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

Author:Cate Price [Price, Cate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-05-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

On Friday, I was at Sometimes a Great Notion, looking through my auction listings when Eleanor walked in. “What are you doing today, Daisy?”

“There are a couple of auctions I’m interested in, but I’m not sure I should be buying more merchandise with the way things are going. Where’s Martha?”

“Shopping for her big romantic getaway. And you need a day off to forget about your troubles. Come with me to Fabric Row.”

I grinned. “Now that does sound tempting.”

“Come on. It’s the best offer you’ve had all week and you know it.”

My mouth watered at the idea of silk chiffon and vintage buttons.

Eleanor tapped her foot on the floor. “Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

When Laura arrived, Eleanor and I hurried out of the store, but I stopped in dismay when I saw the red Vespa parked outside.

“Oh no, I’m not riding to Philly on the back of that thing. We’ll take my car.”

Eleanor shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

We walked back down Main Street toward the house. Across the street, a sign in the psychic’s window advertised palm readings for ten dollars.

“I wonder how long a psychic can stay in business here at those prices,” I mused, visions of vacant storefronts dancing like spots before my eyes.

“Have you ever gone in there? Had your fortune read?”

I clicked open the locks on the car. “Not sure I believe in that stuff.”

“You’d be surprised,” Eleanor said, giving me an arch look as she slid into the passenger seat. We made a quick stop at the diner for coffee to go, and we were off.

Just under an hour later, we were wandering down historic Fabric Row in Philadelphia, situated roughly between South and Catharine Streets. At the turn of the twentieth century, there would have been pushcarts trundling along here, where Jewish immigrants plied their trade and eventually opened brick-and-mortar establishments.

It was full of dressmakers, upholsterers, costumers, and drapery workrooms. One shop sold nothing but bridal accessories. Another was just for sewing notions, and others sold blinds and shades, bedding and pillows.

We entered the first shop, enjoying the familiar sight of bolts of fabric crammed together, and battered cardboard boxes with yards of rayon cord valance, piping, and beaded trim spilling out over the tops. There was a long row of cutting tables in the back and, as usual, a wizened proprietor perched on a stool somewhere in the shadows.

“God, I’m exhausted,” Eleanor said. “That maniac, Tony Z, decided he has a crush on me. He’s been singing outside my bedroom window at all hours of the night.”

Tony Zappata, the barber, had a beautiful operatic tenor voice with which he entertained clients as he gave them a short back and sides.

“He really has a very nice voice,” I murmured.

“Not at three o’clock in the morning!” she snapped. “I finally called the police and had him arrested for disturbing the peace.”

“Ah, poor Tony. The perils of unrequited love.”

“It’s not funny, Daisy. You try listening to ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ when you’re trying to sleep.

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