Mix-up in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  Skip let out a raspberry worthy of the kind Maddie blew. “Our best input comes from talking to people, finding not just on-the-spot witnesses, but people six degrees of separation away. You don’t just flick a switch for that. It takes time, but we don’t dismiss anyone. Heck, don’t I even use an eleven-year-old sometimes?”

  It wasn’t often that Skip spoke at length about his job this way and I enjoyed listening.

  “I take it your search came up with nothing about a brother for Varena,” I said, back to the case at hand.

  “No brother, either alive or dead. We checked under ‘Rockwell’ and ‘Young’ both, thinking maybe he changed his name to match hers. Or maybe he’s also a writer with a pen name.”

  Doubtful. I shook my head. “Many of the authors I read now have pseudonyms, sometimes more than one, but you can always find out their real names. It’s not a secret the way it used to be, such as when Mary Ann Evans had to take a man’s name, George Eliot.”

  “You sound like June, going all feminist on me. Men changed their names too, like Mark Twain and Lewis Carroll.”

  I’d have to remember to pursue the rather pouty reference to his girlfriend at another time, but for now, something else jogged my memory.

  “Swingle. Did you try Swingle?” I asked. Skip gave me a funny look. “I was looking up romance authors’ bios, and…” I started. Then, to avoid a long explanation of my own attempts at research, I switched to, “Please, just try the name Caleb Swingle. It might lead somewhere.”

  “I told you, I’m open, and I trust you not to be frivolous about it. You wouldn’t believe the calls we get.” Skip took a breath. “That’s not your problem, though. I’ll get the computer guys on Swingle. I’m surprised you didn’t use the eleven-year-old for this yourself, by the way.”

  I debated whether to tell Skip that Maddie was computer-grounded, and why. I thought about the special relationship they had, now one of mutual admiration. His cubicle had more pictures of Maddie than anyone else, going back to her first school photo, with untamed red curls and a pinafore that she hated.

  When Maddie was born, Skip was finishing high school, and to everyone’s surprise, the fatherless boy reacted as though he’d been waiting all his life for an infant to take care of. He carried her around with his large hand under her head, instructing us to be sure to do the same, as if he’d just come from a pediatrics course and was the only one trained in baby care.

  It was bad enough for Maddie that her grandmother and Henry knew of her fall from grace. And maybe her father’s punishment would involve having Maddie tell everyone who received a tainted present how it came about. I wouldn’t put it past Richard to come up with a twelve-step program for naughty children. But Maddie had been caught, she’d said, before she could bestow a gift on Skip or his mother, her Aunt Beverly.

  Maybe they didn’t have to know.

  I finally answered Skip. “She’s been busy with schoolwork,” I said.

  If he knew something else was up, he didn’t say. Instead, he returned to the notes he’d taken during my talk with Paige.

  “What was all that about a dollhouse and a hidden envelope? Is Paige referring to the big dollhouse I saw in your atrium last night? I didn’t realize it belonged to Varena Young.”

  I nodded. “I wasn’t sure it was hers until Paige verified it a few minutes ago,” I said. I briefed Skip on the appearance of the dollhouse and my inexpert canvassing of my neighbors to trace its origins. “It might have been delivered in a red pickup with Arizona license plates.”

  “Someone saw it?”

  “Esther Willoughby,” I answered. I lowered my voice, as if to soften the impact of the age of my source.

  “The hundred-year-old lady across the street?”

  “Ninety-something, and remember what you said about not discounting anyone?”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Skip said, making a great show of writing down “Arizona truck” and underlining it several times.

  “Maybe Varena Young’s brother—going by the name of Swingle—lives in Arizona,” I offered.

  Skip slapped his notebook shut. “Maybe,” he said. “And maybe one of Varena’s dollhouses really does have an envelope that contains all the evidence we need to solve this case.”

  His tone hovered between sarcasm and sincerity. I decided not to push him on it. Instead, I came up with another way to push him.

