by Cate Price
He went into the living room and came back wheeling a cart with the dollhouse sitting on top. I could see he’d made good progress already. He’d created a new back panel, fixed the staircase, and repaired the rotted boards on the porch.
“Wow, this looks great, Cyril. Thanks!”
“We can rebuild it. We have the technology.”
“Yes, yes, let’s just get on with it.” I grinned and waved a hand at him, suddenly glad I’d asked Cyril to help. Joe was too preoccupied with his miniatures right now, plus he’d never finish in time for Claire’s birthday. I’d had the experience with my husband of projects at the house that mushroomed into giant undertakings when all I’d wanted was a new towel bar. Weeks later, there’d still be no towel bar, but a ripped-apart, unusable bathroom. Oh, it would all get done eventually, and be gorgeous in the end, per Joe’s exacting standards, but I didn’t have that kind of time.
Cyril was bare-bones practical. Plus he had a soft spot for Claire, too.
I set to work repairing the wallpaper, smoothing it out millimeter by millimeter and gluing it back into place. There was only one patch in a corner that I couldn’t fix and I decided I’d put a potted plant there.
I closed my eyes briefly, and thought I could still catch a hint of Sophie’s haunting floral scent, clinging to the dollhouse as it had to the paisley scarf.
While I cleaned, Cyril stained the double doors in preparation for installation on the porch. In companionable silence, we repaired the windows with new glass panes and before I knew it, a couple of hours had passed and the light was fading outside. Dusk was coming earlier these days.
I’d been so lost in the world of the dollhouse, I’d completely lost track of time.
“It’s getting dark, I’d better go. Thanks, Cyril. Thanks for everything.”
He nodded. “Aye up.”
We still had a lot to do, but I felt better, knowing we’d finish on schedule now. There were a few projects left: fixing the rest of the roof shingles and the outside trim, painting the exterior, installing the lighting, and putting the furniture back. The fainting couch, carved rosewood bed, marble-topped parlor table, and Chippendale desk.
Hey, wait a minute . . .
“Cyril! Where’s that newspaper?” I grabbed it and scribbled in nine letters. “Ha! Chip ’n’ Dale. Get it?”
He looked blank.
“Oh, I forgot, you were probably still in England at the time. It was a cartoon from the fifties about two little chipmunks. Chipmunks are a type of squirrel. So . . . furniture for some squirrels. Chippendale. Chip ’n’ Dale. See?”
Cyril just shook his head in disgust. “Be off wi’ ye now.”
I trudged down the long overgrown potholed road from the salvage yard toward the main road. As I got closer to civilization, I caught a whiff of singed-meat smoke in the air. Someone must be grilling steaks for dinner. I walked a little faster, shadows falling across the pitted tarmac. It was still warm enough that I could wear sandals during the day, with no need for a coat or sweater, but the nights were deliciously cold, down into the fifties. I’d snuggle up to Joe, comfortable under the covers, but with the bedroom windows open, listening to Jasper’s light snoring and occasional close-mouthed barking as he replayed chasing rabbits and squirrels in his dreams.
• • •
The next morning, before anyone came into Sometimes a Great Notion, I called Warren Zeigler.
“Hey, Warren, could you turn off your lawyer meter for five minutes, please? Look, I need some advice, but I can’t afford a big bill. How about I buy you lunch next time I see you?”
He sighed, and I pictured the diminutive attorney taking his round spectacles off and rubbing his eyes like a sleepy dormouse.
I quickly explained about the lease and the huge rent increase.
“Ah, yes, I heard probate finally closed on the Rosenthal estate,” he said.
“Is there anything I can do? And before you tell me that I should have renewed the lease before now, I’m already kicking myself.”
“As to your business acumen, I couldn’t possibly comment,” Warren said, with a slight cough. He had a sense of humor drier than one of Eleanor’s Beefeater martinis. “But if you’re on a month-to-month basis, then yes, I’m afraid the landlord can give thirty days notice if he wants to, and you’re out. Have you tried negotiating?”
“Have you ever met Chip Rosenthal?” I thought I heard a faint chuckle on the end of the line. “Well, I might try that again, if it’s my last resort. And if I have to move, I’ll ask you to read things over this time before I sign. But what I don’t understand is that Sophie died in February, and I bought the dollhouse from her estate auction in June. How could any of her stuff be sold before probate closed?”
“Pennsylvania laws are more lax than most. They would probably let him settle some personal effects ahead of time. Seeing as there was only one heir, it would make things that much simpler.”
“Speaking of which, I heard that Sophie’s brother also had a stepdaughter.” In the back of my mind was some half-baked idea that I might try to find this girl and appeal to her for help.
“Stepchildren are not eligible to inherit when a person dies intestate,” Warren said, one step ahead of me.
“Really? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Quite possibly. But without a will, there are rules of succession. Sophie Rosenthal could have written a will and specified how her estate was to be divided if she was concerned.”
The doorbell jangled, and Martha and Eleanor came in. I thanked Warren, and he said he would look forward to his three-course lunch at the Bridgewater Inn.
I chuckled as I hung up the phone. I’d been thinking more along the lines of an egg salad sandwich at the diner.
