Mix-up in Miniature (17 page)

“Could be.”

“Could be.”

I sensed Henry was fading fast. And so was I, as the stroke of midnight of a long day closed in. Before we hung up, Henry talked me into letting him pick Maddie up and take her to school in the morning so I could focus on my meeting with Charles Quentin at the Rockwell Estate.

“I’m not sure I’ll do any better with preparation,” I said.

“You’ve done great so far,” he said.

I wanted to believe him.

“And this way, I’ll get to see you, first thing in the morning, with pastry from the French log cabin,” Henry continued.

Those two thoughts tipped the scales.

“You’ll have to fight the traffic in town,” I warned, hoping that didn’t dissuade him. The éclairs we’d taken home were long gone.

“I’ll get Kay or Bill to take Taylor to school, so I have plenty of time for a little detour.”

“In that case…just make sure you don’t speed through the Gettysburg-Springfield intersection.”

“Why’s that so special?”

“Big Brother. I’ll show you when you get here.”

—

The
second call on Tuesday night came from my boss, so to speak, Alicia Rockwell.

I’d checked on Maddie and was already in bed with a historical young adult novel set in nineteenth-century New York City, which was enough reason for me to enjoy it. I considered sending the call to voicemail. Surely I deserved a pleasant end to the day. Or maybe not. I felt like an employee who has been found wanting, not accomplishing what I’d been tasked to do. And if my boss was calling to reprimand me, we might as well get it over with.

“Geraldine, I hope I didn’t wake you. I’m an insomniac and I tend to assume everyone else is. But I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to you for getting Paige away from the police. It’s preposterous to think that child killed her mentor. My mother loved her as if she were her own daughter.” I heard a soft laugh, then “Perhaps more than her own daughter. I knew I hired the right person. I hope the police are pursuing other leads. Do you know who else they have on their radar? I know they can’t share too much about an ongoing investigation, but it’s so hard to get information from them.”

I wondered if Alicia had tried to query Skip directly. I had an idea how that would have gone. In my never-ending desire to please, to be more forthcoming than the police, I told Alicia a half truth. “I expect to be talking to Skip soon.”

“Excellent. You’re as good as they say, Geraldine.”

Who in the world was saying that?

“Alicia, I need to ask you about your Uncle Caleb. Was he—”

“Hmmm. I don’t remember anything, really, but I know from that one photo that he resembled Mother, of course. Very tall. He was in business, but don’t ask me what sort. Adam might remember more. He was five at the time of the accident. We were living in Chicago then and moved out here shortly afterwards. I need to run soon, Geraldine. It’s business hours in Paris. And, Geraldine, you’re a gem. I know you’ll get to the bottom of things.”

“Thanks for your confidence, Alicia, but I—”

Another interruption, not to spoil her record. “Oh, I just remembered. You’re going to the estate tomorrow to speak to Charles. I’m sure he’ll be a big help to you, Geraldine. He’s been with the family since we were in grade school, which is when Mother’s books started to really take off. I’m looking forward to seeing you. I thought we’d leave some time for a little tour of Mother’s dollhouses, if you’re interested.”

I could hardly keep my heartbeat in control. “I’d love to see—”

“Good, then. By now you’ve probably guessed that I don’t much relate to the little houses. I never saw the point of making things you couldn’t wear or drive. It’s good that Mother had Paige. And you, too, Geraldine.”

“I wish I’d—”

“My brother should be at the house for lunch, too, finally, and I must introduce you two. I have a frantic deadline to pack up three designs and ship them off to Paris, but I think I’ll simply delegate the task. I hope you’ll be able to stay for lunch with us.”

“I’d love to.”

I’d finally figured out that short sentences worked best with Alicia.

That was fine with me. I didn’t have another long one in me as I allowed myself to call an end to the day.

With Maddie safely
on her way to school in Henry’s shiny white SUV, and my stomach fully satisfied by a sugary French breakfast puff and two cups of an excellent Sumatra blend coffee, I had no excuse for not buckling down to the job Alicia had hired me to do. I counted myself lucky that she was so easy to please and thought I’d done well enough already.

