"How can a set of antique dolls be connected to a murder. A noteworthy read!"
Reviewed by Jennifer Vido
Posted March 18, 2012
Mystery Cozy
In the tiny coastal town of Rocky Point, New Hampshire lives
antiques dealer Josie Prescott. Owner of the prestigious
Prescott Antiques and Auctions, her thriving business is at
the center of attention when it comes to the latest scoop or
scandal rocking their quaint town. Having just acquired a
magnificent collection of antique dolls, Josie is thrilled
to show her newly prized possession to Alice Michaels, the
town's leading financial investor authority.
As Josie and Alice finish up their business, a local
reporter stops by the shop with some disparaging news for
Alice. Minutes later, Alice is shot dead outside in the
parking lot leaving Josie clueless as to what just went
down. With a dead body and no clues, Josie sets out to find
the killer but is blindsided when her own trusted employee
Eric is kidnapped. With no leads and an office filled with
frightened co-workers, Josie must cooperate with the police
in hopes of keeping Eric alive.
When a ransom request for the prized doll collection
arrives, Josie must partake in Chief Ellis's plot to return
Eric to safety. How these particular dolls are connected to
the senseless murder of Alice remains at the top of Josie's
priority list. When the discovery of some Union currency
gets tossed into the mix, Josie must use all forms of
trickery and deception in order to fool the murderer into
making his biggest mistake.
DOLLED UP FOR MURDER is the seventh installment of the
popular Josie Prescott Antiques Mystery series. Introducing
her fans to the fascinating world of porcelain and fine
collectible dolls makes Cleland's latest cozy read a
noteworthy endeavor. With just the right amount of intrigue
paired with quirky, lovable characters, Cleland's
sentimental attachment for a beloved age-old hobby brings
doll collecting into an extraordinary new light.
SUMMARY
Crime-solving antiques dealer Josie Prescott is back—
tracking down a doll collection to die for.
On a sparkling spring day in the cozy coastal town of Rocky
Point, New Hampshire, with the lilacs in full bloom and the
wisteria hanging low, antiques dealer Josie Prescott is
showing a stellar doll collection she's just acquired to
Alice Michaels, the queen of the local investment
community.
Moments later, Josie watches in horror as Alice is shot and
killed. Within hours, one of Josie’s employees, Eric, is
kidnapped. The kidnapper’s ransom demand is simple—he wants
the doll collection. Working against the clock with the
local police chief, Josie discovers that the dolls hold
secrets that will save Eric and uncover the truth behind
Alice’s murder.
ExcerptChapter One
Gretchen, Prescott Antiques and Auctions' administrative
manager, spread the photographs over her desk. "I can't
decide," she said. She looked up and smiled at us, her
expressive green eyes reflecting her pleasure."What do you
think? Should I go with the blue hydrangeas and paper
whites? Or the veronicas and baby's breath?" She angled the
two photos so we could see them.
"I love hydrangeas!" Cara, our receptionist, said. Cara
was grandmotherly in appearance, with curly white hair and
a round pink face that grew pinker when she felt pleasure,
embarrassment, or sadness.
"Me, too," I said, leaning over to see the
images. "Especially the blue ones. And the paper whites in
this bouquet are beautiful." I looked at the other photo
Gretchen was holding and laughed. "You're going to hate me
because I'm not going to be of any help at all—I love
these veronicas, too!"
"They're so delicate," Cara agreed. "Really lovely."
"I don't know," Gretchen said. She gathered up the
photographs and jiggled them together. "Luckily I have a
week before I have to decide."
The wind chimes Gretchen had hung on the back of the
front door years earlier jingled. Lenny Einsohn stepped
inside.
"Josie," he said. He nodded at Gretchen and Cara, then
looked back at me. "Do you have a minute?"
