Dolled Up for Murder (11 page)

“Dead,” the voice had whispered. “You are next unless you give me what I want.”

Caroline understood the message perfectly.

She was dead either way.

12

Searching for dolls to add to your collection is fun and challenging. Dolls can be found in the most unlikely places. Garage sales, block rummage sales, local estate auctions, flea markets, even nestled among other antiques in a friend’s attic. The possibilities are endless. Keep your eyes open, and happy hunting.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Gretchen sped along Lincoln Avenue toward downtown Phoenix, feeling released from the claustrophobia she always experienced when she spent too much time around other people. The only personal space she’d managed to find in the past three days was on a rocky mountain in arid summer heat where risking death by bugs or reptiles seemed more desirable than one more minute with Nina and her cast of loony fuzz balls.

In honor of the moment, she purchased lunch at a convenience store—a large bag of potato chips and a sugar-laden soda—and vowed to eat until the chips were history. The challenge was eating, drinking, and driving with only one good arm, but she smiled smugly at her ability to adapt to adverse conditions. She popped another chip into her mouth.

As long as her cell phone didn’t ring or Detective Albright didn’t appear in her rearview mirror, she could handle this level of multitasking. So far, there was no sign of the dogged detective who seemed to have no social life. When did the guy take a day off?

Gretchen chomped chips and admired the scenery. Luxury homes dotted the hillside along Lincoln like embedded jewels, and palm trees lined the boulevards. The weather-man reported the current pollen count.

Phoenix reminded Gretchen of the setting for a fantasy novel or science fiction movie. It even smelled foreign and exotic. As she descended from the hills into the base of the city’s valley, a brown cloud of pollution rose to greet her, the consequence of building a city’s hub in a protected basin. A strong rain or high winds would clean up the air, but Gretchen doubted that it rained much in July.

She maneuvered into a parking space near the Phoenix Rescue Mission and, after studying the outside of the building, she walked inside and approached a wizened woman behind a desk.

“Everybody gone. Eight o’clock,” she replied in broken English. “Back to street. Find work or go church or what.”

“Thank you,” Gretchen said, noticing a sign at the desk reminded all guests to vacate the premises by eight in the morning.

Gretchen had missed him, thanks partly to pesky, runaway Tutu. Reluctantly she admitted her own share of blame. She should have set an alarm.

She attempted to describe Nacho to the woman, but based on the confused expression on her face, the woman simply didn’t understand what Gretchen wanted to convey. Nacho’s name and an animated description of the knob on his head drew a blank, uncomprehending stare.

As she left the Rescue Mission, she chastised herself for never learning Spanish.

Central Avenue seemed oddly familiar after she’d spent several hours driving it the day before. Gretchen glanced at her broken wrist, the only thing she had to show for yesterday’s efforts. That and Nacho’s notebook, stowed safely in her purse. She had been mistaken to think he would call, that she could force him to respond.

As always, driving helped clear Gretchen’s mind, and she sorted out the connections among those involved in Martha’s life. Nothing made sense.

Her mother obviously knew Martha better than Nina thought, based on the parian doll and the inventory list found in her workshop. The picture in Nacho’s notebook connected him to Caroline as well.

Joseph Reiner had failed to let the doll club know of his relationship with Martha, quite an omission, considering she had just died.

And April, who openly disliked Martha, had abruptly left town after appraising articles found on the dead woman’s body. Gretchen wondered what that was all about.

She drove around the block and headed back down Central Avenue without a plan. Morning traffic clogged the street, giving her time to continue with her mental exercise and attempt to understand what was happening.

Her mother had hidden a parian doll in her workshop that had once belonged to Martha and she had also hidden a French fashion doll that, according to the inventory list, had never belonged to Martha. Martha had a picture with her when she died of the same French fashion doll.

The note found with Martha implied that Caroline had killed her. But would Martha have had enough time to write out a message to the police?

The message scrawled by Caroline on the back of the photocopy of the picture of the French fashion doll and trunk upset Gretchen the most. She could think of multiple reasons for her mother’s disappearance and for the note found in Martha’s hand. But the picture she found last night in Nacho’s notebook wasn’t ambiguous. It stated the facts boldly.

