A Dollhouse to Die For(34)

            “It’s getting dark, I’d better go. Thanks, Cyril. Thanks for everything.”

            He nodded. “Aye up.”

            We still had a lot to do, but I felt better, knowing we’d finish on schedule now. There were a few projects left: fixing the rest of the roof shingles and the outside trim, painting the exterior, installing the lighting, and putting the furniture back. The fainting couch, carved rosewood bed, marble-topped parlor table, and Chippendale desk.

            Hey, wait a minute . . .

            “Cyril! Where’s that newspaper?” I grabbed it and scribbled in nine letters. “Ha! Chip ’n’ Dale. Get it?”

            He looked blank.

            “Oh, I forgot, you were probably still in England at the time. It was a cartoon from the fifties about two little chipmunks. Chipmunks are a type of squirrel. So . . . furniture for some squirrels. Chippendale. Chip ’n’ Dale. See?”

            Cyril just shook his head in disgust. “Be off wi’ ye now.”

            I trudged down the long overgrown potholed road from the salvage yard toward the main road. As I got closer to civilization, I caught a whiff of singed-meat smoke in the air. Someone must be grilling steaks for dinner. I walked a little faster, shadows falling across the pitted tarmac. It was still warm enough that I could wear sandals during the day, with no need for a coat or sweater, but the nights were deliciously cold, down into the fifties. I’d snuggle up to Joe, comfortable under the covers, but with the bedroom windows open, listening to Jasper’s light snoring and occasional close-mouthed barking as he replayed chasing rabbits and squirrels in his dreams.

            • • •

            The next morning, before anyone came into Sometimes a Great Notion, I called Warren Zeigler.

            “Hey, Warren, could you turn off your lawyer meter for five minutes, please? Look, I need some advice, but I can’t afford a big bill. How about I buy you lunch next time I see you?”

            He sighed, and I pictured the diminutive attorney taking his round spectacles off and rubbing his eyes like a sleepy dormouse.

            I quickly explained about the lease and the huge rent increase.

            “Ah, yes, I heard probate finally closed on the Rosenthal estate,” he said.

            “Is there anything I can do? And before you tell me that I should have renewed the lease before now, I’m already kicking myself.”

            “As to your business acumen, I couldn’t possibly comment,” Warren said, with a slight cough. He had a sense of humor drier than one of Eleanor’s Beefeater martinis. “But if you’re on a month-to-month basis, then yes, I’m afraid the landlord can give thirty days notice if he wants to, and you’re out. Have you tried negotiating?”

            “Have you ever met Chip Rosenthal?” I thought I heard a faint chuckle on the end of the line. “Well, I might try that again, if it’s my last resort. And if I have to move, I’ll ask you to read things over this time before I sign. But what I don’t understand is that Sophie died in February, and I bought the dollhouse from her estate auction in June. How could any of her stuff be sold before probate closed?”

            “Pennsylvania laws are more lax than most. They would probably let him settle some personal effects ahead of time. Seeing as there was only one heir, it would make things that much simpler.”

            “Speaking of which, I heard that Sophie’s brother also had a stepdaughter.” In the back of my mind was some half-baked idea that I might try to find this girl and appeal to her for help.

            “Stepchildren are not eligible to inherit when a person dies intestate,” Warren said, one step ahead of me.