Murder in Miniature by Margaret Grace Page B

made out of Czech glass beads. “You’re thinking about another ramp, the one at the 880 interchange.”
    “No, sweetheart, remember…”
    I assumed Mabel and Jim had had a lot of practice working out differences like this, and didn’t need my help. I took the opportunity to slip the newspaper from Jim’s veiny hand. I sat on a chair in the dining area immediately neighboring Mabel’s post and skimmed the story for salient features. The victim was indeed female, Caucasian, early thirties, and apparently not a local. A passing trucker had found her in the wee hours of Saturday morning. She’d been shot in the head and in the chest. It was not known yet how long the body had been there, but it seemed likely that the crime had taken place within a couple of hours of the trucker’s finding her.
    Reverend and Editor Stuart Edson had been kind enough to include a map with the article. I swallowed hard at the large X at the intersection of highways 101 and 87. One could get off many rounds of ammunition, I thought, before anyone would hear the shots in that neighborhood.
    Though there was no detail on the newspaper map, I saw clearly the gas station, the deserted pumps, the pay phone. I saw my friend Linda, too, and tried desperately not to put a gun in her hand.
    Mostly, I saw Maddie, in my backseat, sleeping as if she didn’t have a care or a worry in the world. Now, it turns out that she was at the crime scene.
     
    Tallying the votes for the dollhouse contest took longer than I thought, my distracted state being one of the reasons. I couldn’t get the image of the Lincolnite X from my mind. I knew I had to say something to Skip eventually. But for now, I had to judge a dollhouse contest. It’s not that you’re withholding evidence, I told myself. Then gulped hard.
    The group of judges I’d recruited, some crafters, some not, took their time, examining details carefully, grading on the basis of workmanship, originality, and a vaguely defined aesthetic appeal. I noticed that Linda’s entry, an American colonial, was still minus its Governor Winthrop desk (I was almost beyond caring). We were ready with our results by one o’clock, only a little later than we’d planned. I took control of the PA system to announce the winner.
    “Rosemary Hayes,” I squawked. Thunderous applause greeted the mother of five-year-old twins who had found time to build and decorate a dollhouse. A sign of the times, in a good way, I thought: the winning dollhouse was “green.” Rosemary had built a modern eight-room home constructed of soft wood and other earth-friendly materials, with replicas of solar panels on the roof. The walls were modular, slipping in and out of tracks, which allowed many different configurations of rooms. Lighting was meant to be natural, and many of the details were created from found objects, including an extensive use of game pieces. The prize was a generous gift certificate to a crafts store.
    For as long as I could remember, the runner-up was always one form or another of a Lincoln-log cabin, this year’s from Mabel’s great-granddaughter. The young woman had re-created in full scale the cabin built by Abe and his father in Illinois in 1831.
    When the applause died down, I was back at my table, exhausted, holding my head up with my hands. I snapped up when one of my former students stopped by. She brightened my day, except for the fact that her impending motherhood made me feel old.
    “Mrs. Porter. Remember me? Melissa Consuelos? Well, now Melissa Fox.” She pointed to her wedding ring and to her extended belly. “I thought I’d run into you here. I still remember that miniature scene you made while we were reading Brideshead Revisited . The ballroom?”
    “Of course. I’m so glad you liked it.” I’d spent a lot of time reproducing the ballroom of the stately Brideshead Castle—constructing chandeliers of tiny crystal beads and gilding pieces of foil to look like ornate mirrors.
    Melissa held