe that PJ is a killer. Plus she was out of the country.”

Serrano wasn’t giving up. “Okay, so what if knocking off Sophie was a plot between the two of them? But then Chip reneged, kept all the money. She got her revenge and also figured out how to stick him with the blame.”

I bit my lip. “I don’t know, Serrano. I know that I’m naïve sometimes, but I just don’t see it.”

“And how about Harriet? You don’t think ol’ Chip could have rewired the dollhouse?”

I thought for a moment. “He was more like Marybeth,” I finally said. “He was the type to have other people do things for him. So yes, if he hired someone to break into Harriet’s house and rewire the dollhouse, I could buy it.”

But Birch Kunes was suddenly popping back into my mind, with his casual run under the garage doors, the password that Harriet never changed, and his urgency to sell the house.

“Oh, crap, none of this makes any sense,” Serrano said. “It’s a month after Harriet’s death and we’re no closer to finding out who killed her and now there’s two other murders.”

“Hey, if it was an easy job being a detective, everyone would be doing it.” I smiled gently at him. “You know, it’s ironic. I was convinced that Chip was the guilty party for the longest time, and now I’m not so sure. Now I’m actually leaning toward Birch Kunes.”

Serrano shook his head. “Think I might have had tunnel vision in that respect. I’ve got this thing about guys that cheat. But I don’t think he did it.” He drew a deep breath and settled against the counter. “There’s something I’ve never told you, Daisy.”

I held my breath, too, knowing he was about to tell me his story, except I’d already heard it from Eleanor. I schooled my face to look like this was the first time I’d heard the information.

“About a year ago, my older sister got breast cancer. She was fifty years old and perfectly healthy up until that point. She didn’t smoke, hardly drank, it was a complete shock to all of us. But she was brave, Daisy. She went through the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, the hair loss, all of it, without ever complaining. She was my hero.”

I swallowed and nodded.

“But while she was going through hell, her scuzzball husband was carrying on an affair. As she lay there suffering, with chemo ripping through her veins, he was banging his secretary.”

Serrano jumped to his feet as if the memory charged him with adrenaline. “I found out about it, and I have to admit, I went a little crazy. Beat the crap out of him. It didn’t do any good, though. It didn’t make me feel any better. And Shelly died a month later. And then my mom, too.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He paced up and down. “I went even wilder. Drinking, getting in fights, almost losing my badge, until one night I made a mistake that nearly cost me my life. I knew that was when I had to get out of New York. Figured it would be nice and quiet here, and I could get my act together.”

Serrano smiled wearily at me. “You can see how well that worked out. And why I’ve been so focused on Kunes. I’ve let my prejudice blind me to other possibilities.”

I touched his hand. “We all do that from time to time. And we seemed to have switched suspects. I was always so convinced that Chip was the bad guy. Now I’m not so sure.”

He grabbed one of the brownies and took a bite. “Nearly thawed out. I’m off to take a fresh look at this whole situation, Daisy. See ya.”

And with that, he was gone.

• • •

A
s I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, the phone rang.

“Hullo, Brat, what are you doing tomorrow?”

“Hi, Angus. I’m working. Like I usually do on a Tuesday.”

“And what
else
happens on Tuesdays?”

There are no stupid questions. Only stupid answers.
But the glass of wine I’d had with my shrimp risotto was dulling my tired brain. “I give up. What?”

“It’s the Swamp Pike Flea Market!”

The market was held year-round on Tuesdays and Saturdays, although Tuesdays were the best with a livestock auction and more of the Amish vendors in attendance.

“Come on. Take the day off and go with me,” he begged.

“Look, I can’t just close the store.”

“Please, Daisy? I—ah—really need to talk to you.”

I took a sip of my wine. I could use a break myself, if truth be told. “Okay, okay. Let me call Laura and see if she can cover for me.”

“I already called her. And I’m paying her for the day, too, so we’re all set.”

“Jeez, Angus.” He could be a bit pushy sometimes. “Fine. Well, we don’t have to get there at the butt crack of dawn, do we?”

