The Dollmaker (11 page)

Nervously, she parted the beads and entered the shop. The place was small and cramped, but the owner had utilized every square inch to display her collectibles. Dozens and dozens of dolls were lined up on the shelves, and unlike their broken counterparts in the back, the showcased pieces were perfect in appearance, from their frilly dresses to the exquisite hand-painted faces.

Claire’s mother had been an avid collector for as long as she could remember. Lucille had never been able to afford the one of a kind dolls that commanded hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars, but she’d always kept her eye out for bargains, and she’d dragged her daughters with her to flea markets and yard sales for years. From the hours they’d spent at shows and exhibits, Claire recognized the more common Madame Alexanders and Queen Tatianas. The expensive and truly collectible dolls were locked in cases.

As she made her way around the crowded shop, she had to resist the temptation to keep looking over her shoulder. She knew that she was alone, but all those glass eyes staring back at her became a little unsettling.

Ignoring the flutter of nerves in her stomach, she bent to explore the lower shelves of a display case, but had already concluded her search was pointless. The doll she’d seen the day before was nowhere to be found. As she stared at a collection of antique French dolls in velvet dresses and elaborate wigs, she tried to beat back her helpless frustration. She’d looked in every case, searched along every shelf. The doll was gone, and there was nothing more she could do until she spoke with the owner or someone who worked here.

She started to turn away from the case, then froze. For one split second, a dark silhouette had been reflected in the glass. Claire’s heart slammed against her chest as she spun toward the back room.

The crystal beads swayed in a draft as panic tightened her chest. But in the next instant, she realized that the owner had probably returned and might be as frightened as she was.

“Is someone there?” She took a step toward the beads. “I’m not here to steal anything. I just need some information about a doll I saw in your window yesterday.”

Silence.

Claire braced herself as she waited for an irate owner or employee to come charging into the shop to confront her. No one came. No one made a sound, but she could feel someone’s presence. It was one of those strange sensations that couldn’t be explained, but she knew someone was in the workroom, on the other side of the beaded curtain, waiting for her to make the first move.

She stood very still, wondering what she should do.

And then a knock sounded at the front door, and she jumped.

“Claire? Is that you in there?”

Alex’s voice was muted from the street, but she had no trouble detecting his irritation. At the moment, she didn’t care how angry he was, she was so relieved he was there.

“I’ll be right out!”

Parting the curtain, she peered into the workroom, saw nothing out of place and hurried through, leaving the glass beads tinkling behind her as she rushed toward the door.

Relief washed over her as she stepped into the alley. She didn’t know why she was so shaken. Maybe because she’d entered the shop illegally. If the wrong person had found her inside, the situation could have gotten sticky. But it was more than that. Something inside the shop had badly frightened her.

Claire couldn’t stop trembling, even though Alex was headed toward her down the alley and she knew that she was safe. But the sense of danger lingered, and she could almost hear her grandmother whispering in her ear.
Listen to your instincts, Claire.

A breeze drifted through the alley, stirring the wrought-iron gate that opened into the courtyard. A white flower lay on the cobblestones just outside the fence, and Claire walked over to have a closer look.

Against the damp darkness of the worn pavers, the snowy petals of the orchid looked fresh and pristine, as if someone had dropped it only moments earlier while hurrying through the courtyard gate.

F
rom the shopkeeper next door, Alex learned that the owner of the collectibles store, Mignon Bujold, was attending a doll show in Baton Rouge for the next four days and the shop would be closed until she returned on Tuesday morning. Why she’d left the back door unlocked was anyone’s guess, but the neighbor seemed to think it was just an oversight. The locks on some of the old buildings in the Quarter were tricky, and if Mignon had been in a hurry to leave on Thursday, she might have failed to engage the dead bolt properly.

Alex had a quick look around the alley and the shop, but the entry hadn’t been forced and nothing on the inside appeared to be amiss. In spite of Claire’s contention that she’d seen someone inside earlier, he insisted there was little he could do but alert the neighborhood patrol to keep an eye on the premises until someone could get in touch with Mignon Bujold.

Claire went home after that and spent the remainder of the day intermittently resting and puttering around the house, until her mother showed up late that afternoon with an overnight bag and a determined expression. She’d come to make sure that Claire didn’t overdo her first day out of the hospital, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Claire knew better than to argue, so gave in gratefully and settled on the sofa in the living room, while Lucille went through the house cleaning like a buzz saw.

After a supper of boiled shrimp and dirty rice, they carried glasses of sweet tea out to Claire’s front porch and watched twilight fall like a silky blanket over the city. Trails of pink clouds lingered just above the treetops, and as the color began to fade, the sky softened to gray. It started to mist, and the early evening air smelled of rain and flowers and freshly cut grass.

“We’re in for another downpour later,” Lucille predicted as she rocked back and forth. “See the way those thunderheads are piling up over the Gulf?”

“I don’t mind the rain,” Claire said.

