A Dollhouse to Die For (A Deadly Notions Mystery) by Cate Price Page A

And
that
, Daisy Buchanan, is why I didn’t speak to my sister.”
    I blew out a breath and glanced out of the window. We passed a nursery and a farm stand, and the trees thinned to reveal acres of open land. There was the occasional house, but for a while there was nothing but grass and utility poles, until the two-lane road opened up into four lanes.
    The road straightened and the powerful sedan started to cruise at higher speed, carrying me farther and farther away from where I wanted to be.
    More homes were clustered together now, with actual yards carved out of the wilderness. It was a curious mix of farmhouses, ranchers, and well-maintained substantial properties. Bales of hay were rolled up next to the road in front of one old white farmstead, plain except for its decorative porch columns. A red barn sat next to it, the wooden slats rotted where they met the ground. Down the gravel-covered side roads were wide potholes full of rainwater.
    The only sound in the car was the subtle hum of the climate-controlled airflow and the occasional click of Marybeth’s fingers against the steering wheel.
    While it was obvious she was bitter toward Harriet, why kill her now, years later? And whoever the guest was that Harriet was expecting that night, it certainly wasn’t her sister.
    We cut off River Road onto Lower York Road, passing more signs of civilization—a Dairy Queen, a gas station, an Italian restaurant, traffic lights, and shopping centers, until we came to our next destination, just past Peddler’s Village.
    A nice cluster of one-story white buildings with black shutters and plenty of parking in front.
    “Here’s the one I wanted to show you,” Marybeth said as she swung into the lot and parked in front of a freestanding building. “It’s a former antiques store, and the other shops are an art gallery and a saddle and tack shop. This is a great location, Daisy. You’ll capture the tourists coming from New Hope and Lahaska.”
    She was right, but the busy thoroughfare didn’t quite have the small-town charm of Millbury.
    “This one’s not even on the MLS yet. The owner is listing with me for thirty days first.”
    The store had large, open rooms and nice display windows, and I could see how it would be a good possibility. I tried hard to seem interested, and not like a spoilt child who there was no pleasing.
    Next we headed to Doylestown, and a shop on West State Street. Doylestown was a beautiful town of tree-lined streets, with a mix of Victorian, Italianate, Greek Revival, and Federal buildings, some with gloriously ornate architecture.
    Streetlights were adorned with hanging baskets of flowers. It was the county seat, so there were lots of lawyers’ offices, and also upscale gift shops, fashion boutiques, and chic restaurants.
    The shop was about eight hundred square feet, and the rent was double what I was paying now. It was very pleasant, but it didn’t have the soul of my current Victorian either.
    “The price includes water, sewer, and common-area maintenance,” Marybeth said.
    I took a deep breath. “Well, I can see that parking might be an issue, although there’s lots of foot traffic.”
    “Increased traffic means increased business.”
    On our way through town, we passed the Starbucks at the corner of North Main and West State Streets, and I begged for coffee. It was situated in the Fountain House tavern, an enormous whitewashed three-and-a-half-story building that was over two hundred and fifty years old.
    We sat inside and enjoyed our lattes, and I relaxed a little as I felt the caffeine surge through my veins. This was more like it.
    “What did you think of that last place?” Marybeth carefully licked the froth off her expertly lined lips.
    “It was very pretty, but a bit small.”
    “But how much room do you really need? Is there any wasted space in your current location?”
    I thought about all the stuff upstairs in my shop that I could consolidate.
    She tapped a nail on the table.