Dolled Up for Murder (6 page)

“And this,” Detective Albright said, pointing to the doll, “is one of the dolls on that list. We found the doll and list buried together deep in a supply cabinet. The clothing on the doll matches the description. Don’t you agree?”

“But Martha Williams lost her doll collection years ago. At least that’s what Nina said.”

Larry pulled off his sunglasses and blinked rapidly, “That’s right. She didn’t have a single doll. She lived on the street. The inventory is clearly an old, invalid list.”

The detective’s shiny smile was missing. “How much is this doll worth?”

“We aren’t appraisers,” Gretchen said, coldly, understanding the implications of the question.

“April Lehman will answer that for me,” Detective Albright said.

“You can’t take the doll,” Gretchen insisted.

“Oh, but I can.” The detective suddenly noticed Larry squinting and blinking. “Something in your eye?”

“No,” Larry said. “A nervous twitch. It comes and goes.” He put the sunglasses back on.

Gretchen again surveyed the list of dolls. It was an impressive inventory of antiques, although not particularly large for a serious collector. Poured wax dolls, bisque dolls, wooden dolls, china dolls. Each, she guessed, worth a dollar figure well into the thousands.

The parian doll found in the cabinet matched the one on the list. But Gretchen didn’t find an entry for a French fashion doll.

And no doll trunk.

“I’d like a copy of this list,” Gretchen said. “And a picture of the doll before you take it.”

Detective Albright nodded and stepped away, clasping his hands behind his back. “That’s a reasonable request.” He motioned to one of the officers. “I noticed a copy machine attached to the computer printer in the workshop,” he said as the officer approached. “Get a copy, and be careful.”

Gretchen looked at the doll on the table, then at the detective. She watched a thin line of moisture gather above the detective’s brow as the other officer moved past him, snapped a picture, and took the doll. In fact, Albright flattened against the wall, allowing the officer more room to maneuver than he actually needed.

The officers found nothing else out of the ordinary. The rest of the search seemed perfunctory and ended abruptly, as though the parian doll and the inventory list had been the true purpose of their mission all along.

An obsolete inventory of dolls and the discovery of a doll that had once belonged to a dead collector. What was going on?

Caroline awoke stiff. Her muscles ached from lying on the hard seats in the passenger waiting area of gate C79. A flight attendant stood behind a counter nearby and readied the gate for an early morning flight. The flight board read Orlando, 6:35 A.M., On Time. Travelers lugging carry-on bags began to arrive.

Caroline sat up and stretched her cramped limbs. She made her way to the women’s restroom, where she attempted to freshen up. She bought a sweet roll and hot tea from a vendor, grudgingly parting with a few dollar bills.

She hurried out of the main terminal, searching among the throng of transportation vehicles. She didn’t notice the overcast sky and the drops of rain splattering around her. She stepped solidly into the center of a large puddle as she boarded a shuttle for downtown Chicago, immersed in her own thoughts.

It was now or never. Time for action. She would see the doll today, one way or another.

Whatever it took.

6

The wise collector has an extensive inventory list of the most significant dolls in the collection. A complete description would include the doll’s maker, height in inches, body construction, overall condition, costume details, and type and color of wig, eyes, and mouth. This list should be stored with the collector’s will or other important legal documents to aid an appraiser in evaluating the collection’s value. Pictures of each doll are another priceless asset that the collector will never regret taking the time to include.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Nina teetered on the edge of hysteria. She stomped back and forth on the Mexican tile that bordered Caroline’s swimming pool and had come precariously close to tipping into it on her last turn. Tutu followed on her heels, and Gretchen suspected that the latest dog trainee in the poodle-embroidered purse on her shoulder would soon succumb to motion sickness.

“Nothing makes sense anymore.” Nina continued her frenzied pacing. “Something’s happened to your mother. I can feel it.”

“She isn’t dead,” Gretchen said, finally broaching the inevitable subject.

