A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (27 page)

“Or maybe it’s still at Sophie’s house, knowing Marybeth’s penchant for staging,” Birch suggested. “A nice piece like this would look great for showings.”

I struggled to remember the scene when I’d peeked in the window to see Marybeth and Chip arguing. There was certainly furniture in the room, but I couldn’t be sure if there was a desk there or not.

Serrano and I looked at each other, the now familiar spark of understanding zinging between us.

He was already moving off the couch when I said, “Serrano—let’s go!”

“W
here are we going?” Eleanor grumbled. She didn’t like to be separated from her Beefeater martinis.

“Sophie’s house,” I yelled over my shoulder, hobbling toward the front door.

Bettina took Birch, PJ, Martha, and Cyril in her car, and Serrano, who’d barely drunk a quarter of his beer, drove Eleanor, me, and Joe.

Serrano called the real estate agent who was handling Marybeth’s listings and asked her to meet us at the house.

When she arrived and unlocked the front door, we all raced past her into the living room and stumbled to a halt in front of the actual Chippendale desk. I pulled on the drawer that corresponded to my miniature, but it was locked, and no sign of a key.

“Damn it.” I ran a hand through my hair. “Now what?”

Cyril pulled a hairpin out of Martha’s red hair, watching spellbound for a second as a curly red tendril fell free. He bent down, wiggled the pin inside the lock, pushed against the other drawers for a minute, but it was still stuck fast. He bent down, took the pin out, licked it, and stuck it in again.

“This clue was staring us in the face all along,” I said, watching him work. “God, I’ve been so stupid. Harriet would have picked up on this in a second if she’d bought that dollhouse.”

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked.

“A Chippendale desk is not the right time period for a Victorian house. It was made about a hundred years earlier. To historically anal Harriet, this would have been a giant red flag.”

“Aye up now, I beg to differ. That’s not quite true.” Cyril swiveled around and pointed the pin at me. “According to this book on dollhouses ah’m reading, there were all kinds of furniture styles in the Revival period that hearkened back to the past. A desk like this would be perfectly acceptable in an 1860s Victorian home.”

“Oh God, all right, fine, fine. Just focus, please,” I begged, waving his attention back toward the desk.

Cyril wrestled with the drawer for a few more minutes, and finally it broke free. The drawer itself was empty, but when he turned it over, an envelope was taped to the underside.

“You’re a man of so many talents.” Martha beamed at him.

Cyril handed the envelope to Serrano, who opened it carefully.

“Appears to be the last will and testament of one Sophie Rosenthal,” he said. There was silence for a few moments as he scanned the document.

“Why would Sophie go to such lengths to hide it?” Martha said. “Why not just give it to Harriet?”

PJ shook her head. “Chip was always skulking around, watching her at the end, perhaps suspecting she might pull something like this.”

“Maybe Sophie was planning on giving her the dollhouse but never got the chance,” Eleanor said.

I couldn’t take the suspense anymore. “What does the will
say
, Serrano?”

He looked up from his perusal. “Basically she gave this house and some miscellaneous possessions to her nephew, Chip Rosenthal.”

At the outer fringe of our group, I could see the real estate agent breathe a tiny sigh of relief. It might have made things a bit tricky with the closing if the will had said otherwise.

“And the fifty prime waterfront acres along the Delaware River to one Margaret Jane Avery.”

“My God, PJ, do you know what this means?” I exclaimed. “You’re a millionaire.”

“Woot!” PJ gave a jump and high-fived the air.

“Oh, yes, and to her beloved Millbury Historical Society, Sophie gave the commercial building on Main Street that currently houses a sewing notions shop,” Serrano said.

Martha swept me up into a bone-crushing hug. I grinned over her shoulder at my good friend and new landlord.

Eleanor Reid, president of the Historical Society.

I
t wasn’t every day you had the opportunity to see the best-looking men of your acquaintance naked. Almost never, in fact. And after tonight, I doubted I ever would again.

