The Dollhouse Murders (35th Anniversary Edition) Page 2

  “I can’t watch her every second!”

  Mrs. Treloar’s lips tightened. “Don’t be impudent,” she said. “We trust you, Amy. Louann trusts you. She needs your protection.”

  Afterward, it seemed to Amy that a whole volcano of anger exploded inside her right then. She’d heard those words many times before. This time, the anger couldn’t be held back.

  “I don’t want her to need me!” she shouted. “I’m sick of babysitting and losing my friends and having everybody stare when we go by. I don’t want to protect her anymore. I’m never, never going to take her any place again!”

  Mrs. Treloar’s hands on the steering wheel were rigid. “I can’t believe what I just heard,” she said. “I can’t believe you can be so cruel. So selfish! A girl who has everything—”

  “I don’t have anything,” Amy roared. “You want me to drag her around behind me the rest of my life. Well, I won’t do it!”

  She had her hand on the door latch, ready to jump out the minute the car pulled into the driveway. She had to get away—away from Louann and from her mother and from the terrible things she’d heard herself saying. She wanted to run and not stop.

  “You can be sure your father will hear all this when he gets home,” Mrs. Treloar said. “I’m going to tell him every word of this conversation. He’ll be as ashamed of you as I am.” She slammed on the brakes, inches from the garage door.

  Amy leaped out, and Louann tumbled after her. “Wait for me!” she shouted. “Wait for me!”

  “Louann, you stay here,” Mrs. Treloar ordered. “Come inside, and we’ll have some cookies. Let Amy go. She’s behaving very badly.”

  With her hands over her ears, Amy tore down the street. Cookies! she thought. Let Amy go! She turned the corner, trying not to hear the plaintive cry that followed her.

  “Tomorrow, Amy. The puppet show. Don’t forget, Amy. You have to take me!”

  THE sign said RAINBOW FALLS, THREE MILES. Amy’s run had long since slowed to a walk; now she hesitated, aware that darkness was closing in and she was leaving Claiborne behind her. Her eyes burned and her chest felt tight, but mostly she was just tired. Somewhere back there she’d shed much of her anger in a storm of tears.

  Ahead, lights glimmered in far-apart houses. Misty patches of dark loomed between them. It’s pitiful, she thought, being out here all alone in the cold with no one to care, while other people are snug and safe with their families.

  Well, actually, the June evening was pleasantly warm, not cold. And if her parents didn’t know where she was and maybe didn’t care, there was someone nearby who did. She knew that Aunt Clare, her father’s sister, would be glad to see her.

  Aunt Clare was staying temporarily in the huge old house that had belonged to Amy’s great-grandparents. She had invited Amy to stop in anytime, but so far, Amy hadn’t done it. She felt shy with this aunt, who had lived in Chicago since long before Amy was born. The two evenings Aunt Clare had spent with the Treloars since her return to Claiborne had been uncomfortable. She and Amy’s mother seemed to have little to say to each other.

  But Aunt Clare likes me, Amy told herself. She said she thought we were a lot alike. I’ll just stay for a little while, and then I’ll go home. Maybe Aunt Clare would give her a ride.

  At the next crossroad Amy turned, then turned again onto a narrow gravel road lined with tall weeds and an occasional oak. The road seemed longer in the almost-dark than it had during the daylight visits to the house she’d made with her father. Amy walked faster, looking for the sharp curve that led into the yard. Night settled around her, rustling with the sounds of small creatures in the brush. Her heart sank at the sudden thought that Aunt Clare might have gone into town for the evening.

  Then the house loomed in front of her, with lights shining out from every floor. Even the attic was lit. Amy had never seen the house look so friendly. When she’d come with her father, before Aunt Clare’s return, they’d usually stayed outside, walking around to look at doors and windows. On the few occasions when they’d gone in to check the heating and the water pipes, they’d remained only a few minutes, tiptoeing like burglars through the rooms of musty furniture.

  Amy climbed the wide front steps and crossed the porch. The wrought-iron knocker, shaped like an eagle, thunked hollowly against the front door. Aunt Clare didn’t answer. Amy knocked again, then tried the latch. The door was unlocked. She let herself in and stood uncertainly in the foyer. The house was very quiet.