Lenny looked awful, pasty white and too thin. I wasn't
surprised. Wes Smith, the incredibly plugged-in local
reporter, had just broken the story that Alice D. Michaels,
the founder and CEO of ADM Financial Advisors, Inc., was
being investigated for running a mega-Ponzi scheme, with or
without her associates' knowledge. The associate most often
mentioned as the brains behind the scheme was Lenny. Alice
had fired him three months earlier, at the first hint of
trouble.
I knew Lenny because his oldest son, now away at
college, had caught the stamp collecting bug in junior high
school, and after witnessing his elation at several tag
sale finds, his parents had joined in the fun. Lenny
started collecting Civil War maps and ephemera and his
wife, Iris, fell in love with Clarice Cliff jugs.
"Sure. Let's go up to my office."
I pushed open the heavy door, stepped into the
warehouse, and led the way to the spiral staircase that led
to my private office on the mezzanine, our footsteps
echoing in the cavernous space. I considered directing
Lenny to the yellow upholstered loveseat and Queen Ann wing
chairs, but didn't. A little voice in my head warned me I
should keep our interaction all business.
"Have a seat," I said, sitting behind my desk as I
pointed to a guest chair. "What can I do for you?"
Lenny looked as if he'd rather be at the dentist getting
a root canal without anesthetic than talking to me.
"I was going through my Civil War documents the other
day. I've acquired some nice things over the last few
years. Some original maps showing forts and so on. I have
two letters signed by Lincoln, too. I paid thirty-five
thousand for one of them—a thank you to Ulysses
Doubleday for information about Fort Sumter." He crossed
his legs, then uncrossed them. "I'd like to sell the entire
collection."
I didn't want any part of it. If Lenny was charged with
larceny or fraud or anything related to financial
improprieties at ADM Financial, the courts would freeze his
assets until the case was settled one way or the other. In
situations like this, the authorities often went back
ninety days or even longer, trying to recoup monies for
victims.
My window was open and a stack of papers fluttered in
the soft, warm breeze. I moved a paperweight—a water-
smoothed gray rock my boyfriend and I had picked up from a
purling brook during a hike in the White Mountains last
summer—onto the top of the pile. Lenny kept his eyes
on me, waiting for me to speak.
"Do you want me to appraise the collection for you?" I
asked.
"No. I'm hoping you'll buy it."
If I purchased his collection and he was subsequently
convicted, the courts might decide that the proceeds of the
sale should have benefited his victims, not him. Thinking
through the worst case scenario, the powers-that-be might
even commandeer the collection on the theory that it had
been originally purchased with stolen money. I'd be out the
cash I'd paid him, and the public might think I'd conspired
with Lenny to snooker them. That scenario had ugly written
all over it. I tried to think how I could extricate myself
without offending him, but couldn't. There was no easy way
out.
"Sorry, Lenny. I have to pass."
He bit his lip and tapped the chair arm. "I'll give you
a good deal."
I shook my head. "Sorry." I stood up. "Let me walk you
out."
* * *
Back upstairs in my office, I picked up my accountant
Pete's good-news quarterly report, then put it down, my
interest in revenue streams and profit margins waning as
the breeze wafted through my window. I put the report aside
and started reading my antiques appraiser Fred's draft of
catalogue copy for an auction we were planning for next
fall on witchcraft memorabilia, thinking it would be more
engaging than financial data, but within minutes, I found
myself staring at the baby blue sky. I was suffering from a
serious case of spring fever.
"Come on, Josie," I told myself. "Concentrate."
I reached for a media release we planned to send to send
to doll magazines, blogs, and book reviewers announcing the
purchase of Selma Farmington's doll collection.
Selma Farmington had died just a week earlier in a
horrific car accident, and now her daughters, up from
Texas, were facing the daunting task of clearing out the
sprawling home that had been in their family for
generations. When they'd called me in to buy some of the
antiques, they'd been frank about feeling shell-shocked and
overwhelmed. I'd encouraged them to let me take the time to
appraise the doll collection so they could sell the dolls
individually at full retail, the best way to command top
dollar, but they weren't interested. They hadn't even
wanted to consign the dolls. When I explained that in order
to buy the collection outright, I had to offer them a
wholesale price, they'd understood. After a brief
discussion, they'd asked me to raise my offer from one
third of their mom's carefully recorded expenditures to
half, and I'd agreed. The $23,000 sales price was fair.