The shooting for the ‘Men of Millbury’ calendar had been going on all week in the carriage house of Ruth Bornstein’s estate. The gorgeous fieldstone building was serving as both a studio and temporary living quarters for the high-fashion photographer she’d lured from California.

The Millbury Historical Society, of which I was a member, was desperately trying to save an old farmhouse once inhabited by one of the founders of our quaint nineteenth-century village. The current owner was entertaining bids for the property and accompanying twenty acres situated in bucolic Bucks County, Pennsylvania, and the Society was up against a local builder who was intent on putting up a slew of cookie-cutter housing unless we could stop him.

We’d gone the bake sale route. Now we needed some serious cash.

“Having fun, Daisy?” Mr. February, who also happened to be my very handsome husband, Joe Daly, came over and wrapped his arm around me.

I grinned and leaned into his embrace.

Not only did we want to save the character of our beloved Millbury, but the rambling farmhouse would be turned into a community center, providing badly needed recreation space for the local children.

Somehow my best friend, Martha, secretary of the Society and a fiery redhead, had convinced these twelve brave souls to take it off for the sake of historical preservation. Perhaps the fact that it would benefit the children had been the motivating factor for these guys, and not so much Martha’s salesmanship or, should I say, relentless arm-twisting.

“It’s crazy out there tonight,” Joe said to me. “Think you might need a couple of bouncers for the next guy.”

There was high excitement in the air. Tonight we would see the crème de la crème.

Dark and dangerous Detective Serrano, in the flesh.

Literally.

Although these guys weren’t completely baring it all. Depending on the way they made a living, the photographer had used a discreetly placed object to cover the family jewels, like a fire helmet, a barbershop chair, or a farming implement.

We were working in the garage of the carriage house, which was still a beautiful space with its heavy wooden timbers overhead and whitewashed walls. It was even heated, which was a definite plus on an early winter’s night. The building looked like an L-shaped barn, with the long part being the garage with its three wide mahogany doors. In the summer, swathes of orange daylilies grew along the sides of the house, which was half fieldstone on the bottom and light green siding above.

It would certainly have been easier to produce this calendar in the summer when we could have used outdoor locations, but seeing as it was early November, the clock was ticking to get it printed and into the stores in time for Christmas.

By the way, I’m Daisy Buchanan, the fifty-something-year-old proprietress of Millbury’s antiques and sewing notions store Sometimes a Great Notion. Actually I’m fifty-eight, but fifty-something sounds better. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married. Joe was secure enough in his masculinity that he didn’t have a problem with that, or about sitting bare-bottomed on his lovingly restored vintage bicycle.

The shooting had been going on since last Wednesday, with one or two guys each day. Joe had had his turn on Monday, and yesterday the local butcher brought a string of fat Italian sausages with him as his prop, which caused more than a little hilarity.

All in all, this project had been a lot of fun. Our models had been pretty good-natured about the whole thing. Privately, I think they’d quite enjoyed the fuss.

Some of them, like the firefighters, had been filmed in situ, but for the rest we’d created a set inside the garage.

Tonight Joe had helped us by hauling in bales of hay and stacks of gourds because first up under the lights was Mr. October, a former mailman whose hobby was growing giant pumpkins. He was in his early sixties now, but still in good shape thanks to years of extreme gardening.

The plan was for him to hold a pumpkin in front of the essential bits, and there was lots of cheerful ribbing going on.

“Hey, that’s a mini pumpkin!” Sam yelled, still fully clothed, as Martha gave him his prop. “I’m gonna need a bigger one than that!”

Eleanor Reid, president of the Society, and my other best friend in the world next to Martha, sidled up to us, her gray eyes sparkling with anticipation. She wore her usual all-black attire—a long-sleeved baseball shirt and yoga pants—which actually seemed to fit with her role as photographer’s assistant. Her white hair was cropped mannishly short.

Eleanor owned a store across from mine on Main Street called A Stitch Back in Time where she restored and restyled vintage wedding gowns. She only worked whenever she felt like it, which wasn’t very often, but in some mysterious manner she always seemed to maintain an exceedingly comfortable lifestyle.