Martha laid a flat rectangular container on the counter and whipped off the lid with a flourish. “Ginger Brandy Snaps. These are a labor of love, let me tell you.”
“Oh, thanks, Martha. I know they’re a lot of work, but the customers go crazy over these.” I hugged her and admired the mountain of delectable delights.
Eleanor edged closer and slid a brandy snap out from the side of the stack. “Daisy, remember how Detective Serrano made that crack about looking for someone with muddy shoes? And you know how I make everyone take their shoes off at the door?”
“We know,” Martha said, with an arch look at me.
“Well, when Bettina Waters came for her fitting on Monday, she was wearing sneakers. When I moved them to one side, I noticed they were damp.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And it wasn’t raining that day.”
Obligingly, I gasped. “Do you think she washed them? To get the mud off?”
Eleanor shrugged as she palmed two more of the brandy snaps. “Who’s to say? They looked very clean though.”
“Might I point out that these are for the customers?” Martha snatched the box away as Eleanor stuffed the treats into her mouth. “Good God. Did you see that, Daisy? It’s like the woman unhinges her jaw like a snake.”
The doorbell rang again and the reporter PJ Avery sauntered into the store.
“How’d you make out with the wine club?” she said to me, by way of greeting.
She was wearing the same outfit as on Saturday. Olive painters pants, and a T-shirt that looked like it had been tossed into a laundry basket straight from the dryer and never folded.
I smiled. “Okay, I guess. It’s an interesting group.”
PJ eyed the plate of delicate ginger crisps stuffed with whipped double cream.
“Have one, dear.” Martha proffered the plate.
“Thanks. I’m so hungry I could eat myself.” PJ murmured in appreciation as she licked out the cream and crunched through the rolled wafer-thin spicy cookie. “Holla. These are bangin’. Where’d you get them?”
“I made them.”
PJ Avery stared at Martha with thos
e strange purple eyes that had to be due to colored contacts. “Are you kidding me right now?”
“No. I really did. Have another.” Martha beamed at her. She loved to feed people and watch them eat. Well, everyone except Eleanor.
PJ needed no further encouragement and grabbed one more. “Man, this is great,” she said between bites. “Do you guys eat like this every day?” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head and the shirt rode up, revealing a stomach as hard and flat as a young boy’s.
“I thought you said they were for the cust—” Eleanor sucked in a breath and I couldn’t be sure, but I think Martha was standing on her foot.
“How about some coffee?” I filled another mug to the brim.
PJ took it with a nod of thanks and downed a large swallow. “This is awesome. I don’t usually get a chance to eat much with being on the road all day. Definitely beats gas station slushies and microwaved breakfast bagels.”
I pictured her apartment. A full ashtray on the coffee table, a bottle of vodka in the freezer. In the cupboard perhaps a half-empty bag of stale pretzels and an opened box of cereal. The fridge would contain a lone Chinese take-out container, but no milk.
Martha shot a horrified look at her and nudged me. “Don’t you have a sandwich in your fridge, Daisy?” she hissed.
“Yes, but that’s my lu—”
“Hand it over. Can’t you see the poor little thing is starving to death? You can always run home and make another.”
While I retrieved my sandwich of crusty French bread, roasted turkey, fresh sliced tomatoes, and romaine lettuce, together with a pot of Joe’s delicious homemade basil mayonnaise from the fridge, I stole a glance at Eleanor.
She had the air of an Olympic champion who sees the younger, faster rival nipping at their heels. There’s a hint of impending defeat, but being the champion that she is, she won’t give up the title without a fight.
PJ pointed toward a Hawkeye Refrigerator Picnic Basket. “Can I look inside that?”
“Please do.”
She lifted one of the two hinged lids. I noticed a silver skull ring on her thumb.
“How does it work?” she demanded.
I showed her the metal-lined removable ice compartment inside the woven rattan basket. “You would put ice on this side to keep the food cold.”
“Neat. Hey, you could use this at your wine club.” She closed the lid carefully.
“They’re not my wine club.”
“When was it made?”
“I would guess in the early 1900s.”
And so it went, through the entire store. She wanted to know what everything was, what it was used for, how it worked. She reminded me of the best students I’d had, the ones who always questioned, who were never satisfied with a pat answer. I showed her the passementerie—the tassels, ornamental cords, rosettes, elaborate trimmings, and fringes. She wanted to know the provenance of the quilts and the needlework samplers, the value of the vintage evening bags, the age of the antique spinning wheel and the cobbler’s rack.
It was refreshing to see it all through her eyes, and I made a mental note of the things she was drawn to, noticing treasures I’d almost forgotten. A new arrangement to place them front and center would make the customers notice, too.
Now I beamed at her, just as Martha had done.
What really caught PJ’s attention, though, was the box at the back of the store. I’d hung a former post office sign that said MAIL, except I’d crossed it out and written MALE. Underneath sat a wooden toolbox that Joe filled with treasures for the men, all priced at five dollars. Today it held things like a watch, a belt buckle, antique postcards, and a poker chip caddy. She finally picked out a Ronson “Tuxedo” lighter from the 1930s with an attractive green enamel Art Deco design. The front of the lighter swung open with storage for cigarettes inside.
