Dolled Up For Murder

26

The picture hadn’t done her justice. A photograph, in Gretchen’s mind, was never able to re-create the splendor and beauty the photographer hoped to capture.

The doll’s delicate bisque features, unflawed in any way, shone with charm, her green cascading costume sumptuous and accurately portraying the dress fashion of her historical era. A circle and dot on the back of her neck established her Bru heritage. Gretchen marveled at the craftsmanship and at this rare opportunity to hold the doll in her hands.

Nina unwrapped the second package, and photographs spilled out onto the kitchen table.

Gretchen carefully laid the French fashion doll down on the sofa and picked up a sheet of paper. “Look,” she said. “Martha’s old inventory of dolls. And pictures of each.” She shuffled through the photographs, noting bisque dolls from various French and German makers, several fashion dolls, Bébés, character dolls, dolly-faced dolls, cloth dolls, wooden dolls. Gretchen was stunned by the number of quality dolls in the collection. Reading the inventory days ago didn’t have the same impact that viewing the pictures did.

She turned over a photograph. The doll’s written description, transposed from the inventory list, was scrawled across the back of the picture. Gretchen studied the date stamp on the back, the same as the date stamp on the back of the French fashion doll photograph. Picking up the inventory list, she scanned it, running her index finger along the entries. She stopped at a listing.

“Nina,” she said, breathlessly. “This inventory list is different from the one the police found in the workshop.”

“How do you know?” Nina asked. “What’s different?”

“Well, to begin with, the Bru French fashion doll is listed right here.” She dragged the paper across the table, careful to keep her finger placed next to the appropriate listing. “It wasn’t part of the other inventory. I remember commenting on that at the time. We thought Martha must have forgotten to update the list.”

While Nina looked it over, she hurried to her mother’s bedroom and returned with her copy of the inventory. A cross-comparison of the two lists exposed several inconsistencies, aside from a difference in the font used to print the lists. The list found in the cabana appeared to have been composed on an old-fashioned typewriter; the one found in the workshop was laser-printed from a computer word processor.

The fashion doll wasn’t the only doll excluded from the first list. “A china Madame Rohmer wearing a cream dress with blue feathers is also missing,” Gretchen said. “And a French Jumeau Bébé holding a Steiff monkey.” Gretchen continued along the list. “Here’s the Kewpie that Joseph said he purchased through an estate sale.”

Nina shuffled through the photographs. “I found pictures of those three,” she said, holding up the pictures.

“But why aren’t they included in the list from the workshop?” Gretchen said, confused. “Why two different lists?”

“Maybe the second list is a more current inventory,” Nina suggested.

Gretchen shook her head. “If that were true, the dolls’ descriptions missing from the first list would be entered together at the end of the second list. They aren’t. The list is in order by dates of purchase. The French fashion doll was purchased early in her collection. She wouldn’t have forgotten it.” Gretchen laid the two lists side by side. “No. Someone tampered with the first list, the one the police found in the workshop.”

Nina picked up the fashion doll and gently touched the white daisies on her straw hat.

Gretchen found another conflicting entry. “Here’s another one that didn’t appear on the first list. She read the entry out loud.“Jumeau Triste doll, circa. 1875, composition and jointed wood body, real hair wig, thirty-three inches.” She shuffled through the pictures, checking the back of each until she found the matching description. The dark-haired doll with the thick eyebrows must be worth a nice sum, she thought.

“Let’s assume that Nacho planted the parian doll and the inventory list to throw suspicion on my mother,” Gretchen said to Nina. “For some reason he wanted the police to view her as the prime suspect, so he hid the dolls and made an anonymous call to the police.”

“There isn’t any other explanation, since we know she’s innocent,” Nina said.

“Right,” Gretchen said. “And let’s assume that Martha Williams saved her entire collection after all.”

“That’s a stretch,” Nina said. “Look at how she lived. She wouldn’t have lived that way if she had thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth of dolls.”

“She would have lived that way if she was emotionally disturbed, and the indications are pretty strong that she had emotional issues. She also had a drinking problem. And she was obsessed with her dolls.”

“Okay, let’s pretend that she managed to keep her dolls when she lost her house. Then what?”

“Nacho knew she had them and wanted to steal them,” Gretchen said. “She was killed for her dolls, not for a bottle of whisky, as he said. And he wanted to frame my mother for Martha’s murder.”

“And the reason for two different lists?”

Gretchen frowned as she stared at one picture after another. The explanation had to be in her hand.

“Because he didn’t want anyone to know about those five dolls.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. I’m not an appraiser, though. We need to get April over here, but I’m guessing that the dolls excluded from the first list are the most valuable dolls in the collection. Only he doesn’t have those dolls for some reason. Otherwise he’d be gone instead of breaking into collector’s homes. Those dolls are missing. And those are the ones that matter to him. He doesn’t want anyone to know they exist.”

“So Nacho was searching for the French fashion doll and these other dolls you just mentioned.”

“Correct,” Gretchen said. “Is my theory holding together so far?”

Nina nodded, lost in thought.

