Dolled Up for Murder (3 page)

“A thousand years ago, I eloped,” Alice said. “Not to a beach, cry shame, just to City Hall. Back then, girls who got pregnant got married pronto.” She shook her head as if she were shaking off a bad memory. “I don't recommend it, but it's probably better than those pretentious megaweddings, all staged pomp and no personality. Better to be with people you love, and no one else. Fifty people sounds about right.”

The chimes sounded as Sasha stepped inside.

As soon as she saw Alice, she said, “Sorry,” her voice barely audible, as if she'd intruded into a private conversation and expected to be chastised.

“No problem,” I said, just for something to say.

Sasha's manner changed as abruptly as if a switch had been flipped the second she spotted the eleven dolls lined up on her desk. Place an antique in Sasha's orbit and she was transformed from scared mouse into confident expert.

“Wow!” Sasha said. “Are these from the Farmington collection? They're gorgeous!”

“Eric just left to get the rest.”

“I'm buying them all from Prescott's,” Alice said.

“Which means that appraising them is your new top priority,” I told Sasha.

“Okay,” Sasha said with a quick smile. She tucked a strand of lank hair behind her ear.

“So where do you start?” Alice asked her.

“By authenticating and valuing each doll.” Sasha picked up a character doll, another Bru. “She's spectacular, isn't she?”

“Well, I look forward to calling them my own. Right now, though, I've got to mosey. I'm off to my lawyer's office, no doubt to hear more bad news. Are you sure you don't want some earnest money to guarantee that I get first dibs? I don't want someone else to swoop in while I'm not looking.”

I laughed. “You collectors! There's no need.”

“I insist,” she said. “I'll sleep better if I leave a deposit. How about if we label it a refundable right of first refusal, so if there's some problem with provenance or you discover one of the dolls had been owned by Queen Victoria, or something equally lofty, you're not on the hook for any certain price, or even to sell it at all, and if I change my mind for whatever reason, I'm not committed to buy something I no longer want.”

I thought about it for a few seconds. Until I knew which way the prosecutorial wind was blowing, I didn't want to commit to selling her the dolls even with a we'll-figure-it-out-later price, and this seemed to be a face-saving, nonconfrontational way to achieve that objective.

“Done!” I said.

She pulled a brown leather checkbook folder from her purse and sat at the round guest table to write out the check. I asked Gretchen to prepare a receipt. The second Gretchen's eyes were fixed on her computer monitor, I turned to Cara, caught her attention, and winked.

“I have an errand,” I said and winked again. “I'll be back in about an hour.”

Cara, her blue eyes twinkling, winked back. She knew what I was up to—I wanted to find some Hawaiian-themed goodies for Gretchen's surprise bridal shower. I had ten days, but I didn't know how much trouble I was going to have finding what I had in mind, so I wanted to check out the local party store pronto.

“Thanks,” Alice told Gretchen as she accepted the receipt, tucking it in her purse without even glancing at it. “Now I have bragging rights.”

The wind chimes sounded. A tall green bean of a man with a mane of sandy brown hair and earnest brown eyes walked in. I knew him by sight; everyone did. He was Pennington Moreau, the intrepid adventurer, award-winning athlete, and on-air legal personality for Rocky Point's TV station, WXFS. Penn, as he was known, was as well regarded for his record-setting, multimillion-dollar, long-distance balloon rides, iron man triathlon wins, and high-stakes poker games as he was for his illuminating commentary. Penn had a gift for translating complex legal issues into common English, using engaging examples and self-deprecating humor. He used his twice-weekly two-minute segments to explain things like the city's responsibility to repair beach erosion after a brutal nor'easter (“Where people like me keep rebuilding, an example of hope trumping experience”); how a restaurant dishwasher had used his computer skills to set up shop selling fake IDs (“Using computer skills so sophisticated, it makes you wonder why he stayed washing dishes”); the government's right to regulate gambling in private homes (“Like last month's poker game where I lost my shirt”); and the long-term impact on building the new high school if voters turned down the proposed bond issue (“Ultimately, lower property values, even for those of us who keep adding real property by trucking in tons of sand to counteract the effects of beach erosion”). Although he had to be in his late forties, his loose-limbed gait, full head of hair, and unlined face made him appear younger.

