Mix-up in Miniature (19 page)

Was he asking if I’d seen him kill his boss?

Charles Quentin had better come soon, before my imagination led me to claim that I’d witnessed him standing over Varena’s body with the lethal sword in his hand.

—

Not
Charles, but eventually I had a visitor to the room. A whiff of rosewater seemed to precede Laura Overbee as she came my way in a pale green sweater set.

“Geraldine, how nice to see you again,” Laura said, taking a seat across from me. A large vase of white chrysanthemums nearly shielded her face. I shifted on the plush sofa. “Charles is running late. He apologizes profusely.”

“It will give us a chance to visit,” I said, with just the right amount of investigative tone in my voice, I thought. “I suppose you’re busy making plans?”

I meant “looking for a new job,” but didn’t have the heart to be so direct.

“There’s still a great deal to do here. There are two more Varena Young books coming out in the next few months and they have to be dealt with.”

I gave her a questioning look.

“Promoted,” Laura explained.

“You’ll be promoting the book of a deceased author?”

“Certainly. The estate is owed the royalties from the books. And, of course, Varena’s fans will be very excited to have a few more hours of pleasure from new releases. In fact, Missy Beaumont, another Regency romance author from the San Francisco area, has generously offered to include Varena’s books as she launches her own in the next months.”

There was a lot I didn’t understand about the publishing business. I was happy with my status as reader. Since Laura was in a friendly mood and I was in a fact-finding mood, I did my own bit of promotion.

“I’m trying to tie up some loose ends for my report to the police,” I said, with a great show of sincerity. As if Skip would take field notes from his aunt. “Would you be able to put me in touch with one of your drivers, a man named Roberto Sedonis?”

“How’s that investigation coming? I thought it was all wrapped up when the police arrested Paige.”

“They didn’t arrest her. They asked her additional questions.”

“Well, they should have just put her in jail. Did they ask her why was she down that hallway in the first place?”

I thought of defending Paige, but pulled back. Laura could think what she wanted. “The police are doing their jobs and I’m doing mine. I’m sorry to impose on you about seeing Mr. Sedonis. I’m sure your responsibilities have nothing to do with him or other employees.”

Laura fairly jumped up from her hands-folded seated position on the velvety chair. “Not true. I’ll find Roberto and send him over.”

She left abruptly, leaving her rosewater trail. I followed her with my gaze as she walked toward the corridor that ended in the Lord and Lady Morley room.

I had no desire to visit the Morleys’ house today. Not even the thought of another look at the walnut-and-maple lap harp in their miniature music room could entice me down the hallway.

I wasn’t at all happy with whoever had turned my fantasy into horror.

—

I took
out my phone and punched in Henry’s number. I’d been about to call him when Alicia had interrupted me in my car.

“Shouldn’t you be at your meeting with Charles Quentin?” he asked.

“He’s running late.”

“He’s scared of you.”

Leave it to Henry to make me laugh when I least expect to.

“I found the pieces of wicker I was looking for and also a very nice pull chain,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I will.” I also liked picturing Henry in his corduroy pants and thick wool vest, going about his business. “What’s next?”

“I’ll spend the next forty-five minutes or so in the library, then I’ll head over to Maddie’s school. We should be home by twelve-thirty. I’ll take her to your house since Taylor doesn’t get picked up till three. Anything you want us to do to get ready for your crafters meeting tonight in case you’re late?”

“I’d better not be that late, but it would be a big help if you set up the buffet table. Maddie knows what to put out.”

“Will do.”

I still marveled at having found this wonderful “will do” kind of guy. We’d reconnected at the faculty table of an ALHS reunion that neither of us had wanted to attend. We’d hardly been apart since, and neither had our granddaughters.

I went through a quick internal debate about whether to tell Henry about the note I’d either received or intercepted. Maybe he’d be able to figure out what it meant for the investigation. It occurred to me that I always seemed to be giving my friend errands to do for me, puzzles to figure out, problems to solve. I’d spare him this one.

One of these days I was going to ask Henry Baker on a normal date.

