Mourning In Miniature Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Gerry’s Miniature Tips

  A Little Deception

  “There’s a card with each present, signed Love, D. B. That’s for David Bridges.” Rosie rolled her eyes. “Who else?”

  I saw that we were all tiptoeing around a warning to Rosie that there was something not quite right about this reunion within a reunion.

  “What if it doesn’t turn out the way you think, Rosie? What if he’s toying with your feelings?” Karen asked. “You said your first and only date didn’t go well. Maybe he’s setting you up for another fall.”

  Rosie lifted her eyes from the tiny brush dripping with red paint from the last application of trim on the wall of the school hallway. She gave us all a deathly serious look.

  “Then I’ll kill him,” she said.

  Praise for the Miniature Mysteries

  “A tightly honed mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Endearing characters and a fast-paced plot that will keep you guessing until the very end. Geraldine Porter and her ten-year-old granddaughter, Maddie, make a wonderful sleuthing team. I can’t wait for the next in the series.”

  —Deb Baker, author of the Dolls To Die For Mysteries

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Margaret Grace

  MURDER IN MINIATURE

  MAYHEM IN MINIATURE

  MALICE IN MINIATURE

  MOURNING IN MINIATURE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  MOURNING IN MINIATURE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2009

  Copyright © 2009 by Camille Minichino.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-14522-7

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)

  Inc.

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  Acknowledgments

  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

  Prologue

  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?

  Chapter 1

  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.

  As I walked to my car, passing vintage Victorian houses, antique shops, and clothing boutiques, tempting smells and interesting music wafted from doorways. But cafes were ubiquitous and would be around for a long time—who knew how much longer Maddie, approaching the years of teen angst, would want to eat with her grandmother?

  Maddie was staying with me for three weeks while she attended a high-tech summer camp program at Lincoln Point’s Rutledge Center, the town’s educational and all-purpose facility. I considered it surprising, and amazing good luck, that our tiny town offered a computer program not available in Maddie’s new, more sophisticated residence city of Palo Alto, home to Stanford University, among other grand institutions. Her parents were using the time for a little camping of their own, at a cabin at Lake Tahoe.

  I was thrilled to have Maddie to myself.

  I drove home with a smile, wondering what her latest computer joke would be.

  “Why are computers skinny?” Maddie asked.

  This was easy, a rerun from the first day of her class. “Because they eat only bits,” I said.

  Maddie frowned and kicked her legs under my kitchen table. “I already told you that one, didn’t I?”

  I admitted as much as I scooped ice cream into cone-shaped, cone-colored dessert dishes.

  “Is that all you’re learning at computer camp? Jokes and puns?” Once in a while I assumed the role of strict grandmother, but it never lasted long.

  “It’s not computer camp, it’s technology camp,” Maddie said, pulling a bowl of ice cream toward her. “We’re learning how to do two- and three-D video, flash animation, and modding for games. Some kids are on the robotics track, which I’d like to do next year. They’re attaching a Bluetooth interface to a robot so they can control it from any location connected to the Internet. Cool, huh?”

  Like most children her age, Maddie grew up with computers and had surpassed me in the language a long time ago. My only contribution now was, “Yes, very cool.”

  “Does that sound like we’re just telling jokes all morning?” Maddie asked. Then, much to my relief, she broke into laughter and came over for a hug that she knew would turn into a tickle and a messing up of her red Porter curls.

  Bzzz, bzzz, bzzz.

  Maddie ran to the door. We both knew it was probably my nephew, homicide detective Eino Gowen, whom she called Uncle Skip. First cousin once-removed had been too much for her as a toddler and no one in the family thought there was a reason to revisit the uncle title.

  “Looks like I’m just in time for dessert,” Skip said, helping himself to a handful of my just-made ginger snaps. “I could smell these half a block away.”

  I scooped a generous portion of caramel cashew ice cream, Skip’s favorite, into a bowl for the second redhead at the table. A Porter by marriage only, I didn’t share in the redhead gene and had to make do with ordinary dark brown hair, now tinged with gray.

  “What timing,” I said. “I think you have a GPS on my oven and freezer door.”

  “That’s not how—” Skip started until he caught my look.

  I liked to keep my family guessing about just how much of a Luddite I was.

  “Uncle Skip, what did the computer’s fortune cookie say?” Maddie asked. She’d finished smashing her chocolate ice cream with her spoon, to a mushy consistency, just as she did when she was three years old. Aspiring robot maker or not, she was still a little girl.

  Skip put on his best thinking expression. “Hmm. Not a clue. What did the computer’s fortune cookie say?”

  “Take one data at a time,” Maddie said, triumphant.

  Skip slammed his palm against his forehead. “Good one.” Unlike inconsiderate Grandma/Aunt Gerry, Skip not only let Maddie have the punch line, he also laughed harder than I di
d. No wonder she adored him.

  “Are you busy down at the station, Uncle Skip?” Maddie asked.

  “There’s not too much going on right now.”

  “No big cases or piles of folders on your desk like you have sometimes?”

  “Nope. I guess all the criminals are too hot to work.”

  “And August is the only month when we don’t celebrate an Abraham Lincoln event, so there are no big crowds to worry about,” Maddie added.

  “Exactly. Next month we’re back on track with the big Emancipation Proclamation Convention.”

  “But August is pretty clear, right?”

  Uh-oh. I knew where she was going with this.

  “You’re doomed, Skip,” I said.

  Maddie swooped in. “Remember you said when you weren’t busy you’d teach me some police things, like how to do fingerprints and how to investigate? And tour the building”—here she shook her spoon in his direction—“including the jail.”

  Skip hung his head. He’d been had. I saw it on his face. Twenty-eight years old and a preteen had bested him.

  The good news was that our little town of Lincoln Point was homicide-free for the summer, a comforting statistic.

  Skip cleared his throat. “Let me look at my calendar when I get back from my meeting, okay?”

  “Promise?”

  “Hey, any cute boys in your computer class?”

  Nice try, I thought. But Maddie had something to say about that.

  “Are you kidding? The boys are all dorks. We had a class photo taken for the newspaper and the boys all made funny faces.” Maddie splayed her fingers, held a hand to each ear, and wiggled her fingers. “Like this.”

  Skip mimicked her hand gesture and stuck out his tongue. “It’s no good without the tongue,” he said, once he could talk.