The Dollmaker (6 page)

F
rom the window in her hospital room, Claire watched the flashes of lightning as the storm rolled in from the Gulf. Her door had been left ajar and hospital noises drifted in, but she tuned out the sounds. If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough she could hear the rain.

She imagined the patter of it through the palm fronds and banana trees in the courtyard behind her house. She could smell the musty scent of wet dirt and ancient brick, and she pictured herself standing beneath the eave of the house, her palms turned up to the sky.

When she was a child she used to catch rainwater in a fruit jar. Her mother could never understand her fascination, but to Claire there had always been something soothing about the rain that fell in New Orleans. Something spiritual about the way the trees would begin to whisper in the sweltering heat and the sky would darken suddenly, as if a curtain had dropped over the landscape. And then the rain would come.

“You’re gonna get wet, Mama,” Ruby would later tell her.

“I don’t mind. Come out here with me. Take my hand, that’s a girl. Now hold your face up like this and close your eyes. What do you feel?”

“It tickles.”

“Feels good, too, though, doesn’t it?”

“I like the rain, Mama.”

“I like it, too, baby.”

Claire turned from the window, letting the memory of her daughter drift away as she stared up at the ceiling. Ruby had vanished seven years ago without a trace. And now a doll that looked exactly liked her had turned up in a shop window in the French Quarter. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The resemblance was too striking. Someone who knew Ruby, or at least had seen her, had sculpted that doll. There was no other possible explanation for such an uncanny likeness. The artist had captured perfectly the shape of Ruby’s face, her expression, even the precocious half smile that had been the child’s very essence.

Claire’s eyes filled with tears as she thought about the implication of the doll’s existence. After all this time, was it possible that she might find out what had happened to her daughter?

She was afraid to let even a tiny glimmer of hope back into her heart. She’d been disappointed so many times in the past. What if it
was
just a coincidence? If she’d learned anything in the last seven years, it was to take things one step at a time. The first thing she had to do was get out of the hospital.

Feeling helpless and trapped by her injuries, she brushed away frustrated tears. She had a concussion and a gash on her left hand that had required twelve stitches. After the doctor patched her up in the emergency room, he’d used tweezers to pick out the bits of glass and gravel that were embedded in her palms and the backs of her arms. Then he’d sent her to X-ray, and afterward she’d been transferred to a room on the second floor, where she was supposed to spend a quiet night.

But people had been drifting in and out of her room all evening. Doctors, nurses, her family. She found it impossible to rest, especially once the painkiller started to wear off. Every bone in her body ached, and she knew the cut on her hand was going to give her problems in the studio. She wouldn’t be able to work the glass properly, which meant that until she healed, she would have fewer pieces on display in the gallery. The loss of income would be a blow to her already dwindling bank account, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Her immediate concern had little to do with her physical discomfort or her financial problems.

She didn’t want to stay in the hospital until morning. She wanted to go back to the Quarter, back to that shop. But every time she tried to leave, she’d been discouraged by one of the nurses who came in periodically to check on her, or by Charlotte, who’d barely left her side since the accident happened. The extent of her injuries couldn’t be determined until all her test results came back, they insisted.

And then her mother had burst into the room, and Claire’s remaining energy had been expended trying to calm her down. Lucille meant well, but she could be both physically and emotionally exhausting under the best of circumstances. Claire had been relieved when Charlotte finally dragged her off for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria.

The quiet had been welcome at first, and Claire had even managed to doze off. But the sound of a siren had roused her with a start, and now she was wide-awake and getting more anxious by the moment.

Slipping out of bed, she walked stiffly to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water, then took stock of the damage. A bandage covered the cut on her hand, and when she tugged up her hospital gown, she discovered a bruise the size of a basketball on her left hip and thigh where the car had struck her.