“If we don’t get there when it opens, we might miss the good deals. And you know how I hate driving around looking for a parking space.”

The market didn’t open until 7 a.m., but I’d been through this routine before.

I sighed. “See you at six. And for God’s sake, bring some coffee.”

Joe grinned as he put away the rest of the risotto in the fridge. “Picking with Angus tomorrow, I take it?”

“I agreed to go in a moment of weakness. It must be your fabulous cooking that softened me up.” I kissed him, put the pan in the sink, and poured in warm water and soap.

“He has been a huge help with the plumbing,” Joe said.

“I know, I’m just kidding. I’ll try not to wake you.”

• • •

A
t 5:45 a.m., I dressed quickly in my jeans, red thermal shirt, boots, and windbreaker and was ready when Angus pulled up outside. I hopped into the truck, glad to see he’d remembered the coffee.

He made small talk as we headed along River Road and then down Swamp Pike for a couple of miles.

Patience wasn’t my strong suit, but I figured I’d wait until Angus was ready to tell me what was weighing so heavily on his mind.

“Have you finished cleaning out Harriet’s place?” I asked.

“Yeah. It was funny, though. Ardine and I showed up the other day, and the lockbox was gone. I guess Marybeth put the place under agreement already.”

“Wow. So what did you do?”

“Oh, it was okay. Ardine figured out the code to the garage door.”

“She did? How on earth did she do that?”

Angus chuckled. “Apparently she used to work for Kunes, back in the day. He never changes his passwords. It was the same damn number he used for his office voice mail password years ago.”

I frowned as I sipped my coffee.

“You know, Ardine’s kind of a weird gal, but I like her,” he said.

“Me, too. And I think she’s very happy to have found some friends around here.”

Part of the market was housed inside in an old hairpin factory, where there were about fifty stores, a bathroom, an ATM machine, and two small restaurants. The main attraction was outside, however, with over three hundred tables selling everything from vintage jewelry to organic vegetables. A century ago, it was just a livestock auction, but over the years, the flea market sprang up and was now an institution. People came all the way from New York and northern New Jersey to combine early morning browsing with a day out in New Hope or Lambertville.

We found a parking space relatively easily, although the grounds were already half full. Angus and I wandered down aisles of tables where the vendors were setting up glassware, books, tools, and old records. There was furniture for sale, too, including complete sets of dining chairs, Tiffany lamps, oil paintings, clocks, and chandeliers.

Angus usually went for the rusty stuff and I stayed on the lookout for vintage linens and sewing notions. These days it was getting tougher to find the real bargains. Online auction sites had made everyone an entrepreneur and antiques expert. Or at least they thought they were.

I spotted a bag of skeleton keys on one table among some coins, stamps, and baseball cards. “I know Laura can do something magical with these,” I said, as I paid three dollars and stuffed them in my tote bag.

The clouds above us were a dark peach and light gray. Like a fresh bruise against the face of the sky. An occasional breeze blew scattered leaves across the tables.

It might rain later, but with any luck it would hold off until we were done. In the summer it could get ferociously hot on these forty acres, but in this soft, cool dampness, I felt like I could walk all day, reveling in the joy of the hunt.

“I’m so glad you asked me out, Angus. It’s helping to take my mind off everything that’s been going on. Too much drama lately.”

Angus glanced at me, his expression somber. “Speaking of drama, I’ve got some news.”

Here we go.

I moved off into a grassy opening between the aisles and he joined me, shoving his huge hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m getting a divorce.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Well, Betty says she wants one. I don’t.”

We stared at the table across from us, filled with comic books, cookie jars, and lunchboxes from the sixties.

“You know, when she never came to see me in prison, that should have been my first clue,” he said.

I bit my lip. After the first time we’d visited the Bucks County Correctional Facility, Betty had been too intimidated by the whole experience to face it again, not even for Angus’s sake. The visits had been left up to me from then on. In fact, sometimes I’d felt like I was the only person in the entire county who still believed in him.

“She says she’s found her independence. Said I’m too domineering, whatever that means,” Angus mumbled.

After a summer spent on her own, his formerly mousy wife had finally discovered she had a backbone.