Excerpt of A Dollhouse To Die For by Cate Price

As I peered through the windows of the house I’d purchased at auction for two hundred dollars, I realized it was in far worse shape than I’d thought. All the floors needed refinishing, the staircase was askew, and some of the wallpaper was peeling. Most of the boards on the porch were rotted, and a couple of balustrades needed replacing. Never mind. I smiled as I peeked inside the front parlor, still entranced with my find. I planned to add some sconces on either side of the mirror and a flickering light in the fireplace. A new coverlet for the bed, a dining table and chairs, and perhaps a miniature rocking chair, too. I straightened up, pressing a hand to the small of my back and looked down at the pretty Victorian dollhouse with its hand-sewn curtains, real wavy glass windows, and needlepoint carpets. With a sigh of satisfaction, I left my treasure sitting on a Hepplewhite blanket chest and unlocked the door to Sometimes a Great Notion. My store, a haven of vintage linens and sewing notions in the quaint village of Millbury, Pennsylvania, was a testament to my passion for the past. I specialized in what was called “new” old stock. Like buttons, snaps, and fasteners still on their original cards, and unopened packages of gilt braid, seam tape, and zippers. I turned on the stereo and soon the sounds of 1940s jazz filled the space. I was about to start a pot of my traditional strong coffee brewing when I saw a gaunt figure cross the main street, on a direct trajectory for my shop. I groaned and wished I hadn’t been in such a hurry to unlock the front door. Not that I wanted to turn any business away, but Harriet Kunes was a tough customer. She haggled with me on every price, always wanted something thrown in for free, and had a talent for making a veritable root canal out of any transaction. I pasted a bright smile on my face, but it didn’t last long. “Daisy Buchanan, don’t be such a stupid nitwit!” Harriet said a few moments later as she stood on the other side of the counter, glaring at me as she placed both hands on her bony hips. I glared back. I have many faults, well, some anyway, but a lack of intelligence is certainly not one of them. They say the Customer Is Always Right, but in this case, she was sadly mistaken. “I’m offering you three times what this dollhouse is worth!” She whipped off her eyeglasses, as if to better focus the laser power of her stare on me. “Look, I’m sorry, Harriet, but it’s not for sale.” While it was true that I carried some antique children’s toys in the store, in addition to the quilts and linens, this one was different. I planned to restore it and give it to one of the best kids I’d ever known, apart from my own daughter. Claire Elliott was turning ten on Halloween. It might seem like an expensive birthday gift for a child, but I knew her mother could never afford something like this on her diner waitress earnings. Besides, I looked forward to all the fun Claire and I would have when I babysat. She was a special kid. One of those old souls who seem wise beyond their years. Like it’s not their first time going around this earth. She shared my enthusiasm for antiques and history, and I often forgot she was only nine years old. And as much as I loved my daughter, Sarah, now twenty-six, she and I were nothing alike. She affectionately dismissed my enthusiasm for the “dusty old sewing things” in the store as simply one more of Mom’s funny quirks. Sensitive Claire and the pragmatic Patsy Elliot were also completely different. But Claire and I would see the magic in this dollhouse and transport ourselves back in time in our imaginations. Harriet pressed her thin lips together. “You don’t understand. This dollhouse is of great personal significance to me.” “Really? Me, too.” I wanted to give it to Claire. “A thousand dollars. My final offer. You know that’s an exorbitant price.” I almost felt like throwing myself across it to protect it from her avaricious gaze. I’d gone through a lot at the auction to win this particular dollhouse, bidding against another determined, maniacal woman. I wasn’t about to let it go now. Harriet paced up and down in front of the Walker seed counter with its loading bins full of old sewing patterns and unused French ribbons. I could see where she must have been a beautiful woman at one time with her high cheekbones and arched brows, but years of constant scowling had driven deep grooves into her sallow skin. Her hair was a faded mousy blond. Actually not even blond, more like no color left in it at all. Angry suspicion in her eyes leached away whatever spark of beauty remained. Even though I never wore much makeup myself, I longed to soften her skeletal features with a dusting of blush. She wore a pale blue bouclé suit, which had to have been an expensive designer outfit when first purchased years ago, but was now so out-of-date it was almost retro. Harriet’s hands reached out as if she ached to grab the house and run. Instead she gripped the edges of the counter. “You must sell it to me,” she hissed. “What kind of businesswoman are you anyway?” I shook my head. Some things just weren’t for sale. Calling on my many years of teaching experience, I dredged up the voice I’d used on recalcitrant students and inserted the appropriate amount of steel. “For the last time, the answer is no!” With one last death ray glare, Harriet Kunes stormed out, letting the door bang shut. I winced, praying the old panes wouldn’t break. As the doorbell continued to jangle violently, I stared after her, wondering what the heck that was all about. I’d bought the little dollhouse at the Saturday night auction in Sheepville, from the estate of Sophie Rosenthal, a local woman who’d passed away last February. I admit I’d lusted after it myself when I first saw it, but the sum Harriet had offered me was just plain crazy. Was it really worth more than I’d thought? Intrigued, I checked comparable items on the Internet again. Nope, it wouldn’t fetch more than a few hundred dollars