Somewhere in the
enormous house a clock struck eleven. For all I could tell, the sound was coming from one of the working grandfather clocks in the Lord and Lady Morley dollhouse. Thinking of my short time with them brought on a wave of sadness, as if they were a real couple who’d just suffered a loss.

Not even my doctor or my hairdresser was this late for an appointment. I was beginning to think I was being stood up by CQ. I stood to stretch my legs and considered stepping outside to get some air. But did I want to risk missing Charles? Did I want to inadvertently forgo what was probably an elegant lunch, the menu something to talk about with my favorite cook, Henry?

An even more critical question: Did I want to risk another visit from the postman in the woods?

While I was ruminating, a short, dark, formally dressed man appeared in the massive archway between the foyer and the music room.

“Mrs. Porter?” he asked, taking off a cap that screamed
chauffeur
. “Ms. Overbee said you like to talk to me?”

I detected a slight Hispanic accent, much less pronounced than Corazón Cruz’s. I wasn’t happy about another opportunity for Skip to accuse me of misunderstanding a member of the Rockwell household staff.

“Mr. Sedonis?”

He nodded.

“I’m expecting Mr. Quentin any minute, but perhaps we can have a short chat?”

“Mr. Quentin, he’s tied up with some important people,” the timid man said.

I was used to hearing that at the Rockwell Estate, where everyone was more important than I was.

I invited Mr. Sedonis to take a seat on the sofa. He declined with a shake of his head. Maybe he felt even less important than I did, less worthy of the rich, velvety fabric. Or maybe his theory was that interviews conducted while both parties were standing tended to be short.

“By any chance, did you deliver a dollhouse to my home on Monday afternoon?” I asked.

Mr. Sedonis held his cap by the edge of the brim and turned it around and around. “
Sí, sí.
I’m very sorry, Mrs. Porter.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“The”—Mr. Sedonis put his hat under his arm and used his hands to make what might have passed for a rectangle—“the corner?”

I shook my head, still not getting it.

“We bang it a little.”

“You banged the corner of the dollhouse?”

“
Sí
, it was very heavy, Mrs. Porter, and the doorway—”

“Is that why you thought I wanted to see you? Because there’s damage at a corner of the dollhouse? I didn’t even notice it. Please don’t worry about it, Mr. Sedonis.”

Mr. Sedonis’s whole body relaxed. A smile came to his dark face. “Thank you, Mrs. Porter.”

“If you could answer just a couple of questions for me?”

He would be only too happy to.

“Do you always use your own vehicle for deliveries?” I asked.

“No, but the truck that belongs to the estate, it is in the shop and the dollhouse would not fit in any of the cars, so my cousin and me, we use the truck we travel here in.”

“From Arizona,” I said. Just making sure we were talking about the same red truck.

He nodded.

I wondered if the Rockwell Estate—“the Swingle Estate” didn’t have the same ring to it—had as many vehicles as dollhouses.

“What time did you leave here with the dollhouse?”

“I don’t get back to the estate until almost four-thirty, then we have to pack it so it doesn’t fall out of the truck and that’s why we get to your house so late. You are not home, so we leave it in front of the door.”

It was a relief to hear that Mr. Sedonis’s story was consistent with the time code on the construction site video. I had enough twisting and confusing threads to work out without having to reconcile the driver’s version of events.

“There was more than one dollhouse in that room. How did you know which one to take to my home?”

“Ms. Young, she told me she put a sign on it in the room upstairs.” Mr. Sedonis pointed up and to his right, where I assumed the Lord Weatherly room was. Still holding my midsize Tudor, I mused, my mind wandering off to a hoped-for tour of the dollhouses today.

“And you had no trouble finding the sign on the dollhouse?”

Mr. Sedonis made faster and faster trips around his hat, shifted his small frame from one foot to the other and back again, and shook his head from side to side. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter.”

Here we go. “What happened?”

“My cousin, he’s clumsy. He knocks the sign down and I ask him is he sure which house. Now I think maybe we took the wrong one? We can come and get it, Mrs. Porter. This is my new job, only six months, and I don’t want to give any trouble for Mr. Quentin. I can go back and deliver you the other one today.”

