Dolled Up for Murder (20 page)

Watching the computer screen, Caroline again admired the valuable doll. She had already held this particular Bébé in her hands, had examined it from every angle. She knew it was in mint condition, not a single imperfection, and it wore its original white muslin dress and matching bonnet.

Her requirements for purchasing the doll were not the same hands-on connection that some collectors demanded. The doll was superfluous to her. The seller was her target.

Four hours and twenty minutes left in the auction, and twenty-seven bids registered. Caroline watched her e-mail in-box intently for new bids, the auction house alerting her each time another buyer outbid her. She rapidly and expertly moved between screens, from e-mail to auction.

Two thirty in the morning, and Caroline felt her resolve slipping as her need for sleep increased. Anxious worldwide buyers were bidding on the same doll. What time was it in London? In Rome? She cursed the seller for accepting international bids but recognized it as a brilliant maneuver to remove the doll from the United States. Crucial for the seller, but she refused to allow it to happen.

Caroline decided to check the auction bid one last time, then break for a few hours’ rest. She needed sleep desperately, her thoughts too loosely connected and ineffective without it. She watched as the auction screen lit up, and her eyes grew wide with urgency. The Buy It Now icon flashed across her screen, the signal that the seller was ready to end the bidding at a certain set price. Usually this option wasn’t available after the bidding began, and Caroline hadn’t expected it.

The price shown under the listing for the Jumeau Bébé caused Caroline to pause momentarily. Twenty-two thousand dollars, a princely amount.

Her fingers flew on the keyboard, intent on beating another bidder to the treasure, hoping they had been caught off-guard also. All she needed was a lead of a few seconds. Faster fingers.

She hit Enter and sat back.

Something must have frightened the seller, too much attention on the site perhaps, or an unforeseen problem in waiting out the remaining four hours. She sensed a change in plans, a quiet desperation.

She punched in her e-mail address and smiled weakly.

“Congratulations!” appeared on the screen.

23

Doll clothing is big business. With a sewing machine and expert sewing skills, a doll repairer can mend cloth bodies and reattach arms. She also can make reproductions of original costumes, remembering the ethical value of honesty when representing such work. Knowledge of period costumes is invaluable in determining originality, which gains importance with the age of the doll. Collectors remember clothing. Who can resist a perfectly fashioned two-piece satin jacket dress, a vintage white organdy, a pink cotton dress with pleated bottom, or a boy doll with red cummerbund and brass studs? The clothing, some say, makes the doll.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Gretchen rolled out of bed early Wednesday morning after a restless night’s sleep and painfully pulled on a pair of socks over her burnt feet and tied up the laces on her hiking boots. Glancing in the mirror, she noticed that her facial coloring remained a crispy, flaky red, and she dabbed on more healing lotion.

Nimrod, ready for high-energy puppy action, bolted his breakfast, while Wobbles savored his meal one morsel at a time. After eating, Wobbles nimbly sprang to the floor, and Nimrod proceeded to run in circles around him in a vain attempt to entice him into a game of chase. Wobbles looked on with disdain, his eyelids hooded and watchful. Eventually, he sauntered over to the protective height of the washing machine.

Gretchen drank coffee and ate what remained of last night’s Chinese meal, wistfully remembering the enormous all-American breakfasts of her past. As she approached thirty, she’d been forced to change her eating habits to reflect her slower metabolism and the accompanying ease with which she gained unwanted weight. No more breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast, and fried potatoes for her. Ruby red grapefruits and plain yogurt from now on.

She had jealously observed that Arizona women were fit, trim, and golden tan, and she hoped to model her unemployed self after them rather than eat her way through mounds of seven-layer self-pity.

She also noticed that she had more commitment to self-control and strength in the mornings than later in the day, when most of her determination faded.

A hardy hike up the mountain before the sun began to scorch the earth would solve the metabolism problem, at least temporarily. Last night’s storm had moved toward the coast, and the arid desert heat had already begun to absorb the large quantities of fallen rain. In the next short, sunny hours, all evidence of flooding would evaporate, and the land would appear parched again.

On the day Gretchen arrived in Phoenix, the local news had recounted the rescue of a dehydrated, heat-stricken hiker. Gretchen planned a cautious, safe climb to protect herself from embarrassing media coverage. Water bottle, hat, and an early ascent were essential.

As an afterthought, she grabbed a pair of binoculars in case she spotted a new bird to add to her growing life list of bird sightings.

Taking the footpath to the trailhead, she veered to the left onto Summit Trail and began the rugged one-point-two-mile uphill climb, periodically stopping to rest and to glance at the summit, almost three thousand feet above sea level, according to a sign below. A Harris antelope squirrel darted along the rocks, tail curled across his back, and disappeared into a tangle of mesquite.