In spite of how she looked and felt, she would have checked herself out of the hospital, no matter how vehemently Charlotte and the nurses argued, if she thought she could even make it to the elevators. But considering the way her legs trembled from the short walk to the bathroom, the prospect of escape tonight seemed doubtful. By the time she made it back to her bed, she was shaking all over and perspiring.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she eased herself under the covers and collapsed against the pillow just as the door opened and a nurse came bustling into the room, her dark eyes striking against her pale skin.

“You should have pushed the call button for help,” she scolded.

“I’m okay.”

“Your family is in the waiting room just down the hall.” The nurse picked up Claire’s wrist and timed her pulse. “They asked me to let them know when I’m finished so they can come back in. But if you’d rather, I can tell them you need your rest.”

“Have you met my mother? She doesn’t discourage so easily.”

“Oh, I’ve met her all right.” The nurse strapped the blood pressure cuff around Claire’s arm and pumped it up. “Everyone on this floor has met her by now. She’s a real pistol, that one.”

“To say the least.”

The nurse noted Claire’s vitals on the chart, then looked up with a smile. “Anything I can get for you? Do you need something for pain?”

“I don’t want to take anything else just yet.”

“That’s up to you. But if you get too uncomfortable, let me know. And if you need help getting up to go to the bathroom, push the call button. I don’t want to come in here and find you collapsed on the floor.”

Claire nodded.

“You’ve missed dinner, but I could find you a tray if you’re hungry.”

“No, thanks, I couldn’t eat a bite.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.” The nurse paused at the door. “What’s the verdict? Shall I send your mother back in?”

“If you must.”

The nurse grinned. “To tell you the truth, I’d be afraid not to.”

“There’s no point in you two staying here all night,” Claire told her mother and sister a little while later. “You should just go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Charlotte folded her arms as she stared down at Claire. “I have a feeling the minute my back is turned, you’ll try to get up out of that bed. You heard what the doctor said. You have a concussion. You need to rest quietly for at least twenty-four hours.”

“I can rest at home.”

“Claire, listen to your sister.” Her mother bent over the bed and tucked the sheet around Claire’s shoulders. “We’re not going anywhere, so you just lie there and let us take care of you.”

“But you know I don’t like to be fussed over.”

“Like it or not, that’s what happens when you get hit by a car.” Lucille Doucett patted the nest of blond curls piled on top of her head, then her hand came down to rest on a hip bone sharp enough to slice meat.

After Charlotte had called her from the emergency room, Lucille had dropped everything to rush straight over to the hospital, barely taking the time to smear on lipstick and slide her feet into the three-inch high heels she always favored. But her hair and clothes were a mess. The neck of her T-shirt was stretched out of shape and her jeans were a size too small even on her slight frame. She hadn’t gained weight since she’d bought them; she wore them that way on purpose, with the legs rolled up to show off the gator tooth that hung on a gold chain around her left ankle.

“You’re still trembling, honey. Are you cold?” She unfolded the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled it up.

Claire sighed in resignation. “No, Mama, I’m fine. I just want to get out of here so I can go back to the shop and find out about that doll.”

Lucille and Charlotte exchanged a glance over Claire’s bed, and she frowned. “Please don’t look at each other like that. I’m not crazy.”

“No one said anything about you being crazy, hon.”

“No, but you’re both thinking it.” Claire turned to Charlotte. “I never should have let you talk me into getting into that ambulance.”

“Well, it’s not like you had a choice in the matter. You weren’t even conscious when the paramedics arrived. You’re hurt, Claire. A lot worse than you want to admit.”

“But what if something happens to the doll before I can get back to the store? What if she’s sold—”

“Hush now.” Lucille rubbed Claire’s arm. “Don’t worry about that tonight. You just do as the doctor said and get some rest.”

Claire turned her head toward the window and watched the lightning. “You don’t believe me, do you, Mama?”

“What a thing to say. Of course I believe you.”

“Then why are you and Charlotte still here? Why haven’t you gone to that shop to see the doll for yourself?”

“Because my main concern at the moment is you, baby girl.”