“This is way beyond cool.” She fished out a crumpled pair of one-dollar bills from the back of her pants, and after she’d searched her pockets in vain for another couple of minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Take it. It’s on the house.”
“Awesome. Thanks.”
“There is something you can do for me in return, though. Tell me what you know about Chip Rosenthal.”
She rubbed at her eyes as if the purple contacts irritated her. “Not much. I know Harriet Kunes didn’t like him.”
I sighed. “Damn it. I wish Sophie had written a will. Then maybe Chip wouldn’t be the owner of this building.”
PJ frowned. “Actually, during our interview Harriet said that Sophie did write one, but no one knows where it is.”
“Really? Wouldn’t there be a copy filed with Sophie’s lawyer?”
“No, there isn’t, but I did some research. In Pennsylvania a holographic, or handwritten, will is still legal.”
“I guess working as a reporter makes you an expert in a lot of things.”
Her strangely colored eyes sparked with intelligence. “Trust me, I know more now about collecting miniatures than I ever wanted to know.”
“Why didn’t Harriet say anything to the authorities?”
PJ twirled a bundle of German button mushrooms with toffee-colored stems as she paced to and fro. “She didn’t want to tip her hand. She wanted to find it before Chip did, because she knew he’d destroy it.”
It was as if a swarm of mosquitoes were after her and she had to keep moving to avoid being bitten. I was feeling slightly seasick and had to avert my eyes. No wonder she was so thin. It was all that nervous energy. “Do you have any idea what the will said?”
“No. I wish I did,” she said vehemently. “Harriet was getting ready for the show, and I made some comment, and she suddenly goes, Of course! Why didn’t I think of this before?”
“Well, what did you say?”
“No idea.”
I told myself to muster my meager supply of patience. “Think, please.”
She arched an eyebrow at me as if to say that’s all she ever did.
“I was looking at her Tudor mansion—so perfect and proper just like her. I mean, it was beautiful and everything, but there was no soul to it.” PJ glanced around Sometimes a Great Notion and ran a hand through her jet black hair. “Not like this place. This has character, you can feel it. You can tell something about the owner the minute you walk in the door.”
I looked at my eclectic collage of merchandise and Alice the mannequin in her psychedelic dress and bit my lip. What the heck did my store say about me?
“Kind of how a book says a lot about its author, even though the writer might think they’re not revealing anything personal about themselves?” Eleanor said.
PJ gave her an odd look, and I wondered again what went on in that lively brain.
“Yeah. Something like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, that’s it! I talked about how a house tells a story about the homeowner, and Harriet stares at me and goes, My God, it’s the only place I didn’t search! And then she quickly ended the interview, and I assume, came rushing over here.”
I blew out a breath. “Well, if Sophie Rosenthal wrote a will, she definitely didn’t hide it in my dollhouse. It’s been taken completely to pieces, with all its secrets revealed.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, there’s more.” PJ looked around as if to make sure there were no customers in the store. “Something else I’m working on . . .”
She clicked her lighter a couple of times, making us all jump. “Harriet thought that the housebound Sophie was murdered.”
“What?” Martha clapped a hand to her chest. “Murdered! Why on earth did she think that?”
“Cuz Sophie had been sad over her brother’s death, but certainly not enough to kill herself.”
“Did Harriet say anything to the police?” I asked.
“Nope. She had no evidence. She seemed pretty sure, though.”<
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Eleanor cleared her throat. “Martha, as fascinating as this is, we have to go.”
Martha rolled her eyes at me. “Meeting of the Hysterical, whoops, I mean, Historical Society this morning.”
Eleanor was the president and Martha was the secretary. They hurried out, with the hyper reporter close behind them, pumped full of a thousand calories of cookies and untold milligrams of caffeine.
After they left, I stood in the middle of the store, deep in thought.
Did Chip kill his Aunt Sophie to inherit, knowing there were no other eligible heirs? And had he heard that a will did possibly exist, and was he the one who came into my store and tried to steal my dollhouse?
If there was a chance that Chip Rosenthal was not really my landlord, I was more than motivated to find that will.
Chapter Seven
I was in the midst of rearranging the displays that afternoon when a man burst into the store, looked around wildly, and grabbed my arm. “Daisy, help me! I’ve gotta hide. Please, I’m begging you, don’t tell them I’m here.”
“Go upstairs, Serrano. I’ll cover for you.”
Odd. The handsome detective was the type to stand in front of me and take a bullet, not leave me to face dangerous pursuers alone.
He’d barely made it to the top of the stairs when I noticed a group of women staring through the front display windows. One of them hurried inside. I thought I recognized her as one of the wine club.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“I’m just looking, thanks.”
A board squeaked upstairs, and I coughed.
“What’s that?” she snapped, on the trail like a bloodhound in heat.
“Oh you know these old houses, how they creak and moan.”
She gave me a suspicious glare and prowled through the entire space, looking behind the vintage-clothing rack and peeking into the prep room.
I didn’t have to be the psychic from across the street to be able to read her thoughts. Where the hell is he?
I put on my best professional smile. “Can I help you find something in particular?”
