A display stand in the center held examples of the magnificent craftsmanship that was in such demand—an inlaid walnut bureau, a Queen Anne highboy with finials, a lowboy of cherry wood, a Chinese Chippendale cabinet, a four-poster bed.
“How did you get into making miniatures?” Joe asked.
“I was a carpenter for full-size furniture before I started this business. I made every stick of furniture in here. Built the house and this studio, too.”
“You built it?” Joe looked around with wonder. “By yourself?”
“Yes. Well, I had some help with pouring the basement and the roof, but I did the rest.”
“And the plumbing and electrical?” I asked. She was so tall I had to lean my head back to look up at her.
“The plumbing, yes, but Larry Clark did most of the electrical. I know a little. Enough to be dangerous.”
Mac nodded toward a bank of windows at the end that provided a peaceful view of the woods. There was a deck at ground level and French doors to the right. “I lived in a mobile home out there for a year and a half.”
“You’re quite the girl, aren’t you?” It would be hard to miss the look of admiration on Joe’s face. “Well done.”
At last, here was a hint of a smile on her face.
I wondered if what little she knew about electrical was enough to rewire a dollhouse. Did she have a reason to kill Harriet? With that, I reminded myself that I wasn’t just here as my husband’s chaperone. After all, Mac was the one who’d recommended Larry Clark to Harriet in the first place.
“I took shop in high school before it was acceptable for girls to do so.” Mac stuck both hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “Yeah, I was never into sewing, or girly stuff like that.”
I gritted my teeth. “Your work is exquisite.”
“Thank you,” she said, but with no smile for me. “I studied art in college, and worked in a restoration shop part-time. Just got into it, I guess. Bought some tools, and here I am.”
She picked up a tilt-top tea table and turned it over to show Joe the construction underneath. “This table was originally made in Philadelphia around 1770. It’s walnut, over a birdcage support.” She ripped a tiny piece off a sheet of finishing paper and began sanding. “It’ll get five coats of shellac with sanding in between. Lastly a good rubbing with paste wax of French polish.”
I stared in awe at the precise baluster turnings, and the three carved cabriole legs with snake feet. The detail was incredible for something so small.
“Harriet was the one that got me into the miniatures in the first place. She commissioned me to create a Windsor chair. I discovered I liked the challenge.” Mac blew gently on the table and inspected it. “She was an opinionated bitch, but so am I, so we got along.” The faint smile reappeared for an instant until her face scrunched up in concentration again.
Joe sank down on a stool. I stood behind him.
How old was she? That shirt had to be at least ten years old, so perhaps she was mid to late thirties. Her body was in such good shape, it was hard to tell.
“Here’s a sample of the grandfather clock I made for this last show. It actually runs. Solid mahogany with box inlay, and the clock face is hand-painted paper over metal. Except Harriet’s was bigger, of course. It nearly drove me to drink, but I finished at the last minute. I was up for twenty-four hours straight getting it done.”
Joe never took his eyes off her, hanging on to her every word. I couldn’t exactly blame him. There was a lot to look at, with the tight jeans and the top that hung loosely on her toned frame. When she bent over slightly to set the clock down, I caught a glimpse of pale breast and red bra.