A Dollhouse to Die For(19)

            “Harriet was the type of person who went for the jugular,” she said quietly. “The type of person who made enemies easily.”

            I lifted my eyebrows at this quick and effective assessment. She might make a good detective if she ever decided to change her line of work. “And how about Birch Kunes?”

            “Don’t know much about him, but his future bride belongs to a group of women who meet at the dog park. I call them the ‘wine club.’ They bring wine and cheese and let the dogs play. You could probably walk your mutt and run into Bettina Waters there.”

            I regarded her more closely. How did someone I’d never even met know I owned a dog? Although I supposed Jasper and I were a regular sight on the streets of Millbury.

            PJ shoved the camera into her bag. “I might do a piece on them next. All these rich bitches who have nothing better to do. If nothing else, it’d be cool to watch ’em all get stoned.”

            She grinned, and the smile transformed her face from determinedly sour to fresh and alive. She was quite pretty in a tree sprite kind of way.

            “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out.”

            “See ya.” She disappeared into the crowd and I headed back to find Joe.

            I passed a few men with their sons, engrossed with a miniature garage, motorcycle shop, or fishing cottage.

            Maybe I didn’t feel so guilty after all.

            He was standing in front of a display with a card in front identifying the furniture as made by Tracy McEvoy.

            Joe turned to me, a fierce excitement in his eyes. “Daisy, I could do this.” He was a talented carpenter himself and had created or restored many of the pieces in our home. “I’ll make a fortune!”

            I smiled at him, glad to finally see him so passionate about something, the way I was about Sometimes a Great Notion.

            • • •

            The next afternoon I followed PJ’s directions and drove Jasper over to Ringing Springs Park. It was a few miles south of Millbury, near a bucolic neighborhood full of old money, where mill owners had settled in years gone by. Gentlemen’s farms, of stucco over stone, sat on pastoral acres with streams, ponds, and mature trees. Some had been built in the mid-eighteenth century and expanded several times over the succeeding years.

            I passed long gated driveways, and could just picture the interiors: mellowed pine board floors, deep sill windows, huge wood-burning fireplaces, and gracious formal rooms.

            Some were only a couple of decades old, built in the style of a French manor home or an English country estate. Here and there was a heated outside pool and spa, or lighted tennis courts, on professionally landscaped grounds. Inside these mansions would be yards of granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and custom cabinetry.

            Another magnificent place was a veritable compound, complete with guest house, outdoor riding ring, four-story bank barn, and stone creamery building. There was no number on the pillar, just the name. Sugar Hill.

            But my favorite was a more modest farmhouse, surrounded by cottage gardens, where the slate patio on one side had a built-in barbecue and fire pit, and the rear deck had been constructed around a century-old tree. I could just picture myself sitting out on that deck, reading a book in one of the elegant gray loungers, shaded from the ferocity of the sun by the benevolent old beech.

            When we pulled into Ringing Springs Park, I managed to find a space in the lot, which was already fairly full. Jasper and I scrambled out of the car.

            I breathed deeply of the earthy air. I longed to follow the trail that led into the woods where boulders littered the sides of the dry creek bed. In the distance I glimpsed the remains of an old mill.