Enough to put gas in her red Vespa and chilled Beefeater in her martini glass anyway.

“There’s a huge crowd outside those garage doors,” she said to us in her husky voice. “All kinds of women from the village, not just from the Historical Society. Like a rock concert or something. Far out. I feel like I’m back in Woodstock.”

I could feel the tension building, like the pressure in the air before a summer thunderstorm. The mailman was nice enough to look at, but it was nothing compared to the main attraction.

Detective Serrano was a transplanted New Yorker, like Joe and me. He was the hottest, most exciting import into Millbury in years and he spent as much time fending off the local females as he did catching criminals. Somehow I’d become a bit of an amateur sleuth, thanks to my, um, inquisitive nature, and I’d helped him solve a couple of cases, whether accidentally or on purpose.

Martha had finally given Mr. October a large enough pumpkin to satisfy his manly ego, and she swept over to us, carrying a clipboard, and trailing Cyril Mackey in her wake.

I wasn’t sure what the clipboard was for, seeing as we only had two models to keep track of, but I didn’t dare ask.

She was wearing a gold lamé wrap shirt, harem-style pants in a Japanese black and gold design, and high heels. The shirt gapped dangerously over her impressive curves and I hoped the little snap fastener at her cleavage was up to the challenge, ready to give his all for God and Country. Her bright red hair was twisted up into a thick knot, showing long shimmering earrings. If need be, the photographer could always use her as another light reflector.

“How did you ever talk these guys into this anyway?” Joe asked her. “I mean, I know
I
was a pushover, but it can’t have been that easy with everyone.”

“Well, some were easier than others,” she said with an arch look at Cyril.

Cyril was the cantankerous owner of the local salvage business. He was originally from Yorkshire, England, and until recently, a bit of an outcast whose wardrobe left a lot to be desired. The village was still intrigued as to how he and Martha, a wealthy widow, had embarked on their strange and precarious new romance.

He glared at her. “I still don’t know how I feel about taking my kit off in front of a bunch o’ gawping women.”

“Come on, man, be a sport,” Joe said. “We’ve all sacrificed our pride for a good cause.”

Cyril took his tweed cap off and ran it through his thick gray hair before jamming the cap back on his head. “I know, and that awd bugger what owns the place has already scarpered to the bloody Outer Banks. So I hope a lot of people buy this damn calendar and right quick.”

Cyril was correct that the current owner of the historic property had no real emotional attachment to Millbury anymore. The only thing he cared about was getting a nice fat check to fund his retirement. He’d simply sell to the highest bidder.

Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Cyril, after tonight you’re the last one, and then the ladies can get it into production.”

At that moment, the photographer, Alex Roos, strolled past our group, one hand on a slim hip. “People, people, how’s it going?” he said, showing capped teeth that were startlingly bright against his tanned skin. He wore black jeans, a long shirt with billowing sleeves that made him look a bit like a pirate, and pointed emerald green snakeskin boots.

Ruth Bornstein, the owner of this estate, who had more connections than a crocheted shawl, had talked him into doing the shoot for a cut-rate price. She was also providing his room and board for free, which was her contribution to the cause. Even without knowing he was from California, it was clear to see he was an exotic bird amongst a flock of country fowl.

His hair was cut in a Mohawk style, about an inch long, like the bristles on a silver-backed antique brush, and so blond it was almost white. The way some fair-skinned children get after a summer spent playing outside. And like a soft brush, it seemed to invite the touch of your fingers.

Roos had caused quite a stir himself around these parts during the week he’d been shooting. It was rumored he’d had almost as many liaisons as there were months in the calendar, including a dalliance with one of the married women. There was more than one jealous significant other who would be glad to see the back of him when he left town.

He winked at the local librarian who was doing a last minute polish of the carved pumpkins near us. In spite of his affectations, I had to acknowledge that he did have some charm. But give me Joe’s wholesome good looks or Serrano’s brooding, debonair appearance any day.

