Dolled Up For Murder

3

“Ohh, isn’t it cute,” Nina cooed, holding up the multicolored cotton shawl. It was about the size of a baby’s terry washcloth.

“I wonder what this is worth?” Gretchen said in disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s in perfect condition except for a tiny bit of ground-in dirt where it must have hit the rocks and settled in. It’s a miracle I found it.”

Nina looked up from admiring the shawl. “A miracle? No. This is a sign. You know that most of my psychic predictions come to me in dreams. Well, last night I dreamed about this very thing.” Nina frowned. “In my dream your mother was the size of a doll and wore the shawl over her shoulders with a dress from this exact historical period. I wonder what the dream means.”

“The problem with your dreams,” Gretchen said, “is that you can’t interpret them. You should take a class on dream analysis.” Preferably one that doesn’t allow dogs in the classroom, Gretchen thought with a watchful eye on Tutu.

Nina scanned a creased photograph lying on the table. “You found this next to the shawl?”

“The shawl must have been in this bag,” Gretchen said, holding up a brown paper lunch bag. “It was lucky that it had fallen out so that the colors caught my eye. The picture was inside the bag, and I almost missed finding it because the bag blended so well with the rocks.”

Gretchen gazed at the photograph. A French fashion doll with startling blue eyes, wearing a green silk gown, smiled serenely up at her from a compartment inside an open doll trunk. A straw hat with a green ribbon and white flowers rested in her arms, and she wore glistening black earrings.

She noted the trunk’s domed shape, its brass-headed tacks, and brass handle.

Nina sat fingering the doll shawl, surrounded by her entourage, Tutu and her latest purse dog trainee. The trainee, a white fluff ball puppy named Rosebud, peered out from a large cloth purse slung over the workshop doorknob. Occasionally it emitted a shrill bark.

“Maltese like this one are so easy to train,” Nina said, leaving the table to give Rosebud a little attention. “Especially little females.” The tone of Nina’s voice curved upward. “Don’t feel jealous, little Tutu. You’re smarter than all of them put together.”

Nina looked at Gretchen. “Everyone thinks they can just buy a little dog and stick it in a purse. They don’t realize it has to be trained to stay there. That’s where I come in. Most of my clients are easy to work with, but Chihuahuas?” Nina shuddered for emphasis. “They’re more like vicious little purse attack dogs. I charge extra for them.”

“Can’t you take time off from dog training?” Gretchen asked. “Considering the circumstances.”

Nina gasped. “I’d lose my clients. I’m in the early, most important stage of my new career. If I started canceling training sessions, word would get around, and no one would come to me anymore. That would be the kiss of death.”

Wobbles, wide-awake after his long nap, was cautiously exploring every corner of the house. He made a brief appearance at the workshop door. Tutu’s ears perked up.

“Watch Tutu,” Gretchen warned Nina, reaching down and hooking a finger through Tutu’s red collar to restrain her. “She’s mesmerized by Wobbles, and she’s licking her lips.”

“Tutu won’t hurt your kitty.”

Gretchen shrugged knowingly. “I’m not worried about Wobbles. He could eat Tutu for lunch. It’s Tutu I’m worried about. I’m not sure that Wobbles has had much experience with dogs.” She smiled. Wobbles wasn’t paying attention to either dog. Arrogant indifference suited him. He cared much more about his own investigation in progress and the new smells around him. After one smug glance at the dog hanging from a doorknob, he turned and stalked off.

“He’s remarkably agile on three legs,” Nina observed.

The doorbell chimed. Gretchen released Tutu and watched her race for the front door, yapping loudly. The purse trainee trembled, full-body tremors created by the sight of the three-legged stalking tiger and the ensuing commotion.

“That must be April.” Nina rose from the table. “I forgot to tell you in all the excitement. I called her right after you called me. We should make sure the shawl is authentic. You remember April?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nina followed Tutu’s lead and headed for the door. Gretchen lifted the Maltese out of the purse, holding her close and stroking her. In spite of her feelings about canines, she couldn’t stand to see any animal in a state of fear or in pain. Rosebud, fitting easily into her palm, licked her little lips nervously, but the tremors began to ease away.

