Mix-up in Miniature (9 page)

Henry laughed. “Not yet. Her mother says she’ll start to worry when Taylor takes a shower and changes her socks without being told.”

“Maybe it’s a phase Maddie’s going through. I don’t remember Richard’s moods that well. I don’t think he had many, and anyway it would be different for a boy.”

“My life has been full of girls,” said Henry, whose offspring comprised one daughter and one granddaughter. “And as for me, well, kids weren’t allowed to have moods in the old days.”

I knew what he meant. I couldn’t even imagine looking at my mother cross-eyed, as she would have said, let alone frown at her or talk back, or claim I just wasn’t in the mood.

“I guess I’m no help,” Henry continued.

“Maybe not that way. But there’s something else you could do, if you choose to accept the mission.”

“Bring it on.”

I told Henry about the secret room and Maddie’s inability to reproduce the action that had brought it to light. “I’m sure some wires and batteries are the key, if it does exist, and I hope it does, since there may be a clue in it,” I said.

“Aha.”

“But the only dollhouse wiring I’ve done is with a kit, where you run electrical tape along the floor and hope it doesn’t show too much. Don’t tell Linda Reed.”

“Promise. Let’s look at it right after breakfast,” Henry said, parking my car.

I hadn’t noticed until now that Henry had pulled in behind the row of shops on Springfield Boulevard. A new strip mall had sprung up about a year ago and now, to my surprise and delight, there was a French bakery wedged between a Mexican restaurant and a bank.

Our small town was already home to gourmet bagels at Willie’s, homemade ice cream at Sadie’s, a hardware store, a card shop, a produce market, and a butcher shop. With a new bakery, I felt Lincoln Point was now complete.

Except for the lack of a miniatures store, of course, but I knew that was too much to ask even of the major cities in the Bay Area. Besides, I enjoyed outings with my crafter friends to the dollhouse stores in the neighboring towns, and who knows what my financial health would be if there were a store full of adorable, tiny things within walking distance?

“How did you find out about this?” I asked Henry.

“I live here,” he said, a running joke between us, since Henry was a California native and I still held onto my roots in the Bronx by reading only New York newspapers.

“Why should I read a local paper as long as you can give me the highlights, like bakery openings?” I asked.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

I liked the sound of that.

—

We
sat at a table in the new La Cabane en Rondins, which was small, red-and-white, and smelling like there were only delicious selections in the display case. At last I learned what Henry had meant by “less healthy” choices for breakfast.

“The name’s a mouthful,” Henry said, working on an apple turnover.

“I think
cabane
is ‘cabin’ in French,” I said. “What do you bet the rest means ‘logs’?”

“Log cabin.” Henry laughed. “Honest Abe rules. I’m sure it was a condition of setting up business in Lincoln Point. It’s probably on the permit form.”

I stripped a layer from an enormous morning bun, sending sugar everywhere. “I think you’re right. The form probably says, ‘State your establishment’s connection to Abraham Lincoln.’ ”

The regulations didn’t matter, as long as the éclairs, which we’d already decided to take home, were fresh.

I was glad to see a bustling business as a stream of people picked up orders or lingered to chat and eat, but my mind was on romance. Not romance with Henry, as nicely as that was shaping up, but on the romance writer who had so swiftly become my friend, and just as swiftly, been murdered.

I wasn’t sure why I felt oddly connected, almost responsible for her murder. Survivor’s guilt because I’d been there so close to the hour of her demise? Would the killer have had the opportunity if I’d waited until after her meeting instead of slipping out without saying good-bye? Would Varena have been home at all if she weren’t meeting me?

One factor in my sorrow was surely the loss of someone with a mutual love of all things miniature. Perhaps we would have started room box projects together. We might have refurbished a dollhouse in her collection for a charitable organization. My crafters group worked with one that gave dollhouses to children with life-threatening diseases. I knew Varena would have been amenable to that.

I’d felt an immediate, strong connection to Varena Young. Though I’d just met her, I’d been ready to become a member of her adoring fan club.

“I want to help with this investigation,” I told Henry, who was dusting small flakes of pastry from his shirt. “But I’m stuck with no resources. I’m going to need her daughter’s cooperation. What if Alicia doesn’t want me to get involved, or doesn’t like me, or—”

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Henry said, nodding and smiling to someone behind me.

