She gasped.
In fact, I thought I heard the gasp before the spoon fell.
“No, no, don’t call them yet,” she said.
“I’ll be done before the oatmeal is ready,” I said, confused by her pleading tone. She’d never cared this much for punctuality at breakfast.
I pulled a paper towel off the roll and wet it, ready to kneel down and help clean up the spill.
“Please, please, please, Grandma.”
Maddie, hiding tears, I felt, buried her head in my chest. My first thought was how incredibly tall she’d gotten and how increasingly inadequate a counselor I’d be as she got older. But that wasn’t the immediate problem.
“Maddie, please tell me what’s wrong. I know something is bothering you. Maybe I can help.”
She sniffed a few more times, then broke away. “Grandma, I promise I’ll tell you, but can we please just wait until after school?”
It was a step in the right direction, if not great progress. Maddie had at least owned up to a problem. It broke my heart to think she’d been suffering with it for even a day.
“I’ll wait, but only if you answer a couple of questions,” I said.
I heard her weak “Okay.”
I took a breath. “Is anyone sick? You, your mom, your dad?” I thought a minute and threw in Beverly just in case.
“Uh-uh. No one in our family is sick.”
Maddie crossed her heart and held her right hand in the air.
“Is anyone in trouble?” I didn’t have any idea how to make the question specific. Trouble with the law? Richard was about the straightest arrow I knew. Skip teased him about it when they were kids, and he teased him about it now. Mary Lou was a little more adventuresome, but not in the gamble-away-your-house or lose-your-family kind of way.
Dum, ta da dum, ta da dum, ta da dum.
My cell phone-cum-marching band, wired to the wall through its charger.
Maddie pounced on it. “Don’t take it, okay? Let it go to voicemail.”
“Your mom?”
Maddie nodded, her eyes more soulful than when she’d sat on Santa’s lap, barely able to talk, and earnestly pleaded for a tricycle.
I gave her a silent “Okay.” I’d made a promise. I hoped I wouldn’t regret keeping it.
Buzzz. Buzzz.
Maddie’s face collapsed into relief. “Grandma, can you get the door? I don’t want the oatmeal to burn.”
She returned to the stove and stirred the oatmeal with a clean spoon. She knew I wouldn’t continue my probing in Henry’s presence, though I hadn’t ruled it out. I needed advice from an adult and Maddie’s parents were off limits, thanks to my rash promise.
“We’re going to continue this as soon as you get home,” I said in my firmest voice. I hoped the hug that accompanied my admonishment didn’t detract from my position of authority.
“Okay, okay, okay.”
I opened the door to a smiling Henry, who bent down and gave me a kiss.
“Nice,” I said. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Not yet. I smell oatmeal, but I had something less healthy in mind, after we drop Maddie off.”
“I like a man with a plan.”
Henry sat and drank coffee while Maddie ate oatmeal and I pretended to be too full from dinner to have any.
For Henry’s benefit, and as another chance to entice Maddie to action, I summarized my needs and failure at the computer. It still wasn’t clear to me why Maddie hadn’t been bombarding me with a million different things she could do for me on the computer, if I’d only let her skip school today.
“I’m trying to find out if Varena Young put out a newsletter or something like that,” I said. “She’s listed on her publisher’s page, but there’s no information of a personal nature.”
“Did Taylor finish the puzzle we started yesterday? The one with no straight edges?” Maddie asked Henry. A conversation ensued about the pros and cons of jigsaw puzzles online and in a box.
I was free to go off mentally on my own, and I took the opportunity. I was sure Varena’s personal assistant, the stiff Ms. Overbee, knew her employer’s personal details. I made a note to ask her, but I didn’t hold out much hope of her cooperation. I needed a way to meet with her and Paige, the research assistant. Or if my lunch with Alicia went well, maybe all mysteries surrounding her mother’s death would be solved.
“How’s your uncle?” I might ask Alicia, catching her off-guard, in case she was prepared to lie. She’d told Henry that she didn’t have an uncle, but she didn’t know that he’d passed the information on to me. As usual, my head hurt from the complicated planning necessary for a good strategy.
I couldn’t help thinking also of the envelope, the full-size envelope that was in the secret room in the dollhouse. If there was a secret room. The dollhouse had come to me unexpectedly, and it was decidedly not the one Varena had offered me. If someone wanted to send me a message, a letter in a secret room would be the perfect vehicle. If the someone was Varena, why wouldn’t she have sent the Tudor that I was expecting? Did Varena have time to do that before she—
“I have an idea,” Henry began, jogging me back. “This is a job for our resident computer guru.” He turned to Maddie. “Maybe when you get home this afternoon, you can work with your grandmother to find the information she needs to help your uncle solve the case.”
Henry couldn’t have put more tempting words into the plea. Computer, information, uncle, solve, case.
“Maybe, but I have lots of homework this week.”
I put my cup down and laughed, but Maddie showed no sign that she’d made a joke.
Where was my real granddaughter?
—
“Is it too soon for boy trouble?” Henry asked as we drove back from Maddie’s Palo Alto school. “Strange that she doesn’t want to hop right into this investigation.”
I’d decided not to share the yet-to-be-determined problem Maddie was dealing with, but Henry had picked up on a change in the atmosphere around my granddaughter anyway. I also had no idea whether the three things were related—her sudden avoidance of computer projects, her lack of interest in the case, and the mysterious call from Richard and Mary Lou.
“I hope it’s too soon for boys,” I said. “How about Taylor? Any significant changes?”
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.
Chapter 9
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 Sk
ip 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?
Mix-up in Miniature Page 9