“But if you really believed me, you’d be moving heaven and earth to find out where that doll came from.”

“Claire, honey—”

“I’m not crazy, Mama, and I’m not imagining things. The doll in that window was the spitting image of Ruby. Charlotte saw her, too.”

Her sister’s gaze wavered and she looked away.

Claire said angrily, “Why are you acting this way, Charlotte? Just tell Mama what you saw.”

“I can’t.” Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed with emotion. “I can’t tell her what you want me to because I didn’t get a good look. And I don’t see how you did, either. All I could tell was that the doll had curly blond hair. She wore a pink ruffled dress. She might have looked a little like Ruby, but even if she was the spitting image as you claim, it doesn’t mean—”

“That Ruby’s still alive? I know that. But it has to mean
something.
”

Charlotte let out a long breath. “Maybe it does, I don’t know. But I hate seeing you get your hopes up like this. It’s been seven years.”

Claire glanced back out at the rain. “I know how long it’s been. Right down to the day, the hour, the very minute that I first noticed her missing.”

“I know you do.” Charlotte bit her lip. Tears shone in her eyes. “I know how much you still miss her. I miss her, too. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her.”

“Then stop fighting me on this. There’s a doll out there that looks like my missing daughter. Help me find out why.”

When Charlotte didn’t answer right away, Lucille rushed to fill the silence. “Claire, you know we’d do anything for you, don’t you?”

“Will you go look at the doll with me?” Claire clutched her mother’s hand. “Mama, you have to see her. She looks exactly like Ruby, right down to that little pink dress you made for her seventh birthday. You remember it, don’t you? The one with the little white flowers?”

“Of course I remember it. I worked my fingers to the bone on all that embroidery.”

“She loved it so much. I couldn’t get her out of it.”

Lucille sniffed. “She called it her twirly dress. We had to go out and get her a new pair of shoes to go with it. Man, was that kid headstrong when she set her mind to something.”

Claire laughed softly.

A deep voice said from the doorway, “Is this a private party or can anyone join in?”

The room went still as Claire’s gaze connected with Alex Girard’s. He stood at the door, one hand propped on the frame as a lazy smile encompassed all three women. He looked lean and tanned, like someone who might belong to a country club. His suit was charcoal, his tie silver and his tasseled loafers were polished and buffed. That was one thing about Alex. Even on a cop’s salary, he always made sure he was well put together. He didn’t leave the house if he wasn’t.

Claire found herself staring at him almost as if he were a stranger. They’d been married for nearly six years, but somehow she always found something about him that she hadn’t noticed before. He was an attractive man, but his dark eyes made her think of one of those fun house mirrors that didn’t always reflect reality. He was in his late thirties and already starting to look a little like his father.

He wouldn’t want to hear that, Claire thought. Nor would he believe it. Like every other cop she’d ever known, he had a formidable ego.

“What are you doing here, Alex?”

He straightened from the doorway and came to stand at the foot of her bed. “My wife gets herself hit by a car, where else am I going to be?”

Claire was on the verge of reminding him that, for all intents and purposes, she was no longer his wife, but she didn’t want to start an argument in front of her mother and sister, so she said instead, “How did you know I was here?”

He grinned. “I’m a cop. I know everything.”

One look at Charlotte’s guilty face, however, confirmed Claire’s suspicion. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here. I’m fine.”

“I wanted to see that for myself.” He nodded to her mother. “Hello, Lucille.”

“Alex.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while. How’ve you been?”

“Can’t complain. And you?”

“Same old same old. Stabbings, shootings, a sliced-up tweaker in the Quarter. Just a routine week in the Big Easy.”

“If you’re that busy maybe we shouldn’t keep you.”

Anger flashed like quicksilver in Alex’s gray eyes. For some reason, his charm had never worked on Claire’s mother, and he couldn’t understand why. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind giving me and Claire a moment alone.”

“That’s up to Claire.”