A Dollhouse to Die For(36)

            PJ took it with a nod of thanks and downed a large swallow. “This is awesome. I don’t usually get a chance to eat much with being on the road all day. Definitely beats gas station slushies and microwaved breakfast bagels.”

            I pictured her apartment. A full ashtray on the coffee table, a bottle of vodka in the freezer. In the cupboard perhaps a half-empty bag of stale pretzels and an opened box of cereal. The fridge would contain a lone Chinese take-out container, but no milk.

            Martha shot a horrified look at her and nudged me. “Don’t you have a sandwich in your fridge, Daisy?” she hissed.

            “Yes, but that’s my lu—”

            “Hand it over. Can’t you see the poor little thing is starving to death? You can always run home and make another.”

            While I retrieved my sandwich of crusty French bread, roasted turkey, fresh sliced tomatoes, and romaine lettuce, together with a pot of Joe’s delicious homemade basil mayonnaise from the fridge, I stole a glance at Eleanor.

            She had the air of an Olympic champion who sees the younger, faster rival nipping at their heels. There’s a hint of impending defeat, but being the champion that she is, she won’t give up the title without a fight.

            PJ pointed toward a Hawkeye Refrigerator Picnic Basket. “Can I look inside that?”

            “Please do.”

            She lifted one of the two hinged lids. I noticed a silver skull ring on her thumb.

            “How does it work?” she demanded.

            I showed her the metal-lined removable ice compartment inside the woven rattan basket. “You would put ice on this side to keep the food cold.”

            “Neat. Hey, you could use this at your wine club.” She closed the lid carefully.

            “They’re not my wine club.”

            “When was it made?”

            “I would guess in the early 1900s.”

            And so it went, through the entire store. She wanted to know what everything was, what it was used for, how it worked. She reminded me of the best students I’d had, the ones who always questioned, who were never satisfied with a pat answer. I showed her the passementerie—the tassels, ornamental cords, rosettes, elaborate trimmings, and fringes. She wanted to know the provenance of the quilts and the needlework samplers, the value of the vintage evening bags, the age of the antique spinning wheel and the cobbler’s rack.

            It was refreshing to see it all through her eyes, and I made a mental note of the things she was drawn to, noticing treasures I’d almost forgotten. A new arrangement to place them front and center would make the customers notice, too.

            Now I beamed at her, just as Martha had done.

            What really caught PJ’s attention, though, was the box at the back of the store. I’d hung a former post office sign that said MAIL, except I’d crossed it out and written MALE. Underneath sat a wooden toolbox that Joe filled with treasures for the men, all priced at five dollars. Today it held things like a watch, a belt buckle, antique postcards, and a poker chip caddy. She finally picked out a Ronson “Tuxedo” lighter from the 1930s with an attractive green enamel Art Deco design. The front of the lighter swung open with storage for cigarettes inside.

            “This is way beyond cool.” She fished out a crumpled pair of one-dollar bills from the back of her pants, and after she’d searched her pockets in vain for another couple of minutes, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

            “Take it. It’s on the house.”

            “Awesome. Thanks.”