A Dollhouse to Die For(25)
I didn’t know what happened to the brooch, but the scarf was sitting on top of my Welsh dresser. I picked it up now, a hint of the expensive floral scent she’d worn still clinging to the material.
I was still standing there gripping the scarf, when Martha breezed in carrying the pink metal cake container. She was wearing a wrap dress in a leopard print, stretched to the limit of its elasticity across her generous curves, and an amber necklace and earrings that complemented her fiery hair.
“Good God, I have the most splitting headache, here you go, I made a Madeira cake, do you know a remedy for migraines, I have to feel better by tonight, I’m taking Cyril to the Pennsylvania Ballet at the Merriam Theater and—”
Her gaze narrowed on me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s the store, Martha.” I explained about Chip and the new lease and the hideous increase in rent.
“What are you going to do?”
I shook my head, numb with worry.
“Where’s Eleanor?” she demanded.
“I haven’t seen her yet.”
“Do you think the little creep owns her building, too? Come on. Let’s go see if we can catch him in the act.”
I hung a BE RIGHT BACK sign on the door and Martha banged the cake tin down on the counter. Eleanor didn’t allow food in her immaculate establishment.
We hurried across the street to A Stitch Back in Time. But when we entered, the place was empty. No sign of Chip Rosenthal.
Or of Eleanor either, for that matter.
Her building had taller ceilings than mine, probably twelve feet high. The walls were painted an eggshell shade, and she’d added some Ionic fluted columns for drama throughout, with strategically placed mannequins wearing antique wedding gowns. One wore a dress that had been cut in half with one side cleaned and restored to show the “before and after” effect.
The only decoration was a vase of white roses and fragile greenery adorning the gargantuan mahogany table that served as a place for Eleanor to consult with her clients and inspect the merchandise. On the right was a massive mirror and in front of it, a step stool.
“Hellooo?” Martha yelled.
“I’m back here,” came a faint cry.
Martha and I knew enough to take off our shoes before we took another step. We’d been through this routine before. There was also a brusque sign at the entrance demanding compliance and a wicker basket full of crisply laundered white gloves.
We dutifully slipped on the gloves and followed the paper runner as it crunched beneath us, me in my socks and Martha in her bare manicured feet, past the dressing rooms until we found Eleanor. While the front of the store was airy and Spartan in its elegance, the back room was jam-packed, although still impeccably clean.
The walls of shelving held spools of thread, glass jars full of various sizes of pearls and beading, and a plethora of salvaged pieces of fabric, silk, lace, and other trims to repair old garments. Over to the right were four worktables. Some dresses hung on forms near the center of the room, and on one table a silk quilt was awaiting repair.
To the left was a deep double sink, and Eleanor was standing over it, stirring some kind of bath of steaming liquid with a long wooden handle.
“What the hell are you doing?” Martha exploded. “You look like one of Macbeth’s witches.”
She grinned at us. “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble . . .”
In spite of my troubles, I had to smile back. Dressed in black, with her white hair and sharp features, boiling up her signature concoction to safely take stains out of yellowing antique fabrics, she did slightly resemble one of Shakespeare’s ancient hags.