Once the dolls were properly appraised, cleaned, and
repaired, I'd be certain to make a good profit, and they
had one less collection to worry about. While Selma's doll
collection wasn't of earth-shattering quality, I thought it
was varied enough to be of interest to collectors and
dealers. My fingers were crossed that we'd get good media
coverage. I finished reading the release, emailed Gretchen
that it was good to go, then considered what to do next.
Nothing appealed to me. I was about to struggle through
another few pages of Fred's catalogue, when Gretchen IM'd
me. Alice Michaels had called for an appointment and she'd
scheduled her at three. First Lenny, now Alice, I thought.
I glanced at the time display on my computer monitor. It
was three minutes after two. I gave up trying to work,
pushed the papers aside, and headed downstairs. I decided
to walk to the church about a quarter mile down the road to
the east, in the hopes that indulging my need to be outside
for a little while would enable me to buckle down when I
returned. Cara was on the phone giving someone directions
to Saturday's tag sale. I told Gretchen I'd be back in half
an hour or so.
I stood for a moment in my parking lot enjoying feeling
the sun on my face and listening to the birds chat to one
another, then started down the packed dirt path that wound
through the woods, a shortcut from my property to the
Congregational Church of Rocky Point. Everything was
blooming or in bud, filled with the promise of renewal, of
hope.
May was my favorite time of year in New Hampshire. The
wisteria and lilacs were in full bloom, the wisteria
hanging low over lush green grass and the lilacs scenting
the roads and fields. Violets and lilies of the valley
dotted the forest floor. Queen Ann's lace and heather grew
in wild abandon near the sandy shore. May was idyllic. So
was June when the dahlias and peonies were in bloom. And
September was dazzling, too, with its fiery colors and
crisp evenings. As was October, with pumpkins as big as
wheelbarrows proudly placed on porches and golden and
cordovan colored Indian corn hung on doors. The fresh-
fallen snow in January created a winter wonderland that to
my eye rivaled the postcard-perfect Alpine slopes. I
smiled, realizing how much I loved New Hampshire in all
seasons, how fully my adopted state had become my home. I
paused to admire a clutch of Boston fern, their new fronds
just unfurling.
As soon as I stepped onto the church grounds, I spotted
Ted Bauer, the pastor, standing by the side garden. I
walked to join him.
"Hey, Ted," I said as I approached.
He looked over his shoulder and smiled. Ted was of
medium height and stout. His blond hair was graying and
he'd gained some weight over the last year or so. He looked
his age, which I guessed was close to fifty.
"Hi, Josie. You caught me playing hooky. I have an acute
case of spring fever."
"Me, too. I don't want to do anything but wander around
outside admiring plants and flowers and birds."
"I understand completely. I've been standing here
looking at the impatiens for way too long. I should be
inside preparing next Sunday's sermon."
"It's only Monday. You have time. I should be reviewing
catalogue copy Fred wrote. He can't continue his work until
he hears from me."
"I wish I had plenty of time, but the truth is that it
takes me all week to write a sermon. When's the auction?"
"September. Which, despite being months away, will be
here before we know it. We have to start promoting it soon."
"We share a good work ethic, Josie."
"That's true," I acknowledged.
"But you know what?" he asked, his smile lighting up his
eyes. "It's all right to take a little time now and again
to appreciate things like flowers and birds."
"I know you're right, but I still feel guilty."
"Me, too. How's this? I won't tell on you if you don't
tell on me."
"Deal," I said, grinning.
I circled the church and waved goodbye to Ted as I
entered the pathway for my return journey. I stepped onto
the asphalt outside Prescott's in time to see Alice
Michaels pull into a parking spot near the front door. I
walked to join her. I felt the muscles in my upper back and
neck tense as I braced for another difficult conversation.
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