“I know you don’t. Charlotte used to climb the walls when she had to stay cooped up inside, but you’d just sit out on the porch like we are now, and watch it rain all day long. You two girls were as different as night and day when you were little, but you both took after your daddies. William was just like you, Claire. He could sit and watch the rain for hours. I never understood one thing about that man, but I sure did miss him after he was gone. I used to lie in bed at night and ask myself over and over what I might have done that drove him to do such a terrible thing.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mama. It was just something inside him.”

“I know that now. He was one of those people that couldn’t ever find any peace. When he’d get that far-off look in his eyes, you just knew he was studying on something bad, something that kept eating at him until he couldn’t take it anymore. I used to worry about how much you were like him. Always so quiet and gentle and keeping everything bottled up inside the way you did. But you’re stronger than your daddy ever was. Sometimes I think you’re the strongest person I know.”

“Thanks, Mama, but I don’t feel very strong right now.” A strange mood had gripped Claire ever since she’d left the collectibles shop that morning. She’d felt nervous and edgy all day, and she couldn’t seem to shake the notion that something bad was about to happen.

“You’re just out of sorts because of the accident. A trauma like that can take the wind right out of your sails. Give yourself a couple more days to get over it.”

Claire rested her head on the back of the rocking chair. “I don’t have a couple of days. I’m going back to work tomorrow.”

“Honey, you can’t work with your hand all messed up like that.”

“I can’t blow glass, but there’s still plenty I can do in the gallery. And I need the hours. Especially now that I have a hospital bill to pay.”

Lucille gave her a sidelong glance. “Your divorce isn’t final yet. You could probably file a claim on Alex’s insurance.”

“I can’t do that. It wouldn’t be right. And besides, I’ve always had someone looking after me. You or Dave or Alex. I’m thirty-three years old, Mama. It’s high time I learn to take care of myself.”

“You make it sound like you’ve been freeloading on the rest of us, but that’s just not so. You’re always doing for everyone else, Claire. Look at the way you took care of Maw-Maw before she passed away. I never could have done what you did. I didn’t have the stomach for it.”

“That’s not true. You’re taking care of me right now,” Claire said.

“It’s different when it’s your own kid. Don’t matter how old they get, they’re always going to be your babies.”

Claire stared out at the street, where the mist swirled like ghosts under a streetlight. “Can I ask you something, Mama?”

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you like Alex?”

Lucille stopped rocking and stared at her in the gathering darkness. “What in the world brought that on?”

“I don’t know. It’s just been something I’ve always wondered about.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Maybe I didn’t want to know before. But it bothered me that you couldn’t warm up to him.”

Lucille went back to rocking as she gazed out over the street. “What difference does it make now?”

“It doesn’t. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

Her mother was silent for a moment. “I never thought it was my place to say anything, but since you’re asking, I guess I don’t need to hold back. He had his eyes set on you from the get-go, Claire, you just couldn’t see it. And he wasn’t above manipulating a tragic situation to get what he wanted. From the moment he found out Dave was out of the picture, he didn’t let the shirttail touch his back before he made his move.”

“But he didn’t take advantage of me, Mama. He was a good friend to me. Someone I could lean on during the worst time of my life.”

“He made sure of that, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“He spent more time consoling you than he did out looking for Ruby.”

“He was just trying to help.”

“Help himself, you mean.”

“He’s a good man, Mama, and he was a good husband to me.”

“Then why are you divorcing him?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s what people always say when they can’t face the truth. Or don’t want to. But you and I both know why that marriage fell apart.” Her gaze met Claire’s. “You’re divorcing him because he’s not Dave Creasy.”

“That’s crazy, Mama.”

“You can lie to yourself, honey, but you can’t lie to me. I know you wanted things to work out with Alex, but it just wasn’t meant to be. You tried your best, but you can’t help how you feel. And no matter how much Alex loved you, he couldn’t take being second best. No man could. Sooner or later things were bound to go south.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Claire said. “Alex and I were happy for a while. We just drifted apart.”

But even as she denied it, she felt something that might have been the truth tearing at her heart, and the weight of an old loneliness pressing down on her. Sometimes she thought that crushing loneliness must be a little like being buried alive.

A couple walked by on the sidewalk, their forms not much more than shifting silhouettes in the misty darkness. Their hands were linked, their bodies pressed closely together, and as Claire watched them pass beneath a streetlight, moments from her past flashed in her mind like photographs. She thought it strange how memories could lie dormant for years, and then when they came back suddenly, it was as if they’d been there all along. Not forgotten or lost, but lingering on the edges of consciousness, the pain softened by time and experience, but never extinguished. Never completely gone.

“Only one man’s ever made you happy, Claire.”

“Let it be, Mama. I don’t feel much like resurrecting old ghosts tonight.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“We were talking about Alex, not Dave.”

“Dave is your past, Claire. Alex is just a mistake.”

Claire watched the couple on the street until they were out of sight. The mist turned into a drizzle and the temperature started to drop as the rain clouds moved in from the Gulf.