  “Aunt Clare?” Her voice sounded peculiar—almost like a wail—in the stillness. “Is anybody here?”

  There was a rush of footsteps on a bare floor overhead, then a pause.

  “Who—who’s down there?” Aunt Clare sounded far away and a little scared.

  “It’s me—Amy.”

  “Good grief, Amy! Oh, I’m glad it’s just you. I mean, I couldn’t imagine….Come right on up here.”

  The curving stairway rose through a tower at one side of the hall. Amy ran up to the second floor and looked along the broad corridor. Near its end, the door to the attic stood open.

  “Keep coming,” Aunt Clare called. “I’m up here in the storehouse of the world.”

  Amy ran down the hall and up the attic steps. Aunt Clare waited at the top, dressed in blue jeans and a pink shirt knotted at the waist. Her gray-streaked hair was tied back under a rose-colored scarf, and her thin face was bright with welcome. She threw her arms around Amy and hugged her.

  “Whew! You can’t imagine how my heart’s thudding! It’s a real shock to hear another human voice in this old tomb!”

  Amy hugged her back. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she said. “The door was unlocked—”

  “And a good thing, too,” her aunt interrupted. “Though I thought it was locked. I never would have heard the knocker up here.” She glanced down the stairs. “Did someone come with you? You didn’t come all this way by yourself, did you?”

  Amy nodded and backed away from Aunt Clare’s probing look. “What are you doing up here—looking for something?”

  “Looking for things to throw away,” Aunt Clare replied. “And finding them. Tons of things! I’ll have to hire a truck to carry them off. Moth-eaten clothes, broken chairs, cracked mirrors…” Amy could feel the concerned look that followed her as she wandered around the attic.

  “How about a Coke?” Aunt Clare suggested. “I have to get away from all the dust anyway—I think I’m allergic to it. Or to work, I’m not sure which.” She sneezed as if to prove it.

  Amy was in a far corner of the attic. “Okay,” she agreed. But she didn’t move, because directly in front of her was a mysterious sheeted object that came to a peak at one corner. The thing—whatever it was—was almost as tall as Amy. She leaned forward and gave the sheet a tug. Dust rose around her as the cover slipped to the floor.

  “Oh.” Amy gave a squeaky little gasp. “Oh, Aunt Clare, look at this. It’s the most perfect dollhouse I’ve ever seen.” She dropped to her knees as her aunt came to stand beside her. “It’s this house! Look! Here’s the stair tower, and the front porch, and the eagle doorknocker—everything! It’s just beautiful.”

  Aunt Clare ran her finger along one side of the facade. The entire front of the house swung away, revealing rooms full of furniture.

  Amy loved miniatures. Some of the bookshelves in her bedroom at home had been emptied to make room for tiny tables, lamps, a chest of drawers, even a piano, that she’d bought with her own money or that had been given to her. The whole unhappy afternoon—Louann, Ellen, the scene with her mother—all was forgotten as she stared at the exquisitely detailed rooms.

  “There’s the grandfather clock,” she marveled. “It has a ship painted on it, just like the real one in the hall downstairs. And the rugs are the same. And the painting above the fireplace. And look at the tiny candlesticks!”

  “There used to be a pair just like them on the dining room table downstairs,” Aunt Clare said. “Every detail is correct.” Her voice was curiously
flat.

  “Where did it come from?” Amy demanded. “Was it yours when you were a little girl?” She thought about the times she’d come to the old house with her father and had waited impatiently for him to say they could leave. If she’d known the dollhouse was here, she would have wanted to stay all day.

  “It was my fifteenth birthday present from Grandma and Grandpa Treloar—your great-grandparents,” Aunt Clare said. “Can you imagine giving a fifteen-year-old a dollhouse?”

  “I’d love it,” Amy said. “I’ll love miniatures all my life.” Maybe she and Aunt Clare weren’t so much alike after all. “I could just sit and look at it for hours.”

  “Well,” Aunt Clare said, “Grandma and Grandpa expected me to play with it. It was an expensive, beautiful reminder that they wanted a little girl in their house, not a teenager who was in a big hurry to grow up.” Her voice softened as she reached in and picked up an inch-square needlepoint pillow from the sofa in the parlor. “Grandma Treloar made a lot of the furnishings herself. It was a lovely gift—I know that. And I was a wicked, ungrateful girl. Do you know, I cried when I saw it? I’d been hoping for a record player.”

