“That’s clever,” Joe said.
In addition to the displays, there were vendors galore. One made all kinds of mini food items like donuts, pies, and crusty, floury baguettes barely an inch long. Another had fruits and vegetables displayed in boxes like a regular farm stand. I could have stayed there for an hour looking at the glassware alone—canning jars, water pitchers, wineglasses, punch bowls, and candy dishes.
We stopped at a garden display featuring two Adirondack chairs, a tiny lawnmower on the grass, a hose, and a bird feeder. The vendor used real plants—slow-growing dwarf-sized varieties—and Joe soon got into a deep conversation.
Gardening was something he could relate to.
“Hi, Daisy!” Dottie Brown, one of my friends who owned a yarn and fabric store in Sheepville, waved to me from the next aisle over. Her granddaughter was with her.
“I’m just going to say hi to Dottie,” I said. “Be right back.”
Joe nodded vaguely in acknowledgement as he asked another question about the watering and maintenance of the mini cypress and hemlock.
“You really do have an excellent husband,” Dottie said when I caught up to her.
I laughed. “Poor Joe. Yeah, I think I’ll keep him. How’s Sam?”
“Oh, God, he entered the giant pumpkin contest again this year. You know, it started out as just a hobby. Now he’s consumed by it. He spends four hours or more a day in the garden pampering those pumpkins.” Her mouth thinned. “Time he could be spending with his grandkids.”
I smiled at the little girl.
“I didn’t know you were into dollhouses, Dottie.”
“I’m not, exactly, but I’ve started a line of crocheted and knitted clothes for miniature dolls. You know, in this economy, you’ve got to keep moving or you get swept under by the current. And let me tell you, Daisy, there’s money to be made here.”
Thinking of how much I had just spent at Jeanne’s, I could certainly agree.
We chatted a bit more, until her granddaughter gently tugged on Dottie’s hand, and they moved on.
There was something about dollhouses that spanned generations. I saw several other grandmothers with grandchildren. I smiled at the wonder on the face of the child, but also at the expression of the older woman who had been transported back in time to her childhood.
I wandered over to check out the competition tables, and marveled at the room boxes with different interpretations based on one standard kitchen design. These were truly kitchens to drool over, with their travertine tile backsplashes, maple cabinets, and pendant lighting. I decided that the best designs looked as if someone had just left the room.
The one with a first-prize ribbon had a salad in mid-preparation on its center island, together with an open bottle of wine and a basket of French bread. I cheered to see the tiny dog bowl in the corner. These people had a dog!
“Prepare to spend a lot of time bent over at this show.” The voice was young, raspy, and almost accusatory.
I straightened up and turned around. Too quickly. I sucked in a breath and pressed a hand against the writhing muscle in my back.
The person in front of me was thin to the point of emaciation. Jet black hair framed her pixie face. An unnatural black. She wore olive painters pants, a wrinkled white T-shirt, and a military dog tag necklace.
“You look familiar.” She cocked a finger at me. “Didn’t you help solve the Angus Backstead case a few months back?”
“Um, yes, that’s me. I’m Daisy Buchanan.”