A Dollhouse to Die For(10)

            I quickly cataloged the more expensive items in the store. The French silks, the Amish quilts, and antique jewelry. All still there.

            I shook my head. “Not that I can tell.”

            We stared at the wreck of what used to be a beautiful dollhouse. The plate glass windows were smashed, the chimney was broken, one of the doors was lost in the melee, and the back panel that swung open to reveal the rooms inside was hanging off, damaged beyond repair.

            Tears pricked at my eyes, which was sort of funny when I’d been so tough before.

            “Don’t worry, Daisy. We can sort this out,” Joe said, slipping an arm around my shoulders.

            Serrano cleared his throat. “So. What’s the big attraction with what you say is a relatively inexpensive toy?”

            I bit my lip. “I wish I knew.”

            • • •

            The next morning, there was a commotion at the entrance to my store. The voluptuous redhead who swept in first was Martha Bristol, my best friend. She was carrying a vintage cake carrier of pink metal with a pinecone design.

            “Good God, that doll gives me a funny turn every time I come in here,” she said, as she always did, referring to my salvaged mannequin in the corner.

            “It’s not a doll, it’s a mannequin,” I responded, as I always did. I’d named her Alice, and dressed her up in clothing appropriate for the season. She surveyed Martha impassively now from under her long fake eyelashes.

            Eleanor Reid, my fellow store owner, was next. She wore her usual outfit of all black. Black shirt and black pants. Her white hair was cropped short, and she was almost mannish in appearance, except for her sparkling gray eyes and elegant fingers with a pale pink manicure.

            “You guys say the same thing to each other every day,” she said to Martha and me. “You know that’s a sign of getting old, don’t you? When you keep repeating yourself?”

            Martha dumped the cake container on the counter. “Damn it, woman. I most certainly am not old. And I can prove it. Ask Cyril who kept him up all night last night.”

            “La-la-la!” I stuck my fingers in my ears. “Too much information.”

            Cyril Mackey was the owner of the local salvage yard, and Martha’s latest renovation project. She’d improved his toilette, smartened up his wardrobe, and he was now passably decent. Quite attractive, in fact, compared with his previous impersonation of a homeless person. Sort of like Mick Jagger’s long-lost cousin.

            Yes, they were an odd couple, but when Cupid’s arrow finds you, there’s not much you can do about it.

            Martha whipped the cover off the cake just as Detective Serrano strode into the store.

            “Well, Detective Officer Sir, you are just in time for treats. White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake. Made by yours truly.” She beamed at him as she cut a massive slice and put it onto a plate. She was a fabulous baker and brought her creations into the store so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat them at home. But then she came here and ate them anyway.

            “Looks amazing, Martha. Thanks.” He accepted the plate and leaned up against the counter. “How are you doing after the break-in last night, Daisy?”

            “What break-in? What’s this?” Martha spun around to me. “Was anything stolen?”

            “No. Only my dollhouse, but I got it back, thanks to Jasper.” I poured four mugs of coffee. “It’s a little worse for wear, though.”

            Serrano’s blue eyes narrowed. “This might seem to be a simple break-in, but it could also be connected to a murder,” he explained, as he dug into the cheesecake. “Last night’s victim seemed overly interested in this item, and now that person is dead.”