In any language:
Please don’t tell my boss I messed up
.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Sedonis. I’ll straighten things out and you certainly won’t be blamed for anything.”

Once again, I had a timeline to work out. If Paige’s information was correct, Caleb deposited the letter in the secret room of the dollhouse he built for his sister on Sunday evening or Monday morning. Varena must have tagged the Tudor for me before I arrived at the estate since there was hardly time between when I left and some time around four-fifteen when she was murdered.

It occurred to me that the mistress of the estate most likely already lay dead at the other end of the mansion by the time Mr. Sedonis and his cousin picked up the wrong dollhouse.

I needed a moment of silence, but there was no opportunity.

One small thing that Mr. Sedonis said nagged at me. I thought a minute and chose my strategy carefully.

“Thanks for all your help, Mr. Sedonis. You did an excellent job getting that huge dollhouse to my home with only a tiny scratch. I’m sure you have very busy days working for this big estate, don’t you?”

I could practically read the man’s mind: Finally, an easy question. He put his cap back under his arm and rubbed his palms together, a happy man, relieved that the formal interview was over.

He smiled broadly. “Very busy, yes, all the time.”

“And I’ll bet the trip to my home on Monday wasn’t the first trip to town that you made that day.”

“No, no. All afternoon on Monday I was in town, in the shop with the truck for the estate. I had to wait until my cousin come to get me. That’s why I’m not back here until four-thirty.”

“Then it must have been another driver who was arguing with Mr. Quentin between three-thirty and four?”

Mr. Sedonis turned as white as his natural complexion would allow. I thought the man was going to fall to his knees. I felt a surge of guilt that I’d tricked him into letting down his guard so he’d forget his lie to the police. It was CQ who should be held responsible, not a poor worker simply trying to hold onto his job.

Now that I knew Charles had coerced Mr. Sedonis to give a false statement to the police, I wasn’t sure what it all meant. Was it too much of a leap to conclude that the argument I heard on Monday afternoon had been among Varena, Charles, and Caleb? If so, why would Charles want to hide Caleb’s presence? To keep Varena’s secret?

It would make sense that Charles, the longtime friend, might know of Caleb’s conviction and Varena’s desire to disassociate herself from him.

I was about to assure Mr. Sedonis that I would do my best not to bring his lie out in the open, when I saw a tall man with a thick shock of white hair descend the staircase in the foyer.

Charles Quentin, a man I knew to be in his mid-seventies, but who could have passed for much younger, whether from nature or design, I couldn’t say.

I put my hand on the estate driver’s shoulder and spoke so Charles would hear me. “Thanks for sharing your thoughts about Ms. Young with me, Mr. Sedonis. The local miniaturists club will be very happy to hear the memories, direct from someone who drove her to her favorite places.”

I could hear Skip in the recesses of my head: “What a crock.”

I wasn’t sure Charles Quentin bought it either, but I had to give it a try. I knew I’d be devastated if Mr. Sedonis went the way of Corazón Cruz.

—

Quick
as a flash, the short, dark Roberto in a narrow black tie was replaced on the carpet in front of me by the tall, white-haired Charles in the most expensive-looking suit I’d ever seen. I suspected his attire was chosen to fit in with the important people who had preceded me on his calendar.

I hoped it was only my guilt-ridden imagination that saw a suspicious look from Charles, directed at Mr. Sedonis.

To me, he couldn’t have been more charming. “I’m so sorry to be late, Mrs. Porter. In fact, I see that lunch is ready to be served. Won’t you follow me to the patio?”

Charles didn’t leave me much choice. I was sure he’d deliberately worked it so I’d have no private time with him. He came across as a man who worked everything to suit himself.

Maybe it was just as well that I wouldn’t be alone with him. After all, I’d been warned to watch out for him.

—

I’d
have been way off the mark if I thought “patio” meant a rustic, informal setting, perhaps outdoors. The Rockwell patio, at the back of the house, past the grand double stairway, was more like a conservatory where exotic plants grew than a place where you’d slap hamburgers on a grill. Sunlight poured through the structure through the floor-to-ceiling bay windows. Spread out behind it were the lavish gardens of the estate, and beyond, the rolling hills of Robert Todd Heights.

