Ding Dong Dead

52

“Last year,” Richard says after Detective Albright refills their coffee cups, “she gave me my father’s rock collection.” The technician is done. Richard’s fingers are free. “I was so grateful. Finally, a piece of family history, a small treasure, for myself. But then I couldn’t help thinking that she had a motive for that generosity.”

The detective seems to perk up at the reference to rocks and asks Richard about his father’s work, which Richard expands on. “He traveled most of the time, one geological dig after another.”

“And the equipment? What happened to his tools?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she has them, or they still could be in the house. Nothing was ever thrown out.” That’s the truth. All those dolls and the same furnishings. The secrets are still there, too.

“I’d like permission to search your home,” the detective says. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Richard says. “All I had to hide was my institutional history and my insane sister, and even that’s out in the open now.”

Richard is left alone while the search is arranged. The lock on the interrogation room clicks into place, trapping him. He wonders how long Rachel has been a member of the doll club, masquerading as Julie Wicker. Just like Rachel to gravitate to a bunch of doll enthusiasts.

He has nothing left to hide from the police, his soul has been stripped bare, but he’s worried anyway. What if they find something inside his house that they can use against him?

Stranger things have happened.

Paranoid tendencies, that’s what the doc said. Richard’s never been able to trust anybody. How can he start now?

“Richard,” Albright says from the doorway, “I’d like you to come along with us.”

“Of course.” Be agreeable.

Richard sits in the backseat of a squad car. A uniformed police officer is driving. Albright gets into the passenger seat. Richard thinks of another story to tell on the way over to search his house. One he’s been saving for last. This will seal the deal. They have to believe him now.

“One of those doll women came to the hall early this morning,” he says. “I saw her go in from my window. Then, a little while later, Rachel showed up.”

“She did? No kidding.”

“I thought I’d spotted her on the street outside the hall the day before, walking with some of the others, but I wasn’t certain. She’d changed her appearance. It was the eyes that gave her away. She has my mother’s eyes, the shape, the color, everything the same. But Rachel’s dead, I said to myself. I didn’t want to face the truth.”

“That must have been a shock.”

You bet it was. “I knew she was up to no good, either following the other woman or after me for something.” He laughs a sad sound. “With all my talk, you must think I’m paranoid.”

“Not at all.” But he hears the agreement in the detective’s voice. “What happened next?”

“I opened the window and told Rachel to get back in her car and get away from my building. I told her I’d call the cops. That’s when I knew for certain it was her under the dyed black hair and different clothes. She said she knew I didn’t have a phone, which was true. Hate the things. Salespeople and political calls. Who needs it? I held up my television remote and told her I had bought one. She thought it was a phone in the dark and left real quick.”

“What morning was this?”

“This morning.”

“This morning?” The detective swings his head to the backseat. “Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I remember when it happened? I’m telling you it was today. That’s why I came here. We have to stop her.”

It has taken a whole lot of work to get a reaction from the detective. Finally he has one. Albright is paying attention.

“What about the woman who went inside?” he asks Richard. “Who was she?”

“Don’t know. They all look the same to me.”

“What did she look like? Tall? Short? Heavy? Come on.”

Richard describes the early-morning visitor. “Young, thirtyish. She’s the one directing the play for that bunch of doll collectors.”

“Gretchen.”

“You know her?”

“Speed it up,” the detective says to the driver.

At last! Richard thinks. Action!