Halfway up, Gretchen paused at the hand railing and listened to the high-pitched trill of a rock wren. She felt rejuvenated by the fresh air and the open expanse of the desert mountain. She saw nesting holes bored into a saguaro cactus by a gila woodpecker and daydreamed about life as a bird. Free and mobile. It seemed a peaceful existence compared to the complexities of human relationships.

She looked back down the steep trail toward the trailhead, now a tiny spot in the distance, and out over the city. She saw someone moving up the path toward her with a familiar gait. She held the binoculars to her eyes and watched Matt Albright making the steep climb. He wasn’t doing too badly, considering how unprepared he was for the hike. He didn’t wear a hat, which is the very first hiking rule, and didn’t carry water, as far as Gretchen could see. Obviously, a beginner. Or perhaps he hadn’t anticipated climbing a mountain today. Had he been watching her all along? Following her from home?

Matt looked up in her direction, and she reluctantly waved, wishing instead to slide down and flatten into the rocks. He hadn’t exactly been the bearer of good news lately. Matt lifted a hand as a shield from the sun and waved in return. She watched him pick his way through the rocks.

“You obviously never joined the Boy Scouts,” she said, when he stopped before her, breathing hard. Lines of perspiration ran down both sides of his face, but he managed one of his dazzling smiles. He could make a living as a tooth model.

“Their motto is
Be prepared
,” she continued, handing him her water bottle. “You’re a classic dehydration victim and potential buzzard food.” She watched him tip the bottle back and take a long drink.

“The fire department needs the extra business,” he managed to say. “They’d be happy to come up and get me.” He sat down on a boulder. “I should have trained for this assignment. Keeping up with you isn’t easy. A triathlon would be less work.”

“I see you’re a walking advertisement for social issues,” she said, pointing at his T-shirt, reading the inscription
Follow Your Own Path
—
Leave Only Footprints.
She remembered the Indian Youth Fund T-shirt he wore a few days ago. “A cop with a social conscience.”

“You make it sound like we aren’t human. Maybe I can prove you wrong.”

“My cousin, Blaze, is a sheriff in a little town in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. He kind of gives the profession a bad name, He’s Neanderthalish and loudly self-righteous. I’m going to the top. If you want to make sure I don’t commit a crime against Phoenix, like littering on one of your premier tourist attractions, you’d better go up with me.”

Matt stood and gestured up the mountain. “After you.”

Gretchen hiked fast, determined to make it to the summit as quickly as possible and start the descent before the sun crested over Camelback. “I was hoping to see a gila woodpecker,” she called back, noting that the gap between them had widened. “I’ve seen the holes in the cacti, but I’ve never seen the bird.”

“They have zebra-striped backs,” he called up to her in short, choppy words. A period punctuated every word, each a sentence of its own. “I didn’t know you were a birder.”

“I’ve never considered myself one. I just like to look. It’s an excuse to be outdoors.” She stopped and waited for him to catch up.

“There are eighteen species of hummingbirds in Arizona,” he said, looking miserable, his smile subdued and strained. “Arizona is a bird haven in the winter.”

“Why are you following me?” Gretchen asked. “You aren’t a hiker, at least not at this skill level. You could have waited at the base for me.”

“I could, but I like the challenge.” He lifted his shirt to wipe his face with the edge of the cloth, and Gretchen glimpsed a well-toned midsection. Too much weight lifting and not enough aerobic conditioning, she thought.

“Sapsuckers, whiskered owls, quail, Arizona has it all,” he said. “In answer to your question, your Aunt Nina mentioned that you like to hike. When you weren’t home, I thought I might find you here.”

“On the way down you can tell me why you’re visiting so early in the morning. Come on, let’s go.”

He smiled with relief. “You’ve made my day. I thought I’d have to finish the climb to get your attention. I’ll buy you breakfast to show my gratitude.”

The Waffle House was crowded, but the waitstaff knew Matt and found them a table almost immediately. Gretchen, her early morning healthful dieting resolution temporarily forgotten, dove into an enormous platter of pecan waffles.

“Nina says you’re peladophobic,” Gretchen said between bites. “Is that true?”

Matt laughed. “Are you asking me if I have an unnatural fear of bald people or are you asking me if I have pediophobia?”

“The fear-of-dolls one.”

“Pediophobia.” Matt poured more syrup over his waffles and handed the bottle to Gretchen. “It’s weird, but I’ve always had a problem. I’m surprised you spotted it, since I go out of my way to hide behind daring bravado.” He thumped his chest. “You know, the big bad cop that’s afraid of a little doll doesn’t exactly improve my image. My mother tried to break me of it when I was young with no luck. Facing my fear, in this case, didn’t work.”

“Maybe she made it worse,” Gretchen said, thinking of bewigged, gossipy Bonnie forcing dolls on her son.

“Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly, not particularly concerned with resolving his issues or delving into the reasons. “But the symptoms mimic those of the flu—nausea and sweating—and I avoid those feelings whenever possible. I couldn’t believe it when I was assigned to this case.”

“Speaking of the case,” Gretchen said, her waffle-filled fork midair. “Any progress?”

“That’s why I came to see you,” he said. “We have a suspect in custody.”

Gretchen sharply lowered the fork, and it clattered to her plate. “My mother?” she said, not sure what answer she wanted to hear. She had little doubt that her mother was alive and well, but her physical presence would be confirmation, an erasure of that tiny bit of lingering doubt, unspoken and consciously ignored, yet there all the same. Gretchen craved living proof. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear the thought of her mother behind bars, caged like a dangerous mountain lion.

Matt shook his head. “No, not your mother. Theodore Brummer turned himself in late last night. He confessed.”

“I never heard of him.”

“Well, he said he did it.”

“He confessed to Martha Williams’s murder?” Gretchen sighed with relief, noting the assertion in Matt’s expression. It was over. Her mother could come home, and she could return to Boston and the life she had made for herself there. She tried not to think of the recent negative qualities of that life. She could put it back together again, find a job, salvage her long-term relationship. She would consider it a new beginning, a starting point for the next phase of her life.

“Yes, he could only communicate in Spanish, no English at all. He says he did it.”

“Did he say why he killed her?”

“Apparently they knew each other from the Rescue Mission. He says he was drunk, she had a bottle of whisky and wouldn’t share. A physical fight ensued, and he pushed her.”

Gretchen’s eyes narrowed, and her brows furrowed. Killed for a bottle of whisky? Something felt wrong about that. The homeless lost their lives occasionally, and sometimes they did lose it over a bottle of booze.

But Camelback Mountain was miles from the area the city’s destitute frequented. Why chase her all the way up a mountain and then push her off?

A disturbing thought struck her, and she knew the answer before she asked the question. She sensed what Nina would have called her special inherited talent, a certain unspecified intuition. Goose bumps dotted her arms as she braced herself to cross paths once again with a duplicitous transient.

“What does this Theodore Brummer look like?” she asked suspiciously.

“Scruffy, smelly. Usually the homeless are nondescript and tend to blend in, but this guy has a large lump on his head that distinguishes him from the rest, some kind of growth.” Matt cupped his hand on the side of his head.

Gretchen stared at him.

She was right.

Nacho.

“What about the witnesses?” she managed to ask. “The ones who saw my mother on the mountain when Martha died?”

“If you’re asking if their sighting is credible, it is. She’s still wanted as an accomplice based on their accounting. She was on the mountain, and she’s guilty of something. Maybe not murder, but certainly she withheld information and obstructed the pursuit of justice. I’m not buying his motive. He didn’t kill Martha Williams over alcohol. And there’s still the possibility that your mother conspired with Brummer.”

Gretchen pushed her plate away, having suddenly lost her appetite.

“I suspected him all along,” Nina said. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

They drove toward Scottsdale Memorial Hospital through typically heavy traffic on their way to visit Daisy. Nina’s menagerie—Tutu, Nimrod, and the volatile Enrico—rode in the backseat, and Gretchen again felt gratitude for her cat and his independent character. His only requirements were a constant source of food and water and a warm body to cuddle with at night. Dogs, on the other hand . . . She let the thought go, resigned to the present situation and present, doggy-breath company.

The back windows were crusted with accumulated drool.

“Nacho didn’t implicate her,” Gretchen said, repeating the rest of the information supplied by the detective. “In fact he insisted that my mother had nothing to do with it. He was adamant, maintaining that he acted alone.”

“That’s good news.”

“The police still have a warrant out for her arrest based on the description from the hikers.”

“That’s not good news.”

Something still didn’t feel right about Nacho’s confession, but Gretchen was confident that her questions would be answered eventually. How, for example, could Nacho have been responsible for Daisy’s car accident? He didn’t even own a vehicle, so how could he have forced her off the road? And his concern for Daisy had seemed genuine. Why would he try to harm her?

However, his sneaky manner and covert actions made his guilty plea plausible. And he admitted to the murder. Case closed. Or almost. Maybe the reason for Daisy’s crash was simpler than it appeared. Daisy, inattentive or inexperienced, could have lost control and driven off the road. It was possible that, as the detective had conjectured, no one had tail-ended her.

“I don’t understand his penchant for speaking Spanish,” Gretchen said. “He refused to speak English, and as far as I know, he isn’t even Spanish. At least he doesn’t look Spanish. And we know he’s fluent in English. What’s the significance of the Spanish?”

“You think too much,” Nina said. “Accept his confession at face value.”