Mix-up in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  It was a relief to hear that Mr. Sedonis’s story was consistent with the time code on the construction site video. I had enough twisting and confusing threads to work out without having to reconcile the driver’s version of events.

  “There was more than one dollhouse in that room. How did you know which one to take to my home?”

  “Ms. Young, she told me she put a sign on it in the room upstairs.” Mr. Sedonis pointed up and to his right, where I assumed the Lord Weatherly room was. Still holding my midsize Tudor, I mused, my mind wandering off to a hoped-for tour of the dollhouses today.

  “And you had no trouble finding the sign on the dollhouse?”

  Mr. Sedonis made faster and faster trips around his hat, shifted his small frame from one foot to the other and back again, and shook his head from side to side. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Porter.”

  Here we go. “What happened?”

  “My cousin, he’s clumsy. He knocks the sign down and I ask him is he sure which house. Now I think maybe we took the wrong one? We can come and get it, Mrs. Porter. This is my new job, only six months, and I don’t want to give any trouble for Mr. Quentin. I can go back and deliver you the other one today.”

  In any language: Please don’t tell my boss I messed up.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Sedonis. I’ll straighten things out and you certainly won’t be blamed for anything.”

  Once again, I had a timeline to work out. If Paige’s information was correct, Caleb deposited the letter in the secret room of the dollhouse he built for his sister on Sunday evening or Monday morning. Varena must have tagged the Tudor for me before I arrived at the estate since there was hardly time between when I left and some time around four-fifteen when she was murdered.

  It occurred to me that the mistress of the estate most likely already lay dead at the other end of the mansion by the time Mr. Sedonis and his cousin picked up the wrong dollhouse.

  I needed a moment of silence, but there was no opportunity.

  One small thing that Mr. Sedonis said nagged at me. I thought a minute and chose my strategy carefully.

  “Thanks for all your help, Mr. Sedonis. You did an excellent job getting that huge dollhouse to my home with only a tiny scratch. I’m sure you have very busy days working for this big estate, don’t you?”

  I could practically read the man’s mind: Finally, an easy question. He put his cap back under his arm and rubbed his palms together, a happy man, relieved that the formal interview was over.

  He smiled broadly. “Very busy, yes, all the time.”

  “And I’ll bet the trip to my home on Monday wasn’t the first trip to town that you made that day.”

  “No, no. All afternoon on Monday I was in town, in the shop with the truck for the estate. I had to wait until my cousin come to get me. That’s why I’m not back here until four-thirty.”

  “Then it must have been another driver who was arguing with Mr. Quentin between three-thirty and four?”

  Mr. Sedonis turned as white as his natural complexion would allow. I thought the man was going to fall to his knees. I felt a surge of guilt that I’d tricked him into letting down his guard so he’d forget his lie to the police. It was CQ who should be held responsible, not a poor worker simply trying to hold onto his job.

  Now that I knew Charles had coerced Mr. Sedonis to give a false statement to the police, I wasn’t sure what it all meant. Was it too much of a leap to conclude that the argument I heard on Monday afternoon had been among Varena, Charles, and Caleb? If so, why would Charles want to hide Caleb’s presence? To keep Varena’s secret?

  It would make sense that Charles, the longtime friend, might know of Caleb’s conviction and Varena’s desire to disassociate herself from him.

  I was about to assure Mr. Sedonis that I would do my best not to bring his lie out in the open, when I saw a tall man with a thick shock of white hair descend the staircase in the foyer.

  Charles Quentin, a man I knew to be in his mid-seventies, but who could have passed for much younger, whether from nature or design, I couldn’t say.

  I put my hand on the estate driver’s shoulder and spoke so Charles would hear me. “Thanks for sharing your thoughts about Ms. Young with me, Mr. Sedonis. The local miniaturists club will be very happy to hear the memories, direct from someone who drove her to her favorite places.”

  I could hear Skip in the recesses of my head: “What a crock.”

