Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

Maddie, always first to jump up for a phone call or a knock, ran to the door and came back with Linda.

“It’s Mrs. Reed,” she said, bounding back to the dining room. She pulled a chair from the kitchen into a spot at the table. “You can sit next to me, Mrs. Reed.”

Maybe I was just easy to please, but I felt a burst of pride-it was a small accommodation that Maddie had made for our guest, but she’d thought of it on her own and made a friend feel welcome.

Linda, in anything but a bounce, trundled into the room. She looked haggard and exhausted, but managed a small smile for everyone and took the seat suggested by Maddie.

“How’s your mother, Henry?” she asked.

“Not too bad, thanks, Linda.”

I guessed that Henry’s mother was in one of the three assisted living facilities that Linda had worked in over the years, but not the Mary Todd, or it would have been Henry asking the question of a dedicated nurse.

Was that a twinge of envy I felt-that Linda seemed to know more about Henry’s family than I did? Like Beverly, she knew almost everyone in town; in Linda’s case, either as patients, or as children of patients. On my side, I knew only those with an ALHS diploma obtained between three and thirty years ago.

I wondered if everyone at the table could tell how distracted I was, my perpetual state it seemed, since Friday night. I kept asking myself, Where’s Rosie? as if a corner of my mind might shout out an answer. It was clear to me that Linda was dying to tell me whatever she knew of Rosie’s current location. We exchanged glances frequently, with slightly lifted eyebrows and twitching facial muscles.

Before we had the chance to chat in private, however, my landline rang.

I excused myself and took the call in the kitchen. I stretched the cord to the back hallway, out of earshot. It was testimony to how involved I was in the case that I hoped it would be either Skip or Rosie.

It was only my son. Richard and Mary Lou called from Lake Tahoe, elevation approximately seven thousand feet, to see how things were going in the lowlands.

I was glad my call-waiting signal came before I passed the phone on to Maddie, who was prone to giving too much information to her parents.

“Can we call you back, Mary Lou? I should take this other call,” I said. Not my usual telephone protocol, but once I recognized Rosie’s cell phone number, my son and daughter-in-law were immediately relegated to second place.

“No problem,” Mary Lou said. “We’re in for the night.” I pictured their cozy retreat on the beautiful lake, far from the murky waters of Lincoln Point.

I clicked the button on my phone and heard a cough and a sniffle.

“I can’t do it, Gerry,” Rosie said. “Not until tomorrow afternoon.”

I didn’t have to ask why she needed the extra time. Rosie wanted to attend the memorial for David and was worried that she’d be arrested if she went to the station today. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to pay her last respects first.

“Where will you be until then?” I asked.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

Linda stayed long enough for me to pull her aside and let her know that Rosie called. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“I didn’t know how I was going to tell you that she escaped,” she said. She threw up her hands. “She’s wearing my clothes, Gerry.” As if that was the biggest problem in either of their lives.

Beverly, Nick, and June followed soon after Linda departed. Linda did seem less tense than when she’d arrived with her burden of information about Rosie’s change of plan.

It seemed strange not to be able to brainstorm with Beverly, but her life had changed for the better and I was happy for that. At the door, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Good luck,” she said, a slight nod in the direction of Henry, who was being led by Maddie and Taylor toward the crafts room.

“No, no. It’s not like that,” I assured Beverly. I waved at Nick, waiting at the car, and at June, turning up her driveway. “Henry and I have a lot in common, and we might become friends,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she said, her grin spreading. “Well, let me know how that goes, okay?”

I hoped my face would return to its normal color by the time I got to the crafts room.

Maddie seemed to be doing well with her tour of my crafts room. I joined them and took in the utter disarray, with more works in progress than finished pieces. In one corner was a room box, newly painted in blue and gold, the colors of the University of California, Berkeley. (Richard, formerly a big fan of their football team, was now torn since he worked at Stanford, their great rival.) The scene was on its way to being a miniature dorm room. I hoped to have it finished for one of my GED students whose daughter would be starting at Cal as a freshman in a couple of weeks, the first in her family to go to college.

My Christmas scene, the one I was working on for our Alasita project, stood pitiful and boring in the center of the table. Sure, the stockings hanging on the faux brick fireplace looked decent, especially after I’d nearly lost the tips of my fingers embroidering our names on the tops, and I’d started to add toys-a wagon and a large (relatively speaking) doll. But it needed something to make it different from the low-end greeting cards of the season, sold in all the chain card stores. I didn’t have any ideas about what that could be.

Here and there on the work surfaces in my crafts room were tiny easy chairs piled with miniature books. Lamps, coat racks, teacups, and snacks were scattered around each chair, the raw material for separate scenes, about seven in all. My process was to add a rug or an afghan and other accessories to the centerpiece chairs and let the arrangements sit for a while before I committed to them. I liked to look at the various compositions over a period of days or weeks and see which combinations looked best. Once a particular design stood the test of time, I sealed it with glue, forever.

With Henry standing next to me and Maddie prattling on about each scene, the unfinished room boxes looked even more pathetic. As did the chaotic assembly of pieces of yarn, toothpicks, body parts (of dolls), and fabric scraps.

When Henry turned to address me, I wanted to close my ears against the remark.

“I’ve never seen such a happy and creative workshop,” he said. I wished I had the presence of mind to say “thank you.”

Henry fingered a small, white plastic cylinder, one of dozens on my table. “These silica gels are everywhere. They come with everything I purchase lately, even a pair of shoes. Are you collecting them?”

In answer, I reached behind to my sparsely populated “finished” shelf and picked up three of the tiny cylinders, known formally as moisture absorbers. I’d printed food labels from an Internet site of “printies” and wrapped them around the cylinders. I painted the top gray to complete the fiction.

“Presto. We have cans of diced tomatoes, sliced beets, and marinated peach halves,” I said, wondering why in the world I’d said “presto.” Henry’s presence seemed to bring out unusual responses in me. “I was determined to do something with these, so I’m collecting them to put on pantry shelves in my next general store or kitchen.”

Henry shook his head. In admiration, it seemed. “I can’t wait to see that.”

“Wow,” Taylor said.

Maddie beamed, and I felt a little less ashamed of my crafts room.

“I’ll tuck you in,” I told Maddie, who was sweet enough to let me use the phrase long after she’d outgrown it. Eleven o’clock bedtime was much too late for a “school” night, I knew, but I was a weak grandmother. Also a sneaky one. I’d conveniently waited until now to tell Maddie about her parents’ phone call. Buying time.