Dolled Up for Murder (26 page)

“Shame about Brett. I can’t hardly believe it,” the woman said, tears in her eyes. “He was a good guy.”

Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people’s sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she’d be a basket case for the rest of the day. “Thanks for the information,” she said, in a hurry to get away.

Most of the cars in front of Chiggy’s house had cleared out. Gretchen didn’t see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had driven into Brett.
That poor driver. How awful
. She stowed the box of Kewpie dolls in the trunk of her car and eased away.

Gretchen fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen Brett step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer. Of course, everyone’s attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry? Shouldn’t he have been working beside the auctioneer?

Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dolls was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.

After asking for directions twice—two months in Phoenix and she still couldn’t find her way around—she turned onto Forty-third Street and searched the apartment buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again.

No number matched the one she’d been given.

Gretchen frowned in annoyance.

Maybe she had written it down wrong? No. She remembered double-checking the numbers with the teary blonde.

She pulled to the curb in front of the only apartment complex within several blocks. This had to be where the man lived. She pulled open the first set of doors, entered, and tried the second set. Locked.

She scanned the names on the mail slots. No Duanne Wilson.

She waited, hoping someone would come along and open the door. Maybe a manager’s office inside would give her the correct apartment number.

No one came.

Standing on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the street.
What now?
She had three hundred dollars invested in those dolls.

Then she noticed the sign. Gretchen dug her cell phone from her purse, and dialed the number on the sign that announced a vacancy in the building.

After a few holds and redirections, Gretchen had her answer and she didn’t like it.

No such person. No such place.

Duanne Wilson had vanished along with her Ginny dolls.

DEB BAKER spends as much time as possible in Phoenix, Arizona, the setting for her Dolls To Die For Mysteries featuring Gretchen Birch, and in the Michigan Upper Peninsula, home of her Gertie Johnson Yooper Mysteries.

She lives in North Lake, Wisconsin, with her husband, their two teenagers, two border collies, and two wayward cats.

Visit Deb’s website at
www.debbakerbooks.com
.