  I wasn’t sure Charles Quentin bought it either, but I had to give it a try. I knew I’d be devastated if Mr. Sedonis went the way of Corazón Cruz.

  —

  Quick as a flash, the short, dark Roberto in a narrow black tie was replaced on the carpet in front of me by the tall, white-haired Charles in the most expensive-looking suit I’d ever seen. I suspected his attire was chosen to fit in with the important people who had preceded me on his calendar.

  I hoped it was only my guilt-ridden imagination that saw a suspicious look from Charles, directed at Mr. Sedonis.

  To me, he couldn’t have been more charming. “I’m so sorry to be late, Mrs. Porter. In fact, I see that lunch is ready to be served. Won’t you follow me to the patio?”

  Charles didn’t leave me much choice. I was sure he’d deliberately worked it so I’d have no private time with him. He came across as a man who worked everything to suit himself.

  Maybe it was just as well that I wouldn’t be alone with him. After all, I’d been warned to watch out for him.

  —

  I’d have been way off the mark if I thought “patio” meant a rustic, informal setting, perhaps outdoors. The Rockwell patio, at the back of the house, past the grand double stairway, was more like a conservatory where exotic plants grew than a place where you’d slap hamburgers on a grill. Sunlight poured through the structure through the floor-to-ceiling bay windows. Spread out behind it were the lavish gardens of the estate, and beyond, the rolling hills of Robert Todd Heights.

  I’d have been hard-pressed to recall a setting more elegant than this, even counting all the weddings I’d been to. The white wrought iron table was set for four with exquisite china and crystal. At each place were a three-color salad of lettuce, endive, and radicchio and a selection of miniature fresh-from-the-oven rolls that emitted the most wonderful yeasty aroma.

  Alicia had preceded us and now approached the entry to the spacious “patio.”

  She extended her long arm in a graceful gesture toward Adam, entering stage right. Another Varena, only male, causing me to conclude that genes of the men who fathered these children had been defeated by those of the mother. Biology wasn’t my best subject, but at least I knew what I meant.

  “We didn’t allow the staff much notice,” Alicia said, giving me an air-kiss near each cheek. “So, this will be a simple meal. I just wanted you to get to know Charles and Adam.”

  Alicia spoke as if I were her new BFF and she’d brought me home to meet the family.

  I had to admit, it was convenient to have all the nonsuspects at one table.

  —

  The very “simple” lunch of fillet of swordfish with a topping of minced olives and peppers, disks of sautéed zucchini, and jasmine rice nearly distracted me from learning more about the Swingle/Rockwell/Young family and its caretaker. With each delicious bite I pictured myself describing the taste to Henry and everyone I knew (except Maddie).

  It would have been difficult for me to bring up means, motive, and opportunity for murder in such lovely, peaceful surroundings. Instead, I listened to what was important to each of my lunch companions.

  From Charles: a brief history of the ownership of the estate, previously occupied by an unnamed governor of an East Coast state, bought by Varena who made a number of improvements, each one of which Charles explained in detail. I inquired politely about the origin of the plants that surrounded us in the patio. We noted how sad it was that Varena did not live to see her last planting bloom.

  From Alicia: a taste of the inner working
s of the fashion industry in San Francisco, New York City, and Paris. I mentioned once having worked near the Garment District during my college years in Manhattan. Alicia reminisced that her mother was always willing to be the first test model for a new design.

  From Adam: a discussion of the vagaries of labor law in this state of many immigrant workers, plus an inadvertent mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife, Estelle, who was on a cruise to the Caribbean. I added that my late husband and I had cruised the Greek Islands many years ago. Adam confessed how sorry he was that he’d never taken a cruise with his wife or his mother.

  I ate the last morsel of a sour cream roll with the bit of zucchini that was left on my plate. A young woman cleared away our dishes and took our orders for coffee and tea. When Alicia announced that the chef’s special dessert was cognac ice cream with roasted Bing cherries and bittersweet chocolate sauce, it was almost enough to silence me on the reason I’d come here today.

