“I think I have a house,” I told Doris Ann.
“You think?”
I pictured her in her library office in the Civic Center, overflowing with books and papers. Her white hair would be beautifully coiffed, but her perpetual smile, telling everyone she had the cushiest job in the world, was the big attraction.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
She groaned. “Not you, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that everyone is using that phrase now, indiscriminately. My student aide was late and when I asked what kept her she said, ‘It’s complicated.’ When I asked my daughter why she and her husband had decided to separate, she said…Well, you see what I mean. It tells me the person doesn’t want to bother helping me understand. Or they think I’m too stupid to get it.” She paused. Reconsidering? “Not you, of course, Gerry.”
“Yes, me, too, I guess. Let me just say that I’ll have everything cleared up in plenty of time for the auction.”
“Good. I’ll take you at your word.”
I hung up hoping I could deliver. There was no denying it would be complicated.
—
I let out a little gasp when I saw Henry, hammer high over his head, ready to swing at—and hit—the mystery dollhouse in my atrium.
He stopped in midair and smiled. “Scared?” he asked.
I cleared my throat. “Of course not,” I said, pretending to have known all along that he was teasing.
He followed through the swing, ending with a set of light taps on a miniature white bookcase in the bedroom. The books seemed to be glued in place, not budging from the shelves when the hammer landed.
“Nothing’s happening,” he said. “I guess that would be too obvious, a secret room behind a bookcase. It’s there, though. I made some measurements and I figure there’s a two-inch gap that must be what Maddie discovered.”
I admired the patience with which Henry accepted the results of his efforts. I knew he’d try again, but in the meantime, there was no panic or even frustration as there might be for me, and certainly would be for Maddie.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Bring it on.”
I picked up the phone in the atrium. “I should have thought of this earlier. Linda Reed. She’s seen everything there is to see in tricks of the dollhouse trade. She might have a clue as to how to locate the secret room, even from a distance. If I can just be patient while she goes through the trials of the day.”
Henry already knew all sides of Linda Reed—the whiny perfectionist, complaining about the smallest inconvenience; the concerned, adoptive single mother of a troublesome teenager; the creative and generous friend. Linda could be counted on to ply you with complaints about the worst moments of her day, but also to show up with her nursing skills at the drop of a hat when someone she cared about was in need.
Linda picked up after a couple of rings. I let her go through her opening routine.
“Gerry, I was just going to call you. That new supposedly extra-hold glue I bought? Well, guess what? It won’t even hold paper to paper. Don’t buy it, no matter what it says on the package.”
“Thanks for the tip. I won’t go near it.”
“Did I tell you? Jason got hold of my credit card again and went crazy on eBay. He’s grounded. But then he sprained his ankle and you know what a soft touch I am”—I was about to break in and agree when Linda wound down—“So what did you call about, Ger? Anything special?”
Very special. “Have you ever seen a dollhouse with a secret room?”
“Sure. Lots. Remember, I showed you a photo of that one at the dollhouse museum in Carmel, Indiana? There was this beautiful flowered wallpaper in an upstairs bedroom, and you had to look really closely to see that part of the wall was a door to a little passageway. When you pulled on a little knob, the wall slid open and there was a hallway kind of thing. Very nicely done.”
Interesting, but there was no door or doorknob on my Frank Lord Wright, as Maddie had called it. “Any other mechanisms that you’ve seen?”
“Let me think.” A pause, then a slight gasp. “Oh, no. Gerry, are you building a secret room?” She lowered the pitch of her voice and I pictured her mouth screwed up in distaste. “Don’t tell me you found a kit?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that to you, Linda. What other ways can you rig a secret room or hallway?”
“Let’s see, I saw an idea in a book where they used a two-way mirror on a wall, one of those mirrors like when the police interview their suspects.”
How well I knew. “How does that work?” I asked. Though there wasn’t a mirror where Maddie had seen the passage, there was one on the side wall over a vanity. Maybe they were connected.
“The mirror looks ordinary until somehow the room behind it gets lit up. I always thought it would be fun to put a really creepy staircase behind the mirror in a narrow room and you could use a remote control to operate the lights. It would be cool for Halloween, don’t you think?”
“I’ll think about it. Anything else? Maybe something simpler?”
“Well, unless you want to do the old standby of pushing on a bookcase, but how boring is that?”
“Wouldn’t think of it.”
I heard an intake of breath; Linda had thought of something else. “Oh, there was this stairway I saw, but it was in a real house, not a dollhouse. The lady had a remote and when she pushed it, this half flight of stairs leading up to the next floor swiveled up on hinges. Then you saw this other half staircase leading down to a lower level. I can draw a picture if you want.”
“Never mind,” I said, losing interest by now. There were only full staircases in the house in my atrium. They were open on both sides, the levels clearly distinguishable from the open side of the house. I didn’t see how there could have been anything hidden under them.
“So are you going to tell me what you’re going to use, Gerry? Are you really building from scratch?”
