A Dollhouse to Die For(64)

            Harriet’s house must have been sort of a sweet deal, come to think of it. Only one person living there, with no pets. They would only have had to vacuum a narrow pathway through the hallways. Most of the bedrooms were inaccessible, being stuffed to the gills with collectibles, which they were forbidden to dust anyway.

            As I hid behind the tree, wondering when I could make my getaway, I saw the garage doors rise, and two of the women, one wearing a bright red bandana around her hair, pulled the trash cans to the curb for pickup next morning. They went back inside the house, leaving the garage open.

            Was that how the killer entered the house? It wouldn’t be too hard to slip inside, and hide somewhere that the cleaning people wouldn’t go, like the unfinished basement. Or heck, even in Harriet’s garage, if they squeezed behind one of those towering piles of totes and boxes. Once the crew left, it would be a simple matter for the killer to tamper with the dollhouse, hit the door closure, and scoot under the garage door, just the way Birch had done.

            I checked my watch. Damn. Already 9:45 a.m. I’d need to haul it back to Millbury. No doubt I was going to be late opening the store. The question was how late. As I swung my leg over the crossbar, I had a bad feeling I’d overdone it. What had seemed like a great idea suddenly seemed reckless, if not plain stupid.

            I rode along Burning Barn Road, thigh muscles aching, and toyed with the idea of calling Joe to pick me up.

            A car was coming from the opposite direction, and I gasped as the one behind me suddenly passed, leaving barely six inches between its mirrors and my handlebars. I swerved, the bike wobbled, and I fell off into the undergrowth by the side of the road.

            I lay there for a minute, praying that my bike wasn’t covered in lilac and yellow paint.

            Lights flashed in my peripheral vision. I groaned as I twisted around and saw an unmarked police car with Serrano at the wheel.

            I sat up as he sauntered over to me. He was wearing a dark gray suit with a sky blue tie that matched the color of his eyes.

            “Whatcha doin’, Daisy?”

            Looking like an old fool. “Saving money.”

            “By getting run over and ending up in the hospital?” He held out a hand and I grasped the steely warmth as he pulled me gently to my feet. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods anyway?”

            “I just bought some paint for my dollhouse.” I picked up the cans. They were a bit dented, but thankfully intact.

            “At Meadow Farms?”

            I sucked in a breath. “Look, Serrano, I think I know how the killer got into Harriet’s house.” I explained about seeing the cleaning women leaving the neighbor’s garage doors open.

            “You can’t see that particular street from the gate.”

            I gritted my teeth. “All right, all right. I may have talked the guard into letting me check out the clubhouse.”

            Serrano shook his head, whether in exasperation or admiration, I couldn’t tell.

            “See, someone could have snuck in when the cleaners were busy, rewired the dollhouse, and then exited through the garage, the same way Birch Kunes did.”

            “You have a point there,” he said. “Most people leave the door unlocked from the garage to the mudroom or kitchen, and leave that alarm zone turned off. But what about the front door being ajar?”

            “When Harriet got home, she was probably so excited about seeing the dollhouse, she forgot to close it properly.” Now that I’d stopped cycling, I could feel my leg muscles cramping up again and I rubbed a hand against the small of my back. “We assumed it was from someone running out, but maybe not.”