  “With all of these possibilities now, can’t you let Paige go? I don’t think she killed Varena. The story’s too preposterous to be fiction.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “What does your gut say?”

  “We’re waiting on fingerprint results on that fragment of sword we found in her dorm room,” Skip said, not in a gut-sharing mood.

  “But she practically lived with Varena. She might have touched it at any time. I touched it, in fact.”

  “So you told Detective Rutherford.”

  “I won’t leave town.”

  As I stood to leave, I was accosted by one more thought from my overtaxed brain.

  “Since you were surreptitiously following up on my suggestions yesterday—did you ask anyone on the staff if they heard arguing as I did just before I left Varena’s home?”

  “Yeah, that turned out to be nothing. I looked at the interview reports the guys handed in. Two of the statements mention a brief shouting match between Charles Quentin and an unidentifiable male. If I remember correctly, one of them reported that Varena Young was also part of the argument.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Skip anticipated my question, good detective that he was. “Quentin says there was a dispute with one of the estate’s drivers over the schedule. The driver verified it. So that’s a nothing lead.”

  Maybe, maybe not. “What’s the driver’s name?”

  Skip laughed. “Sedonis. He’s Hispanic, so don’t try to talk to him.” He gently guided me to the exit, such as it was, out of his cubicle and into the maze of office space.

  “We can finish up later,” I said.

  The mention of drivers provoked anxiety, emphasizing the indisputable fact of how narrow the scope of my so-called investigation was. I’d been focusing on the small number of people I knew to be at the estate that afternoon, and who had motives I’d been aware of.

  But surely there were others who stood to benefit from Varena’s death or who had an unresolved issue with her. Did the estate have a cook? A butler? A maid? It must have a gardener or two. The magnitude of the real job of detection overwhelmed me.

  If it weren’t Varena Young who’d been murdered, I’d have given serious thought to calling Alicia Rockwell and resigning immediately.

  —

  Maddie and I had a tacit agreement that we’d talked enough about the credit card episode and needed a break, at least until I talked to her parents.

  On the way home, we reviewed her activities of the last hour, which included watching someone get fingerprinted without ink and having way too many snacks from the vending machine in the officers’ lounge. We talked about the life of Amelia Earhart, whose biography she’d just finished. More than once Maddie mentioned the boy who sat in front of her in school and the éclairs from the new bakery that I promised were waiting at home for her.

  “Are you ready to try again on that secret room project?” I asked her.

  “Yes, yes, I thought of something else to do but I won’t tell you until I get it to work.”

  “That’s great, sweetheart,” I said.

  In fact, however, I was ready to tear the dollhouse apart, an inch at a time, and get to the secret room the sure way. Both Paige and Maddie claimed the existence of a room and an envelope. That was enough for me.

  I weighed that assumption against the possibility that the dollhouse in my atrium was a simple one, earmarked for the library auction or another worthy cause, should the midsize Tudor come through. Paige had verified only that the house came from Varena’s collection; she had no idea if it held the e
nvelope for certain.

  It would be a shame to destroy a perfectly good house on the basis of hearsay, but it was time to face the reality that it might have to be sacrificed for the sake of the investigation.

  Maddie’s mind hadn’t been idle while being pampered by the LPPD. “Even if I can’t use the computer, I can help you and Uncle Skip,” she said now, a passenger in my car again. “I can sit next to you and tell you what to do.”

  Had no one ever explained the concept of “the spirit versus the letter” of the law to my granddaughter? “I don’t know…”

  “I won’t touch the keyboard or the mouse. It’ll be like I’m just talking to you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Maddie slumped back in her seat. “I know what that means.”

  Someday she’d find out that expression had been working its wonders in families throughout the ages.

  —

  My message machine was in a schizophrenic mode. Laura Overbee called to express her great relief that Varena’s killer, that is, Paige Taggart, had been apprehended. Alicia Rockwell left a message asserting that Paige was most definitely not the killer, and she hoped I was still working on finding the one truly responsible for her mother’s death.

