Page 20 of An Overdue Match
“What is it?” I ask in horror. This isn’t one of the sweet, innocent dollhouses I’m used to seeing Grampie working on. No. This is a macabre horror show of a child’s nightmare come to life.
“Isn’t it great?” Penelope is staring down into the box with a look of awe and wonder on her face.
My decorous and genteel sister, her long chestnut hair pulled back in a stylish low ponytail with the ends curled to perfection, is wearing a dress that would command a conference room of her male counterparts. She gazes at a miniature replica of a gruesome crime scene with the same expression other women bestow on baby bunnies.
“They started listening to a true crime podcast a couple of months ago and one thing led to another. Now they re-create murder scenes—”
“One foot to one-inch measurements,” Grampie interjects, making sure Granny gets her facts straight.
Because that’s what’s important here. Obviously.
Granny shakes her head. “Anyway, they build these tiny crime scenes based off the podcast descriptions and then they try to see if they can solve the murder.”
Grampie dips his paintbrush into a small container of red paint. Ever so carefully, he moves his hand into the scene and hovers the bristle beside the wall to the left of the victim. “About here?” He looks at Penelope for confirmation.
She studies the angle carefully before nodding. “I think that’s about right.”
Then I watch something I never thought I’d ever see in my life: my eighty-year-old grandfather meticulously creating believable blood splatter on a dollhouse wall.
“All right, Rizzoli and Isles, time to come upstairs for lunch. Evangeline brought lasagna.” Granny clutches the railing leading to the main floor with her blue-veined hand and leans heavily on the support as she makes her way up the stairs, confident we will obediently follow in her wake.
Penelope peers down at the gruesome scene she and Grampie must have spent hours re-creating, a disappointed pout pursing her lips. It’s like she’s eight again and Granny has just told her to put away her Barbies.
Grampie reaches for a ratty old dishcloth, then cleans the brush he’d been using. “The blood needs to dry anyway. Besides, we can work on it again after lunch. Maybe Evangeline will want to help out.” He looks at me, his watery eyes hopeful.
I don’t want to disappoint Grampie.
I also don’t want to have nightmares tonight.
While the majority of people in this country seem to have been bitten by some type of true-crime bug, I’m much more comfortable with the fictional variety. After all, I can console myself that the twisted mind of the killer is just a figment of an author’s imagination. With true crime, I have to face the fact that there really are warped and evil people in the world doing heinous things every day. It’s not a comforting thought to try to fall asleep to, let me tell you. Every whistle of the wind outside my bedroom window has me conjuring images of a serial killer about to make me his next victim.
I forcibly lift my attention away from the crime scene, which had held me in some sort of trance, only to meet Penelope’s smirk and an expression I can only describe asolder sister.
“I don’t know, Grampie. Evangeline looks a little green around the gills already, and she hasn’t even heard the details of the murder yet.”
Grampie puts the tiny brush back in the Mason jar with the other ones. He turns to me and pats my shoulder a couple oftimes. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. This particular murder happened five years ago.”
“So they’ve caught the woman’s killer?” I’m going to need to triple check my locks tonight. Maybe watchThe Sound of Musicbefore bed in an attempt to whitewash the mental image this scene has seared into my brain. Maybe then I’ll be able to sleep.
Penelope smirks louder. Yes, louder. Her body language is at a deafening decibel at the moment. “Nope. They never could figure out who shot her or why. Isn’t it fascinating?”
“Not the word I’d use,” I mumble, though not quietly enough that Penelope doesn’t hear me.
“You want to see some of the other scenes we’ve built?” Grampie grins like a little kid in a candy store.
I don’t have the heart to refuse him, which is how I find myself staring at a shelf of death. “Wow. You guys have been busy.” I try my hardest to sound impressed and not ill. Itisimpressive. But mostly it’s disturbing.
I turn to Grampie and force a bright smile on my face. “Well, should we go upstairs now? Granny’s sure to get cross with us if we stay down here any longer.”
Grampie pats his belly. “I’m getting hungry anyway. And you know how much I love your lasagna.”
I’m a decent cook, but Grampie would say that even if the noodles were crunchy and the cheese on top burnt.
Penelope lingers beside me as we let our grandfather mount the steps ahead of us. Both Granny and Grampie are in good health for their age and don’t have any issues with mobility, but we still worry about one of them tripping and falling.
“You were supposed to call me back,” Penelope whisper-hisses out of the side of her mouth.
“I’ve been busy,” I whisper back.
