Detective Tony Serrano and I enjoyed a pretty good rapport, seeing as I had helped him solve a case not long after he arrived in town. Kudos for Serrano, and for me, a new friend in the police force. The local female population had been whipped into a frenzy over him ever since.
I explained about the eyeglasses and the faulty wiring in Harriet’s dollhouse.
“Daisy, sounds like you might have been one of the last people to see her alive.”
I stared at him. “Am I a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect ’til I figure things out.” His expression softened. “Relax. I do need a statement from you, though. You too, Joe.”
His eyes scanned the room, as was his habit. I imagined the whir and shutter close of a long-range camera lens. Click. Body on the floor, noting position and appearance. Click. Number of persons present. Click. Condition of the room. Curtains open. Lights on. Any sign of a struggle?
I quickly pointed out that the upturned chair was from Joe pushing Harriet away from the live current.
Serrano shook his head. “Well, this is a new one for me. Someone zapped by a fricking toy house. All right, let’s take your statements.”
He glanced around as if searching for a good place to sit. The study was crammed, so we moved out to the foyer, and then the opulent living room, where there was also nowhere to sit. Dolls occupied every chair and lined the seat of the Eastlake fainting couch. There was every imaginable style of dollhouse from farmhouse to plantation to clapboard Colonial Revival, either on tables or arranged on the floor. With a pang, I recognized a primitive cradle in mustard yellow I’d sold to Harriet last winter.
“Look at this place. Jesus Christ.” Serrano stalked out of the room.
We followed him down to the dining room with its octagonal tray ceiling. A child-size doll sat in every one of the twelve upholstered dining chairs.
“Is it just me, or is that fricking weird?” He sighed. “Let’s try the kitchen.”
I didn’t say anything as I walked down the hall, but secretly I agreed. This was a massive house with soaring ceilings, but somehow it felt claustrophobic.
The kitchen was thankfully the only place that wasn’t chock-full of collectibles. It had dark mushroom-colored cabinets with crown molding, a six-burner commercial stove, double wall oven, and a pot filler over the range. The hardwood floor was of black walnut, like the rest of the rooms. This place must have cost well over a million dollars with all the upgrades. Grocery bags were sitting on the granite-topped center island and I ached to put the food away before it spoiled.
As if reading my mind, Serrano said, “Leave it, Daisy. Sit down.”
I obediently sat at the table in the breakfast area. Joe took the seat across from me, and Serrano leaned against the island. There was one small dollhouse on the breakfast table—an enchanting Victorian with soft lilac siding and stained glass windows. Beds of flowers cradled a gazing ball in its little garden, and a bluebird sat on the ornate fretwork railing.
I went over the events of the day, while Serrano scribbled in his notebook.
He once told me that he wrote absolutely everything down. Everything, because you never knew which minute detail that seemed insignificant at the time could prove to be important later on.
He dotted his pencil on the pad and turned to Joe. “So what’s the deal with the funky wiring?”
Joe leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Well, normally a twelve-volt transformer would convert a household circuit of one hundred and twenty volts down to a lower, safer level for the dollhouse lighting. The wires were skinned back too far though, well past the connection with the screws. The splices weren’t soldered, and they should have been wrapped in electrical tape. Wet conditions also reduce resistance, and with the weather tonight, and her hands damp . . .”