“Who’s her sister?” I asked.
“Marybeth Skelton, the real estate agent. Skelton was Harriet’s maiden name.”
“Wow, really? I had no idea they were related.”
Eleanor set her empty plate down. “Harriet was friends with Sophie Rosenthal, too, right, Martha? I think she used to see her a lot.”
“Oh yes, that poor thing.” Martha laid a manicured hand across her impressive bosom. “Sophie was an agoraphobic, you know, Detective. They shared a passion for miniatures.”
“I never knew her,” I said, suddenly sorry that I hadn’t known Sophie, seeing as I felt such a strong connection to one of her possessions. The dear little dollhouse.
“Well, not many people did. She used to belong to the Historical Society with Eleanor and me until she shut herself off from the world. You know, it was funny, whenever we visited, she was always perfectly made up, her hair always recently colored and set, whether she was expecting guests or not.”
I glanced over to where I’d stacked some vintage train cases, all stuffed full of makeup when I’d purchased them from the same auction as the dollhouse. I’d thrown the contemporary cosmetics away, but kept some of the Art Deco compacts and silver brush sets. I imagined Sophie sitting at a vanity table, carefully applying lipstick for the guests who might or might not appear.
“Well, we used to try to visit her sometimes,” Eleanor said, “but that miserable old bag Harriet was always there.”
“Yes. Made us feel most unwelcome, I must say.” Martha sniffed at the memory.
I watched Serrano taking this all in. This must be a long way from what he was used to. I pictured him on the backstreets of New York, tackling drug dealers, running down the mob, and now here he was, surrounded by a bunch of aging, gossipy females.
He stood up and placed his mug and plate carefully on the counter.
“Thanks for the cake and conversation, ladies. Stellar, as always.”
We watched him leave. Nobody spoke until he got into his car. It was simply a pleasure to watch him walk, the way he moved, like a prowling mountain cat.
“He certainly is a fine figure of a man, I have to say.” Martha made a small sigh of satisfaction.
Eleanor’s gray eyes were thoughtful. “That man is a mystery all by himself.”
Chapter Three
At ten o’clock, my part-time helper, Laura Grayling, arrived. I’d recently hired her to come in once a week on Fridays so I could attend some auctions and replenish my stock. The business was doing so well, I could barely keep up.
I’d met her at a multi-dealer antiques collective housed in an old barn just outside of New Hope. She made one-of-a-kind jewelry with scraps of Victorian wallpaper, fabrics, buttons, pieces of pocket watches, and the like, and we’d hit it off right away.
With her slender limbs and shy manner, Laura appeared delicate, fragile even, but she was the one who’d had the gumption to ask if I needed any help. In addition to giving her a paycheck, I also let her display some of her merchandise in a corner next to the vintage clothing rack and keep whatever money she made. She was wonderful with my customers, so it was a good deal for both of us.
Instead of the auctions this morning, I planned to head over to Sheepville and see if I could find some replacement parts for the dollhouse. “By the way, Laura, there’s a guy coming today to give us a quote for a new alarm system.”
“Okay.” She set down the battered suitcase that contained her jewelry-making supplies. She wore a long cotton print dress, topped by a crocheted cardigan, and a green scarf that contrasted nicely with her dark chestnut hair.