I was glad I hadn’t jokingly asked for a raise or increased benefits last night. Alicia might have taken me seriously.

Before I could do serious work, however, I needed to feed my addiction. It had been a couple of days since I’d indulged my hobby. While I’d been momentarily intimidated by the craftsmanship of the Lord and Lady Morley house, that didn’t mean I was ready to give up miniatures myself.

I visited my main crafts room and picked up an unfinished mini-afghan I’d been knitting. I was about two-thirds finished, which meant I could be done in about a half hour. Just the amount of time that I could afford this morning. The instructions called for variegated yarn in nautical colors, knit in a combination shell and wave pattern, with two different blues and yellow fringe on three sides. The finished afghan would be approximately four-by-six inches, the size of the envelope that would fit in the secret room of a dollhouse, I noted.

I poured a third mug of coffee, a record for me. Normally, I switched to an herbal tea after breakfast. But there was nothing normal about this week and I needed an extra kick. I carried the mug along with the miniature afghan project to the atrium. I sat next to my small table, facing the front of the mysterious dollhouse, a life-size afghan on my lap against the early-morning chill.

I felt we’d all been very patient, and unless the house gave up its secret soon, we would have to take extraordinary measures, heirloom or not.

I have plans for you
, I whispered to the house as my ultra-narrow triple-zero needles clicked away.

—

I had
to admit an ulterior motive for finishing the afghan, besides finally being able to check off a task as completed. My crafters group would be at my house tonight and I was determined not to be the only one who came up empty for our show-and-tell at the beginning of the session. I folded the tiny afghan and put it on the table next to me.

The least I could do now was make notes for my meeting at ten with Varena’s longtime financial manager. I closed my eyes for a moment and switched gears from the colorful threads that could be woven into a pleasing pattern to the tangle of unconnected information swimming in my brain.

Alicia had declared that Charles Quentin, whom she’d known most of her life, would be a big help to me in the investigation, from which I inferred that he was not to be considered a suspect. Too bad, because I was running out of them.

I’d all but eliminated Paige Taggart in my mind, and so, apparently, had Alicia. Paige had offered a motive for Laura Overbee—a broken promise regarding her writing. But would Laura kill Varena over something as trivial as a potential book deal? Was publishing her poetry that important to Laura? Even if she felt it was, Varena’s dying wouldn’t help Laura make it to the bestseller list. In fact, it would put her out of work entirely.

I wrote “Laura-3” in my notebook, evaluating her potential as Varena’s murderer. I was on my way to an award for organizational skills, with a five-point scale I’d made up on the spot.

There were still Caleb Rockwell (Swingle?) and Corazón Cruz to think about. And the driver named Sedonis who was arguing with Varena and Charles shortly before her murder. Could any of them have murdered Varena?

First, Caleb. I thought about the alive, dead, and alive-again brother. Henry’s suggestion that Varena and Caleb may have been estranged came back to me. For me, the idea of not speaking to my sibling, if I had one—let alone declaring him dead—was beyond comprehension. Especially if he’d built me a dollhouse, I mused.

There had never been tension of any magnitude in my family, either while I was growing up, or now. Maybe because we were a small group.

Maybe because we weren’t rich. I hated to buy into the notion that the rich and famous in the Heights had more trouble, more secrets, more opportunities for destructive behavior than those of us who lived in the flats, but it was a tempting theory, borne out many times.

I wished I could call up Caleb, have him materialize in front of me, so I could quiz him. What would I ask him? Where have you been for the forty-odd years since Alicia was two years old and her mother told the family that you died in a car crash? Did you? Or were you in hiding, only to come out now and send emails and texts to your sister’s young research assistant?

I looked up through my skylight at the cloudless day that was beginning. If only Varena were alive and I could ask her directly: Did you for some reason disown your brother? Did you tell anyone at all that Caleb was not really dead? Did you write it all down in a diary? Did you—?

