A Dollhouse to Die For(80)

            A smile that illuminated her whole face was his answer.

            Twenty minutes later we were installed in a booth at Pop’s. I was squeezed in between Martha and Cyril, and facing Angus and Ardine.

            I took a grateful sip of my cold beer. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “I can’t decide which hurts more—my back or my feet.”

            “It’s the back,” Martha moaned. “No, it’s the feet. Good God, what a night.”

            Cyril drained half of his beer glass in one swallow. “All that money on a bunch of dolls? I’m fair gobsmacked.”

            Angus rubbed a hand across his thick white shock of hair. “I can’t believe it, either. Did you see the price that that Thomas Edison talking doll brought? Jesus, I thought those two old biddies were going to come to fisticuffs.”

            Ardine sipped her Coke through a straw. “It’s because you hardly ever see them on the market, not in that condition, except once in a blue moon.”

            He made an exaggerated show of peering out the window. “It’s almost a full one, but I dunno about the blue part.”

            She giggled, hiccupping on her soda.

            Good old Angus. Like me, I knew he thought Ardine was an odd duck, and sometimes she tried a bit too hard, but he was always kind, no matter what. Angus often talked about karma when we went picking. Treat people right and it would repay you many times over. Treat them badly and you never knew what would turn up.

            He grinned at me and then nudged Ardine with his huge shoulder.

            “You spent a bundle, too, tonight, didn’t you, missy?”

            Ardine rushed to explain, embarrassment making her stumble over her words. “I know, but you see, I make quite a good living selling medical supplies, and, well, the house is paid for and, well—”

            He roared with laughter. “I’m just kidding with ya.”

            “Ardine, this is a tough crowd,” I said, smiling. “You shouldn’t take too much notice.”

            Tonight was just like old times. Except not quite. Angus was drinking soda, too. This time last year, he would have had a whole pitcher of Bud to himself.

            “How’s that beer?” he asked, ogling my glass. “Tell me it tastes like crap.”

            I stuck out my tongue. “Ugh, it’s terrible. Like soapy dishwater. Blech!”

            “You’re a terrible liar, Daisy Duke.”

            “I know.” I reached across and took his meaty hand in mine. “But you’re doing great, Angus. I’m so proud of you.”

            After we’d polished off two large pizzas, two sodas, and a pitcher of beer, we headed back to the auction house. I’d promised to help Ardine bring her dollhouses home. She could fit two on the backseat and one on the front, but the other two were too tall to fit in the trunk of her car, so I put them in my station wagon.

            She lived on the outskirts of Sheepville, not far from Hildebrand’s garage, owned by Betty Backstead’s brother. Right where the zoning changed from commercial to residential, which was a mixture that stripped the existing homes of much of their comfort zone.

            Ardine’s house was a plain rancher on a corner lot, painted a light green, with a rusted wire fence and a statue of the Virgin Mary in the center of the front yard. There were no flowers, no bushes, no landscaping at all.

            Ardine gave me a shy smile as I got out of my car. “Would you like to come in for a minute?”

            “I’d love to.”