Caroline was hiding a doll, and not just any doll, but a doll worth a lot of money, and it didn’t belong to her.

The parian found in the police search hadn’t belonged to Caroline.

The French fashion doll—whereabouts unknown—didn’t belong to Caroline, either.

If she didn’t know her mother as well as she did, she might agree with the authority’s decision to issue an arrest warrant.

Gretchen glanced at the two pink bracelets on her right wrist. She would never lose faith in her mother. There had to be another explanation, and she would find it.

As soon as Gretchen turned onto First Avenue she spotted Nacho pushing a shopping cart. He saw the car at the same time and looked desperately around for an escape route.

Gretchen slid the Impala along the curb and slammed on the brakes. She jumped out, sure that she had Nacho trapped this time. If he took off, he’d have to abandon the cart, which he gripped possessively.

“That’s Daisy’s cart,” Gretchen said to him as she approached, noting a few familiar items under Nacho’s black garbage bag, which sat on the top of the heap. She lifted a corner of the bag, and Nacho slapped her hand away.

“Hey,” she said. “Keep your hands off me.”

She smelled unwashed body odor and sour alcohol.

“Yo no entiendo inglés,”
he said.
“Tú debes irte.”

“I know you can understand me,” Gretchen said. “You spoke perfect English when you threatened me at the restaurant.”

Nacho glared at her and kept his hands firmly locked on the cart. He tried to move past her, but Gretchen ran to the front of the cart and pushed back.

A crowd of people walked by, and several turned to look.

“Leave the poor guy alone,” someone shouted.

Gretchen scanned them with a weak smile but stood firm.

“You are going to answer a few questions first,” she demanded. “Where is my mother?”

“Yo te dije antes que te fueras. Tú solo eres un problema.”

Gretchen stared at him. Somehow she had to force him to speak English. “Police,” she said, bluffing. “I will call the police.”

That did the trick. Nacho’s eyes widened in fear. “No police,” he said. “That would be foolish.”

“I need some answers from you.”

“You stole something from me. I want it back first.”

“Wait here.” Gretchen went to the car, keeping a watchful eye on Nacho, and returned with the notebook. She handed it to him, and he wedged it into the plastic bag.

“You should be more afraid,” he said. “Aren’t you scared?”

Heavy traffic streamed by them, music blared from open windows, and the ground shook from amplified bass settings. Sunday strollers ambled by. At the moment, Gretchen felt reasonably protected from a violent assault.

“What would you do to me? Would you kill me like you killed Martha?”

Nacho’s response was quick but wary. “Martha was my friend. You’re talking nonsense.”

“Tell me about the French fashion doll and the trunk.”

“You’re snooping where you aren’t welcome.”

Gretchen was angry. “My mother is missing, and she is accused of killing your supposed friend. I plan on snooping into your life until you give me answers. Now tell me what I want to know.”

Nacho’s eyes flicked briefly to the shopping cart before answering. “I know nothing about any doll.”

Gretchen leaned her body into the cart, one hand resting on top of the plastic bag. Nacho’s eyes shifted nervously from the cart to Gretchen.

“Where is Daisy?” Gretchen said evenly. “This is her cart.”

“Daisy asked me to watch it for her,” Nacho said, finally answering a question. “She had business.”

“What’s inside the cart, Nacho?”

His knuckles were white, and sweat slid down the side of his face.

“Hide the trunk,” Caroline had written. Where would a homeless man hide a large doll trunk? Certainly not on the street or in the Rescue Mission. Finding a safe hiding place would be a complex task for a man without a home.

Gretchen reached into the cart and tossed his garbage bag onto the pavement. Before he could resist, she pulled the top layer of junk aside.

“Well, well,” she said. “If it isn’t a doll trunk.”

The antique wooden trunk was wedged in the cart between layers of clothing. Gretchen glanced up at Nacho. He backed away.

Gretchen held up a hand in warning. “Don’t go,” she demanded. “You have to help me.”