I shot up, nearly knocking over my mug of coffee. My crazy wanderings into realms of fantasy had paid off. Varena had left behind the story of Caleb. I remembered Paige’s telling me that Varena had created a character modeled after Caleb in one of her books.

I grabbed my ever-present phone, accessed my call log, and clicked on Paige’s number. So what if it was a bit early for a college student. Fair was fair, and Paige had established that mere time considerations—too late at night, too early in the morning—wouldn’t matter in our relationship.

The sleepy-sounding junior English major answered the phone and I immediately regretted my rash decision. The girl had had a tough couple of days and probably needed her sleep.

“I’m sorry to call so early, Paige.”

“Oh, Mrs. Porter. No worries, I have a fiction workshop at nine. I was just being lazy.”

I explained my little research question to the one most likely to know the name of the novel that featured a character named Caleb.

“I can’t think of it offhand,” Paige said. “But I keep very good records because sometimes Varena needs the information. She’s…she was always wanting to know if she’d used a certain name in an earlier book, or if she was repeating a plot element. She tried to make each one different. Did you know she has more than a hundred and fifty books in print, with more than two hundred million copies sold?”

I was aware of the extent of Varena’s reach in the romance field, though not the exact numbers, which were even more impressive than I thought. But for now I wanted just one title.

“She was an amazing woman,” I said.

Paige cleared her throat several times. I was sorry I ever doubted the sincerity of her feelings for Varena.

“Paige?”

“I’m okay. And I knew if I thought a minute I’d come up with the title of the Caleb book. It’s called
A Family Betrayed
. It came out before my time with Varena, but I can get you a copy if you want.”

“No, thanks, Paige. I don’t want you to be late for class.”

“Let me know if you have trouble finding it. I really hope you catch whoever did this, Mrs. Porter. I miss Varena very much.”

“I know you do. I don’t suppose you’ve had any more emails or texts of interest in the last few hours?”

“No. I’m sort of glad I didn’t get any, but I sort of wish I did, too.”

I knew what she meant.

—

It
didn’t take a whiz like Maddie to search for a book title and find a summary of the story. I went to my favorite book site and typed in
VARENA YOUNG, A FAMILY BETRAYED
.

Up popped a cover image like those I’d come to associate with Regency romances: An impossibly beautiful woman in an emerald green, off-the-shoulder dress, a cameo on a black ribbon around her neck. A handsome man leaning toward her, his blousy white shirt open to the waist, his leather vest askew. In the next minute, you knew, he would scoop the woman in his arms. Her hair would cascade down her shoulders and onto his chest.

The cover alone was enough to send a flush to my face.

I scrolled down the Internet page to the plot summary:
Young Amanda Braxton is torn between her duty to her needy, older brother, Caleb, and her desire for the attentions of her handsome, shadowy suitor, Lucas Templeton. A dramatic series of events sends Caleb to prison and Amanda into the arms of a man who might be her undoing.

I clucked my tongue and mentally snapped my fingers.
Aha
. I was fairly sure that what had happened to Alicia’s Uncle Caleb when she was two years old did not involve a car accident. I started to make an entry on my notepad reminding me to ask Skip to check prison records. Instead, I punched in his number.

“Detective Gowen is not available…” went the recitation, in a secretary’s voice. In a way, I was glad he didn’t pick up. I could hold the thought that after a late night at the office, Skip might be sleeping in.

His mother and I both worried about his hectic schedule and what it might be doing to the rest of his life, if he allowed himself one. While I was at it, I decided to call Beverly, too. My sister-in-law and I didn’t check in with each other quite as often as we did before meeting Nick (her) and Henry (me), but we were still best friends and always able to pick up where we left off.

I left a message for Skip, asking him to search prison records, and another for Beverly, hoping for lunch soon.

It felt good to have solved one problem and to finally start putting pieces together. Though I had no idea why Caleb might have been sent to prison or when he’d been released—days ago? months? many years?—I knew he’d been free to roam his sister’s Robert Todd Heights home this past weekend.

