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

“In my opinion
this
is where you should be. It’s a lovely town, with lots of visitors, and you’d do well here.”
    I had to admit Marybeth knew her stuff. I hadn’t given her much notice yet she’d found several places that would have been great for me.
    If I wasn’t so in love with Millbury, that is.
    This would mean a half hour commute each way. Driving to Doylestown would be like entering the workforce again and going to a real job. I wondered how long before I’d resent the trip. The farthest I drove now was the five miles to Sheepville, and that was only once a week for major grocery shopping.
    The few yards’ walk down the street from our house to Sometimes a Great Notion was a pleasure, not a commute.
    I felt like crying and told myself to stop being such a baby. It was business, after all.
    “The rent is also higher than I’m paying now,” I mumbled.
    “Everything’s going to be more than you’re paying now. Face the facts, Daisy. You’ve been paying well below—”
    “Market rent. Yes, yes, I know.” I tried to wash the irritation out of my voice. “Thanks for taking me out today, Marybeth. I just need to think things over a bit.”
    “Don’t take too long. The good places don’t last. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
    After she dropped me back in Millbury, I hesitated on the street, unsure of what to do next. I should probably go into the store, but seeing as I was paying Laura for the day anyway, I decided not to inflict my foul mood on her. I’d go see the one person who wouldn’t care because he was usually in the same frame of mind.
    A quick stop inside the house for my bag of dollhouse supplies and I was off to Cyril Mackey’s place.
    Past one yard where the homeowner was pushing a lawnmower behind his white picket fence, making one of the last cuts of the season. The tang of random onion stalks mixed with the scent of freshly mown grass. Impatiens, tall and straggly, and basil leaves turned spotted brown all signaled the final last gasp of summer. A white hydrangea bush boasted glorious pointed puffs of blooms, bigger than snowballs and tinged with a blush of pink at the tips.
    I trudged along Main Street, glancing in the store windows.
    Damn all these new tenants. If not for them, I could have given Chip Rosenthal the finger and moved into another space.
    The five stages of grief were denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I’d done the anger part, but now I was stuck on depression, and definitely a long way from acceptance.
    I went into the Last Stop Diner and picked up a couple of BLTs for me and Cyril. The diner operated out of an ancient trolley car sitting on the corner of Main Street and Grist Mill Road. A real old-fashioned diner with sky-high pies, endless coffee, and abusive waitresses.
    Cyril seemed almost cheery as he unpacked the sandwiches, stuffed with thick crispy rashers of bacon. The Last Stop got most of its produce from the local farms, and my mouth watered in anticipation.
    “So, Cyril, how did you like the ballet?”
    He rolled his eyes. “It were all right if you like watching a bunch of blokes poncing about in their knickers.”
    We sat at his kitchen table, and I gave him the lowdown on the exorbitant new rent for my store and how I might have to move.
    “Aye, well, that’s why I bought this land outright. I’ll never be in debt to no one.”
    “You sound like Eleanor now.” I knew he stubbornly insisted on paying for everything when he took Martha out for the evening, even though she was a very wealthy widow. It exasperated her to no end, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.
    I rubbed my forehead. I had a splitting headache, whether from worry or hunger, I couldn’t tell.
    “Here. Make yerself useful. Finish this puzzle.” He threw the newspaper in front of me.
    I looked up at him, openmouthed. Cyril never even let me see the crossword, let alone ask for my help. I wrestled with the clue while we munched on our