“Yo traté de ayudarte,”
he said, forgetting to speak English in his haste.
“Tú debes irte.”

And Nacho grabbed his plastic bag and broke into a run. Gretchen refused to abandon the trunk to pursue him. She watched helplessly as he disappeared around a corner.

Great,
she thought,
now what do I do?

She wheeled the cart the few feet to Nina’s car and gingerly lifted the doll trunk from the cart and placed it in the passenger seat. She flipped through the other items in the shopping cart without finding anything else of significance. Two shabbily dressed women sat on a park bench watching pigeons compete for bakery scraps. One of the women tossed a torn piece of bread onto the sidewalk and scrutinized Gretchen as she approached.

“Do you know how to find the Rescue Mission?” Gretchen asked them.

After some thought, one woman said, “Yes.”

“Will you take this cart there?” Gretchen said.

“No,” the same woman responded.

“I will pay you five dollars.”

“Yes,” said the other woman. “I will take it.”

“Walk slowly, and if a man asks for the cart or tries to take it from you before you get to the mission, give it to him. If not, leave it with the people there.”

Gretchen handed over the five dollar bill, and both women rose and shuffled down the street, guiding the cart in the direction of the mission.

She sat in the car with the air-conditioning turned all the way up and the doors locked, and studied her remarkable find. Approximately twenty inches long, as April had predicted, the outside of the trunk was in excellent condition. No major flaws in the wood. The brass-headed tacks and brass handle shone as though recently polished. She carefully opened the trunk, and even though she knew from the message found in Nacho’s notebook that the doll had been hidden someplace else, she half expected to see it inside.

The upper tray, designed to hold the doll, was empty.

The interior of the trunk was lined with finely striped beige and blue fabric. When Gretchen removed the tray, her eyes lit up with delight at the wealth of accessories. She gingerly picked up each one, elegantly hand-stitched dresses, little ankle boots, a tortoiseshell comb, corset, bonnet, fan, and a full-length brown kid leather raincoat.

She carefully replaced the accessories, closed the trunk, and pulled out into the early afternoon traffic.

Gretchen racked her brain for her long-dormant knowledge of doll collecting. This was an unbelievable trunk, worth a slew of money.
Think, Gretchen
.
Think back to your mother’s book and the chapter on French fashion dolls. What can you learn from examining this trunk?

The size of the doll, Gretchen thought. Based on the length of the trunk and the size of the clothing, the doll must be about seventeen inches tall. Was that information helpful? Not at the moment, but she filed it away for future reference.

Why did her mother think the trunk was too large to hide? Granted, it wasn’t a tiny, slip-in-your-pocket trunk, but her mother had plenty of rooms in the house in which to tuck away the trunk. Unless she thought someone would search her house for it. Which they had.

Where had Caroline hidden the French fashion doll?

And, more importantly, why?

At this point, Gretchen knew of two dolls her mother had concealed in her game of intrigue. It had all the elements of a conspiracy if she counted Nacho as an accomplice.

Were there more dolls hidden away somewhere?

Her third day in Chicago stretched out before her in slow motion, painfully slow.

Caroline chose Paneras for the café’s high-speed Internet access. She sat at a small table in the back of the restaurant, watching the Sunday crowd of diners and sipping black coffee. After a pause, she opened her laptop again. How many times had she logged on? How many times had she keyed in the online auction Web address and watched the green computer light flicker as it completed her search?

Her fingers flew on the keyboard. “Antique dolls.” Click.

She scanned the listings for a familiar doll without success.

Caroline wanted to slam her fist into the table next to her laptop.

Sell something,
she screamed silently.
Sell something, you miserable animal!

13

Patience is the doll collector’s most valuable quality. All serious collectors dream of owning one special doll. Chasing the dream can be exhilarating. That doll, once found, will represent the culmination of a lifetime of marvelous memories, remarkable dolls, and wonderful friendships. With that in mind, remember that one must not let emotions overrule common sense. Take time to smell the flowers, as the saying goes. Or, in the case of collectors, take time to enjoy the quest.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

“April’s back,” Nina said while fondling the doll costumes. “Well, not exactly back. She never left.”