at best in its current condition. It still needed a thorough cleaning, plus all the repairs to the gingerbread trim, roof shingles, and boards on the porch. Why hadn’t Harriet gone to the well-advertised estate auction herself if she wanted it that much? Why the sudden interest? The whole thing was very odd. Maybe she was just one of those people who, once they decide they want something, have to have it at any cost. I shrugged and busied myself with arranging some items from a recent yard sale. An accordion-style sewing box I’d picked up for ten dollars would make a great display for the latest notions I’d found, and I arranged them to look as though they were spilling from one drawer to the next. I hung an assortment of tea towels on a wooden drying rack, and grouped a collection of calico needle cases next to a Greist buttonholer attachment. I also filled some orders off my website. Even though my store was situated in a sleepy nineteenth-century village where time had ground to a halt, I managed to keep in touch with the present day. Thanks to my business, I’d become quite the estate sale and auction junkie, always on the hunt for unique items to pass along to another good home. In fact, the idea for my store had been born after one of my trips to the auction. I’d bid on an old steamer trunk that turned out to be packed to the brim with a bounty of sewing notions and exquisite fabrics. And luckily for me, people around here passed their farms and houses on from generation to generation, and when they finally cleaned out their attics and basements, there was a treasure trove of perfectly preserved merchandise that had been sitting in storage for decades. In only a year and a half, Sometimes a Great Notion had become a well- known destination for collectors, interior designers, and antique dealers. The doorbell rang again, and some live customers came in next looking for a quilt. There were several hanging on the walls, plus I showed them a few more on the second floor, where I had additional rooms for storage and repairs. They finally settled on a field-of-stars design fashioned from feed sacks in soft colors of mauve, pink, blue, and yellow. I wrapped it carefully in tissue paper and placed it in one of my signature shopping bags with its peacock blue grosgrain drawstring. After they left, I clambered into the nook in one of the windows that jutted onto the porch of the former Victorian home to rearrange the display. Outside, the sky was darkening, and I hoped it wouldn’t rain. My husband and I had dinner reservations at the Bridgewater Inn out on River Road. I pictured us sitting on the veranda overlooking the falls, enjoying the last of the late summer evenings. Across the main street from me was a shop called A Stitch Back in Time, owned by my friend Eleanor Reid, who restored and altered antique wedding gowns. A CLOSED sign hung on the door. Eleanor opened her store when she damn well felt like it, or had deigned to make an appointment with a client, blissfully immune to the burden of guilt and responsibility that propelled me through life. Far from the customers always being right, with Eleanor they had to fall on their knees and grovel, but her work was so specialized and immaculate that she was always in high demand. No one was about to trust their grandmother’s treasured wedding dress to anything less than an expert. It wasn’t until I was cleaning up the counter at the end of the day that I noticed Harriet Kunes had left her eyeglasses behind. Great. I rummaged through my well-worn box of customer index cards. Not very high-tech, I know, but hey, it’s what I was used to. I called the number on the card, but there was no answer and no voice mail for me to leave a message. Joe Daly, my husband, walked through the door just as I was hanging up the phone. I’d kept my maiden name of Buchanan when we married, unable to deal with the concept of going through life as perky-sounding Daisy Daly. Tonight he wore a crisp white shirt, navy pants, and a sport jacket. At sixty-three, he was still a handsome man, tanned, gray- haired, and well-built. Since we’d retired, neither of us dressed up that often, and to see him decked out like this made my heart skip a beat. I’d also switched my usual work uniform of T-shirt and jeans for a cocktail dress from my collection. A sexy 1950s Christian Dior black lace number that I paired with high-heeled pumps instead of my cowboy boots. I’d twisted my hair up into a decent impression of an elegant knot, although a few wayward brown strands escaped here and there. Joe’s dark eyes took in my appearance. A smile curved his lips, and he pulled me into his arms. When he kissed me, the world spun away, as did the years, and I savored the feel of his firm mouth and the familiar rush of heat and dizzy longing. I pulled away first, albeit with a smidgen of regret. It probably wouldn’t do for Millbury’s sewing notions proprietress to be seen making out through the large display windows. “Do you mind if we make a stop on the way?” I murmured. “Harriet Kunes left her glasses in the store. I know I’d be lost without mine.” “Sure.” He offered his arm as we walked down the three steps from the black-painted porch. I smiled at him, feeling the familiar strength beneath my fingers and loving the anticipation of a night out. A real date. A soft raindrop touched my cheek, and I glanced up at the ominous sky. “Oh, I hope this rain holds off until after dinner.” As we got into the car, I told him how Harriet had seemed desperate to buy my dollhouse. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to her, Joe, but she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.” “Sounds like someone else I know.” He grinned at me. “Hello, Pot, this is Kettle calling! “Ha, ha. Very funny.” I pulled the customer card out of my bag and read the address out loud. Joe took a left at the end of Main Street, and drove up Grist Mill toward River Road as a crack of thunder sounded. He had both hands on the wheel of our station wagon to navigate the twists and turns of the rain-spotted road that ran alongside the river and canal. When we got to Swamp Pike, he turned right and then headed down to the intersection with Burning Barn Road, where a famous artists’ colony attracted painters for weeklong retreats. It was raining in earnest now, and I sighed. Guess the veranda was out. A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Meadow Farms Golf Club and Preserve. A gold crest adorned each stone pillar at the entrance, and flags hung on tall poles on either side. The guard waved us through when we mentioned we’d come to visit Harriet. We drove past the clubhouse and attached fitness center, a beautiful fieldstone complex with a flagstone patio in front. We’d been to a wedding there once. The clubhouse had an excellent restaurant and dance floor, and there was an outdoor pavilion next to the pool where the ceremonies were performed. The radiant green manicured islands on the eighteen-hole course were surrounded by prairie grass, shimmering ponds, and copses of trees turning burnt orange and crimson. The protected open space and the hills in the distance provided a stunning vista for golfers teeing off. Beyond the clubhouse and the start of the course was an enclave of townhomes and single-family houses, bordered by scenic wetlands and walking trails. We wound our way through the development until I spotted the sign for Barnstead Circle. This must have been a premium location when the builder first sold lots here. There were only two other black-shuttered brick mansions on the quiet cul-de-sac besides Harriet’s, and hers was at the end that backed up to the woods. Joe pulled onto the driveway behind a white Lexus SUV. I hurried after him as we dodged raindrops and followed the path toward the front door. There was an impressive porch supported by two white columns and a huge arched window above. I fished Harriet’s glasses out of my bag and rang the bell. We waited, huddling next to each other on the stone step. Lights were on in the foyer, but no one came to the door. Suddenly I caught a flash of something over to my left. “Did you see that?” I asked Joe. “What?” “I don’t know. Something . . .” It could have been a figure running through the woods, or maybe just a deer. There were so many round here, and the bane of Joe’s garden existence, eating his hostas and daylilies. It broke my heart to see them killed at the side of the road. I was always on the lookout as I drove on some of these country lanes, even in fairly well-developed residential areas. “Where the heck is Harriet?” Joe said. “Her car’s here.” I could tell he was impatient to get to the Bridgewater Inn and his favorite meal, the house specialty of roasted rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and almond-mint pesto. He took a few steps along the path. He peered in another of the arched windows that fronted the exterior of the house and muttered an expletive. “What is it?” I hurried over and looked into a study crammed with collectibles. Harriet Kunes was slumped over a large dollhouse on a display table. “Holy smokes. Do you think she’s had a heart attack or something?” Joe didn’t answer, but whipped around, his gaze searching the ground. “What are you looking for?” He picked up a brick from the path border. “I need something to smash this window.” He ripped off his sports jacket and wrapped it around his hand and arm. I looked over at the front door in desperation. Hold on. Was it not quite shut all the way? I ran over and grabbed the knob. The door swung open, revealing a magnificent two-story foyer with dual staircases, one curving up on each side. Dolls sat on every step, as far as the eye could see. Joe dashed past me, dropping the brick on the entry mat and heading for the study. I ran after him. Harriet was clutching the Tudor mansion with both hands as if someone were trying to take it from her. “Harriet!” I skirted between tables with more dollhouses and displays, trying to find a passageway through. “Don’t touch her!” Joe shouted. He grabbed a Queen Anne chair and shoved it at Harriet like a crazed lion tamer. Her body crumpled to the floor in an ungainly heap. I gasped. “My God, Joe, what the hell’s the matter with you?” He ignored me, frowning at the dollhouse. “I’ll call 911,” he snapped. “You start CPR on her, and don’t touch that damn thing.” With one last jab of his forefinger at the Tudor mansion, he jogged back out to the foyer. A moment later I heard his footsteps clattering on the stairs down to the basement. Harriet stared up at me with sightless eyes. Oh, boy. I kicked off my high heels, hitched up my dress, and dropped to my knees, swallowing against a spike of nausea. Leaning forward, I touched my mouth to her thin, almost nonexistent dry lips and started rescue breaths. Come on, Harriet. Only the good die young. A minute later, Joe was back, his face grim. “The circuit breaker was jammed.” He picked up the chair again and knocked out the plug that attached the dollhouse to the wall socket. He frowned as he inspected the back of the house. “Something’s wrong with the wiring here.” “How did you know to warn me?” I gasped, looking up at him in between breaths and chest compressions. “How did you know just by looking at her?” “Some kind of sixth sense, I guess.” Joe had been shop steward for his electricians’ union in New York before we retired and moved to Millbury for good. “You know, Daisy, like you can tell if something’s a real antique or not at a glance? And how it would all look the same to someone else?” Sirens wailed outside, and it was with a feeling of raw despair that I moved aside a few moments later to let the EMT’s take over. As they bent down to start working on Harriet, I saw the look that passed between them. It’s hopeless. Joe reached for me and put his arm around my shoulders. “Someone tampered with the transformer that runs the dollhouse lights, Daisy,” he murmured. “Harriet Kunes received the full charge of one hundred and twenty volts coming directly from that wall socket.”