Nina, her lower lip trembling, whirled. “We don’t know that.”

“Yes, we do. I searched the mountain and didn’t find her. No one has discovered her body.”

“She could have been murdered, too,” Nina cried. “And her body . . .”

“No, she’s alive and hiding,” Gretchen said firmly.

“I refuse to believe that my sister killed Martha Williams. And what do the police think? That she killed Martha for a doll?” Nina snorted. “Please. They need to come up with a better motive than that.”

“We need to find her and the French fashion doll.”

“All these different dolls are confusing me. The Parisian doll and the French doll. Aren’t they the same thing?”

“Parian, not Parisian. Parian refers to the type of finish given to the porcelain. A parian’s face is white. Tell me what happened to Martha’s doll collection. Where is it?”

Nina, the dramatist, flung her arms out wide, then bent and slapped them on her thighs, causing the purse trainee to duck inside for cover. “Martha wouldn’t tell us. April Lehman even offered to buy several dolls from her collection at fair market prices. In fact, they had a little falling-out over that. Martha refused to sell until it was too late, and I think the bank auctioned them off with the rest of her possessions, including the house. She really did lose everything.”

Gretchen watched the black pup venture to poke its curly head out of the purse, its ears flattened against its head.

“Give the little curly mutt a break, Nina. It’s going to upchuck in the purse.”

Nina gasped. “This isn’t a mutt. He’s a teacup poodle.”

She released the tiny poodle. It shook its body and ran off around the pool with Tutu. At ten pounds Tutu towered monumentally over the puppy. “Nimrod will be with me for the next two days. His owner is out of town, and he’s in immersion training. He loves his purse already.”

Gretchen sat down on the edge of the pool and slid one bare foot along the surface. “I couldn’t find a work order for the doll the police confiscated,” she said. Her mother kept pink copies of all her work orders in the top drawer of the workbench. “The records aren’t well-organized, though.”

“Your mother is rather disorganized. That doesn’t mean much.” Nina glanced at her watch. “It’s almost eleven. We’ll miss our hair appointment if we don’t leave right now. Tutu. Nimrod. Let’s go.”

Nina packed up her entourage while Gretchen checked on Wobbles, who had disappeared during the search but reappeared briefly to voice his objections to the intrusion as soon as the police left. She found him curled in a ball in the center of her mother’s bed, sound asleep.

She carefully secured the house, not about to forget to lock up again.

Nina headed for Scottsdale Road, zipping through traffic, making up for lost time. “I should cancel my hair appointment and help you. After all, I’m the one who insisted that you come to Phoenix.”

“It’s absolutely fine,” Gretchen assured her, wanting some personal space to consider the problem on her own. “You can help me this afternoon.”

“Matt Albright has a dreadful fear of dolls,” Nina said, swerving into another lane. “There’s even a name for it—pediophobia.”

“That explains why he backed away whenever someone approached with the doll.” Gretchen remembered his discomfort. “And that explains why he wouldn’t enter the workshop.”

“Bonnie had to keep all her dolls in a spare bedroom with the door closed.” Nina screeched to a halt at a red light and turned to check on the dogs in the backseat, making sure no one had fallen forward.

“It started when he was a young boy. Every time he saw one of her dolls, he’d feel faint and nauseous,” Nina continued. “He had trouble breathing and broke out in a sweat. I saw it happen once, and it was awful. We could never have meetings at her house. And she’s the president of the club.”

Gretchen suddenly thought of the French fashion doll’s shawl in Nina’s trunk. “It’s a good thing you have the shawl. What if the police had found it at the house?”

“A little piece of fabric? It wouldn’t have meant a thing to them,” Nina said. “Besides, you said the Bru and the trunk weren’t on the list.”

“Which makes it more puzzling. We have to find out why she had doll accessories and the picture with her when she died.”