Gretchen remembered meeting April Lehman briefly on one of her visits to Phoenix, but she didn’t need a doll appraiser to examine the shawl. She sensed that it was the real thing. According to her mother, who was a well-respected doll expert and published author, doll heads were much easier to replicate than period clothing. The shawl couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than an intricate, antique doll accessory.

It was the picture of the doll that interested Gretchen the most.

April lumbered into the workshop wearing a muumuu the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. White crew socks and beige sandals completed her ensemble. “Hey, Gretchen,” she called and heaved herself onto a stool.

“April can tell a fake doll from the real thing at twenty paces,” Nina said, following April.

Gretchen knew that swindlers roamed the doll world waiting to dupe unsuspecting beginners. A good appraiser could tell an original by the number of eyelashes or the slant of an eyebrow or a marking in just the right spot. April and her kind were the backbone of the doll collecting community.

“What ya got here?” April adjusted her reading glasses and bent over the table to study the doll shawl. “My, my. Where’d you find this?”

“Hiking on the mountain. I found it in the rocks.”

April peered at her over the top of her glasses. “You don’t say.”

Then she went to work. The silence beat across the room while they waited for a verdict. Gretchen continued to stroke Rosebud, who snuggled closer and closed her eyes. After a few minutes, Nina began drumming her fingers on the table. April gave her a stern look, and Nina crossed her arms to still her impatient fingers.

Gretchen gently returned Rosebud to the purse, where she curled contently into a tiny ball.

Finally, April sat back, moved her reading glasses from the end of her nose to the top of her head, and sighed with pleasure.

“It’s a wonderful example of a mid-eighteenth-century French fashion doll accessory,” she said. “No question about it.”

“I’m assuming it fell from the ridge with Martha,” Gretchen said. “Is that a safe assumption?”

April nodded.

“My exact thought,” Nina agreed.

“Bonnie’s son, that police officer,” April said. “What’s his name? Matt? He asked me to appraise the parasol they found in Martha’s pocket. Same historical period, same size. From the same doll, I’d be willing to bet.”

Gretchen held out the photograph she saved for last. “I found this at the same time.”

April whistled when she saw the picture.

“The tray is removable, and her trousseau is stored under it,” April said, running her finger over the image of the trunk with something approaching reverence. “See how the tray is lined with striped fabric? Wow.”

“I’m pretty sure the doll is a Bru,” Gretchen said.

April nodded. “A classic smiley Bru. She’s worth a ton of money.”

“How much?” Nina asked.

April thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t want to venture a guess without examining the doll,” she said. “What I can say with surety is that the doll is about seventeen inches high. I can base that estimate on the size of the shawl. The trunk would be about twenty inches long and fifteen inches high.”

“That’s a large trunk,” Nina said, reminding Gretchen how little Nina knew about dolls.

“Most fashion dolls were designed to fit right inside the trunks like this one does.”

“Why would Martha have an antique doll shawl and a photograph of a priceless Bru with her?” Gretchen wondered aloud. “Did she steal the shawl and the parasol?”

“Logical conclusion.” April’s voice was cold. “Personally, I never cared for the woman. Shifty, I thought, and unscrupulous. She certainly could have stolen it. But I’m not aware that any of the club members around here own an original Bru with accompanying trunk.”

“She had only a picture and a few accessories,” Nina said. “That doesn’t mean she’s a thief. Let’s not snap to any rash conclusions.”

Gretchen picked up the photo of the fashion doll and turned it over. On the back, she read the date that the film had been processed. Four years ago.

“Gretchen, is it possible Martha was at your mother’s house the night she died?” April asked, ignoring Nina’s defense of the dead woman.

Gretchen was surprised. “Why would you think that?”

“Camelback Mountain is right in Caroline’s backyard. I’m simply exploring the possibility.” She arched a brow. “The police won’t overlook that, you know.”

Gretchen shrugged. “I have no way of knowing for sure. But my mother never mentioned Martha to me.” She turned to Nina. “Did Martha ever come here for repair work?”

“Caroline never mentioned it to me,” Nina said. “But everyone knew Martha. She used to be a member of the Phoenix Dollers.”