I felt my face flush.

It seemed the Meet Alicia Rockwell show was starting without benefit of rehearsal.

From the look
on Henry’s face, he was as surprised as I was to see Alicia Rockwell, several hours before our scheduled lunch date. I ruled out “setup.”

The question was, how long had Alicia been standing behind me? Had I said anything compromising? The second question was, could I please have a minute to go home and change out of my casual run-Maddie-to-school attire? And another minute to draw up a list with the rest of the questions.

Too late now to worry about any of that.

I stood and turned on my best smile. “Good morning,” I said, annoyed with myself for not having done research on her name at least. Should I address her as Ms. Rockwell? Mrs. Something Else? I remembered Skip’s mentioning that both the Rockwell—oh, dear, Swingle?—children were divorced. And that Alicia was a fashion designer in San Francisco.

She looked so much like her mother, with the same prominent cheekbones and high forehead, I almost called her Ms. Young. Alicia also wore her light brown hair swept back the same way and had dressed in a flowing bright blue outfit Varena might have worn, but without the multitude of beads and chains Varena would have added.

“This is a nice surprise,” she said, holding a cup and saucer in one hand and an oversize purse in the other. “I prefer breakfast meetings, anyway. Shall we just do it now?”

I gave an enthusiastic nod though I wasn’t sure what “it” was, except that for Alicia it didn’t involve a pastry, but only a foaming drink topped with sharp-smelling cinnamon. The European way, whereas I chose the American way and dumped a load of chocolate powder on my coffee drinks.

Once he was assured he was welcome to stay, Henry moved stubby wooden chairs around to make a place for a third at our small table. He and Alicia seemed like old friends and exchanged a double cheek kiss. Maybe it was the buttery aroma filling the air that inspired the camaraderie.

Alicia seemed unnaturally cheery as we all sang the praises of this new venue in town, the walls of which were faux-painted to look like a room in the Louvre. So much for log cabin décor. We were all so amused by the mismatch, I briefly forgot the reason for our meeting.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your mother’s death,” I offered finally. “I feel as if I knew her a long time.”

Alicia’s face collapsed, as if a network of strings had let loose under her skin. I almost regretted my sympathetic offering, as if I’d been the bearer of bad news. I was usually sensitive to the choices of grieving families, some of whom preferred not to display or discuss their sorrow.

I, who’d captured any willing listener and pummeled her with stories and tears after Ken’s death, turned away to give Alicia some belated privacy. Henry put his hand on hers. She gave him a tiny smile and covered his hand with hers for a moment, then took out tissues and dabbed at her face.

She turned her attention back to me and gave me a gracious, composed smile. “Yes, everyone says that, Geraldine. My mother’s readers felt she was a lifelong friend. Her books had that effect,” Alicia said.

Uh-oh.
I decided to let the assumption stand. This was not the time to lay bare my reading preferences, which didn’t include romances of any period, unless you counted Jane Austen. What did it matter how I came to feel close to Varena Young? I wondered if Alicia shared her mother’s love of miniatures. I wondered if she read her mother’s books. As long as she didn’t ask to inspect my bookcases, check my library card, or quiz me on her mother’s titles, my secret was safe.

“Mr. Baker—Henry—has told me so much about you.” Alicia gave him another pleasant smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I insinuate myself and ask for your help.” I started to speak, but Alicia wasn’t through. “First, I have absolutely nothing but the highest regard for the Lincoln Point Police Department. I’m sure your nephew is a stellar detective, but I want to leave no stone unturned to find who did this terrible thing.”

“I understand,” I said. I had the feeling Alicia had spent a long, emotionally difficult night and was now ready to take care of business. “It’s every Lincoln Point detective’s priority right now,” I added, still struggling to contribute something meaningful to the ad hoc meeting.

“I’m sure that’s true.” Alicia paused to sip from her cup. “But I’ve given this a lot of thought. All night, as a matter of fact. And the reality is, the police have too much to do to give my mother’s case the attention it needs.”

Not really. The crime rate was pretty low in Lincoln Point. And I couldn’t remember a time when Skip or the squad was dealing with more than one murder at a time.

