Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

The fourth book in the Miniature Mystery series, 2009

Thanks as always to my dream critique team: mystery authors Jonnie Jacobs, Rita Lakin, and Margaret Lucke.

Thanks to my friend Brian Callahan, one of Boston’s finest chief engineers, who was an immense help in shaping the fictional Duns Scotus Hotel and its staff; and to the wonderful Inspector Chris Lux for advice on police procedure. My interpretation of their counsel should not be held against them.

Thanks to my sister, Arlene Polvinen; my cousin, Jean Stokowski; and the many writers and friends who offered critique, information, and inspiration; in particular: Judy Barnett, Sara Bly, Margaret Hamilton, Anna Lipjhart, Ellen Schnur, Mary Schnur, Sue Stephenson, and Karen Streich.

Thanks to my brother-in-law, Skip Polvinen, for insight into the construction business (it’s not his fault that I twisted his words to create a crime); to Jerry and Mil, who were generous with information on their Eichler home; to Mike Kaplan, who helped Maddie with her avatars; to Mark Streich, who introduced me to Maloof; and to mystery author Juliet Blackwell (aka Hailey Lind), who inspired me with her Alasita stories.

My deepest gratitude goes to my husband, Dick Rufer, the best there is. I can’t imagine working without his 24/7 support. He’s my dedicated Webmaster (www.dollhousemysteries.com), layout specialist, and IT department.

Finally, how lucky can I be? I’m working with a special and dedicated editor, Michelle Vega, and an extraordinary agent, Elaine Koster.

DUNS SCOTUS HOTEL LOBBY

LINCOLN POINT, CA

David Bridges checked the minibar in the suite for the third time. He’d made a couple of special requests for the evening and wanted to be sure they’d been carried out. He assured himself once again that his staff had come through, right down to stocking a bottle of the best white wine the Napa Valley vineyards could offer.

He thought of the elegant Duns Scotus as his hotel. His position as chief engineer at one of the best-known hotels in San Francisco brought him high-level responsibilities and a great deal of respect. He oversaw the entire maintenance staff and was a member of the management executive committee, with a say in all the important contract negotiations for facility and equipment upgrades.

He’d cashed in on his status at the hotel and assigned himself this royal suite on the eleventh floor.

David tugged on his dark suit jacket, a little too snug around his waist these days, but on the whole he thought he kept pretty fit for a middle-aged man.

He congratulated himself on all his successes.

This weekend his high school classmates, his cheering fans, were coming to the city for their thirtieth reunion. David had arranged for everyone to get a good deal on rooms at the Duns Scotus, much lower than the rack rate. How many of the smart kids who made the honor roll and played chess could do that for their friends?

Three decades, he thought, like the snap of his fingers. He ran his hand along the silky floral comforter, a match to the drapes, and looked ahead a couple of hours. He had big plans for tonight, both business and pleasure.

He walked to the window, an entire wall of glass, and took in the sweeping view of the San Francisco Bay-a commanding view, the Duns Scotus brochure said-from his spot on a hill higher than any building in his hometown of Lincoln Point, California, an hour to the south.

This suite and every other room would be even more spectacular once he made sure the right contractor got the approval for the remodel.

David pulled his heavy trophy out of his luggage and held it up so the stone base was waist high. The cold eyes of the bronze drop-back quarterback met his, transporting him to his years at Abraham Lincoln High School three decades ago. The trophy and his jersey, number thirty-six, had been on display in an ALHS hallway all these years, but this weekend it would have center stage at the hotel as his whole class gathered to reminisce. He relished the idea of reliving his glory days.

Too bad his personal life was in shambles. But it wasn’t all his fault, and by Monday things might be better along those lines, too.

On the whole, the outlook for the weekend was good. Promises had been made and it was time to call them in, one way or another.

The phone rang. He picked up the unit in the living room and listened to the insistent voice on the other end.

“We’re clear,” David responded. “It’s do or die.”

He hung up and sat on the sofa, facing his trophy where he’d placed it on the credenza, his name visible, of course. He thought back to his starring role in the big games on Thanksgiving and Homecoming Weekend, the hallway of lockers where he’d had his share of quick embraces, classrooms where he’d done as much note-passing as note-taking.

He sat back and linked his hands behind his neck. A small shiver of doubt crept up his spine. He shook it off. This was his weekend.

What could go wrong?

I maneuvered through the store’s narrow, crowded aisle carrying a loaded plastic basket on my arm. When the metal handles dug too painfully into one arm, I shifted the basket to the other. For a break, I set the ugly green container in the only clear space, a corner of the back counter, and reviewed the items I’d collected. I matched them against my shopping list.

Three bathtubs. Check . Fourteen lamps. Check . One outdoor swing set. Check. One baby carriage. Check . One life preserver. Check. I still needed six counter stools and two refrigerators, one modern and one 1930s style with the motor on top.

The minute I’d told my crafters group I was headed for a dollhouse and miniatures store in Benicia, sixty miles away from our town of Lincoln Point, they clamored to capture my attention and give me their wish lists. There weren’t that many independent miniatures stores in northern California anymore, so when one of us was able to make the trek to a shop, we all submitted our needs.

Another half hour of browsing and I was weighed down with all the desired items, plus unplanned “must-haves.” I gathered up a few tools-a mini drill, a miter box, and needle-nose pliers that were on sale-and lugged the basket toward the cash register.

I’d been successful with everyone’s list but my own. I couldn’t find the perfect six-inch Christmas tree. That may have had something to do with the fact that it was August and nearly ninety-five degrees, although crafts stores generally carried at least some inventory for each holiday year-round. I checked the Christmas bins again and found eighth-inch mistletoe and a set of one-inch stockings, all of which I added to my basket, but no “tall” spruces to my liking.

On this weekday morning, the store was nearly empty. While I paid for my purchases (the grand total was anything but miniature), I chatted with Cindy and Jim Cooper, the store’s owners, reminiscing about the time when there were shops like this in every town.

I could have stopped for lunch at one of Benicia’s many cafes. A charming small town on a strait of San Francisco Bay, Benicia offered a variety of cuisines, including Thai, my current favorite. I chose instead to head home to Lincoln Point, more than an hour away, to arrive in time for leftovers with my eleven-year-old granddaughter, Madison Porter.