“Nacho turned himself in for the murder,” Gretchen said. “And since we’re assuming, let’s assume that he did kill Martha. His motive is much greater than he’d like us to believe, but why continue to hide information after he admitted that he killed her? To tell you the truth, even with a recorded confession, I have a hard time accepting his guilt.”

“Why,” Nina asked, slowly, “would he go to all the trouble of planting evidence against Caroline, almost kill Daisy, and then turn himself in?”

“Because he didn’t do it,” Daisy said from the doorway, her head wrapped in bandages and tears in her eyes. “He wouldn’t do it.”

Daisy slumped over the worktable, her head held in her hands as though it was too heavy to carry, and listened silently while Gretchen repeated what she knew of Nacho’s confession and arrest. The dogs wandered in, spotted Daisy, and bounded over, with Wobbles following at a discreet distance.

Daisy perked up at the sight of them and bent to stroke each one.

“Nacho wouldn’t harm Martha,” she said. “He loved her more than anything in the world. Not that she deserved it.”

“How can you be so sure he didn’t kill her?” Nina said.

“Because he’s the gentlest human being I’ve ever known. He helps everybody he meets, and his only problem is his drinking. He speaks all kinds of languages, which is pretty amazing. He’s not so gruff once you get to know him. He wouldn’t hurt a flying cockroach.”

“Maybe he drinks because of that cancerous tumor on his head,” Nina suggested.

“That isn’t cancer,” Daisy said. “He says he’s had it his whole life.”

“Why would Nacho confess to a crime he didn’t commit?” Gretchen asked, lifting each picture and studying it before adding it to a pile on the worktable.

“He’s protecting someone,” Daisy said with confidence, confirming Gretchen’s own suspicions that he was creating a smoke screen. Possibly so the real culprit would remain undiscovered.

Something about the dolls’ pictures bothered Gretchen, tugged at her memory in a disturbing way. What was she missing?

“Have you heard of somebody called the Inspector?” Nina asked Daisy, scooping Nimrod onto her lap. “Martha complained about someone she called the Inspector.”

Daisy waved dismissively. “Martha had names for everyone. She called me Marilyn Monroe because I want to be in the movies.” She knit her brow in concentration. “I don’t remember any Inspector though.”

“Maybe she meant April. She’s an inspector of dolls, if you think about it.” Nina stared into space. “Gretchen, let’s not get April over here to see this collection until we can eliminate her as a suspect. The more I think of it, the more likely it is that April was the Inspector. Are you paying any attention, Gretchen?”

After hearing her name for the second time, Gretchen glanced blankly at Nina. “There’s something about the pictures,” she muttered, tossing those in her hand onto the table. “Something familiar. I’ve seen some of them someplace before.”

“Yes,” Nina said, gesturing to the French fashion doll. “Like this one, for example. And the Kewpie at Joseph’s store. And the one the police hauled away. You have seen some of them.”

Gretchen frowned. Of course, Nina was right.

“We’ve managed to do it again,” Nina announced. “We found more evidence against Caroline, digging her grave by the shovelful. This is one more thing we can’t show to the police because it only proves what they already believe.”

“With friends like us…” Nina said.

“Who needs enemies,” Daisy added, and they finished in synchronization and high-fived each other.

Gretchen stared out the window at Camelback Mountain. She had tentative answers for many of the problems surrounding the death of the alcoholic doll collector. But she didn’t have an explanation for one important question burning in her mind.

Two witnesses saw her mother on the mountain when Martha died.

What was she doing up there?

Nina drove off for a prospective client appointment with all the dogs in tow, leaving Gretchen to ponder the pictures before her in an attempt to find solid answers to fluid questions. Daisy, appearing worn and pallid, shuffled off to her room.

Gretchen rummaged on the lower shelf of the workshop cabinet, removed the doll trunk, and gently reunited the doll with its trunk. She closed the lid as the doorbell rang.

Gretchen smelled Chrome cologne as soon as she opened the door, wondering what bad news the detective carried with him. She had his number. He lured her in with feigned concern and a dazzling smile, then zapped her with the current turn of affairs, which was never advantageous for her. She cringed to think of what he had to say this time.

Yet she had to know.

She panicked briefly when she thought of the French fashion doll’s trunk and the assorted pictures lying in plain view in the workshop, but then remembered his phobia.

He’d be the last one to suggest they meet in a workshop brimming with dolls and assorted doll parts.

“Since you seem to thrive on exercising in horrific heat,” he said. “I thought you might like to take a walk. As long as we don’t go that way.” He motioned up at Camelback Mountain. “Uphill and hot don’t mix well with me, but there are two kids selling lemonade down the street, and I’d like to buy you one. My treat.”

Gretchen slid through the door and closed it behind her. “Sounds like just the thing.”

They walked up the street, turned the corner, and bought two lemonades from the young entrepreneurs. The sun, slowly descending in the west, filled the sky with streaks of brilliant orange. Gretchen wondered where the day had gone and checked her watch. Six thirty. It would be dark in an hour. They started walking back to the house.

“Any word from your mother?” Matt asked, sipping from a straw.

“No,” Gretchen said. “Sometimes I’m filled with dread thinking she’s dead and will never return. Other times I think she’s okay and expect her to walk in the door any minute. I can’t understand how she could simply disappear without contacting me.”