“What on earth are you doing here, Penn?” Alice asked, leaning in for a butterfly kiss.

He kissed Alice's cheek. “I'm looking for you, gorgeous! Got a sec?”

“For you? Of course. Anytime.” Alice pointed to the dolls on Sasha's desk. “Look what I just bought! Twenty-three beauties.”

“Nice! Are they rare?”

“Rare enough,” she said proudly.

“I like your style, Alice. Always have.”

She smiled. “Do you know Josie?” she asked him, and when he said he hadn't had the pleasure, she introduced us.

“I enjoy your reports,” I told him.

“Thanks,” he said, grinning broadly. “Can I steal Alice for a sec?”

“We're done anyway,” she said. She waved around the office. “'Bye, all!”

Penn held the door for her, and she followed him out into the warm afternoon. Glancing at the thermometer fastened to the outside of the big window overlooking the parking lot, I saw it was seventy-five degrees, a glorious May day. I watched them walk to the center of the lot and stop. Penn said something, opening his arms and flipping his palms up—I have no choice, the gesture communicated. Alice shook her head, no, no. He spoke again, grasping her upper arms and shaking her a little, then dropping his hands and waiting for her reply. She looked away, toward the stone wall across the road, then smoothed her hair, though not one strand was out of place. She inhaled so deeply I could see her chest move. She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin as she said something, pride stiffening her spine, it seemed. She reached a hand out to touch his arm, an appeal. He shook his head, brushed her arm aside, and strode off to his car, a cream-colored vintage Jaguar. She stood and watched.
Poor Alice,
I thought.

I said good-bye to everyone in the office and stepped outside. Penn was just pulling out of the lot, turning right, east, toward the church, toward the ocean. Alice watched him until his car was out of sight, then turned to face me. We stood, the silence lingering awkwardly between us. A muscle twitched in her neck. I guessed Penn had been the bearer of more bad news. If I were her, I wouldn't want to talk about it, at least not with a relative stranger like me.

“Bye-bye,” I said aiming for a light tone. “I'll let you know when the appraisal's done.” I turned away and hurried toward the last row of the parking lot, where I'd parked.

“Penn didn't want to blindside me,” she said in a brittle monotone.

I stopped and looked at her. Her eyes burned into mine. Earlier she'd sounded philosophical. Now she sounded angry.

“He said he came to tell me in person because we're friends. Ha. Some friend. His segment tonight will explain what my impending indictment for fraud means to the alleged victims, and whether they have any recourse against me personally. They're giving him double time. Four whole minutes.”

“Oh, Alice,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't you agree it was thoughtful of him to come?” she asked sarcastically. “He didn't want to tell me on the phone, but he wanted me to know. So considerate! He even went to the trouble of tracking me down. Not so much trouble, of course. All he had to do was call my office. My assistant told him where he could find me. Still, he didn't have to do it. Penn's a peach, all right. A real peach. Damn him. Damn his eyes.”

“Isn't there anything you can do to stop him?”

“No. He said he has a source at the attorney general's office. Apparently I'm about to be arrest—.” She broke off as a crack reverberated nearby. “What was that?”

I recognized the sound. Gunfire. Someone was shooting at us.

“It's a gun!” I shouted as I dropped to the ground. “Get down, Alice!”

Another loud, sharp clap shattered the quiet. Then another.
Think,
I told myself.
Where are the shots coming from?
I knew that sound traveled and reverberated and bounced off solid objects, making it hard to trace under the best of circumstances and probably impossible now, but concentrating on finding the shooter was all I could do to try to save us. I peered into the closest slice of forest and saw only pines and brambles and forsythia bushes swaying in the light breeze. More shots were fired. I scooted to the front of my car and looked across the street, past the stone wall, into the dense growth that stretched from the road to the interstate almost a mile to the north. No glint of silver or unexpected movement caught my eye. I crawled around my car until the dirt path that led to the church came into view. Nothing. I looked back at Alice. She hadn't moved. She looked half shocked and half confused, as if she simply couldn't process what was happening.

