A bunch of them were missing now. I winced at the amount of work it would require. “That should keep you out of trouble for a while.”
“Oh, aye?” He grimaced, but he didn’t say anymore. I could see he was intrigued with the challenge.
I usually brought him coffee every morning, so I figured I had a few goodwill dollars stored up in my Cyril Mackey bank account. I also thought I’d steal an idea from Harriet’s house and paint this one that same soft lilac color with pale yellow on the gingerbread trim.
While Cyril was inspecting the staircase, I slid the newspaper over and picked it up. I would only have a few seconds before it was ripped out of my hands.
Nine across. An eight-letter word. Consumed by repairs.
As expected, he snatched the paper. “Be off wi’ ye, now.”
I was still thinking about the clue as I trudged off to my car. Thoughts whirled inside my head. People obsessing over dollhouses. Cyril always fixing things.
As I backed the Subaru out beyond the fence, I rolled down the window.
“Fixation,” I yelled.
Cyril Mackey shook his fist at me.
• • •
Next stop was Sheepville, a neighboring town about five miles away, where I’d heard there was a wonderful store that sold miniatures and dollhouses.
It was located in a strip-style shopping center near the center of town. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but once I stepped inside the door, I entered a magical wonderland of tiny delights.
There was anything you could want to decorate a dollhouse—from a box of Christmas ornaments to put in the attic to a potluck casserole and candelabra for the dining table. Hundreds of parts in packets hung on hooks along one wall. I should be able to find my missing door and chimney there. Display cases held finished houses and dollhouse kits, and counter cases were full of dolls, teddy bears, furniture, and carpets. The shelves dazzled with all kinds of building components and accessories, from wallpaper and roof shingles to kitchen paraphernalia, plants, and even tiny dogs and cats.
I quickly found out that the owner, Jeanne, loved to talk about her merchandise.
“We have everything here you could possibly think of. Even usable miniature toilet paper for the bathrooms.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“Nope,” she said proudly. Her white hair was cut in an old-fashioned pageboy style, and she wore a T-shirt with appliquéd rosebuds under an open denim shirt and stretchy pants. When she smiled, her dimples deepened into long curves on each pink cheek. “How long have you been collecting, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m a collector. I just want to fix up an old dollhouse I bought to give to someone as a present.”
“Ah, yes, well, now you see, there are different schools of thought among collectors, from people who gaily mix and match furniture from various periods, perhaps someone such as yourself . . .” Here Jeanne chuckled and coughed lightly. “To those who consider that if it looks authentic, it’s good enough. And then, of course, you have the historically accurate collector who wants drawers that actually open and close.”
She kept talking about scale and historical detail while I wandered through the store with her. I gave myself a mini-lecture to be patient because I might learn something. I already knew that dollhouses were a one-inch to one-foot scale, although the very old ones didn’t always conform.
A whole street of shops and houses that looked a lot like Millbury sat on one long display table. I bent down and peered inside the window of the dressmaker’s store, admiring the replica of a vintage Singer sewing machine, the spools of ribbon, pairs of scissors, and the little dress form holding a half-finished dress.