“I must admit I’m a little confused, Mr. MacMillan,” Molly said. Elvis jumped onto her lap, walked around in a circle and collapsed in a heap. She scratched his ears; he purred softly. “I’ve been trying for several years to find a good outlet for my dolls in town, and when Zoe said she’d like to carry them in MacMillan’s I thought we had a done deal.”
“Before this afternoon is over, it may well be,” MacMillan told her.
Zoe moved restively on the sofa. Molly glanced at her. The young woman sat with her arms crossed tight across her chest.
Logan also looked at his daughter as he addressed Molly. “Zoe tells me that your dolls are extraordinary and would sell well at MacMillan’s. I’m sure you’ll convince me she’s right. She generally is.” He smiled a kind, sad smile that softened the hard planes of his face.
Zoe raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
“Actually, you should thank Rick,” Molly said. “He saw the dolls when he came out to do the plumbing on the workshop and dragged Zoe back to look at them.”
Again he flashed her that smile. Molly felt a jolt. This guy could be really dangerous. Too attractive for his own good. Or hers.
“Tell him about the shops that carry your dolls,” Sherry prompted.
“Sure.” Molly ticked off her fingers. “Let’s see, Andreotti in Atlanta handles my dolls, so does Minou et Cie in Brussels, and I’ve just started shipping to Belisarius in Los Angeles. They’re all doing very well with them. MacMillan’s would fit right in.”
“Surely a toy store would be a more appropriate outlet. Why an interior design house?”
“These dolls aren’t toys,” Zoe said. “I told you that.”
“Let me show you,” Molly said. “Wait right here.” She opened the door to the showroom, slipped through and returned a moment later carrying a life-size doll—a little girl in a pale blue party dress and Belgian lace.
Zoe turned to her father. “You see?”
Molly held the doll out to MacMillan, who raised his hands and shook his head as though she were handing him a ticking time bomb. “No thank you. I’d rather not touch it. I break things. But she’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. She’s a portrait doll.”
“What are portrait dolls?”
“People commission me to sculpt dolls that look like their children or grandchildren. They tell me it’s better than a regular portrait or even a statue. Some of them, like this one, are life-size.”
“And expensive?”
“Up to six or seven thousand dollars.”
“You can actually sell dolls for that kind of money?” MacMillan asked, and ran a hand along his jaw. “I don’t know enough to make an educated decision.”
Zoe stood up abruptly. “But I do. That’s the point, isn’t it? In addition to the portrait dolls, Mrs. Halliday also designs and sculpts her own. And she makes beautiful copies of antique dolls. I know we could sell them in MacMillan’s.” She turned to Molly. “Thank you, Mrs. Halliday. I have another meeting at the shop. My father can conclude the negotiations. Supposedly that’s what he came for. Nice to see you, Mrs. Carpenter.” She walked to the front door and opened it.
“Zoe,” Logan called after her.
She kept going. She didn’t quite slam the door after herself, but she certainly closed it with a snap.
“Should I go after her?” Molly said.
Logan sat back on the couch and shook his head. “Sorry about that. Zoe resents what she perceives as my interference, but with an investment of this magnitude…”
“Investment?” Molly said. “You’re getting the dolls on consignment, didn’t Zoe explain that?”
“Consignment? Zoe neglected to mention that. I assumed she was buying them wholesale.” He realized with a sinking sensation that Zoe had deliberately set him up. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Halliday. I misunderstood.” He stood and began to move toward the door.
“Whoa! Not so fast.” Molly laughed. She had to do something to lighten the atmosphere. “You came to see dolls, and by gosh, you’re stuck with them. Come on, Mr. MacMillan, you are going to see enough dolls to last you a lifetime.”
Sherry tucked her hand under MacMillan’s arm. “Don’t worry, Logan, unlike real children, they don’t bite.”
Molly opened the French doors at the back of the room and turned on the lights. She and Sherry hung back. MacMillan stood transfixed in the doorway.
Dolls in satin and lace rode in wicker carriages and antique sleighs; Native American dolls in beaded buckskin sat astride miniature ponies; Irish colleens in tartan shawls swung milk pails; baby dolls slept in bassinets; on a center table smaller dolls played jacks or snuggled under receiving blankets. Around the perimeter of the room, waist-high Victorian ladies nodded to nearly life-size portrait dolls of toddlers and young children dressed in everything from Belgian lace to jeans and cowboy boots.
MacMillan began to work his way methodically around the room as though he were in a museum. He kept his hands carefully clasped behind him. Molly understood. For a man who broke things, the showroom was a disaster waiting to happen.
“How’s the experiment with the vinyl going?” Sherry whispered.
Molly held up crossed fingers. “Great. I’ve cast a couple of my favorites and one of the big toy companies is definitely interested in mass-producing them. I never planned to go commercial, but the money’s too good to pass up.”
“Which ones did you pick?”
“The Jeannette doll—you’ve already got one of her. Then a new one I don’t think you’ve seen. The Dulcy doll is the one right in front of Mr. MacMillan.”
Sherry gasped and stared at MacMillan’s broad back.
Molly saw him stiffen like a bird dog on point.
Suddenly, he reached forward and grabbed the very doll she’d been talking about by its arm. He whirled to face them. As the doll swung, its right leg hit the edge of the table and shattered. Shards of bisque rained onto the table and floor. Without a word, MacMillan grasped the doll around its body and held it up so that both women could look into its face. Sherry moaned softly, “It can’t be.”
Molly felt her scalp tighten. MacMillan’s face was stony, his eyes hard and flat.
He threw the doll onto the table so hard that the crown of its head shattered. Two gray eyeballs flew out and rolled across the tile floor. Without a word he pushed past the two women, through the reception room and out the front door. They heard his footsteps as he ran up the path, heard his car door open then slam, the engine roar into life, and a moment later the gate alarm pealed as he drove into the road and away.
As the sound died, Molly reached out and picked up the broken doll from the table. She cradled it in her arms and turned to Sherry. “What on earth just happened here?”
Sherry sagged against the doorjamb as though her legs wouldn’t support her. “Molly, have you made any other dolls using that mold?”
“I told you, that’s one of the two I cast in vinyl.”
“Where is the other one?”
“In the workroom. I haven’t finished painting her face yet.”
“Go get her. Bring her here.”
Molly opened her mouth as if to argue. Then shrugged and went out.
A moment later, Molly returned from the workshop carrying a large doll loosely wrapped in brown paper. She unwrapped it and