Linda was still under the impression that I was building, not unbuilding, a secret room. Rather than explain that it was complicated and perhaps annoy her, I let her misconception stand and thanked her for her ideas. Nothing Linda said helped a lot. It was going to take brute force to find the room and that intriguing letter, searching splinter by splinter if need be.
I promised Linda I’d explain everything at our next crafts meeting tomorrow evening, and we hung up. If I hadn’t solved the problem by then, I might just make finding the secret room a group project. Or I might encourage Henry to complete that hammer swing with full force.
—
Noises from the kitchen led me to Henry, taking a break. He rummaged through my refrigerator, looking for something to call lunch. I liked it that he felt free to make himself at home. I didn’t like it that I’d neglected my larder lately and the pickings were slim.
“Back to the bakery?” he asked.
“I don’t think I can take another pastry for a while. I’m sure I can whip up something.”
It was over basic tuna melts that I had a brainstorm. Not about the secret room, but about Maddie and her secret. Something Linda had revealed about Jason’s most recent offense had been nagging at me.
“I think I know what’s wrong with Maddie,” I said, refilling our cups of tea. “You know those presents Maddie has been buying?”
“Like my keychain?” Henry asked.
“That, and did you know that she bought Taylor an elaborate set of markers?”
He scratched his head. “Yeah, now that you mention it. Where are you going with this?”
I counted off two other presents that I knew of. Miniature earrings for the dresser in my latest room box project, and a specialty lotion for Kay. I was fairly sure there were gifts I didn’t know about, for her Palo Alto friends, or for Skip and Beverly.
I told Henry what Jason had done with Linda’s credit card, and how Maddie didn’t want me to return Mary Lou’s phone call, and how two and two might add up to a huge misdemeanor for
my granddaughter.
Henry shook his head. “I just don’t see her doing anything like that.”
“I don’t like it, either. But think about it. She was home alone, bored, for several days, with a bug, not so bad that she was in bed, or Mary Lou would never have left her. She had neighbors checking on her regularly, and of course, her parents and I called her often, but essentially she was on her own with not a lot to occupy her.”
“I’m with you.”
“I wasn’t feeling that well myself or I would have gone to stay with her. Now I wish I had. Maybe if I—”
“You don’t need to go there. And I don’t mean to Palo Alto.”
“You’re right, and thank you. But there was my poor granddaughter with access to her parents’ room and their desks and she must’ve known where there might be a credit card lying around.”
“Kay leaves one by her computer. I never understood that.”
“I’ll bet Mary Lou does that, too. She makes a lot of online purchases and I’m sure it’s just more convenient. Now, suddenly all of Maddie’s relatives and friends are getting presents. Then, her parents call me, and Maddie makes me promise not to return the call until she can talk to me.”
“And, also, suddenly she’s not interested in using the computer.”
We looked at each other, neither of us wanting to say it out loud.
Henry broke the silence. “She’s been busted,” he said.
“And grounded, as far as computer use. I’m sure that’s what Richard and Mary Lou want to tell me.”
We both went back to tuna and tea and deep breaths.
“I don’t want to believe this,” Henry said.
“It breaks my heart.”
“It’s a different world, isn’t it?” Henry mused. “The most trouble we could get into was skipping school for a day at the lake.”
“Or sneaking some cookies from the pantry.”
“I guess it would be easy to match the crime with the kid as far as the two of us are concerned.”
“Not to excuse Maddie, but you’re right that the world has changed dramatically,” I said. “There are temptations you and I couldn’t have dreamed up, let alone faced every day.”
“What are you going to do next?” Henry asked me.
A tough question. “I promised I’d wait until she got home before returning her parents’ call. She said she’d tell me this afternoon what this is all about. I’m anxious, but I guess I’ll keep my promise.”
“Maybe it’s something else entirely,” Henry said.
I looked at him. We both knew that wasn’t likely.
Chapter 12
Buzzz. Buzzz.
We thought we’d have an hour or so to ourselves. No investigations of any kind. No inquiries into Varena’s murder. No poking around the dollhouse. No speculation about a blossoming life of crime for my granddaughter. No impossible task of locating a battered red truck with Arizona plates.
Buzzz. Buzzz.
No alone time either, it turned out.
I opened the front door, secretly hoping for another dollhouse delivery, preferably a midsize Tudor, with a clearly written TO/FROM gift tag, and unencumbered by secrets.
“I’m so glad you’re home, Mrs. Porter,” said the young woman on my doorstep. “I’m Paige Taggart.”
Paige Taggart, college student, research assistant to a bestselling novelist, discoverer of said novelist’s murdered body, possible author of said novelist’s recent works.
Another unexpected interview coming up. Did people just walk up to police detectives and ask to be interrogated, I wondered. If I were ever on speaking terms with my nephew again, I’d ask him.
“Welcome, Paige,” I said.
“Thanks. I was heading downtown and just took a chance that you might be home.”
I was glad the “I happened to be in the neighborhood” ploy was alive and well with the younger set.