  A surprise call from Charles Quentin was more circumspect, offering to meet me at my convenience. He left a number for his direct line. I moved him to the front of the queue for callbacks and hit redial for his number.

  Maddie came into the kitchen, and snacks and ice cream notwithstanding, attacked the cookie jar. I took the hint and multitasked. While I waited for Charles to answer, I pulled a package of ground beef out of the fridge and held it up. “Cheeseburgers?” I asked.

  Fortunately, Mary Lou had given no instructions nor had she set restrictions regarding Maddie’s feeding.

  Maddie nodded and grinned, hoping, I was sure, that no vegetables would be involved. She got out the small grill, a container of cheese, and—her own touch—the ketchup.

  I watched my granddaughter move around the kitchen, a bit clumsy when her long, skinny legs were tripped up by her bulky athletic shoes, but supremely confident. I wished I could remember the exact day that she became strong enough to lift a saucepan, tall enough to reach the dials on the range top, bright enough to put together a whole meal, even if it was devoid of anything green.

  “This is Charles Quentin,” said a voice in my ear. I was caught off guard by the visitor to the reverie in my kitchen.

  “Good evening, Charles,” I said, adopting the most formal tone possible while simultaneously clearing my throat. “This is Geraldine Porter, returning your call earlier today.”

  “Yes, hello, Mrs. Porter. Alicia tells me you’re assisting the police detectives with their investigation and I wondered if I might have a word with you.”

  I liked a man who got right to the point. “Certainly. What would be convenient for you?”

  “I’m afraid this whole tragedy has set us all at sixes and sevens and it’s hard for me to get away just now. Can you come to the estate?”

  The fiscal head of the Rockwell Estate had no time for pleasantries and no time for travel to the lowlands. Not a problem. I was only too happy to make a date for tomorrow morning at the house on the hill.

  What investigator, professional or not, doesn’t want to return to the scene of the crime?

  —

  Maddie was progressing nicely with the cheeseburgers. The rolls were warming in the oven as she poured herself a glass of milk. The least I could do was set the table.

  I had one more call to make in the next room before I could relax with dinner. I owed my daughter-in-law that much. I hit the number for Maddie’s parents and didn’t hide my relief when Mary Lou, instead of Richard, picked up.

  “I knew why you were avoiding me, Mom,” Mary Lou said. “Did you have to pull it out of her or did my daughter work her magic and confess in a boatload of tears? And are you now her advocate general, or whatever they’re called?”

  I was pleased to hear a lightness in Mary Lou’s voice. I knew there’d be no such accommodation from Richard. “Let’s just say it all came out over ice cream.”

  “What a surprise. Seriously, Mom, Richard and I have been talking about coming home now. Do you think we should do that, and deal with this face to face immediately?”

  Mary Lou’s suggestion was something that hadn’t crossed my mind and I gave it a moment’s consideration. “I’d say that’s not necessary. You know I would never undermine your directives, so whatever you’d like Maddie to do or not do, she knows with absolute clarity that I’ll support you one hundred percent.”

  “Thanks, Mom, I know that. I’m afraid of blowing this thing up out of proportion, but I don’t want to downplay it either. It’s tricky.”

  This wasn’t my first clue that I had the most sensible daughter-in-law in the world. “I’m with you.”

  “For now, we really do want her off the computer except for homework. Is it too much to ask you to monitor that?”

  “Not at all.” I paused. “She’s truly sorry, as I’m sure she’s told you. I know I’m easily duped by her sometimes, but I feel it’s genuine. Which doesn’t mean I won’t enforce the ban on computer use.” As hard as that will be, I added to myself.

  “Thanks for telling me that.” Mary Lou sighed. “She’s eleven. I guess it’s time for a crisis. Were you able to get a clue as to why she thought she had to steal to get what she wanted?”