“What?” Gretchen said.

“She had valley fever. It was awful, April said. A fever, aches and pains, a bad cough. She’s recovering at home and ignored her phone calls until she felt better.”

Valley fever. A lung infection, Gretchen remembered, caused by an airborne fungus. Not uncommon in the Phoenix area.

“She was out four-wheeling,” Nina explained. “And got caught in a dust storm.”

Gretchen tried to picture enormous April on an all-terrain vehicle.

“She should have worn a mask,” Nina finished.

“Somehow,” Gretchen said, “I never thought of April as the rugged, outdoors type.”

“I hope she didn’t give it to Tutu.”

“I don’t think valley fever is contagious, Aunt Nina.”

“You can’t be too careful.”

Gretchen and Nina sat at the workbench in Caroline’s repair shop, admiring the doll trunk. Wobbles, exhibiting newfound confidence around Tutu and Nimrod, perched lazily on a shelf overhead and cleaned his face with his paws. The dogs had learned to tread lightly around him ever since he had won his first boxing match with a well-placed left claw to Tutu’s inquisitive nose.

“Wobbles has a superiority complex,” Nina observed.

Gretchen tried in vain to concentrate on the doll trunk and her missing mother. Nina whirled through a room like one of those dust storms April claimed she four-wheeled into, and the animals weren’t helping matters. The yapping and clicking of toenails on the tiled floor irritated Gretchen’s already strained nerves.

A cool shower would put everything back into perspective.

Leaving Nina to fend for herself, Gretchen stood in the shower under the lukewarm water while holding her broken wrist out of the stream. It was more of a trick than she thought it would be. She raised it higher and attempted to wash her hair with one hand.

Drying it proved impossible. She draped a towel over her head and struggled into white capris and a short red halter top, intending to ask Nina for help with her hair. But when she returned to the workshop, Nina sat crying at the table.

“I can see Caroline’s aura in my mind’s eye,” Nina said through sobs.

Gretchen, well-versed in Nina’s alleged ability to see energy fields in the form of colors emanating from objects, sighed heavily. According to Nina, all matter has auras, including Boston mosquitoes, Phoenix cockroaches, and Tutu poop. However, Nina hadn’t figured out what all the colors meant or how to interpret them.

Much like her dreams.

“I didn’t know you could see auras in your mind’s eye,” Gretchen said.

Nina sniffed. “I didn’t either until now.”

“And?” Gretchen was reluctant to ask but knew it was inevitable. “What did you see?”

The question sent Nina off into another bout of hysteria.

Gretchen ran the towel through her wet hair and waited. She made a mental note to buy a pair of aura glasses as soon as possible. The woman in the New Age shop had assured her that anyone could see auras with the proper glasses.

Nina sniffed. “Her aura is black. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think it means your mother killed Martha. And I can’t bear it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Intrigue, conspiracy, death,” Nina said in a stage whisper. “The writing is on the wall.”

“The writing isn’t on the wall,” Gretchen said. “It’s on a piece of paper. In Martha’s cold hand. In Nacho’s notebook. I have to admit, it looks bad. But looks are deceiving. You know that.”

Gretchen leaned over and gave her aunt a strong hug. “We have to fight, Aunt Nina. We can’t give up hope.”

As the two pink bracelets on Gretchen’s wrist said, Share Beauty Spread Hope.

“Every time we discover new clues,” Nina pointed out, “they incriminate Caroline. Maybe we should stop helping.”

“Our luck has to turn soon.” Gretchen sat down and cupped her chin in her good hand. “Where would my mother hide a French fashion doll?”

“It can’t be here. The police searched the house.”

“Did she have a storage unit someplace?” Gretchen asked. “Or a large safe-deposit box?”

Nina shook her head. “Nothing that I know of. That Nacho character is creepy. I can’t believe you went to see him alone.”

Gretchen didn’t respond. She gazed out the window at the rugged beauty of the mountain. “She must have the doll with her.”

