7 Madness in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  * * *

  I took a glass of iced tea to the atrium where it was a little cooler than in my bedroom. I rolled back the skylight and looked up at the night sky. For most of our married life, Ken and I lived in this house. The open Eichler design was his choice and I loved it—four bedrooms, kitchen, dining, and living areas built around an atrium large enough for my ficus, a jade tree, and a generous border of cyclamen. Ken had spent his last days here under the skylight in a hospital bed. Now, Ken was everywhere in the house, from the studs in the walls to the cherrywood hutch he’d built for the dining room. Almost every bit of home décor was personal to us—the photos of our son growing up, graduating many times over on his way to a career as a surgeon; the oil paintings by our daughter-in-law, the refrigerator drawings and grammar school crafts of our granddaughter.

  This evening, when some of the chatter had revolved around Bev and Nick’s wedding, there had been a glance or three from Bev, as if to ask me, “Are you the next bride?” Once, she looked deliberately at me then at Henry, back and forth, with a questioning look. That interaction happened to coincide with phrases they were tossing around, working on their vows, about comfortable love and companionship and the joy of sharing the rest of one’s life with someone special. Subtle.

  Not that either Henry or I had brought it up, but there were times in the last year when I’d asked myself, what if? Could I marry again? Before Henry, I would have dismissed the idea out of hand. I’d had wonderful years with Ken and never dreamed of more with another man. But now…

  Dum dum, da da dum, da da dum.

  A call from Skip mercifully took me away from useless musings about the future. I knew what Skip wanted, but I clicked On anyway.

  “Hey, Aunt Gerry, Fred says you haven’t called him yet about giving your statement,” he said, without preamble.

  “I got involved with Maisie Bosley and sort of forgot.” I looked at the empty chair across from me in my atrium and was glad Skip wasn’t sitting there as he often was at this time of night. He’d have been able to tell at a glance that I was shaving the truth.

  “That’s not like you,” he said.

  “Your mom and Nick had been watching Maddie all afternoon, and I didn’t want to keep them any longer.”

  “That’s different from forgetting.”

  “It was a little of both.”

  “Or something else entirely.”

  “Oh?”

  “Here’s what I think. I think you’re trying to do a little investigating on your own before you go on record.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “And, you want to be able to ask Fred some questions yourself.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want me to do, sure, I’ll be glad to.”

  Skip let out a loud sigh. “Why do I bother?” I smiled, with only my plants as audience. “Can I tell Fred you’ll be there first thing in the morning?” he asked.

  “How about early afternoon? I need to bake some cookies.”

  “That’s low. Okay, I’ll tell him one o’clock. And at least bring me cookies as proof of your schedule,” he said.

  “You got it,” I said, on my way to preheat my oven.

  * * *

  Who bakes cookies late at night? Me, when I don’t want to waste valuable daylight hours that can be used for interrogation and research. Since ginger cookies are my staple, I always have the ingredients, including three types of ginger, on hand, so it took only a few minutes to whip up the batter. In between batches, I gave some thought to Maddie’s plan. It couldn’t hurt, and it would bring some cheer into the life of my conflicted little granddaughter.

  I grabbed a notebook and started with Megan, recalling my chat with her. I coded my knowledge of her whereabouts as:

  Megan/KenTucky Inn/coffeemaker, ice bucket, and drinking glasses shook

  I began to see how Maddie was going to construct her chart. I thought back to Catherine’s comments during Skip’s grilling (my term) and to Jeff’s answer when I gently (my term) asked his location during the rattler:

  Catherine/KenTucky Inn/hotel clock shook

  Jeff/inside his store/games toppled from west wall

  Another data point (I felt so erudite) came to me, and I added:

  Maisie/her home/no movement

  Bebe, of course, by confessing, essentially claimed to be at the crime scene’s ground zero during the earthquake. I still needed to fill in the rows for Leo and Bebe. Maybe charts could be fun, after all.

