A Dollhouse to Die For(16)
But it was the display in the middle of the store of finely crafted miniature furniture that really caught my eye. “Wow, Jeanne. This is incredible stuff.”
Jeanne clasped her hands together. “Oh, yes, aren’t they? They’re made by Tracy McEvoy, a local artist. Everyone calls her “Mac” though. Aren’t they wonderful?”
“I assume they’re quite expensive?” The highboy would be perfect for one of the bedrooms of the Victorian, but I winced in anticipation of the price.
“Um, well, yes, I suppose so.” Jeanne beamed at me. I couldn’t tell if she was truly ingenuous or just a brilliant saleswoman. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about it because Mac is completely backed up with orders. For at least the next year or so.”
“A year?”
She nodded. “A local reporter wrote an article about her, which gave her more business than she could possibly handle. Plus there’s an important dollhouse show and competition coming up tomorrow. Here’s a brochure.”
As we walked on, Jeanne lowered her voice. “She’s been pushed to the absolute breaking point by Harriet Kunes, who commandeered her to work on several pieces for the show. Mac’s grandfather clock, for instance, takes three weeks to create, and she’s had no time to make anything for anyone else. Ardine Smalls was spitting bullets.”
Jeanne obviously hadn’t heard the news of Harriet’s untimely demise. “Ardine Smalls?”
“Oh, she’s another collector. They’re usually the top two favorites in the competition, don’t you know.”
I cleared my throat. “I guess you didn’t hear. Harriet Kunes was found dead last night.”
“Oh, dear.” Jeanne straightened the flaps of her denim shirt. “Well, I suppose Mac will probably sell her creations to Ardine now.”
I blinked at this rapid acceptance of the news of Harriet’s death.
The phone rang and Jeanne bustled off to answer it. I selected the building supplies I needed, as well as some Victorian double doors, gingerbread trim, and window boxes for the first floor. Perhaps a hanging fern for the wraparound porch, too. I also couldn’t resist a tiny toaster oven with two pieces of toast sticking out, and a silver toast rack, because it reminded me of Cyril. Lastly, I picked up some Halloween decorations in honor of Claire’s birthday—a little bag of pumpkins, and a spell book with a candle.
Eighty-seven dollars later, I walked out of the store, wondering if this dollhouse was really a present for Claire, or for me.
Chapter Four
“Joe, you know how much I love you, right?”
My long-suffering husband nodded, a wry smile on his face, as we entered the Bucks County Expo and Conference Center on Saturday morning.
The Seventh Annual Dollhouse and Miniatures Show was sort of like Jeanne’s shop, but exploded a million times over. Speaking of Jeanne, she had two booths side by side near the entrance, and she waved gaily when she spotted me.
I waved back, but then I grabbed hold of Joe’s arm. “Remind me that I’m here to try to find out something about Harriet’s murder and why someone would want my dollhouse so badly,” I whispered. “Don’t let me spend any more money.”
He grinned. “Come on, you nut. Let’s get this over with.”
We strolled down the aisles, past traditional dollhouses and one-room displays in a box, all the way down to tiny scenes in a teacup. Some vignettes were in fun containers, like a fruit crate or an old spice cabinet.
“Look at this one,” I said. Someone had taken a favorite vacation photo and recreated it in a room box. A bistro on a quaint Paris street, with red umbrellas and a chalkboard sign outside. The actual picture was pinned to the top.