  So far I’d gotten nothing that would help me with the investigation into the murder of the woman who should have been sitting at the head of the table, enjoying her blooming phlox with Mozart in the background. Were Alicia and Charles deliberately stonewalling me, protecting themselves from unpleasant questions?

  Now that I was pleasantly sated, I could afford to be escorted off the property, if it came to that. I started with the weakest link, as I perceived him. “Adam, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? I haven’t really talked to you about the horrible crime against your family.”

  “Sure, go ahead, Geraldine. I know I haven’t been much use. As my sister puts it, I’m kind of in a fog.”

  A stranger to the table would have guessed incorrectly that Alicia was the older sibling. Alicia was always in charge, in her posture, her voice, her manner of speaking. Adam seemed at sixes and sevens, his eyes a bit glazed, as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep.

  “What do you remember about your Uncle Caleb?” I asked Adam.

  Charles’s throat clearing drowned out Mozart. “I fail to see why you would bring up another tragedy, Geraldine.”

  “What’s the harm, Charles?” Adam asked. “I actually do remember some nice times with my only uncle. There was some kind of theme park he’d take us to. Or maybe it was just a circus passing through town.” Adam smiled more broadly than he had all through lunch. “Whatever it was, he bought us the kind of food Mother would never let us eat. Hot dogs, especially.”

  “I, of course, have no such memories, but I do recall your telling me those stories. Adam. It seems they were happy times.” Alicia’s face took on a relaxed expression that was new to me.

  I sensed that Uncle Caleb was the kind of uncle every kid should have. What a shame that, for one reason or another, he was taken from their lives.

  “What do you remember about the day Caleb died?”

  Charles became so agitated, I thought the table would overturn from his restless motions. If Adam noticed, it didn’t prevent him from answering my question.

  “It was a very strange day, not that I’ve ever told anyone about it. Ours was not the most open family for sharing feelings.”

  “Adam,” Alicia said, a warning note in her voice. I expected her to send her half brother to his room at any moment.

  But Adam, looking past Alicia at the outside garden, had gone back fortysomething years. “A phone call came in, and Mother told me that Uncle Caleb had ‘passed on’ and that we should pray for his soul. It was the first time I’d ever prayed for someone’s soul and I wasn’t sure how to do it.”

  Alicia seemed conflicted, wanting to hear this family story, perhaps not for the first time, but aware of how uncomfortable it made Charles. She folded and refolded her napkin, straightened the place setting so the silverware was exactly parallel, and finally rang a small bell I hadn’t noticed before.

  Immediately the young woman who’d served our lunch was at her side.

  “We’re ready for our dessert,” Alicia said.

  “Five more minutes, ma’am, while the cherries settle?”

  Alicia nodded. Charles took a deep breath. I tried to focus on Adam, who hardly missed a beat.

  “Mother didn’t cry as I thought she would, so I remember working really hard to keep myself from crying, too. And I know we all went to the police station that day. She had to take us because there was no one around to mind us.”

  “I’m sure there were police reports to fill out,” I said. “About the car accident,” I added, looking at Charles.

  “I thought I saw Uncle Caleb at the station but Mother said no, it couldn’t have been. It must have been another man who looked like him. Anyway, I finally realized what ‘passed on’ meant. There’d be no more hot dogs.”

  “What a terrible loss for a small child.”

  “Mmm,” Adam said, still not fully in the present.

  “Did you know Caleb, Charles?” I asked.

  Charles frowned, his thick white eyebrows seeming to connect on the bridge of his nose. “Do we really need to bring up unhappy memories, Geraldine? This family has been through enough.”

  “I do apologize, but I have a feeling that Adam and Alicia’s uncle may have something to do with this murder investigation.”

  “Nonsense.” Charles threw down his napkin and stood. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m afraid I’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

  As Charles left the patio, Alicia turned to me. “This is not what I had in mind, Geraldine. Charles is our executor and a family friend for nearly forty years. Charles is really my honorary uncle, if you want to put it that way.”