  * * *

  My last chore, after packaging the cookies, was one of my (not quite) nightly rituals of cleaning out my purse in preparation for the next day. I had no plan yet for tomorrow and my need to gather information, except to go face to face with Leo, the only one for whom I was missing an alibi. I wasn’t sure what about him intimidated me, other than his size and manner, but if I was going to complete my data for Maddie—ironically, my only hope of progress at the moment—I needed his input.

  I pulled my purse onto a chair in front of me in the atrium, emptying out tissues and wrappers, piling up receipts. Apparently it had been more than a couple of days since my last decluttering operation.

  I extricated copies of the flyers that listed upcoming SuperKrafts workshops. In my frenzied state on hearing Bebe’s confession, I’d forgotten to give her a copy of the announcement. I realized this pointed to another flaw in her story. She’d said she was angry about Craig Palmer’s cutting her out of the schedule, but here was proof that he hadn’t. I couldn’t believe she didn’t know about the arrangement. I supposed the workshops could have been cancelled after the flyers were printed, but I doubted it.

  A tiny light went on. The flyers could be my way into Leo Murray. For all he knew, I’d been commissioned by the leaders to confirm the schedule with him, and by the way, where was he during the earthquake?

  I was nearly finished with my purse reorganization task. I pulled out the fabric lining to shake out various crumbs (I hated to think from what or when) and pieces of lint. And, it turned out, a lovely multifaceted blue-green bead, which rolled to the end of my small area rug and across the atrium floor, settling in a line of grout near the entryway. I retrieved the bead, which I’d picked up in SuperKrafts earlier today, and placed it in a bowl on the table. It sat there, all glittery, next to a dull set of keys, a roll of mints, an old watch headed for repair, and a miniature (one half inch) Bundt cake that didn’t make it to the dollhouse I’d taken to the store for the raffle.

  I turned off all the lights, feeling as though I was shutting Skip off from cookies. It served him right for badgering me about my statement. Still, I felt like a bad aunt as I headed for bed. I checked the clock in the hallway. For a change, it was before midnight on the same day I’d gotten up.

  Chapter 11

  Maddie was more cheerful on Monday morning. “I don’t need any breakfast,” she said. “Uncle Skip called me this morning. He called direct to my cell phone.”

  “That’s pretty special,” I said, returning one bowl to the cabinet and pouring cold cereal for myself.

  “You know, cops get free tickets all the time, and yesterday he got coupons for Willie’s and he wants to take me there for breakfast. Sometimes he gets them for Video Jeff’s and Sadie’s.”

  Free tickets for food and games. That was enough reason in itself for a little girl to aspire to be a cop. “That sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “Did you put him up to it?” she asked.

  “What? Why would I do that?”

  “To get rid of me, because you have something to do for the case.”

  I let out a relieved breath. So far, Maddie hadn’t caught on to Skip’s agenda for today. When the chips were down, I wondered if Skip would really broach the boy talk.

  “I’m not sneaking around you,” I said, eating my cereal while Maddie drank from a small glass of juice.

  She’d changed her mind and made herself a piece of toast also. I watched her remove the bread from the package, toast it, butt
er it, add blackberry jelly, place the nicely prepared breakfast on a plate. All with great dexterity. Did her ability to move around the kitchen like a grown-up, manage her own meals and often mine, qualify her as old enough for a boyfriend? Abso-totally-lutely not. She was still a little girl.

  “What are you going to do today?” she asked.

  “I’m going to work on the data for your alibi chart. When I see you this afternoon, I should have the input ready for you.”

  Maddie laughed. “Data and charts and inputs. It sounds so funny when you say it.”

  I needed to improve my math image with the preteen set.

  * * *

  Skip came to pick up Maddie at about nine-thirty. She was wide-eyed with excitement. Not so Skip, who seemed to be straining under the assignment I’d given him. A lot had changed over the years. Usually this would be the moment when Skip would grab her and swing her around in the air while she pretended to want him to put her down. But lately with Maddie’s meteoric rise in height, he’d been settling for a big hug, as he did today.