Nina brought the car to a stop under a sign reading Scottsdale Solutions and opened the car door. “You have at least two hours, maybe three. I’ll call you on your cell when we are almost finished. Can I leave Nimrod with you?”

Gretchen reluctantly looked at the miniature black fur ball sitting in the backseat. Hearing his name, Nimrod tipped his head to the side and took a step forward, wagging his tail. Gretchen looked doubtful as she walked around to the driver’s side of the car and slipped in.

“I wee-weed him before we left your mother’s house,” Nina said, as if that would make all the difference.

“I’d rather not,” Gretchen said, attempting a firm
no
, but barely managing the watered-down version that always begged a challenge.

“He won’t be a bother,” Nina insisted, clipping a leash on Tutu’s collar and standing aside while the canine jumped to the ground. “Oh, I almost forgot to leave you his poodle purse.”

Wouldn’t that be a serious fashion faux pas?
Gretchen thought.
A dog without his purse.

Nina tugged the dog purse from her shoulder and quickly threw it on Gretchen’s lap. “Have fun.”

Gretchen and Nimrod pulled away and turned toward the center of the city of Phoenix, situated on the opposite side of Camelback Mountain. Three hours didn’t give her much time. She drove to the older part of downtown, west of Central Avenue, and slowly cruised up and down each street, moving to First Avenue then Second Avenue in a quest to find the homeless man.

Her encounter with him on the street in front of the restaurant wasn’t chance, and Gretchen didn’t think he was a ranting madman. She was convinced that he had a compelling reason to threaten her, and she needed to know why.

The midday heat had driven most of the homeless to seek shelter from the sun, but a few directionless people wandered the sidewalks. She weaved through the endless lines of cars. Phoenix traffic was perpetually in gridlock every hour of the day including late evening rush hour.

Gretchen didn’t see the man.

After several passes, she eased to the curb, reached in the backseat, and lifted Nimrod into the front seat. His tiny feet spun in anticipation, and once she opened the purse he lunged eagerly inside.

“You’re an old pro at this, aren’t you,” she said, adjusting dog and purse on her shoulder.

She walked along First Avenue, Nimrod peeking out from the safety of his mobile home. He felt weightless on her shoulder. The noon sun scorched the pavement. Gretchen made an effort to stay in the shadows of the buildings, but they offered little comfort from the oppressive heat.

A woman walked slowly toward her, pushing a shopping cart piled with clothes and a variety of personal treasures most people would have discarded. Gretchen had read somewhere that women were the fastest-growing segment of the homeless population. A sad statement.

Gretchen heard the woman mutter as she neared.

“Excuse me,” Gretchen said. “Can you help me?”

The woman stopped and stared at Gretchen with suspicion until her gaze shifted to the purse. She saw Nimrod and visibly softened.

“I’m looking for someone,” Gretchen said.

“Nice doggy.” The woman reached out with dirty hands and ragged fingernails to stroke Nimrod, and Gretchen willed herself not to flinch or pull the purse away. Nimrod sniffed curiously and allowed her to pat his little head.

“I’m looking for a man with a growth on the side of his head,” Gretchen said. “It’s important that I find him.”

“I’m Daisy,” the woman said, not looking up from Nimrod, stroking his curly black fur. “Have you come to see me? I’ve been waiting years to be discovered. I’ll be famous, you know, very soon.”

“I’m sure you will. But today I’m looking for someone else.”

Daisy sighed. “Always someone else. I’m always passed over. Too short for the part, they say, or too tall. Always wrong for the casting.” She gave Nimrod a final pat, hung her head, and began pushing her cart.

“Do you know the man?” Gretchen followed, walking in step with her. “I don’t know how else to describe him. The lump on his head is sizable. Do you know him?”

“Nacho,” Daisy muttered. “Macho Nacho. What’s the doggy’s name?”

“Nimrod.”

“Ah, the mighty hunter.”