I’d have been hard-pressed to recall a setting more elegant than this, even counting all the weddings I’d been to. The white wrought iron table was set for four with exquisite china and crystal. At each place were a three-color salad of lettuce, endive, and radicchio and a selection of miniature fresh-from-the-oven rolls that emitted the most wonderful yeasty aroma.

Alicia had preceded us and now approached the entry to the spacious “patio.”

She extended her long arm in a graceful gesture toward Adam, entering stage right. Another Varena, only male, causing me to conclude that genes of the men who fathered these children had been defeated by those of the mother. Biology wasn’t my best subject, but at least I knew what I meant.

“We didn’t allow the staff much notice,” Alicia said, giving me an air-kiss near each cheek. “So, this will be a simple meal. I just wanted you to get to know Charles and Adam.”

Alicia spoke as if I were her new BFF and she’d brought me home to meet the family.

I had to admit, it was convenient to have all the nonsuspects at one table.

—

The
very “simple” lunch of fillet of swordfish with a topping of minced olives and peppers, disks of sautéed zucchini, and jasmine rice nearly distracted me from learning more about the Swingle/Rockwell/Young family and its caretaker. With each delicious bite I pictured myself describing the taste to Henry and everyone I knew (except Maddie).

It would have been difficult for me to bring up means, motive, and opportunity for murder in such lovely, peaceful surroundings. Instead, I listened to what was important to each of my lunch companions.

From Charles: a brief history of the ownership of the estate, previously occupied by an unnamed governor of an East Coast state, bought by Varena who made a number of improvements, each one of which Charles explained in detail. I inquired politely about the origin of the plants that surrounded us in the patio. We noted how sad it was that Varena did not live to see her last planting bloom.

From Alicia: a taste of the inner workings of the fashion industry in San Francisco, New York City, and Paris. I mentioned once having worked near the Garment District during my college years in Manhattan. Alicia reminisced that her mother was always willing to be the first test model for a new design.

From Adam: a discussion of the vagaries of labor law in this state of many immigrant workers, plus an inadvertent mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife, Estelle, who was on a cruise to the Caribbean. I added that my late husband and I had cruised the Greek Islands many years ago. Adam confessed how sorry he was that he’d never taken a cruise with his wife or his mother.

I ate the last morsel of a sour cream roll with the bit of zucchini that was left on my plate. A young woman cleared away our dishes and took our orders for coffee and tea. When Alicia announced that the chef’s special dessert was cognac ice cream with roasted Bing cherries and bittersweet chocolate sauce, it was almost enough to silence me on the reason I’d come here today.

So far I’d gotten nothing that would help me with the investigation into the murder of the woman who should have been sitting at the head of the table, enjoying her blooming phlox with Mozart in the background. Were Alicia and Charles deliberately stonewalling me, protecting themselves from unpleasant questions?

Now that I was pleasantly sated, I could afford to be escorted off the property, if it came to that. I started with the weakest link, as I perceived him. “Adam, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? I haven’t really talked to you about the horrible crime against your family.”

“Sure, go ahead, Geraldine. I know I haven’t been much use. As my sister puts it, I’m kind of in a fog.”

A stranger to the table would have guessed incorrectly that Alicia was the older sibling. Alicia was always in charge, in her posture, her voice, her manner of speaking. Adam seemed at sixes and sevens, his eyes a bit glazed, as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep.

“What do you remember about your Uncle Caleb?” I asked Adam.

Charles’s throat clearing drowned out Mozart. “I fail to see why you would bring up another tragedy, Geraldine.”

“What’s the harm, Charles?” Adam asked. “I actually do remember some nice times with my only uncle. There was some kind of theme park he’d take us to. Or maybe it was just a circus passing through town.” Adam smiled more broadly than he had all through lunch. “Whatever it was, he bought us the kind of food Mother would never let us eat. Hot dogs, especially.”

“I, of course, have no such memories, but I do recall your telling me those stories. Adam. It seems they were happy times.” Alicia’s face took on a relaxed expression that was new to me.