They sat in silence, and after a while Lucille began to doze off. In the dim light from the streetlamp, her face looked soft and peaceful, until her elbow slipped off the arm of the chair and she woke with a start.

“Why don’t you go on to bed, Mama? You couldn’t have gotten much rest last night. You must be all worn out today.”

“I’m a little tired, I guess, but what about you? You’re not ready to turn in?”

“Not just yet. I think I’ll sit out here and watch the rain for a while. If the weather gets bad, I’ll move inside.”

Lucille got up and came over to drop a kiss on the top of Claire’s head. “Don’t stay out here all night, now. You need to get some rest, too.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Mama.”

The door closed softly behind Lucille, and Claire turned back to the street. A few cars went by, their tires sloshing on the wet pavement, but the pedestrians had all scurried inside. The sidewalks were empty and glistening as raindrops pattered against banana leaves, and a cooling breeze whispered through the oak and pecan trees. A dog barked excitedly in a neighbor’s backyard and then fell silent.

The hair at the back of Claire’s neck lifted suddenly; she didn’t know why. She saw nothing unusual, heard only sounds she’d listened to on countless other rainy nights.

But something was different. Something had shifted in her quiet little world, and as she sat alone on her front porch, she felt the darkness closing in on her.

Claire opened her eyes. A noise had awakened her, but she didn’t know if it was real or imagined. She lay in that fragile half-sleep state and listened to the night. The wind had risen since she’d gone to bed, and the live oak outside her bedroom raked against the side of the house as rain slashed across the windows.

Even on a calm night, the house was full of sounds. Claire had never minded the creaks and groans of settling wood, but since Alex moved out, she hadn’t been sleeping well. Everything seemed to wake her these days. Maybe it was because she’d never lived alone before.

She’d married Dave right out of high school, and they’d lived in her grandmother’s garage apartment until splitting up after Ruby disappeared. Claire had stayed on in the apartment for a while before moving in with her ailing grandmother. A year later, Maw-Maw was dead and Claire had found herself married to Alex. She was never quite certain how it happened. Her life back then had seemed like a dream she couldn’t wake up from. One moment she’d been married to Dave and they’d had a beautiful little girl they both adored, and then in the blink of an eye, it had all been stolen on a hot, clear afternoon.

Her daughter’s kidnapping had been the defining moment of Claire’s life. Nothing before or after was ever going to be as important. That was the real reason her marriage to Alex had collapsed. There were times when the weight of her memories had pushed her so deeply into sadness that only the past seemed real to her. Alex had been patient up to a point, but Claire couldn’t blame him for his resentment.

She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. But it was no use. She was wide-awake now. She fluffed her pillow, tugged up the covers, then sighed in resignation.

Rolling over, she stared at the empty space that was Alex’s side of the bed. She pictured him lying there beside her, his brown hair mussed in sleep, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath. She used to stare at him while he slept, wondering why she couldn’t love him the way he deserved to be loved. He was a good man, a good husband. He was everything she needed, everything she should have wanted…but he hadn’t been able to make her forget.

She put a hand on his pillow, remembering the way his skin had felt beneath her palm. Remembering the way he would open his eyes, his gaze deepening as he reached for her in the dark. Remembering how, in those first months of marriage, she’d thought too many times of Dave’s touch.

And Alex had known. He’d pretended not to, of course, but he knew. How could he not? And in time his jealousy had turned into a festering bitterness.

Claire flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. The lightning created interesting patterns in the plaster. She tried to picture that same delicate design in a piece of glass. It was a trick she used to lull herself to sleep. She imagined herself slowly turning the blowpipe in the furnace, capturing a bit of honey like glass on the end and continuing to work it evenly so that it didn’t drip off. Step by step, she went through the arduous process, keeping the glass centered as she worked, adding layers and colors and using wet newspapers to control the shape.

Claire was so deep into the imagery that the sound of shattering glass almost didn’t register. And then she bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding in terror.

The sound hadn’t been imagined or dreamed this time. Something had been knocked over and broken.

Someone was in her house.

She tried to convince herself that her mother had probably gone downstairs for a glass of water, or even some warm milk, if the storm had awakened her, too. There was nothing to worry about. No need to panic.

Claire listened for a moment, hoping that she would hear Lucille’s footfalls on the stairs. But when no sound came, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat on the edge, one ear turned toward the door.

Another sound came to her then, softer than the first and followed by a stealthy, waiting silence, as if someone somewhere in the house stood listening for her.

It was dark in her room, but Claire didn’t turn on the light. Instead, she picked up the phone and lifted it to her ear. Then almost immediately lowered it. Was she really going to call 911? What if her mother had gone downstairs for some reason? What if the police responded to Claire’s call, only to discover Lucille in the kitchen having a midnight snack?

Besides, Claire didn’t want word of a distress call getting back to Alex. He’d rush over, thinking that he had to protect her, and another argument would ensue. She wasn’t up to dealing with that tonight.