A Dollhouse to Die For(14)

            I knew he would, which is why I’d brought it here. Cyril was a genius at fixing things.

            He hefted it out of the box and set it on the table. It was just over two feet tall from the base to the top of the turret, and almost as wide.

            “This back panel needs to come off for a start. Not sure I can salvage this. It might ha’ to be replaced.” He squinted at the house from all angles. “Aye up. Everything’s cockeyed. Staircase is falling down, too. Think I’ll have to take roof off and mebbe some outside walls, and start from scratch to make it true again.”

            I nodded. “Okay. Actually it’ll be much easier for me to clean it and fix the peeling wallpaper that way.”

            He rummaged in a kitchen drawer and took out a petite screwdriver. As he worked, I looked out of the window.

            In the field beyond was a graveyard for old cars. A Ford pickup was dark brown with decades of rust. Purple morning glory had grown over the pickup bed and was trailing its way toward the cab. A ray of sunshine stabbed me in the eye, and I turned, cupping my hand against the glare.

            In the harsh daylight, Cyril looked tired. Exhausted, in fact.

            As if sensing my appraisal, he muttered, “She’s going to be the death o’ me.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “The woman won’t leave me alone. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’m completely paggered, I tell you.” He gently pulled off the back panel and set it aside. “And I’m an owd man.”

            “You’re not that old.”

            He shook his head, his striking green eyes troubled. Cyril, a man of few words, struggled with the handful he allowed himself each day.

            “See, Daisy, ah’ve been used to comin’ and goin’ as I liked. Don’t get me wrong, Martha is a fine lass. More than fine, and at first I was happy as a pig in muck, but now I’m suffocating. She’s got tickets for the theater, reservations for a bed-and-breakfast, and God knows what else.”

            I blew out a breath. I really didn’t want to hear any of this. I’d become friends, if that’s what you could call our somewhat antagonistic relationship, with him, long before he and Martha started dating. Now it was strange for me to be stuck in the middle. And, well, sometimes you just don’t need the visual.

            “Let’s take a good look at this dollhouse, okay?” I said brightly, to take his mind off things. “Maybe we can figure out why it’s in such high demand.”

            I removed every piece of furniture and we inspected it carefully. We looked in all the rooms and inside the three fireplaces, as well as up in the attic.

            Cyril shook his head. “Nowt here, far as I can tell.”

            He was right. There was no hidden jewelry, no wad of cash, no bag of cocaine. Whatever had caused the fascination with this house, it was long gone.

            We did find a secret tower room under the lift-off turret that would enchant Claire, but it was also empty. Still, the dollhouse would be safer here than at the store, at least until my alarm system was installed.

            The bay window on one side would need to be replaced and the balustrade for the second-floor balcony was gone. I pulled out a notepad from my bag and made a list.

            “Can I leave it here with you, Cyril? I’m going to buy some replacement parts in Sheepville this morning.”

            “Suit yerself.”

            While I took some measurements, he ran his hand over the roof. “Those are real hand-painted wooden shingles. Someone must ’ave stuck them on one at a time.”