  Amy couldn’t imagine being disappointed with such a gift. “Which bedroom was yours?” she asked.

  Her aunt pointed to a corner room. “It’s the only one that isn’t perfectly reproduced to the last detail,” she said with a wry little smile. “I had movie star posters all over the walls. Grandma Treloar wouldn’t go that far to be accurate. She made it look the way she thought a young girl’s room should be.”

  Amy examined the canopied bed, the flowered quilt, the white-painted furniture and ruffled curtains. It was a room for a princess. How could Aunt Clare not have loved it?

  “The whole thing was a mistake,” Aunt Clare said, as if she could read Amy’s thoughts. “I mean, our coming to live here was all wrong. When our parents died, about a week apart—they were on vacation in South America and caught some vicious flu bug—I was fourteen and your father was just one year old. A cousin with a big family of his own offered to take Paul and me. We should have gone to them then. But Grandma and Grandpa Treloar wouldn’t hear of it. They had lots of room, plenty of money to hire part-time help, and not enough to think about. Grandma’s arthritis made her quite lame, and she was terribly afraid of becoming an invalid. I think she hoped your father and I would keep them young. But we were a much bigger job than she’d expected. Especially me.” Aunt Clare grimaced at the memory. “We had our first battle the day we moved in. She’d bought a whole closetful of ruffly dresses for me to wear to school. When everyone else was wearing pleated skirts and loafers! I had a fit.”

  Abruptly, Aunt Clare swung the hinged front of the house, closing it with a snap. “Oh, well!” She sighed. “It’s no use looking back. Let’s go downstairs and find something cold to drink before I get thoroughly depressed.” She turned and walked swiftly to the top of the stairs. “Coming?”

  Reluctantly, Amy stood up. She hated to leave the dollhouse, but now that she knew it was there, she intended to come back again. She wanted to examine every piece of furniture, peer into every corner. Finding it seemed a good sign, like finding a four-leaf clover on a day that had brought nothing but trouble.

  DOWNSTAIRS in the big kitchen, Aunt Clare set glasses on the table and filled them with ice cubes and cold tea.

  “I thought I had Coke, but I haven’t,” she apologized. “I run out of things all the time. In Chicago”—she paused, her expression wistful—“there was a great little corner store. I used to shop practically every night on my way home from work.” She sipped the iced tea. “It was a friendly block—I loved it.”

  “Why did you leave?” Amy thought she knew, but she asked anyway. It was nice having a conversation with a grown-up who treated her like an adult.

  “I lost my job,” Aunt Clare said bluntly. “No job, no money to pay the rent. This house had been empty for four years, ever since Uncle James—your great-uncle—died. He was a real hermit—lived in the kitchen and one bedroom and never touched the rest of the house. He didn’t take care of the place, but we were glad to have him move in when…when the rest of us left, thirty years ago. After his death, Paul—your father—kept asking me to come back and clear out the house; he didn’t know what to do with everything. And this seemed like a good time to do the job.” She looked around the kitchen. “Not the cheeriest place to spend a few months, I can assure you, but it’ll do for a while.” She shook her head. “So we all have problems. What about you, Amy? If you don’t mind my saying so, those pretty brown eyes look a bit troubled right now.”

  Amy hesitated. She hadn’t planned to talk about the angry scene that had sent her running out into the countryside.

  “You’ll think I’m a rat,” she said.

  “I doubt it. I’ve done enough ratty things to know how bad it feels. I’m not likely to judge anyone else harshly.”

  Amy clutched her glass in both hands. “It’s Louann,” she said, the words spilling out fast. “I’m so sick of looking after her and smoothing things over when she gets into trouble—and losing friends because of her! That’s what happened this afternoon. I know she can’t help being brain-damaged. She’s like a little kid, and she always will be. I’m just tired of having to think about it. And my mom says I’m really terrible. She says I’m lucky to be the normal one, and I should quit complaining.”

  Aunt Clare looked thoughtful. “I can imagine her feeling that way. What does your father say?”