  Before they left, Skip gave me a droopy, helpless look that told me it was touch-and-go whether this brunch date would yield any information on the source of Maddie’s angst. I was hopeful, and also grateful to have my precocious granddaughter out from under me so I could use my next hours in a productive way before my police interview.

  I needed an excuse to talk to the SuperKrafts principals. Catherine, Megan, and especially Leo, for whom I didn’t have an alibi I could record on my data list. Or whatever it was called. The idea of confirming the workshop schedule seemed lame once I gave it some thought—I could confirm by phone or email. I resented the fact that I couldn’t simply call a meeting, as any one of them could. Neither could I call them up and start interrogating them as if I had an LPPD badge. I was stuck.

  With the last gulp of coffee, when I’d almost given up, came an idea. On Wednesday, we’d have what the SuperKrafts team members were calling a “soft opening”—no fireworks, simply operational cash registers so townsfolk could shop. I figured there’d be a lot to do to prepare—only two days away—even without the balloons and party hats.

  I picked up my phone and called the number I had for Maddie’s former, and occasionally current, babysitter.

  “Hey, Mrs. Porter, what’s up?” Jeanine asked. “I’m in my car on my way to work so I shouldn’t talk too long. I’m still saving up for a Bluetooth.”

  “Just a quick question, Jeanine. I was wondering if you needed any help getting the dollhouse display ready for the raffle. I could come down and work on that if you have other things to do.”

  “OMG, Mrs. Porter, that would be awesome. Would you do that? Two of the girls called to say they didn’t feel well, so I’ll be by myself. I’d even split my check with you.”

  I laughed. “Not at all necessary, Jeanine. I’d love to do it. Most of the houses are from the women in my crafts group and…well, never mind, you’d better get off the phone. I’ll see you shortly.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Porter. That would be a huge favor.”

  “The pleasure will be mine,” I said, with more truth than Jeanine could have imagined.

  * * *

  A half hour later, in a déjà vu moment, I pulled up behind SuperKrafts and parked in the same row as Catherine’s silver Taurus, Megan’s red Camry, and Leo’s Ford, an odd shade of blue. I figured the beat-up maroon Dodge, with a California license plate that began with a two, marking it as many years old, was a hand-me-down that belonged to a recent high school graduate—Jeanine Larkin.

  I rang the bell. “Hi. Really, Mrs. Porter, this is so nice of you,” Jeanine said, opening the back door for me. “You can’t imagine how crazy it is here, with Mr. Palmer’s…dying and all. Can you believe it? I mean, we hardly met him. Well, I hardly met him.”

  “It is hard to grasp, I know. I suppose the police talked to you?”

  “Well, yeah, but like I told you, I didn’t know him at all.” She shook her head as if to remove the event from her consciousness, I imagined. “What about Mrs. Mellon? I heard the police have her in custody?”

  “Not technically. I hope she’ll be home soon.”

  Jeanine looked confused, and who could blame her. “Anyway, I’ve been neglecting the dollhouse setups and feeling really bad about it,” she said.

  “Just tell me what to do,” said I, the magnanimous volunteer.

  Jeanine led me past the meeting room. Through the window in the wooden door, I could see the three managers, sitting at the long table, sans community representation. I guessed there were no more issues requiring input from reps of the concerned citizens of Lincoln Point.

  “What do you think they’re meeting about?” I asked, wondering if a young associate would know.

  “I heard them discussing a moment of silence or something on Saturday, to remember Mr. Palmer. I wish they’d stop fighting. It seems like every day there’s another thing they don’t agree on. If you ask me, they all need time-outs.”

  From the mouths of babes. We’d arrived at an area near the front of the store. Here and there, through the tinted windows and the flyers and giant neon-green SALE signs that covered them, I caught glimpses of faces and arms and legs. Passersby, but no one I recognized from body parts only. I stepped to the locked front door and peered across the street into Willie’s windows, too far away for me to see through, but I imagined Skip and Maddie eating bagels—an “everything” for Skip and a blueberry for Maddie. In my thoughts Maddie was confiding in Skip, explaining that her issues with Taylor involved a disagreement over whether to watch the next spy girl movie on DVD or on their computers. It had nothing to do with the young males of the species, and wouldn’t for a very long time. A grandmother could dream.