  That’s not the way I wanted to put it, but I knew it was time to leave. We both stood and walked out of the patio, leaving Adam behind with his happy childhood memories. I suspected tomorrow’s lunch would consist of hot dogs with mustard and relish from an ordinary supermarket.

  Chapter 20

  My biggest regret as I turned on the ignition in my car was that I hadn’t gotten the twice-promised dollhouse tour, not from Varena, and not from Alicia. I wondered if I’d ever again be welcome at the Rockwell Estate. I pictured Alicia writing out my pink slip.

  It would have been nice to try the cognac ice cream, also. My friends called me a dessert alcoholic. I never drank a drop of wine or hard liquor from a glass, but I loved rum cake, almond amaretto bars, wine jelly, and the Grand Marnier poultry stuffing my mother made for the adult table on holidays.

  Driving the winding road to my home in the flats, I replayed as much of the lunch conversation as I could remember and asked myself questions I still couldn’t answer.

  Why was Charles Quentin so uncomfortable talking about Caleb? I revisited my charitable theory that Charles knew Varena’s secret and wanted to help her keep it even in death. In terms of the murder investigation, however, the more appealing theory was that he had something more self-serving to hide. Two things were clear from my interview with Roberto Sedonis—that Charles Quentin knew Caleb Swingle was alive and hovering around the Rockwell Estate, and that he was party to an argument with Varena on the afternoon of her murder.

  “Watch out for CQ” flashed through my mind and I shivered. From the idea that Charles Quentin might be Varena’s killer? Or from the frightening thought that I might have been killed by a man rustling in the woods?

  As for Adam George, I was convinced that he wasn’t hiding anything. I figured he’d seen his Uncle Caleb being processed in the police station. Maybe Varena had taken him there because she had no one to watch him while she made the trip to plead Caleb’s case to the police or to tell her brother off or to say one last good-bye.

  It might have been the lush patio setting, the gourmet meal, and the awareness that I was surrounded by dollhouses that made me vulnerable, but I’d been pulled in by Adam’s charming, childlike innocence. I pushed away a thought of contacting Estelle and asking her to reconsider her decision to abandon her sweet husband.

  It was arrogant enough to think I was qualified to investigate a crim
e. Was I now ready to pass myself off as a marriage counselor?

  A big question was where Alicia stood in all this. Had her motive in hiring me stemmed from a sincere desire to find her mother’s killer? She’d discounted the idea that Paige murdered Varena, and certainly wouldn’t even consider that Charles was anything but a loving family friend.

  If she’d had someone particular in mind to accuse, she hadn’t let on. Alicia had never pointed me in the direction of an individual or hinted that she had a clue about who the perpetrator might be. Did she think I was going to consider everyone in the household simply as sources of information, not suspects? Did she expect me to uncover a random killer prowling the Heights, one who broke into the Lord and Lady Morley room and murdered Lady Varena?

  I came back to my earlier thought that Alicia herself had killed her mother and that she’d befriended/hired me for purposes of misdirection. She could have been among the many Lincoln Point citizens who thought I had influence with the LPPD. What better way to assure that the police wouldn’t consider her a suspect?

  With little traffic to pay attention to, my mind took off, expanding on the matricide theory. I imagined the family’s early years when, it seemed, Varena was essentially a single mother of two, on her own, except for possible support from her brother until he was sent away. She worked at her writing and perhaps other jobs to keep her little family together. I guessed she didn’t have a lot of time for the young Alicia.

  Now, day after day (just to add drama to my narrative), Alicia had seen Varena mentoring an unrelated college student, Paige Taggart, nurturing her as a writer and spending time with her at a hobby Alicia had no use for. It might be enough to turn daughter against mother. I felt a sudden need to call and warn Mary Lou until I shook myself out of the nightmare by remembering that she was a perfect wife and mother. There was nothing like a murder investigation to mess with someone’s head. How did the real police do it day after day and still sleep at night?