A Dollhouse to Die For(38)

            “What?” Martha clapped a hand to her chest. “Murdered! Why on earth did she think that?”

            “Cuz Sophie had been sad over her brother’s death, but certainly not enough to kill herself.”

            “Did Harriet say anything to the police?” I asked.

            “Nope. She had no evidence. She seemed pretty sure, though.”

            Eleanor cleared her throat. “Martha, as fascinating as this is, we have to go.”

            Martha rolled her eyes at me. “Meeting of the Hysterical, whoops, I mean, Historical Society this morning.”

            Eleanor was the president and Martha was the secretary. They hurried out, with the hyper reporter close behind them, pumped full of a thousand calories of cookies and untold milligrams of caffeine.

            After they left, I stood in the middle of the store, deep in thought.

            Did Chip kill his Aunt Sophie to inherit, knowing there were no other eligible heirs? And had he heard that a will did possibly exist, and was he the one who came into my store and tried to steal my dollhouse?

            If there was a chance that Chip Rosenthal was not really my landlord, I was more than motivated to find that will.





Chapter Seven





I was in the midst of rearranging the displays that afternoon when a man burst into the store, looked around wildly, and grabbed my arm. “Daisy, help me! I’ve gotta hide. Please, I’m begging you, don’t tell them I’m here.”

            “Go upstairs, Serrano. I’ll cover for you.”

            Odd. The handsome detective was the type to stand in front of me and take a bullet, not leave me to face dangerous pursuers alone.

            He’d barely made it to the top of the stairs when I noticed a group of women staring through the front display windows. One of them hurried inside. I thought I recognized her as one of the wine club.

            “Hi, can I help you?”

            “I’m just looking, thanks.”

            A board squeaked upstairs, and I coughed.

            “What’s that?” she snapped, on the trail like a bloodhound in heat.

            “Oh you know these old houses, how they creak and moan.”

            She gave me a suspicious glare and prowled through the entire space, looking behind the vintage-clothing rack and peeking into the prep room.

            I didn’t have to be the psychic from across the street to be able to read her thoughts. Where the hell is he?

            I put on my best professional smile. “Can I help you find something in particular?”

            “This is a nice bag,” she said, barely looking at the item nearest her, one eye on the stairs. It was an Edwardian silver mesh evening purse. “How much is it?”

            I told her the price. It wasn’t cheap, but after she’d made a few more circuits around the shop and lingered as long as she could, she whipped out a credit card and signed without question. I wrapped it in tissue paper, tied a bow around it with my peacock ribbon, and placed it in one of my signature shopping bags.

            With one last piercing look around, she picked up her purchase and swept out.

            A couple of minutes later, I announced that the coast was clear and Serrano crept down the stairs.

            “Hey, Tony, I could get a lot of sales this way. Thanks!”

            “She’s stalking me. And it’s not just her. There’s a whole fricking pack of them.”

            I hid a smile. A single, attractive man in a small town is automatically fair game, and a haunted male who also seems in dire need of a hug is an especially deadly combo.