  Such a nasty word. I reported to Mary Lou as accurately as possible Maddie’s feelings of inferiority at school since she had nothing to barter with or to be generous with.

  “Then one thing led to another,” I said.

  “Oh, my God, that’s textbook,” my daughter-in-law said, and I knew she meant it literally. “That’s one of eight reasons why children steal.”

  I was curious about the other seven, but I could ask another time. I didn’t want to intrude on her near-giddiness.

  “Aren’t you glad your child is normal,” I said, getting a laugh.

  “Believe it, yes. I’ve spent most of today reading up on why children steal and that’s one of the big reasons. Listen to this. ‘If the child’s school friends have pocket money, then your child could have a need for pocket money. She will feel a lack if she doesn’t have it, even if you don’t think the need is genuine because you provide her with everything that she wants. This type of child may be tempted to steal money just so she has money like everybody else in her peer group.’ ”

  “Are you reading from a book?”

  Another laugh. “Yes, I just happened to have one opened to that page. I have others, open to different pages, just to cover all bases.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful that Maddie doesn’t have a one-of-a-kind, incurable behavior problem?”

  “You better believe it.” I could hear the relief in Mary Lou’s voice.

  “Is Richard going to be okay?” I asked. My son the orthopedic surgeon didn’t have a broad platform of behaviors he considered suitable for a child. Or for an adult, for that matter. Ken and I were thrilled that he had the sense to marry someone who could complement that approach to life.

  “I’ll take care of Richard,” Mary Lou said. “He needs to see that it’s time we gave Maddie more responsibility and that an allowance is just about a requirement for kids these days.”

  I smiled and felt a wave of relief, that the issue of Maddie’s peccadillo (the grandmother in me would not allow a more serious designation) was at least partly resolved.

  “I’ll take care of Maddie; you take care of Richard,” I said.

  We both knew who had the easier job.

  —

  While Maddie took her turn on the phone with her parents, I slipped out to my atrium to give them privacy and to be with the mysterious dollhouse.

  I sat close to it, my nose touching the dividing wall that defined the top floor bedroom where Maddie had inadvertently discovered a secret passageway. I looked at every wood seam, every spa
ckle swirl, and every paintbrush stroke for a sign or a crack in the house’s armor. If intensity of staring counted for anything, something would have sprung loose.

  Nothing did.

  Maybe the trick was not to scrutinize every nail and line of glue, but to take a more holistic approach and view the house from afar. Maybe I wasn’t seeing the forest for the trees. Or the other way around.

  I moved back a few feet to get the full effect of the house, imagining it, not in the sleepy suburb of Lincoln Point, but by the shore, perhaps right on the coast in Monterey or Santa Cruz. The exterior walls seemed to weather before my eyes, pounded by spray from the churning waters of the Pacific. I could almost hear the ocean across the street from the sleek front door and smell the salty air.

  Still, the house gave up no secrets, no answers to my questions. Where did you come from? What’s hidden in your walls?

  I was ready to do a ritual dance to get the house to speak to me.

  Just in time, Maddie appeared on the threshold to the living room and rescued me from the delusionary state that was so easy for miniaturists to fall into.

  “Is everything okay, sweetheart?” I asked, shaking myself into the life-size world with its life-size problems.

  Maddie sprinted over to me. She fell on her knees and put her head on my lap. Her messy curls cried out for attention, and I responded with what she called finger brushing, at once neatening her hair and massaging her scalp.

  I felt her body slowly relax and breathe normally.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked. The universal question asked by grandmothers in any crisis.

  Maddie either nodded or shook her head “no.” It was hard to tell since she wasn’t ready to come up for a full dose of fresh, atrium air.

  “The cheeseburgers must be really tasty by now, don’t you think?” I asked.

  Her body shook with what I knew to be giggles.

  We were on our way back home.

  Chapter 15

  Not even a therapy session in the microwave could fix what ailed the tough, cold cheeseburgers. We dumped them in the garbage disposal and foraged for something more appetizing.