“Today’s cock, tomorrow’s feather duster,” Cyril muttered. He looked as if he would have spit on the ground if he was back in his junkyard and not in this garage that was nicer than a lot of people’s living rooms. “And I don’t know about being alone with that fancy pants bloke, neither.” He nodded toward Roos, who was busy setting up his camera. “Think I dassent turn my back to ’im.”

Joe cleared his throat. “So, Daisy, where’s Serrano?”

“Mr. July should be here any minute,” I said confidently, not even bothering to check my watch. Serrano always showed up on time for his rendezvous.

The librarian inhaled as if she could already catch a hint of his intoxicating aftershave in the air. “Ah. The hot detective. Every woman’s fantasy.”

Martha shook her head. “No. Trust me, dear. At our age, it’s a fantasy to have someone
cook
for you every night. Like Joe does for Daisy.”

My husband had blossomed into quite the gourmet cook, seeing as the tiny village of Millbury didn’t have a restaurant, only a diner that closed at 3 p.m. He’d convinced me to take early retirement two years ago from teaching high school and we’d moved into our former vacation home, a Greek Revival on Main Street. Joe had settled comfortably into country life, but it had been harder for me, and when I bid on a steamer trunk full of sewing notions at the local auction, it had been the inspiration to open my store. And my salvation.

So not only was I a resident, but as a store owner in Millbury, I was doubly interested in what happened to our little village.

Mr. October headed for the changing area that we’d set up with a wooden screen in the back of the garage. No one else would be allowed to stay for the actual shooting, except for the designated photographer’s assistants—Martha, Eleanor, and me.

“There have to be
some
perks of sitting through the insufferably dull Historical Society meetings,” Martha had declared when she’d made the arrangements.

Everyone else left, our model came out with a towel wrapped around his waist, and shooting began.

To protect his modesty as much as possible, we kept our backs turned until he was posed with his strategically placed pumpkin, and only came forward when requested to reposition an item on the set, or to hand Roos a roll of film.

After the photographer was satisfied with the shots, and the mailman was dressed once more, we opened the garage doors. Joe loaded the bales of hay back into Cyril’s truck. I swept the garage and the others removed the pumpkins.

“I’m going to catch a ride back to Millbury with Cyril, so I can let the puppy out,” Joe said, as he kissed me good-bye and handed me the keys to our old Subaru station wagon. “See you later.”

As I watched Joe and Cyril pull away in the truck, I blew out a breath against the guilty flutter in my chest for the imminent arrival of our next model.

Eleanor had borrowed a fake brick wall from the local theatre and the plan was to back the detective’s Dodge Challenger on an angle into the garage and create the illusion of a grimy alleyway with a couple of garbage cans and some moody lighting. Serrano would stand partway behind the open driver’s door, pointing his gun at an imaginary assailant.

“Now, aren’t you glad we talked you into joining the Historical Society?” Eleanor said, as we maneuvered the wall into place.

“Yes,” I answered dutifully, grunting as I pushed.

“Well, it was about time you joined, seeing as you were a history teacher after all,” Martha said, peering at us over her clipboard.

Okay, Tom Sawyer.

“You know, it’s been quite a week so far,” Martha continued. “Starting with the cute little barber. Even though he was the first to take his clothes off, you didn’t have to ask him twice.”

“The man’s an exhibitionist,” Eleanor sniffed.

The Millbury barber had had a crush on Eleanor for years, but she’d never taken his pursuit seriously.

“I must say I’d never realized how well built he was,” Martha said. “I mean, he’s short and everything, but very nice-looking. Especially with his clothes off.”

“I suppose.” Suddenly Eleanor brightened. “Hey, remember when Angus mooned us?”

“Ew, yes!” I said. Our irrepressible auctioneer had loved every second of his fifteen minutes of fame.

The powerful sound of a muscle car rumbled up the driveway and we quickly opened up the first garage door. We stepped out of the way as Serrano executed a swift three-point turn and slid the gleaming black vehicle into position in one smooth move. He got out, and with a respectful nod in our direction, headed over to talk to Roos, exuding authority with every movement. I could see there would be none of the usual banter like when he stopped by my store in the mornings for coffee and baked goodies.