April shifted on the stool, her large form completely hiding the seat. “The next obvious question is… Where is the doll? And why did Martha have a picture of it?”

“That,” Gretchen replied, “is the prizewinning question.”

A find like this would be of great interest to her mother, and some of that curiosity had rubbed off on Gretchen. She’d love to see an antique doll of such quality with its own personal trunk of original clothes.

“We don’t have to notify the police, do we?” Nina said, scrunching her nose in distaste at the idea.

April swung around to look at Nina. “Martha’s death was an accident or a suicide, regardless of a few doll accessories and an old picture,” she said. “The investigation is routine. Bonnie’s son is the only one working it, and I’ll mention the shawl next time I see him, but it won’t change anything. In the meantime we should keep this our little secret. What will we accomplish by exposing Martha as a thief after her death?”

“The note found with Martha was rather mysterious.” Nina said.

Gretchen, standing slightly behind April, shook her head at Nina. Nina wrinkled her brow in confusion. The last thing Gretchen wanted was the contents of the message found in Martha’s hand known by the entire doll community.

“Yes, the note,” April agreed. “It does beg an explanation.”

“Does everyone know about the note?” Gretchen demanded.

“News travels fast when it’s riding Bonnie’s lips,” Nina said.

“That’s the truth,” April said.

Gretchen checked her watch and left the two women chatting in the workshop. Six o’clock in Boston. Steve would probably still be at the office, even though it was Friday and most Bostonians would be on their way to happy hour.

From her mother’s bedroom, she dialed his business number. While the phone rang, she studied a Shirley Temple doll posed on the nightstand and ran her fingers across its white taffeta skirt. A receptionist answered and mechanically informed her that Steve was in a meeting and unavailable. Her harried voice reminded Gretchen that Steve’s commitment to the firm took other prisoners as well, some not nearly as well compensated.

“Would you like to leave a message?” the receptionist asked.

“No. No message.” Gretchen hung up and tried his cell phone. No answer. She left a voice message saying she had arrived safely, her mother was still missing, and she would call later.

The bed looked inviting, but Gretchen knew she’d have trouble getting up again if she gave in to its beckoning comfort. She must look a fright by this time. Long ago, a few doll collectors had compared her features to the Shirley Temple doll next to her. Right now she was sure she looked more like a freaky Chucky doll.

Nina appeared behind her.

“Let’s go,” Nina said. “The day’s still young.”

Gretchen wondered at her aunt’s stamina. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before, thanks to Nina’s persistence. Gretchen felt weary, her body still on Boston time. She ran her hands through her unruly brown hair in a futile attempt to restore order.

“Food,” Nina said. “You need some fuel. Let’s go out and get something to eat. April can follow in her car, and we’ll drop off my purse trainee on the way.”

“Where is the doll shawl? We can’t just leave it on the workbench.”

“I’ve wrapped it up in a wee-wee pad along with the picture, and I’ll stow it in the trunk of my car until we find out who owns them. The Impala trunk is more secure than a safe-deposit box.” She laughed. “You’d need more than a crowbar to break into it.”

Nina had wrapped it in a wee-wee pad?

“I can find something more appropriate,” Gretchen said, heading for the workshop. She transferred the shawl and photograph to a long sheet of bubble wrap and rolled it up, securing it with packing tape and placing it inside a small box.

“Ready?” Her aunt said, and Gretchen picked up the box and nodded.

Nina drove like a woman possessed by flying demons. April’s white Buick, which was noticeably dented on both the front and back bumper, fell behind and disappeared altogether when Nina gunned the Impala through a yellow light.

“We’ve lost April,” Gretchen said, looking back.

“She knows where we’re going. Let’s hope she makes it there without an accident. You saw the condition of her car. She’s crash prone,” Nina said. “Don’t worry about her. Worry instead…” she ground through the gears, “… about Wobbles and Tutu alone in the same house. I can’t believe restaurants won’t allow dogs. In France everyone dines with their dogs.”

“Paris streets are also dotted with clumps of doggy doo-doo. It’s everywhere like goose crap around a pond.”