“It’s not important,” Nina said. “Finding the doll won’t help your mother. We have the trunk.” Nina gestured at the wooden doll trunk and the scattered costumes. “And what good is it? With our current streak of bad luck, we’ll find the doll, remove its head, and we’ll find a note. The note will say, ‘Caroline Birch murdered Martha Williams.’”

“No need for sarcasm, dear aunt. Your pessimism is getting to me.”

Gretchen gathered up the doll clothes and accessories and replaced them in the trunk. She opened a cabinet, rearranged the shelves to make room, and slid the trunk inside. A stack of folded fabric placed in front of it concealed the trunk from the casual observer.

“I have to keep moving,” she said. “Every minute at this house feels like wasted time.”

“I’m coming along.” Nina’s voice held a hint of stubbornness.

Gretchen watched Nimrod tackle Tutu. Playful snarls filled the room. Having Nina along meant having Nimrod and Tutu as well. The term
comes with baggage
took on a whole new meaning.

“Someone has to look out for you,” Nina said, stuffing Nimrod in his traveling purse.

April Lehman lived in Tempe, close to Arizona State University. Nina drove quickly along a newly opened express-way. Gretchen couldn’t believe how many new routes were available in Maricopa County making access easy to surrounding cities such as Tempe, which was situated a few miles southeast of Phoenix. It had a small-town college atmosphere that Gretchen appreciated.

As they approached Tempe, Nina raised the subject of Steve.

“How’s it going with you two?”

“Fine,” Gretchen replied, looking out the side window.

“Your life doesn’t seem too exciting,” Nina continued. “Where’s the action?”

“What do you mean? Are you saying I don’t have a life?”

“All I’m saying is it could be more exciting.”

“It’s more exciting than I care for, right now.”

“Humpf.”

Maybe Nina is right,
Gretchen thought.
My life hasn’t been exactly movie material. The same boyfriend for seven years, the same job, which never quite materialized into an established career before it unceremoniously terminated, and numerous torturous business-related events in the name of Steve’s rapid rise in the law firm.

Gretchen thought about friends her own age, or rather her lack of friends. A few college buddies seen occasionally to relive the past, happy hour with coworkers before the long drive home in the early evening, a book club group once a month. She thought of the stray voice messages left on her cell phone. Casual acquaintances. No true friends. Not one person particularly concerned over her whereabouts.

Looking back, she realized that she hadn’t taken the time to develop friendships because her relationship with Steve required constant care and attention, even as Steve spent less and less time with her. She had allowed some friendships to lapse, and as a result she was intensely lonely.

Her small and quirky family had been a steady ship for her, a cast of strong females who colored Gretchen’s life with animation. Ten years ago she couldn’t imagine herself thinking this, because at that time she was emotionally geared for independence. But at twenty-nine she didn’t hesitate to list her missing mother as her best friend.

Martha’s murder and her mother’s disappearance certainly verged on cliff-hanging entertainment, excuse the pun, but those events weren’t about her life. They were about other people’s lives.

Gretchen vowed to work on spicing up her own life in more positive ways just as soon as this family crisis was resolved.

Nina turned onto Apache Boulevard and parked.

The temperature registered one hundred and five degrees according to a large display sign above a local bank. The time was a few minutes after three. The heat hit Gretchen with something like physical force when she left the car. She could have been strapped to a stake in the middle of a blazing fire. Nina adjusted a cardboard windshield shade along the dashboard and began assembling her canine clan.

Gretchen studied April’s dilapidated home. Peeling paint and a green AstroTurf lawn that effectively eliminated the need for watering and weeding. The house sat on a tiny lot without benefit of a swimming pool or exotic tropical landscaping. As she followed Nina along the crumbling sidewalk, Gretchen hoped April had air-conditioning.

“Come on in,” April called out from inside, her voice muffled but audible through the front door. The fact that the door was closed indicated the presence of cool air. “You got here fast.”

Gretchen and Nina found April’s massive form sprawled across a sagging sofa. She wore a muumuu with green and purple stripes and had hiked it up around her thighs, exposing treelike legs snaked with varicose veins.