As usual, the answer to one question had raised a dozen more. What had sent Caleb to prison, if that’s what had happened? Was he wrongly convicted? Was his crime associated with whatever had gotten Varena murdered? Had he, in fact, killed his sister, his sympathetic notes to Paige notwithstanding?

It no longer seemed important to locate Corazón Cruz, except to hope that she’d either found gainful employment elsewhere in the Heights or was happily reunited with her family in Mexico. I did also wish I could thank her for setting me on a trail to find a brother everyone thought was dead.

Flashing back to Monday, I pictured Caleb’s arriving at the estate, announcing himself to Corazón as Varena’s brother, and being led to an upstairs sitting room. Corazón was new at the Rockwell home and couldn’t have known the fiction that had grown up around Caleb. Most likely, she hadn’t been briefed that the man she respectfully acknowledged as a member of the family had supposedly been deceased for more than forty years.

I tapped my pen on my notepad as I’d seen Skip do so often. I was still bothered by an army of unnamed persons of interest, besides the large household staff, who should be investigated as suspects. Perhaps I should consider other romance novelists, jealous of Varena’s success. The idea was daunting. I’d never get to query them unless I hung out a shingle and hired a staff to help me.

That was not how I saw my retirement years. Poor Alicia, counting on the likes of me.

I thought back to my conversations with Alicia, who for all practical purposes had started me on this road of detecting. A wicked notion fluttered in the back of my mind. What if her big show of wanting to find her mother’s killer was just that, a show, to deflect suspicion from herself?

By “hiring” me, she appeared eager to find justice for her mother’s murder. And what better way to keep tabs on the true investigation by the LPPD than through the known-to-be-meddling aunt of the chief detective on the case? I realized I was her conduit for information on how the case was proceeding. Were they closing in on her? What evidence were they working with?

I recalled Alicia’s laugh when she mentioned how Varena loved Paige like a daughter, or “perhaps more than her own daughter.” Was there a note of resentment in the remark? I could make myself believe anything this morning, but I decided to push away the dark thoughts of matricide. Everyone handled grief differently, and if Alicia’s method seemed a more calculated, problem-solving approach than I might have taken, that didn’t mean she was any less devastated by the loss of her mother in such a violent way.

The dollhouse stood mute in front of me. In some ways, it was the center of the investigation. The miniature building stared back at me. I contemplated its multifaceted history that qualified at once as a symbol of an older brother’s love for his sister, as a valuable antique, as a celebrity relic, and as an example of twentieth-century modern style.

If houses could be charged with a crime, I might accuse this one at least of obstruction of justice.

I leaned forward and brushed away a piece of lint that had made its way from my laundry area to the old card table that supported the house. I had a plan in mind for the future of Caleb’s long-ago wonderful present to Varena. I’d decided to give it one more day to live. My regular Wednesday crafters group would meet in my home this evening. I’d put all of them to work on the project of uncovering the secret room.

I addressed the house directly:
If that doesn’t work, I’m calling in the demolition crew.

Once I started talking to my hobby—and this was not the first time I’d spoken to a dollhouse—I knew it was time for a break. I put aside my notepad, with its pages of names and checkmarks, but mostly doodles of tiny houses and furniture, and went to my bedroom to face the toughest part of the day—what to wear?

Still conscious of the inadequacy of my wardrobe for a visit to the Heights, I did the best I could. I couldn’t match the dramatic flair of Varena or her daughter, with their vibrant colors and flowing outfits, but I certainly could pull off the retro sweater-set look that Laura Overbee had adopted.

I donned a beige cashmere shell and cardigan, a present from Maddie’s parents last Christmas, and dark brown wool slacks that Beverly had picked out for my birthday. The amber teardrop-shaped pendant that Ken gave me on our twentieth anniversary seemed to work well with the ensemble.

If it weren’t for my family and friends, I’d never be fit to leave the house.