A Dollhouse to Die For(63)
After I stopped at Jeanne’s, I was feeling so good that I decided to swing by Meadow Farms before I headed back to Millbury. I didn’t have much of a plan in mind, except an urge to ride by Harriet’s house one more time.
I pulled up to the guard house and gave the elderly sentinel my brightest smile.
“Good morning. My husband and I are thinking about joining the country club. He’s such an avid golfer and he wants to teach me. I wonder if I can go in and check it out?”
He looked dubiously at my ancient bicycle, but after having me sign in and show some identification, he let me in.
I rode toward the clubhouse complex. Several golfers were already out on the course. It was a great day for a game. Not much wind and a clear sky. The trees were all turning color now, and the riotous mix of scarlet, burgundy, orange, and yellow was breathtaking with the hills in the distance.
A couple of women drove by over the greens in a golf cart, and I nearly fell off my bike.
I was pretty sure that they hadn’t seen me, but what the heck were my real estate agent, Marybeth Skelton, and the artist Tracy McEvoy doing here together?
Chapter Eleven
What an odd couple. I would never have connected the two as friends, although I supposed they were from the same Easter basket in many ways. Both tough, competent, self-made women.
Real estate and miniatures must certainly be lucrative to afford memberships here.
I rode up to the clubhouse, and when I glanced back and saw the guard was busy checking someone else through, I sprinted toward the road that led to the residential area. I slowed down once I was around a corner and out of sight. Also because my heart was heaving painfully in my chest.
Maybe Mac was the one who had done the dirty deed on Harriet? She had the electrical expertise, plus Marybeth Skelton was more the type to hire people to do stuff for her, not get her hands dirty herself. With those long fingernails, she could barely dial a phone, let alone handle intricate wiring.
Harriet would know Mac and would let her in. Mac could have made up some story about bringing more miniatures over for her to see. And although the guard had said there were no other visitors except me, Joe, and the cleaning people that day, Mac wouldn’t even have to say she was visiting Harriet. She could just flash her membership card like she was going to the clubhouse, and who would be any the wiser?
I reached Barnstead Circle and cycled slowly down the cul-de-sac. I took a quick look around and wheeled the bicycle across the grass and leaned it up against the side of Harriet’s house, nearest the trees.
As I walked into the woods, the noise of the world faded away except for the chirping of birds high above and the sound of leaves crunching underfoot.
What did I expect to find? A monogrammed scarf conveniently caught on a tree branch perhaps, or maybe Chip Rosenthal’s wallet that he’d dropped as he ran from the scene?
Get real, Daisy.
The police had scoured this area, I was sure. I went as deep as I could before the brush blocked my way, trying to imagine I was mowing grass, making straight overlapping lines back and forth. As I made another route back toward the house, I caught my breath. A young deer stood staring at me, only about six or seven feet away. There was a moment when neither of us moved, and I drank in the sight of its liquid brown eyes and soft fur. A bird cried out, and suddenly spooked, he crashed away in a flurry of spiky legs and white tail.
It had probably been a deer that night, too. So much for my overactive imagination.
A minivan with a logo saying THE DAZZLE TEAM zoomed down the street, radio blaring with some kind of joyous music with a throbbing drumbeat. It ground to a halt in front of the house across from Harriet’s.
I slipped behind a tree and hoped they wouldn’t notice my bicycle. Four women tumbled out of the van, laughing and chatting. I watched for a few minutes, as they went in and out of the house with cleaning supplies.