“Get down!” I yelled again, patting the air for emphasis.

She didn't move. She wasn't looking at me, and I wasn't certain she heard me. It was as if she were a million miles away, frozen in some private memory.

“Alice!” I hollered as another shot rang out. “Get down! Duck!”

She grimaced and grunted. She rocked forward, falling against her car as she uttered a low guttural groan. As splotches of red spread over her chest and stomach, her eyes found mine, and she sank to the ground.

CHAPTER THREE

“Alice!” I hollered, sick with fear, certain she was dead.

I leapt to my feet and dashed to where Alice lay on her back staring at the sky. Her gaze was fixed. Believing that miracles sometimes happen, I pressed my hands against her wounds. Blood oozed between my fingers, but the flow had stopped. Her heart wasn't pumping. I started CPR. As I worked, tears filled my eyes and spilled onto my cheeks.

“Josie?” Gretchen called from the doorway. “What's going on?”

“Call nine-one-one,” I shouted over my shoulder. “There were shots. Alice's been hit. Stay inside and away from windows.”

I heard the front door close.

Please, God,
I prayed,
don't let her be dead.
I stayed on my knees, continuing the rhythmic pushing and breathing until my wrists began to throb and my chest began to ache. I prayed and pushed and breathed, and prayed some more.

An ambulance whipped into the parking lot, and a young man bolted out of the cab, shouting, “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head and fell back, my chest heaving, my wrist muscles tingling, my fingers numb. After a few seconds, I crawled out of his way. Another man, this one older, ran up carrying a black case. I hugged my knees to my chest, then shut my eyes, trying to catch my breath. I felt disconnected from time and place, hyperalert yet fuzzy, as if I were trapped in the dark confusion of a bad dream.

“Josie?” Gretchen whispered. I hadn't heard her approach. She touched my elbow, and I opened my eyes. “Are you all right? Can you stand up?”

I allowed her to help me up.

Two police vehicles, one a blue patrol car, the other a black SUV, roared into the lot, their lights flashing.
ROCKY POINT POLICE DEPARTMENT
was emblazoned on both, white text outlined in gold. Police Chief Ellis Hunter stepped out of the SUV, took in the scene at a glance, nodded at me, then jogged toward the paramedics as they lifted Alice onto a gurney I hadn't noticed them bring out of the ambulance. They wheeled her to the back of their vehicle, then joined Ellis in a loose huddle.
Alice is dead,
I thought, sickened by shock and sadness. If she'd been alive, the paramedics wouldn't be taking time to chat; they'd be rushing her to the hospital. I looked away, tears striping my cheeks. Gretchen stroked my arm.

“Thank you,” I said without looking at her, grateful for her quiet support.

“It's okay,” she said.

“No. It's not.”

“You're right. It's not.”

Ellis turned in my direction. He was tall, with regular features, weathered skin, knowing eyes, and a confident stride. He wore a lightweight tweed jacket and a brown tie. His scar, a jagged line near his right eye, looked bloodred under the midday sun. He'd been Rocky Point's police chief for about two years, ever since he retired as a New York City homicide detective. He explained that he'd taken the job to see if Norman Rockwell had it right about small towns. Ellis, who'd been dating my landlady, neighbor, and best bud, Zoë, for almost as long as he'd been here, was my friend, but he didn't look friendly as he walked toward me, his eyes boring into mine; he looked purposeful and stern.

“You're not injured?” he asked.

“No. Alice's dead, isn't she?”

“Yes. I'm sorry, Josie.”

I clamped my eyes closed. “The shooter aimed at her, Ellis. No bullets even came close to me.”

“How far away were you?”

“Far. Five car lengths. More.”

“Did you know her well?” he asked.

“Sure. Did you?”

“No, not personally.”

It took a second for his meaning to register. “Of course … you've been helping the attorney general investigate her.”

“You should go inside and clean up,” he said, deftly turning the subject, revealing nothing, as usual. “I'll join you in a few minutes.” He nodded at Gretchen, telling her without words to escort me inside, to help me cope.