Gretchen felt frustrated. The woman’s delusions must have been caused by mental illness or by the infernal, suffocating desert heat. The weight of the sun burned down on Gretchen as she slowed her steps and fell behind Daisy, soon coming to a complete stop. Nimrod waited patiently at her side as they watched the homeless woman walk away, pushing her cart.

“His name is Nacho,” Daisy called loudly without looking back.

Gretchen ran to catch up, forgetting about the heat. “Where can I find him?”

“You look like a nice lady. Can you spare a dollar?”

Gretchen moved Nimrod to her other shoulder and fished a five dollar bill out of her purse.

“A fiver is just right. High-five,” Daisy exclaimed.

She extended her open palm, and Gretchen hesitantly followed her lead. Daisy slapped their hands together briskly. “He sleeps some nights at the Rescue Mission. Later today he’ll eat at St. Anskar’s Parish. The soup kitchen opens at five. You can find him there.”

Maybe Gretchen had misjudged her mental capabilities.

She thanked Daisy for the information and hurried back to the car.

Nimrod woofed from the purse, reminding her abruptly that she had a purse dog to worry about as well as her mother.

Gretchen stopped at a grocery store to stock up on a few days’ worth of supplies and was relieved that Nimrod slept at the bottom of the purse while she shopped. She doubted that a food store would welcome a teacup poodle.

Gretchen arrived at the hair salon in time to escort the freshly shampooed duo. Nina and Tutu wore identical candy-striped bows in their hair.

After Nina reclaimed her position in the driver’s seat, Gretchen related her meeting with Daisy. “You never said you were looking for that homeless man,” Nina whined. “I would have liked to come along.”

“Would you like to go to St. Anskar’s Parish with me later to look for him?” Gretchen’s offered consolation prize would serve her own interests, too. She needed transportation.

“Of course,” Nina said, perking up.

“In the meantime, let’s call Gertie. Maybe my mother went to Michigan to visit.”

Gertie Johnson, her father’s sister, lived in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. She wasn’t related by blood to Nina or Caroline, a fact Nina pointed out every time she heard another story about the aunt-in-law’s antics. Gertie had named all three of her children for horses: Blaze, Star, and Heather. Because Blaze was the local sheriff, Gertie fancied herself an expert on police procedure and investigative technique.

“That aunt of yours causes nothing but trouble,” Nina said, watching the road with one eye while Gretchen punched in numbers on her cell phone. “She’s an odd duck, if you ask me.”

Nina and Gertie are exactly alike,
Gretchen thought.
Quirky, flamboyant, and always right. That’s why they don’t get along.

“Haven’t seen her,” Gertie said after exchanging the briefest of pleasantries.

Gretchen explained the events of the last few days, and when she finished, Gertie whistled. “That’s complicated,” she said. “Have they issued a warrant for Caroline yet?”

“No, of course not. She didn’t kill Martha.”

“Bet my shorts they’ll arrest her anyway.”

Gretchen shuddered. The thought had crossed her mind as well.

“The answer,” Gertie continued. “Is always right under your nose.”

Gretchen looked down at Nimrod, who rode on her lap and had a contented smile on his face. At the moment, he was the only thing right under her nose.

She heard a distinctive sniff from the backseat where Tutu rode solo.

“Gretchen, are you listening to me?”

“Yes. But I’m confused.”

“Pay attention to everything that’s happening around you; watch people’s reactions. Add everything up, and remember that nothing unusual that happens will be a coincidence. Trust your instincts.”

Gretchen smiled. That’s exactly what Nina always said.

“And find the dead woman’s bag of clothes.”

Gretchen was startled. “What bag of clothes?”

“You said she was homeless, so she doesn’t have a home you can search for clues. Normally I’d advise you to break in and have a look around. But this isn’t a normal situation. She must have had a few personal things. Where are they, and what are they?”

Gretchen thought about Nacho’s garbage bag and Daisy’s shopping cart. Even though Martha lost all her worldly possessions, she may have collected personal odds and ends since then.