A Dollhouse to Die For(4)

            “Sounds like someone else I know.” He grinned at me. “Hello, Pot, this is Kettle calling!”

            “Ha, ha. Very funny.” I pulled the customer card out of my bag and read the address out loud.

            Joe took a left at the end of Main Street, and drove up Grist Mill toward River Road as a crack of thunder sounded. He had both hands on the wheel of our station wagon to navigate the twists and turns of the rain-spotted road that ran alongside the river and canal.

            When we got to Swamp Pike, he turned right and then headed down to the intersection with Burning Barn Road, where a famous artists’ colony attracted painters for weeklong retreats.

            It was raining in earnest now, and I sighed. Guess the veranda was out.

            A few minutes later, we pulled up to the Meadow Farms Golf Club and Preserve. A gold crest adorned each stone pillar at the entrance, and flags hung on tall poles on either side. The guard waved us through when we mentioned we’d come to visit Harriet.

            We drove past the clubhouse and attached fitness center, a beautiful fieldstone complex with a flagstone patio in front. We’d been to a wedding there once. The clubhouse had an excellent restaurant and dance floor, and there was an outdoor pavilion next to the pool where the ceremonies were performed.

            The radiant manicured islands on the eighteen-hole course were surrounded by prairie grass, shimmering ponds, and copses of trees turning burnt orange and crimson. The protected open space and the hills in the distance provided a stunning vista for golfers teeing off.

            Beyond the clubhouse and the start of the course was an enclave of townhomes and single-family houses, bordered by scenic wetlands and walking trails. We wound our way through the development until I spotted the sign for Barnstead Circle.

            This must have been a premium location when the builder first sold lots here.

            There were only two other black-shuttered brick mansions on the quiet cul-de-sac besides Harriet’s, and hers was at the end that backed up to the woods.

            Joe pulled onto the driveway behind a white Lexus SUV. I hurried after him as we dodged raindrops and followed the path toward the front door. There was an impressive porch supported by two white columns and a huge arched window above. I fished Harriet’s glasses out of my bag and rang the bell.

            We waited, huddling next to each other on the stone step. Lights were on in the foyer, but no one came to the door.

            Suddenly I caught a flash of something over to my left.

            “Did you see that?” I asked Joe.

            “What?”

            “I don’t know. Something . . .”

            It could have been a figure running through the woods, or maybe just a deer. There were so many round here, and the bane of Joe’s garden existence, eating his hostas and daylilies. It broke my heart to see them killed at the side of the road. I was always on the lookout as I drove on some of these country lanes, even in fairly well-developed residential areas.

            “Where the heck is Harriet?” Joe said. “Her car’s here.”

            I could tell he was impatient to get to the Bridgewater Inn and his favorite meal, the house specialty of roasted rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and almond-mint pesto.

            He took a few steps along the path. He peered in another of the arched windows that fronted the exterior of the house and muttered an expletive.

            “What is it?” I hurried over and looked into a study crammed with collectibles. Harriet Kunes was slumped over a large dollhouse on a display table.

            “Holy smokes. Do you think she’s had a heart attack or something?”