“The police are extremely busy,” I lied.

Alicia nodded as if I were the first to make the observation. She fingered the single elaborate pendant that perfectly complemented her outfit. I supposed fashion designers had their own jewelers on staff. The most I could claim this morning was that my sweatshirt wasn’t stained and didn’t have a silly logo, as some of mine did, like my favorite one with
MINIATURISTS WORK AS LITTLE AS THEY CAN
.

“That’s why I’d like to hire you,” she said.

I started. I knew she wasn’t referring to my fashion sense. “No, no. I have no official standing at all.” I looked around to be sure no genuine officer of the law was nearby.

Alicia’s face, seeming fully recovered from its breakdown, took on an amused look. “I’ve heard about you, Geraldine, and not just from Henry here. I know you’re good and I trust you.”

I blushed. “I don’t want to mislead you about what I can do, but I would love to look into things on my own.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“I hope you’ll be able to fill in some gaps in my knowledge.”

“Of course, whatever you need. But I insist on giving you some kind of compensation.”

I shook my head and held up my hand. “Really, Alicia, it’s not—”

Alicia cut in with an idea. “Perhaps I can give you a dollhouse or two from my mother’s collection.”

Be still my heart. She spoke of a “dollhouse or two” the way I might say, “a batch of cookies or two.” But I couldn’t be greedy.

“The one you sent for the bookmobile auction is exquisite,” I said. “That certainly is sufficient.” Though it wasn’t for me. Was I actually refusing a dollhouse for me, myself, and I? I needed to rephrase. “However—”

Once again, Alicia interrupted, giving me a quizzical look. “I didn’t send you a dollhouse.”

I glanced at Henry, back from picking up three small fruit tarts to share. He shrugged.

Though I’d played the innocent with Detective Rutherford, I’d been all but certain the dollhouse had come from the Rockwell Estate. I tried to trace the origin of that assumption. According to Kay and the girls, there had been no packaging or return address. But it had seemed too coincidental that it arrived right after my visit, brief as it was. And who else had a dollhouse to spare?

I thought of the secret room Maddie found, and the letter it held. Now, with Alicia’s denial, the very provenance of the house was in question.

There was more than one secret about this dollhouse.

“I forgot to tell you about that, Gerry,” Henry said, pausing in the consumption of a tart covered with blueberries and strawberries. “There was a mix-up about the house. I’ll explain later.” He waved his hands, mixing up the air. More like a cover-up, and I was grateful.

I felt the need to bring this meeting to a focus. No time to fret about the proper wording. “Ms. Rockwell, do you—”

“Alicia, please.”

I was glad Maddie wasn’t present. She might be inclined to think that it was okay for grown-ups to consistently interrupt as long as they were wealthy and/or successful professionals.

“Alicia, do you have an uncle on your mother’s side?”

Without hesitation, which would have given me hope, Alicia shook her head. “No uncles on either side. My mother did have a brother, but he died when I was a child.”

So now I was dealing with a ghost.

It seemed rude and ignorant to ask if she were sure about her family tree. I followed up for the sake of politeness. “That must have been hard on the family. What happened to him?”

“He was in a car accident. I was only about two years old, so I barely remember Uncle Caleb. He was a couple of years older than Mother. Adam was five, so he has a little more recollection of him. Mother kept a photo of him on the piano for a while, then eventually it disappeared.”

The three of us simultaneously took sips of our drinks. It wasn’t clear to me whether condolences for a deceased uncle were appropriate decades later.

Alicia broke the silence. “My own living brother is useless at the moment. Adam has just been sued for divorce and frankly, that seems to matter to him more than our mother’s death.”

“I’m sorry to hear all this,” I said.

Alicia nodded, slightly teary again, and checked her watch. “I’m due at the studio, so I’ll be off. I’m assuming you’ll do what you do best, Geraldine. I’ve already taken the liberty of informing all the family and household staff that they should cooperate with you one hundred-and-ten percent.” She handed me a card. “Please, call me directly if you need anything, anything at all.”

I needed everything. I needed to know about Varena’s personal assistant, Laura Overbee; her research assistant, Paige Taggart; her financial advisor, Charles Quentin. I still hadn’t met Adam. What about the Mildred Swingle reference? And there was still the Corazón Cruz mystery.