“That’s why we have to introduce the French to wee-wee pads. A fortune could be awaiting us.” Nina peeled into a driveway and deposited Rosebud with the pup’s anxious owner.

When they arrived at Richardson’s Restaurant and entered the cool and dimly lit interior of the restaurant, they found that April had already made herself comfortable in a deep-seated booth. They sipped margaritas and ordered tomatillo toast and green chile stew.

Gretchen dug in her purse for her cell phone. She checked for voice messages, hoping for word soon from Steve or her mother. Nothing.

“Nina tells me Caroline is missing,” April said through a mouthful of tortilla chips.

“I really expected a call from her by now,” Gretchen muttered, absently playing with her mother’s bracelet on her wrist.

“Call your answering machine in Boston,” Nina suggested. “Maybe she’s trying to reach you. She couldn’t know you’re in Phoenix.”

Gretchen called her apartment to check for messages. Nothing. She hid her disappointment. She was on the verge of a full-scale search for her mother, and her mother’s silence wasn’t making her choices easy. She keyed in her mother’s cell phone number and left a message on her voice mail asking her to call back immediately.

“I’ve been leaving messages all day,” Nina said.

“Maybe you should file a missing person report,” April suggested.

Gretchen had considered going to the police but quickly rejected the idea. What if Caroline didn’t want to be found? That thought and its implications had played through Gretchen’s mind most of the day.

Apparently Nina had been thinking the same thing. “No,” she said. “It’s too soon. We’ll ask around on our own. Someone has to know where she is.”

“The police must already know that she’s gone,” Gretchen said. “Haven’t they been to the house?”

“I don’t know,” Nina said, shrugging. “I’m avoiding getting involved with the police and their barrage of annoying questions. They’re always trying to blame the first person they stumble across.”

“Try the China Doll Shop,” April suggested. “Julia and Larry hear a lot of scuttlebutt at the shop.”

“We’re headed there next,” Nina said.

Steaming bowls of stew arrived filled with green chiles, chunks of tenderloin, potatoes, cheese, and a rich and flavorful sauce. Gretchen ate with renewed appreciation for Southwestern cuisine. She had forgotten how wonderful the exotic flavors could be.

After dinner April left with a promise to make discreet inquiries about the assortment of doll paraphernalia found with Martha, and Nina wandered off to the ladies’ room. Gretchen walked outside into the early evening heat and stood on the curb.

She smelled him before she saw him. The same odor of unwashed clothing that she remembered from working in homeless shelters during summer breaks from school. The memory of that smell of human decay and rancid hopeless-ness never left her.

He must have been lurking on the side of the restaurant. When Gretchen whirled, she stared directly into his blood-shot eyes. Saw his scruffy beard and dark patches of dirt ground into his face. She wasn’t afraid. From her experience, she knew most of the homeless were harmless, tortured souls who shunned the responsibility of their existence, preferring isolation. Their only wish was to be left alone.

Gretchen moved aside to let him pass, but he stood motionless and stared at her. She could smell alcohol on his breath, and she noticed he clutched a filled garbage bag. All his belongings carried in his arms.

He staggered forward a step and spoke, so low Gretchen almost missed what he said. “Get out,” he hissed. “Right now. While you still can.”

Gretchen watched in astonishment as he trotted away with his bundle, casting one last menacing look back at her.

Caroline made her way through O’Hare’s crowded terminal. Herded along toward baggage, she warily studied the travelers around her. No one looked familiar. She clutched her laptop securely against her chest and turned on her cell phone with one hand, hearing its reassuring beep.

She stopped at a vacant gate, sat down in a quiet corner, and dialed a number she had committed to memory. After four rings, a voice answered.

“I’m at the airport,” Caroline said. “May I come right away? It’s important.”

“I’m sorry,” the voice said. “But Mr. Timms was called away on business. I’m afraid he can’t meet with you.”

“That’s impossible.” Caroline clutched the phone, staring out at the vast concrete runways. “I’ve come so far.”

“He asked me to express his regrets. Good day.”

“No! No! Don’t hang up.”

Caroline stared at the cell phone. The connection terminated. Then she seemed to crumple across her laptop like a broken marionette doll, her head touching her knees.

And Caroline Birch began to sob.