Little Girls(37)

“The belvedere?”

“The little room on the roof. The room where . . . where my father . . .”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I don’t have a key for the lock, Ms. Larosche.”

“Call me Teresa.”

“Thank you, Teresa. You know the lock I’m talking about? I was told you might still have the key.”

Another beat of silence on the other end of the line. Just when she thought Teresa would have to be prodded again, the woman said, “Yes, I have the key. I apologize. I thought I’d turned everything over to Dora after I left.”

“It’s no big deal, though I’d like to have it back.”

“I can drop it in the mail for you first thing tomorrow.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d prefer we meet and you could give it to me directly. If it got lost in the mail, I’d have to tear the molding off the door just to get the lock off.” This wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was good enough.

“Are you at the house now?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to go to that house,” said the woman.

“Oh. Okay. Well, that’s not a problem. I’d be more than happy to meet you someplace that’s convenient for you.”

A dog yipped on the other end of the line. Teresa mumbled something to it, then returned to the receiver, her voice breathy and sleepy-sounding. “Okay. I can meet you around noon on Saturday. There’s a place downtown on Main Street called The Brickfront. It’s a coffee shop. Can you find it?”

“Yes. And thank you for—”

“No problem,” Teresa Larosche said and immediately hung up.





Chapter 12


Stephanie Canton was a meticulous little woman who arrived Friday afternoon dressed in a lime-green knit pantsuit, her cadaverous complexion offset by bright red lipstick and a shock of orange hair more befitting of a circus clown than an estate liquidator. With a black loose-leaf binder tucked under one arm, she marched through the house with Laurie at her elbow, examining the furniture as well as the overall condition of the house itself. When she paused to swipe a pointy little finger through the dust on the top of the piano in the parlor, Laurie imagined herself clubbing the woman over the head with the brass candelabrum, then dragging her dwarfish body down into the sanctum of the dungeonlike basement.

“When was the house built?” Ms. Canton quipped.

“You know, I have no idea. Maybe sometime in the sixties?”

“The woodwork is handmade. Do you see the detailing in the balustrade?” They were in the foyer now, with Ms. Canton pointing at the stairwell banister. This was their second lap around the house and the woman had yet to make any notes in her little black binder. “The spindles look hand-carved. Do you see the variants in each spindle? Do you?”

Laurie leaned close and squinted at the balusters. “I guess so. . . .”

“Did your father do any woodworking himself, Mrs. Genarro?”

“Not that I know of. He was a businessman. And a gardener.”

Ms. Canton made a noise that suggested her disapproval of either businessmen or gardeners. Or both.

“The floors are in abhorrent condition,” the woman went on. “Often, wood like this can be rejuvenated with some polish and buffing, but these appear to be beyond repair.”

“Forgive me, but I thought you were here just to look at the furniture.”

“I’m fearful to learn that the items I may have interest in will be in a similar state.”

In the parlor, Ms. Canton scrutinized the Victor Victrola for a decent amount of time. She opened the cabinet doors and inspected the wood grain within. She examined the felt of the turntable and the condition of the arm. She finally opened the black binder and took down notes. “May I?” she inquired, nodding sharply at the crank on the side of the cabinet.

“Go right ahead,” Laurie said. She watched while the smallish woman wound the crank and then stood on her toes while positioning the needled arm onto the record that had begun to spin on the turntable. A shushing sound radiated from the machine—a lilting waltz adorned with pops and hisses. Laurie was reminded of her dream, the one where the phonograph started playing as Abigail hovered above her in the darkness.

“Do you see this?” Ms. Canton said as she pointed to a label on the underside of the Victrola’s hood. It showed a dog listening to a phonograph with its head cocked at a curious angle. “That’s the authentic trademark of the Victor Talking Machine Company. See? It even says so beneath the picture. The first of these machines was built in 1901.”

“When was this one built?”

“This is a Victrola model. The date is worn away, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was built around 1909 or 1910.”

“Wow.”

“Is this a family heirloom?”

“No. When my father was young, he worked in the steel industry and eventually owned a factory in Sparrows Point. There was stuff left behind in storage from the original owners of the factory, and my father spent some time going through the place and cleaning it up. I can’t be sure, but I think this was one of the things my father had salvaged from the factory’s storage sheds.”

Ms. Canton stepped to the left of the Victrola and peered down into the boxful of record albums. One curious eyebrow raised, she jotted another note in her binder, then snapped it shut with an audible clap.