“Ah’m worried about this ’ouse being historically accurate,” Cyril said.
My eyes widened as I stared at him.
He jabbed a finger toward the front porch. “Ah don’t know about these here winder boxes.”
“It’s okay, Cyril. It’s for a little girl to play with. I know what you mean, and we’ll do our best, but only to a point. I still want my toaster oven.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Look. Think of it like a real Victorian house, bought by a person who loves the period and wants to preserve the beauty of the home, but lives there in the current day and needs modern conveniences.”
He grunted and attached another shingle. “Did tha find another store to rent yet?”
“Not yet. Marybeth is setting up more appointments.”
I’d have to ask Laura to work an extra day. The familiar panic at the thought of leaving Millbury twisted inside me and I made a sudden decision. “You know what, I’m going to call Chip Rosenthal today and see if we can work something out. Get him to see reason.”
“Mebbe you just got off on the wrong foot before.”
I blew out a breath. “And maybe he’s the one who murdered miserable Harriet because she knew that her best friend Sophie did, in fact, write a will. And maybe he’s the one who came to my store that night trying to steal the dollhouse because he thought the will might be hidden inside.”
Cyril pulled the lid off the coffee and stirred in a couple of creamers. “Getting a bit carried away, Daisy?”
“I don’t think so. And I’ll see you Harriet’s murder and raise you one. There’s a possibility that Sophie was murdered, too. And guess who benefited most from dear old Aunt Sophie’s death?”
He nodded. “Young Chip.”
“Exactly. Serrano is convinced that Birch Kunes killed Harriet, but I have a bad feeling these two deaths are connected, and the linchpin is my new landlord.”
Suddenly I remembered Ardine’s comment about the wallpaper. I got up and peered inside, inspecting the walls for a clue, but as hard as I looked, nothing seemed like writing to me. It was simply a classical Greek ornamental design.
“Ah’ll fix the broken chimney today, and the balustrade on the second-floor balcony. We’re going to need more shingles to finish the roof.”
I broke the news to Cyril that I wanted to paint it, too, but to my surprise he didn’t explode.
I had a feeling he was getting into this as much as me, sharing my fascination with the perfect little world inside the dollhouse.
Not like the messy real one, with its evil landlords, murdered women, and cheating husbands.
• • •
On my way to Sheepville, I had to swerve around several downed trees that were partially blocking the road. I cursed as one car driving too fast in the opposite direction kicked up a huge wave of water, dousing my windshield while I drove blind. Some yards were already completely underwater, and ROAD CLOSED signs were up on the side streets that crossed over the creeks.
When I got to Jeanne’s, I pulled out my cell and called Chip Rosenthal. He wasn’t in, but I left a message saying I’d like to discuss the lease, and asking if he could meet on Monday.
I picked up the shingles I needed and spent a few minutes admiring the displays. In the attic of one house was a myriad of enticing items—ice skates, a Victorian pram, some luggage, a bare light bulb in a socket with pull string, and a wood violin with bow and velvet case. Even a mousetrap.