But Alicia was gone, as quickly as her mother had left me yesterday. Hopefully, she wouldn’t come to the same end before I could catch her again.

—

“How
do you think that went?” Henry asked, once we were alone again at the table.

I shot him a look. How could he even ask? “I’ve never been so unprepared for a meeting.” I ran through the list of questions I’d just reviewed mentally.

“I was going to say ‘very well.’ I hope you’re not sorry I suggested coming here. Maybe we should have hidden out and practiced interview techniques until lunch time.”

I waved away his apologetic look. “No, no. It’s just as well that it’s over. I probably would have stewed all morning and wouldn’t have done any better. The answer to the brother question would have been the same. Plus, we have a new question.”

“Who sent the dollhouse?” Henry said.

“I feel like I’ve taken two steps backwards. And now Alicia is counting on me. I have to find a way to meet the other people in Varena’s life.”

“Are you thinking they’re all suspects?”

“No, not exactly. But I do need to find out what each one would gain from Varena’s death, what conflicts there might have been in the family and household, where everyone was at the time—” I thought fleetingly of mentioning that it would be good to find out if the Rockwell Estate had a butler.

“So, they’re all suspects,” Henry said.

I grimaced. “I guess so.”

I raised my cup to finish off my cappuccino and looked beyond the next grouping of tables, at the counter. Where the barista was handing over a tall iced drink to a stiff-looking young woman with clothes too formal for a morning in a bakery. Could it be?

I poked Henry. “Coming here was the best idea you’ve had. The lady in the tweed jacket?”—Henry sneaked a look—“That’s Laura Overbee.”

“The now-unemployed personal assistant?”

I hadn’t thought of it that way.

We barely returned our expressions to normal before Ms. Overbee looked our way and gave a discreet wave. She picked up some napkins and marched over to our table. I caught a whiff of rosewater cologne.

“Mrs. Porter, isn’t it? What a surprise.”

I doubted it.

Henry stood and introduced himself. “Please join us,” he said, pulling out the chair Alicia had abandoned moments ago.

“I’m glad to run into you, Mrs. Porter. I wanted to apologize for being so short with you yesterday,” Ms. Overbee said. “You know, it was such an upsetting time for all of us.” She fanned herself with a floppy Cabane en Rondins napkin. “You can’t imagine the drama. I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said.

“Poor Varena,” she said. “I feel so awful.”

My assessment of her sincerity might have been clouded by the sting of her treatment of me yesterday, but, again, I doubted it. I noticed that under her jacket she wore yet another sweater set, this one pale green. It might have been the one thing about her that I related to—having a standard outfit, almost a uniform, to eliminate wardrobe stress and decision-making before coffee.

“How is everyone doing?” I asked.

Henry gave me a grin. “Why don’t I get you another coffee?” he said, and left for the counter.

“Well, things are upside down, of course,” Ms. Overbee said. She shuddered and took a long pull on what was probably the advertised special drink today—strawberry frappuccino. “It was quite a shock. I mean, Varena was old, but to go that way…everyone was in a state yesterday. Especially Paige, of course.”

It hadn’t dawned on me to ask Skip or Alicia who had discovered Varena’s body. It seemed I’d just found out.

“Paige Taggart was the one who—?”

Ms. Overbee nodded solemnly. “She’s crushed with guilt, too.” Ms. Overbee put aside her drink and leaned in, chummy and secretive. “She and Varena had been so at odds lately.”

“Is that right?” I asked, also leaning toward her, in a do-tell kind of way.

Henry was back. I thanked him for the fresh cappuccino but avoided his eyes, knowing I’d burst into laughter if we connected.

Ms. Overbee was in a telling mood. “Well, Paige has always wanted more credit than she was getting. Let’s face it, Varena had lost it as far as her writing was concerned. She had no trouble coming up with new ideas, but it’s another thing to turn an idea into a two-hundred-fifty-page novel and keep up the pace publishers demand these days.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this. I wanted to maintain the image I had of Varena Young as a creative and energetic woman, not a has-been, too old to back up her own name. But Ms. Overbee had an agenda and I needed to pay attention.

“Are you saying that Paige actually wrote the novels?”