“Interesting.” Serrano’s gaze narrowed. “Cheating bastard.”
“How about Chip Rosenthal?”
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
“Well, Harriet thought that Sophie did in fact write a will. Maybe whoever killed Harriet did so to stop her talking? Someone who wanted the fact that Sophie died intestate to prevail. Like Chip Rosenthal, for instance.”
Serrano grunted as if he thought I was grasping at straws. “Okay, I’ll check on him. Harriet’s sister, the real estate agent, was showing houses that day, and has clients who can confirm where she was. That strange woman who was her main competitor—”
“Ardine Smalls?”
“Yeah. She’d already installed her dollhouse at the Expo Center. People saw her fussing with it all day. The only one without a real alibi is Tracy McEvoy, who was alone in her studio. Apart from when Harriet visited to pick up her stuff, that is.”
Serrano ran a hand across his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “I gotta tell you, Daisy, these collector biddies are too much for me. Could I ask you to keep your eyes and ears open for any relevant information, seeing as everyone congregates in this place anyway?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Once the buttons were sorted, I did a quick reconnoiter outside to see if the coast was clear before he gingerly exited Sometimes a Great Notion.
• • •
The weather degenerated into a gray funk, and a fine drizzling rain misted over the village. An annoying rain, as it was too warm for a raincoat. The humidity was back, with days in the seventies. Typical of the fickle Philadelphia area climate in the midst of September.
It had been raining the night of the murder, too. Why did Harriet park on her driveway? Why not drive into the garage and enter the house that way?
I knew that Joe would tell me to mind my own business and let the police handle things. After I almost got myself shot this summer, he was still a little sensitive on the subject. But Serrano had practically given me a gold-plated invitation, hadn’t he? Besides, just gathering some useful clues wouldn’t be that dangerous.
I rearranged a display of various boxes—an orange five-finger Shaker box, a Kingsford Silver Gloss Starch wooden crate, and a wonderful trifold Victorian sewing box with a writing slope covered in its original blue velvet.
Marybeth Skelton called to say she was lining up a few more places for us to see. I thanked her with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. After I hung up, I realized I hadn’t told Serrano about the Ohio Valley land and her resentment toward her older sister, Harriet.
Because you don’t want to see your real estate agent arrested until she’s found you another place?
I glared at Alice. “Now, that’s not fair.”
Her eyes with their long lashes slanted speculatively toward me, and I gritted my teeth.
It was a slow morning at the store and an even slower afternoon. My only sale all day had been Serrano’s stalker, and I was considering closing early when the phone rang.
It was Angus Backstead, the auctioneer. My best friend in the world, apart from Martha and Eleanor.
“Daisy, I need your help.”
“Sure, what is it?
“Birch Kunes wants to clean out Harriet’s house in preparation for a sale. He’s going to send the collectibles to auction. I’ve had some dolls through the auction house from time to time, but I could use your help with the appraisal. I’m going over there tonight.”