A window air conditioner droned loudly, the motor struggling to lower the temperature of the small room, with limited success.

“You look awful,” Nina said. “I wish you had called me when you were diagnosed with valley fever. I would have helped you out.”

“I didn’t want to bother anybody,” April said. “I’m feeling pretty good now. Gretchen, what happened to your arm?”

“I tripped and fell yesterday.” Gretchen caught Nina’s eye, hoping Nina would follow her lead and refrain from sharing the details of the encounter with Nacho.

“That’s too bad,” April said.

Nina sat down in a torn and faded cloth chair with Tutu leashed at her feet. The top of Nimrod’s purse was vacant, indicating a napping puppy inside. Gretchen remained standing and couldn’t resist scrutinizing the room.

Piles of doll magazines littered the floor, and every inch of table space was covered with dolls.

Gretchen stifled an involuntary giggle. Enormous April collected miniature dolls, all types and styles. The table next to Gretchen held several dolls, an eight-inch Lee Middleton, a Strawberry Shortcake riding her trike with Custard Cat in the basket, a five-inch cloth doll with an embroidered face, and an antique German bisque with jointed arms, wearing a blue dress.

“I have almost all of the original boxes and packing,” April said proudly, looking at Gretchen with a schoolgirl’s beam. “You didn’t know I was a miniaturist, did ya?”

“These are marvelous,” Gretchen said.
And inexpensive,
she thought. None of the dolls in April’s collection were worth much more than twenty dollars. Based on April’s lifestyle, that was all she probably could afford. Her appraisal service might be the backbone of the collecting business, but it didn’t pay well.

“I always wanted to get into collecting doll houses and furniture,” April said. “But the time hasn’t been right. For my thirtieth birthday I’m going to treat myself to my very first doll house.”

Thirty! Gretchen had assumed April was well into her fifties, but she was the same age as Gretchen.

Nina piped up. “Caroline is still missing, April, and it’s turning ugly. We have to ask you a few questions about Martha.”

April stiffened noticeably, and her warm smile froze. “I never liked that woman.”

“You need to tell us why,” Nina said encouragingly. “It might help.”

April shifted on the couch, and her muumuu rode higher. “Eight years ago, Martha’s husband died, and she came into some money through a life insurance policy. She went on a buying spree, buying the most fabulous dolls you could imagine. And the prices she paid.” April slapped her forehead. “But she couldn’t control herself. She bought dolls instead of paying off her mortgage, like she should of. She went wild.

“Then the whole thing collapsed around her. She started drinking because she couldn’t face the financial problems. Three years ago the bank called her loan and repossessed her house.”

“What happened after the bank foreclosed?” Gretchen asked. “What happened to the dolls?”

“I knew she was going to lose the dolls right along with the house, and I could hardly stand to watch it happen, but look around you,” April said, sweeping her arms across the room. “I couldn’t afford to buy them from her either. She wouldn’t have sold anyway. She was in denial and probably drunk most of the time and didn’t believe anything could happen to them. She adored her dolls.”

Nina frowned. “But what made you so mad at her?”

“A lot of the Dollers tried to help her out by offering to buy her dolls. But part of the problem was that she wouldn’t even let us
see
her collection. Over the years, she’d talk about a doll here and there, or we’d see one of them, but no one knew the actual extent of the collection.”

“She certainly was an odd one,” Nina said.

“She had one miniature doll that she showed me about a year before all this happened. It was only three and a half inches high.” April spread her fingers to show how small three and a half inches really was. “It was a German bisque miniature, hand-painted with inset blue glass eyes. The prettiest thing you’d ever see. I loved that doll at first sight.”

“She wouldn’t sell it to you, would she?” Gretchen asked.

April nodded. “As it turned out, the bank or somebody acting for the bank took the whole thing away from her. What would it have hurt to give me that tiny little doll?”

“Did anyone ever find out for sure what happened to the collection?” Gretchen anticipated April’s answer, but had to ask anyway.