  Amy shrugged. “Nothing, usually.” She searched for words that would describe her father’s attitude. “He just wants peace, I guess,” she said. “My mom yells and bawls me out, and Dad says, ‘Well, well, I’m sure Amy didn’t mean it’—whatever it is—and he changes the subject. Or he says, ‘Let’s remember we’re a family.’ And that’s not fair, because I’m the kid who has to do all the remembering. Louann just goes along being herself and having her own way.”

  “Family means a lot to your father,” Aunt Clare murmured. “He had so little of it.”

  “He had you. And Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa Treloar.”

  Aunt Clare fluttered her fingers, brushing away the words. “Our parents died when Paul was practically a baby, and we only lived with Grandma and Grandpa Treloar until he was five and I was eighteen. Then they were killed—in an accident—and the cousin who’d wanted to adopt us in the first place took Paul. The poor little guy must have been thoroughly confused by that time. He lost me then, too, because I went to Chicago to look for a job.”

  Amy tried to picture her tall father as a frightened five-year-old and failed. “That’s what I’m going to do,” she said. “The minute I’m eighteen, I’m going to get away from Claiborne. I’m going to have an apartment in Chicago and lots of friends and a neat job.”

  “Doing what?” Aunt Clare smiled. “It isn’t as simple as it was when I did it. Now they ask which college you went to or which business school trained you.”

  “Then I’ll go to college,” Amy vowed. “I’ll go anywhere, just so it’s away from here.”

  Aunt Clare reached across the table and patted her hand. “You do sound as if you’ve had your fill of sistersitting.” She seemed to be turning over something in her mind. “I have a suggestion,” she said. “And that’s all it is—a suggestion. Your mother and father will have to approve. But maybe you and Louann ought to have a vacation from each other for a while. If you’d like to keep me company for a couple of weeks, I’d love to have you.”

  The offer took Amy completely by surprise. “My mom wouldn’t let me,” she said after a moment. “I have to take care of Louann every day until she gets home from work. And when they go out.” She couldn’t say the rest of what she was thinking—that her mother wouldn’t agree because she didn’t particularly like Aunt Clare.

  “I’ll talk to your father first,” Aunt Clare said, as if she were a mind reader. “Will he be home by now?”

  Amy glanced at her watch
and shifted uneasily. Not only would her father be home, but by this time both her parents would be upset by her absence. She could pretend, when she was angry, that they didn’t care what she did, but she knew it wasn’t true. They wanted to know where she was after dark.

  “I’d better call right away,” Amy muttered. “He’s home, all right, and he’s probably mad at me.”

  Aunt Clare put out a restraining hand. “Let me,” she said. She jumped up and hurried down the hall to the telephone niche next to the parlor.

  Amy waited, hardly knowing what to feel. The harshly lit kitchen was faintly shabby with age. The curtains were thin and yellowed, and the linoleum was faded. There was an ancient gas stove with a high oven at one side, and a refrigerator that thrummed. The sink was small and not quite level; a single shelf above it was crowded with cleaning materials. The whole room was as different from her mother’s sparkling, efficient kitchen as it could possibly be.

  Amy felt a flicker of homesickness. Could she really leave her family, her bedroom, everything that she knew, and move out to this isolated old house?

  It’s a sad place, she thought, remembering Aunt Clare’s expression when she talked about the past. I can feel sadness in the air. But then she thought about the picnic Ellen had called off after Louann got into trouble at the mall. She thought about how her sister would beg to go back to the puppet show tomorrow, and how angry Mom would be if Amy refused to take her.

  The voice in the hall sounded warm, smooth, persuasive. Suddenly, Amy was praying that Aunt Clare would be able to make her parents agree to the visit. She wanted to come! In addition to her other reasons, there was the dollhouse up in the attic. I’ll dust it and polish the furniture and make it look just like new, Amy thought. She was picturing the grandfather clock with its tiny gold pendulum and weights, when her aunt came back to the kitchen.

  “Well, I’ve done my best,” she said briskly. “Your father wouldn’t say yes—I gather your mother is very upset about what happened this afternoon. But he didn’t say no, either. I think he wants you to come, Amy, and I’m sure he’s going to see what he can do. Of course, they’ll have to find a sitter to watch Louann after school for a week or so.” She looked thoughtful. “It’ll all take some doing. When you talk to them about it, remember you’re invited because I need company. Don’t mention Louann at all.”