A Dollhouse to Die For(23)

            I came back downstairs and placed them gently in the Welsh dresser that sat against one wall, its drawers open to show a wealth of top-quality placemats, napkins, and tablecloths.

            The doorbell clanged and a slim young man with black hair and a well-cut dark suit stepped across the threshold and closed the door firmly behind him. Most men entered this store tentatively, somewhat at sea in the milieu of sewing notions, but he walked straight in as if he knew where he was going.

            “Chip Rosenthal.” He stuck out his hand to me and I shook it. It was a good firm handshake, but unfortunately his palm was moist.

            I stared at him. “Sophie’s nephew?”

            “That’s right.”

            The nephew who’d inherited everything.

            Had he come for the dollhouse, too? I was about to make up a little white lie that I’d sold it, but he slapped the package he was carrying down on the counter.

            “Two copies of a new lease,” he muttered. “Sign both and you’ll get a fully executed original back for your records.” His voice was a rigid monotone, only enlivened by a hint of nasal stuffiness, as if he had allergies.

            “A lease?” I struggled to adjust to the fact that this wasn’t about the dollhouse. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?”

            He frowned, staring at me with eyes that were set deep into their sockets, so deep they were in shadow. “You know. A lease. For this place.”

            He waved a hand in the air around his head. “You’re month-to-month right now. We need to get you back on a fixed-term basis again.” He frowned harder, harsh lines prematurely etched between his brows. “Or, I guess you could always move out.”

            “Do you mean Sophie owned this building?” I gasped. “I had no idea she was my landlord. I’ve always paid my rent check to the Bucks Mill Company.”

            He exhaled, as if resenting the waste of precious seconds to explain, and moved over to the center of the store where a collection of wooden crates were stacked together. “They’re a property management company. And that’s what management companies do—protect the owner’s identity.”

            I watched as he flipped through some fabric remnants, tossing them back into an untidy pile. “I fired them. I have my real estate license. I know how to do this, and I don’t feel like paying extra fees.” Next he pulled the lid off a yellow Harvey sewing basket. Little wooden dowels inside the round wicker container held nine spools of thread, and it was also filled with notions such as a sock darner, a vintage can of Singer sewing machine oil, bits of trim, buttons, and tailor’s chalk.

            He took a few spools off the dowels, tossed them back into the basket, and moved on, leaving the lid askew. At the Welsh dresser, he opened up a neatly folded French damask tablecloth, and tossed it down, leaving it lumped in a white mound.

            I gritted my teeth. I’d need to straighten up this whole place when he left. I scurried after him, picked up the sewing basket, and brought it back behind the counter.

            He waved toward the envelope. “Why don’t you open it? Open it.” For all that he was well-dressed, his nails were red and raw. Bitten down to the quick.

            I picked up the package and pulled out two thick sheaves of paper.

            He lifted the lid of the hand-painted Hepplewhite blanket chest and let it fall down with a bang. The rack of vintage clothing was next, and as he swished through the hangers, one of the dresses slipped onto the floor.

            With an effort, I dragged my attention back to the lease and quickly scanned it for the salient points. I gasped when I saw the monthly rental amount.

            “But this is crazy! This is three times what I’m paying now. You can’t just raise someone’s rent this high and expect them to suddenly come up with the money.”