A Dollhouse to Die For

Chapter One





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 Elliott 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.