A Dollhouse to Die For(72)

            My mouth watered at the idea of silk chiffon and vintage buttons.

            Eleanor tapped her foot on the floor. “Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.”

            “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

            When Laura arrived, Eleanor and I hurried out of the store, but I stopped in dismay when I saw the red Vespa parked outside.

            “Oh no, I’m not riding to Philly on the back of that thing. We’ll take my car.”

            Eleanor shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

            We walked back down Main Street toward the house. Across the street, a sign in the psychic’s window advertised palm readings for ten dollars.

            “I wonder how long a psychic can stay in business here at those prices,” I mused, visions of vacant storefronts dancing like spots before my eyes.

            “Have you ever gone in there? Had your fortune read?”

            I clicked open the locks on the car. “Not sure I believe in that stuff.”

            “You’d be surprised,” Eleanor said, giving me an arch look as she slid into the passenger seat. We made a quick stop at the diner for coffee to go, and we were off.

            Just under an hour later, we were wandering down historic Fabric Row in Philadelphia, situated roughly between South and Catharine Streets. At the turn of the twentieth century, there would have been pushcarts trundling along here, where Jewish immigrants plied their trade and eventually opened brick-and-mortar establishments.

            It was full of dressmakers, upholsterers, costumers, and drapery workrooms. One shop sold nothing but bridal accessories. Another was just for sewing notions, and others sold blinds and shades, bedding and pillows.

            We entered the first shop, enjoying the familiar sight of bolts of fabric crammed together, and battered cardboard boxes with yards of rayon cord valance, piping, and beaded trim spilling out over the tops. There was a long row of cutting tables in the back and, as usual, a wizened proprietor perched on a stool somewhere in the shadows.

            “God, I’m exhausted,” Eleanor said. “That maniac, Tony Z, decided he has a crush on me. He’s been singing outside my bedroom window at all hours of the night.”

            Tony Zappata, the barber, had a beautiful operatic tenor voice with which he entertained clients as he gave them a short back and sides.

            “He really has a very nice voice,” I murmured.

            “Not at three o’clock in the morning!” she snapped. “I finally called the police and had him arrested for disturbing the peace.”

            “Ah, poor Tony. The perils of unrequited love.”

            “It’s not funny, Daisy. You try listening to ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ when you’re trying to sleep.”

            I was about to make a joke about catching some z’s, but after glancing at the grim set of Eleanor’s mouth, I decided against it. I felt sorry for Tony. The little barber was perennially sunny-natured, and it wouldn’t be a bad match.

            Okay, he was rather short, but Eleanor wasn’t that tall herself.

            What the heck was going on in Millbury? Was there some kind of aphrodisiac in the water supply?

            We browsed as much as we could, although this particular store was so stuffed with fabric piled to the ceiling, it wasn’t easy. If you knew what you wanted though, chances are they had it stashed somewhere.

            We walked back out on the street and continued our prowl.

            “My grandmother was a milliner,” I told Eleanor. “I used to wander around the Garment District in New York with her looking in dusty windows just like this.” As a child, I was hypnotized by the towering displays of French ribbons, pearl buttons, glass beads, and velvet and satin passementerie that were used to trim hats.