Mac raised an eyebrow, but made no further comment.
I shifted on my stool. “Um. I was thinking about adding some lighting to my dollhouse. Do you know anything about that?”
“Some purists say that since light can’t be scaled down, it shouldn’t be used at all.” Mac smiled at me for the first time, and I wondered if she was just humoring me. “But the simplest technique is to use a regular bulb and splice the bulb socket directly to the line cord that plugs into the wall. I wouldn’t recommend it, though.” She paused and blew a fine layer of dust off the table. “Not unless you want to commit suicide, that is.”
I sucked in a breath, while Mac and Joe discussed why toy train transformers were also dangerous to use. I backed away and wandered around the studio, ostensibly to look at the paintings, but my mind was in a whirl.
Had Harriet killed herself? No one had even considered that possibility. Why not? She could have been depressed over her husband leaving. She’d certainly seemed on edge when she came into my store.
Because she’d never give Birch Kunes the satisfaction, that’s why not.
And if someone was planning on doing themselves in, why would they make elaborate preparations for a competition the next day?
“A ten-volt doorbell transformer should be okay,” Mac was saying, “and it can light some wheat-of-grain bulbs. Then you can hide it behind a wall or inside the ceiling. But make sure the bulbs are well ventilated.”
Joe smiled benevolently at her, as if he hadn’t spent most of his life as head of an electricians’ union .
She’d explained everything so carefully. Would she really reveal all this knowledge if she was the killer? Or maybe she was being extra clever to divert attention away from herself. But what would Mac have against Harriet?
“It sounds like Harriet was a good customer,” I said. “Did she ever keep you waiting for payment? Did she owe you for the pieces she’d just commissioned?”
Mac laughed, a short hacking sound. “Oh, no, she always paid on time.”
I could feel Joe’s eyes on me, silently pleading. Stop playing investigator, Daisy.
After another twenty minutes or so, Mac announced that she had a lunch appointment, so Joe and I got up to leave.
“This was fantastic,” he said. “I learned so much. Thank you.”
“Feel free to stop back anytime.”
I’d bet my last dollar that the invitation did not include me.
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning, after a restless night, I took Jasper out early. It was still dark. Actually more like a strange half-light in the diaphanous transition between night and day. We hurried down Main Street, where the streetlights were still on and the wind whipped stray leaves in tumbling circles alongside us.
I mentally rehearsed my pitch to Chip Rosenthal as I trudged, glad of my warm gloves and scarf. I would be calm, pleasant, and persuasive, and I’d get him to see reason. The more I practiced, the more my confidence grew. I wasn’t leaving this town without a fight.
A bread truck passed us on its way to the diner. In the distance I could see the yellow glow from the old trolley car, already serving meals to the night shift.
Joe had spent the rest of the weekend down in the basement, putting his new ideas to work, inspired by our visit to Tracy McEvoy’s. Mac had been a female version of Cyril—gruff and off-putting—but Joe didn’t seem to notice. All the way home in the car, he kept saying what a great girl she was.
Suddenly I gasped, the dry air biting the back of my throat. I stood stock still on the street while Jasper looked back at me in surprise.