“Your feelings aren’t unusual,” Matt said. “In my job I see people all the time who are dealing with the same issues you are. Besides, I have irrefutable proof that your mother is alive.”

Blood rushed to Gretchen’s head, and her heart began to beat so loud she thought he would hear it. “Tell me.”

“Caroline Birch requested a credit card transaction for a large sum of money. So large that the credit card service required verbal approval from her. We traced the call to a motel near O’Hare International Airport.”

“She went to Chicago?” Gretchen was incredulous.

“She purchased a doll online for an exorbitant amount of money.”

Anger flashed through Gretchen. After the relief of knowing her mother was safe, Gretchen felt an intense anger toward her. “She’s out buying dolls while I’m worried sick about her?”

“Everything I’m telling you right now is confidential,” Matt said. “I’m giving you a heads-up because of our family friendships, but you can’t interfere with the arrest process.”

“Aren’t you worried that I’ll find a way to warn her?”

“She’s on a plane as we speak,” Matt said, glancing at his watch. “She can’t receive phone calls in the air, and she’ll be landing in less than an hour. Two plainclothes agents are waiting at the gate, and they have orders to arrest her quietly. We don’t want a spectacle in the airport.”

Gretchen felt light-headed, and her steps slowed.

“This is her opportunity to clear her name,” he said quietly.

A squad car slid along and parked in front of the house, and an officer got out and hitched his belt.

“He has orders to make sure you stay in the house until further notice.” Matt nodded to the officer.

“You can’t hold me hostage,” Gretchen said, aghast. “This isn’t a police state.”

“Arrest her if she tries to leave,” he said to the officer and hurried to his car. “I have to go to the airport to meet your mother when her plane lands.”

The Inspector, Gretchen thought, watching the blue Chevy make a U-turn. Isn’t that what the English called their detectives?

Gretchen’s eyes were riveted to the empty workbench. The French fashion doll, the trunk, the inventory list, and all the pictures were gone. That explained why the patio doors stood wide open and hot air billowed in. Someone had entered the house through the back.

The air-conditioning unit whirled into motion to compensate for the increase in temperature. Then Gretchen saw it. She picked up a rumpled piece of paper lying where the fashion doll had lain a short while ago.

Meet me on the mountain. You know where. I’ll explain everything. And hurry.

Mom

Gretchen felt an enormous weight crushing her chest and concentrated on breathing slowly. The handwriting appeared to belong to her mother, although obviously rushed. How could Matt have been so wrong about her time of arrival? She must have eluded his efforts to spring the trap by taking an earlier flight.

Gretchen sprinted to the bedroom, grabbed her binoculars, and returned to the workshop window. The few hikers on the mountain, aware that the sun was rapidly setting, descended from the heights and began traveling earthward. Only one climber continued upward, and Gretchen sighted in the binoculars for a clearer view.

The departing sun’s shadows splayed across the red cliffs of Camelback Mountain, darkening Gretchen’s visibility through the binoculars. But she made out one distinguishing feature. Her mother’s shoulder-length silver hair gleamed in a ray of light as she climbed with her back to Gretchen. The light shifted away, the color in her hair faded, but her daughter had recognized her in that brief moment.

Gretchen struggled to understand her mother’s actions.

Why did she take the doll and climb the mountain? What was going on?

The only path to the truth was up. She had to meet her mother and demand an explanation, had to hear her reason for running away. Then she had to convince her to turn herself in. With a good lawyer and Gretchen beside her, they would overcome this obstacle just as they had survived the cancer scare.

She remembered the police officer stationed outside. The only way out of the house would be through the backyard and over the adobe wall. Gretchen sized up the wall, a good six feet high, and frantically looked around for something to stand on or to climb with.

A kiva log ladder in the living room with a decorative runner draped over its rungs would work perfectly. She flung the cotton runner aside and hurried past the pool with the ladder in her good hand.

Bracing it against the wall, she climbed the rungs, then, with incredible effort, given her broken wrist, she pulled her body the rest of the way up and dropped over the other side. She loped up to the trailhead and passed the posted safety warnings while scanning the ledges above her.

The last of the straggling hikers passed as she veered to the left and began the steep climb up Summit Trail. The only thing on her mind was her reunion with her mother.

Twilight descended quickly in the desert, but Gretchen’s eyesight adjusted readily to the change. Perhaps her mother didn’t realize the dangers of being on the mountain after dark. They would have time to descend safely as long as she hadn’t gone all the way to the top. Gretchen doubted that. The few times they had hiked the mountain together, their goal had been a point on the enormous boulder. The same one that attracted all the tourists and offered a splendid view of Phoenix and the valley below.

The boulder towered ahead, rising like an obelisk before her. She scurried up until she stood on its highest point. Her mother was nowhere in sight. Right when she decided she must have been wrong about their meeting place, she heard a voice softly call her name.

She twirled around on the ledge and stared with dawning terror at the image before her.

It wasn’t her mother standing back in the shadows of the mountain.

Too late, she remembered where she had seen one of the dolls in the picture.