I really should have guessed that Paige would pay me a visit. Hadn’t her late boss’s daughter told her that she should cooperate with me? Alicia had confessed to spreading the word even before I agreed to be hired, though I still wasn’t comfortable with the word.
Paige wore an expression that cleverly combined sadness at her old boss’s death and compliance with her new boss’s request. I wondered if she knew that her co-worker, Laura Overbee, had pointed in her direction as a highly motivated suspect.
She stepped over the threshold, pulling close a blue-and-gold football sweater, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my own college days. In fact, I hadn’t seen that much clothing on a woman her age in many years, in any weather. I’d become used to the fashions of June Chinn and her friends, who often wore what I considered undergarments on the outside and left little to the imagination as far as exposed body parts.
“Mrs. Porter, I…”
In a flash, her smile collapsed and her face turned white.
I turned to see what had caused her consternation. Surely not the benign presence of Henry Baker, retired shop teacher and my BFF. And not my peaceful ficus either.
It was the dollhouse.
Sitting on a card table, its edges barely fitting on the forty-inch-square surface, the modern-style dollhouse dominated the atrium, crying out for attention.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
With much stuttering the petite Paige said, “No, I…uh…have allergies this time of year.”
I decided to push a little. “Isn’t this a grand dollhouse?” I asked, drawing Paige into the atrium.
She slipped around behind me as if the streamlined rooms and angular staircases of the dollhouse gave off an unpleasant odor or a frightening aura.
“Grand,” Paige managed, after two significant throat clearings. I began to think she might be telling the truth about allergies.
“Have you ever seen a dollhouse this big?” Henry asked, backing me up. Not to be too subtle.
“I don’t think I have,” Paige said. “Well, except for the Morley Mansion.” She chuckled, seeming to have recovered her mental balance.
“What brings you here?” I asked, though I knew the answer.
“Alicia said you’d be wanting to talk to all of us. I can’t imagine what help I’ll be. I’ve already told the police everything I know.”
Not quite, I decided, since she was clearly holding something back vis-à-vis the dollhouse. I wanted to ask if she had any ties to a pickup with Arizona plates, but realized Paige wasn’t behaving like one who’d been responsible in any way for the delivery. On the contrary, she seemed to be holding back great surprise at finding the dollhouse in my home.
“It must have been a terrifying experience, to come upon your boss—your mentor, really—that way,” I said. I led her past the dollhouse, into the living room, watching her reaction, which was to treat the dollhouse as if it were one more dead body that she had to suffer.
Her hands disappeared into the long sleeves of her sweater, meant for a much larger person, most likely a male. Her face took on a tragic look as she settled into a chair.
“Can I get you some tea or coffee?” Henry asked.
“I’m good,” Paige said. The current synonymous expression for “No, thank you.” I wondered if she was wishing something stronger was on the menu.
I needed to quickly decide which role I would assume, since Henry had drifted into and out of the room and into the role of host. I could play mother and try to soothe Paige after the terrible ordeal she’d been through. Or I could take on the persona of homicide detective. I’d had a good model of how intimidating it could be as I sat across from Detective Blythe Rutherford.
I’d always had the most success with the teacher role, however. One look, arms across my chest, and freshmen and seniors alike withered and confessed to the real reason their homework was late. Though Paige hadn’t passed through ALHS, she fit the universal type.
“What year are you in, Paige?” I asked, establishing her status as a student, and thus an underling.
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Paige sat erect and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m a junior English major at San Jose State.”
“Wonderful. That was my field, too, so of course I’m happy it’s still popular. I taught English for many years at Abraham Lincoln High School. I’d love to talk to you about your reading list some time.”
“My concentration is in creative writing, so this semester, I have a bunch of workshops and a class in the American novel.”
Suddenly, I wanted to go back to college. I knew the feeling wouldn’t last.
“It’s quite a coup that you got to work with a bestselling author.”
“Varena was like a mother to me. I couldn’t believe my luck that she chose me. There are seniors I know who would have killed for the job.” Paige gasped. “Oh, my God, I can’t believe I said that.”
I let her stew for a while, mean person that I am, while Henry announced that coffee was ready, in case she’d changed her mind. I was impressed that he’d found just the right small platter for the cookies. There were only two cups on the tray.
“I’ll be in the garage,” he said.
I gave him a grateful smile. “Why do think Varena chose you, Paige? Had you published your own work by then?”
“I wouldn’t say published, but I’d already written a couple of romances. I’ve always loved them, and I submitted a few chapters with my application to work for her. During my interview she told me I had great promise.” Paige broke down in tears. “She was like the mother I never had. My parents were both alcoholics. That’s probably why I started reading and writing romances even when I was a kid. I’d sneak into that part of the library to hide and go into this, like, perfect world where everyone loved each other.”
This wasn’t the direction I wanted for this interview. It also wasn’t the thread of the few Regency romances I’d read, where a rich, ugly nobleman tries to steal a maiden away from her young, handsome true love.
I didn’t necessarily think Paige was lying about her childhood, but I strongly suspected she was manipulating me. The way any junior, in high school or college, might. I couldn’t let her emotional state sway me.
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