A Dollhouse to Die For(35)

            “Really? That doesn’t seem fair.”

            “Quite possibly. But without a will, there are rules of succession. Sophie Rosenthal could have written a will and specified how her estate was to be divided if she was concerned.”

            The doorbell jangled, and Martha and Eleanor came in. I thanked Warren, and he said he would look forward to his three-course lunch at the Bridgewater Inn.

            I chuckled as I hung up the phone. I’d been thinking more along the lines of an egg salad sandwich at the diner.

            Martha laid a flat rectangular container on the counter and whipped off the lid with a flourish. “Ginger Brandy Snaps. These are a labor of love, let me tell you.”

            “Oh, thanks, Martha. I know they’re a lot of work, but the customers go crazy over these.” I hugged her and admired the mountain of delectable delights.

            Eleanor edged closer and slid a brandy snap out from the side of the stack. “Daisy, remember how Detective Serrano made that crack about looking for someone with muddy shoes? And you know how I make everyone take their shoes off at the door?”

            “We know,” Martha said, with an arch look at me.

            “Well, when Bettina Waters came for her fitting on Monday, she was wearing sneakers. When I moved them to one side, I noticed they were damp.” She paused for dramatic effect. “And it wasn’t raining that day.”

            Obligingly, I gasped. “Do you think she washed them? To get the mud off?”

            Eleanor shrugged as she palmed two more of the brandy snaps. “Who’s to say? They looked very clean though.”

            “Might I point out that these are for the customers?” Martha snatched the box away as Eleanor stuffed the treats into her mouth. “Good God. Did you see that, Daisy? It’s like the woman unhinges her jaw like a snake.”

            The doorbell rang again and the reporter PJ Avery sauntered into the store.

            “How’d you make out with the wine club?” she said to me, by way of greeting.

            She was wearing the same outfit as on Saturday. Olive painters pants, and a T-shirt that looked like it had been tossed into a laundry basket straight from the dryer and never folded.

            I smiled. “Okay, I guess. It’s an interesting group.”

            PJ eyed the plate of delicate ginger crisps stuffed with whipped double cream.

            “Have one, dear.” Martha proffered the plate.

            “Thanks. I’m so hungry I could eat myself.” PJ murmured in appreciation as she licked out the cream and crunched through the rolled wafer-thin spicy cookie. “Holla. These are bangin’. Where’d you get them?”

            “I made them.”

            PJ Avery stared at Martha with those strange purple eyes that had to be due to colored contacts. “Are you kidding me right now?”

            “No. I really did. Have another.” Martha beamed at her. She loved to feed people and watch them eat. Well, everyone except Eleanor.

            PJ needed no further encouragement and grabbed one more. “Man, this is great,” she said between bites. “Do you guys eat like this every day?” She yawned and stretched her arms above her head and the shirt rode up, revealing a stomach as hard and flat as a young boy’s.

            “I thought you said they were for the cust—” Eleanor sucked in a breath and I couldn’t be sure, but I think Martha was standing on her foot.

            “How about some coffee?” I filled another mug to the brim.