  “There they are,” Jeanine said. She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her long ponytail behind her ear and waved at the miniature skyline of dollhouses. “I haven’t even prepared the basket for people to put their tickets in and the furniture is a mess in some of them, all tipped over.”

  “As if there’d been an earthquake,” I said.

  Jeanine laughed. “Exactly.”

  “Where were you when it hit?” I asked, before I realized that Jeanine wasn’t on my list of suspects. This was practice, I told myself, and for the sake of completion on Maddie’s chart.

  “I went to meet some friends for coffee at Seward’s after work and we were, like, in the middle of a conversation when there was this noise, and then this box of coffee filters fell onto our table and knocked my friend Bonnie’s mug over. We laughed. We didn’t have time to drop, cover, and hold like we learned, though. It was over in a sec.”

  I dutifully recited the facts to myself in the format of the alibi data I’d already gathered:

  Jeanine/Seward’s Folly/package of filters fell from shelf

  “Well, I came here to be of use,” I said. “Why don’t I start by fixing the furniture arrangements in the houses and then I’ll work on getting the raffle basket ready.”

  “Awesome, Mrs. Porter. I’ll be back in Floral if you need me.”

  It didn’t take long for me to get caught up in restoring order to the rooms in the dollhouses. I couldn’t resist a little remodeling while I was at it. I knew that my friends and crafts group members wouldn’t mind my fiddling with their creations. Gail would understand if I moved the television set in the living room of her split-level ranch to a less central spot and used her spectacular fireplace as a centerpiece instead. Karen’s Cape Cod kitchen had lost its refrigerator, but I found it on the floor below the houses and placed it by a window covered in gingham. While I was at it, I adjusted the bedding and tacked down a mat in the bathroom. (Every crafter I knew carried a handy kit with a selection of sewing notions, glues and fasteners, and assorted small tools.) I made similar adjustments to Susan’s Victorian half-scale and Betty’s grand Tudor.

  I was so wrapped up in the delightful task, I nearly forgot my reason for reporting to work this morning. Initi
ally, I’d thought the meeting participants would come out for a break, but they were apparently still deep in discussion, or maybe fisticuffs.

  I needed a pretext to go back to the room. I could claim extreme hunger and crawl, clutching my stomach, to the vending machines. Or dire thirst and fall, panting, on the sink and hold my head under the faucet. I hadn’t taught Shakespearean drama for nothing. To aid in finding an alternative to melodrama, I visualized the room, the vending machines, the kitchen counter, and the general storage area for cleaning supplies while the janitorial closet was being painted. And lockers.

  Lockers! That would do. We reps had been given keys to the same locker, to share its use on a temporary basis. Bebe always stashed her purse in there when she went for a power walk after a meeting; Maisie put packages in the locker if she’d gone shopping on the boulevard before a meeting. Other reps, including me, stored odds and ends if we were doing errands around the meeting time. There was nothing of mine in the locker at the moment, but there was bound to be something in it, anything from a pair of shoes to a lunchbox or a shirt from the dry cleaners.

  Hadn’t I left my other pair of glasses in the locker yesterday afternoon? It wasn’t out of the question. That was my story and I was sticking to it. I headed back. On the way, I came upon Jeanine, tangled in oversized paper flowers with long stems.

  “I hate these things,” she said. “They’re really cheesy. You can tell they’re not real a mile away.” Jeanine drew in her breath. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Porter. I hope they’re not, like, your favorite thing?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t worry, Jeanine. I don’t like them either and I never use them.”

  I didn’t lie about the fake flowers, though I did love the beautiful sculpted specimens I saw at miniatures shows, by talented artisans—tiny petals and leaves that looked so botanically correct one would swear they were real.

  “How’s it going up front, Mrs. Porter?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m ready to prepare the raffle basket, except I think I left my glasses in our locker.” I pointed toward the meeting room. “Do you think they’ll mind if I just slip in and check?”