Goodbye Dolly

15

Everyone at the doll show was talking about Ronny Beam's murder in the parking lot yesterday. The vendors spoke quietly among themselves so their customers wouldn't overhear. Nothing like murder to draw people together, Gretchen thought, observing a renewed camaraderie among the competitors. People lined up for admission, many of them arriving out of curiosity. Thrill seekers. Nina bought the Sunday newspaper, and they quickly scanned it together behind Gretchen's table. "Murder Among Dolls." Ronny, always in search of the story of a lifetime, had finally found it. Page one, front and center. Many of the customers wanted to know the sordid details, hoping to hear more at the doll show than they'd learned from the local news. Gretchen kept her ears tuned to the rumor mill, hoping to learn something that might exonerate Steve. If only he'd stayed in Boston.

At the first chance she had since arriving at her table, Gretchen keyed a number into her cell phone.

"Howie Howard, please," Gretchen said.

"Speaking," he said. "Who is this?"

"Gretchen Birch, remember me?"

"Any relation to Caroline Birch?"

"She's my mother." Gretchen thought again of the responsibility her mother had given her, and how she'd botched the task of acquiring the Ginnys.

"Wonderful woman." Howie's voice was rich and deep, perfect for an auctioneer.

A customer picked up a Barbie doll, lifted its dress, and peeked under. What was the fascination with Barbie's bottom? Nearly every potential buyer had to see what she had on underneath.

"You were at the auction at Chiggy's," he said. "I saw your name on the registration list."

"I'm sorry about Brett. I know how close you two were."

"I don't know what I'll do without him."

A customer approached with an armful of dolls, and Gretchen signaled Nina for help. Nina trotted over with Nimrod under her arm, and Gretchen turned away so she wouldn't be overheard.

"I wanted to confirm an address on the registration list,"

she said. "I must have written it down wrong. Brett gave me the wrong box of dolls, and I'd like to return it."

"You can give the box to me. I'll take care of it for you."

"It would be easier if I handled it myself so I can get my Ginny dolls back. I was hoping to sell them today at the show. Besides, you have more important things…"

Gretchen let the sentence dangle awkwardly. More important things to do. Like planning a funeral and burying a friend.

"Suit yourself," Howie said. "What's the name of the guy you're looking for?"

"Duanne Wilson."

"Let me get the registration list." After a short pause, Howie came back on the phone and read off the address.

"That's exactly how I wrote it down," Gretchen said, disappointed. "The address doesn't exist."

"Then I can't help you," Howie said.

"Did he pay with a check? If he did, his address might be written on the check. I'm sure it was just copied down wrong."

Gretchen heard pages rustling on the other end of the line.

"You're fresh out of luck today. He paid cash."

Gretchen sighed heavily. She was at a dead end in her quest to recover the dolls.

"I have an idea," Howie said. "Maybe he lives on Fortythird Avenue, not Fortythird Street. Someone could have written down street instead of avenue."

"There's a difference?"

"You bet, little lady. A big one. Aren't you from around here?"

"I moved to Phoenix a few months ago. I'm still learning my way around," Gretchen said, perking up. Howie chuckled. "We have numbered streets all the way down to Central Avenue, and then they turn into avenues. What you need to do is drive along Camelback Road and keep going. It's a long way."

"Thanks," Gretchen said. "You've saved my career."

She'd check it out after the show.

"Mailman," April called out. Gretchen looked up and saw Eric Huntington of the Boston Kewpie Club heading her way with a brown-wrapped package between both his beefy hands.

The package was small and square, exactly the size of the one delivered yesterday.

Eric stopped in front of Gretchen's table and smiled at Nina, who said, "I can already tell, you're much friendlier than yesterday's mailman."

"This package is a special Sunday delivery addressed to the doll repairer," he said.

Gretchen stared at the package. "Do I have to accept delivery?" she asked.

"Afraid so," Eric replied. "The label is very specific." He set the package down on the table and ran his finger along the address. "See. 'The Doll Repairer' in capital letters. That can only mean you, since you're the only one here."

"Mail doesn't run on Sunday," Nina pointed out, stuffing Sophie in her travel purse and slinging it across her shoulder. She plopped Nimrod down on Gretchen's lap.

"It is an enigma," Eric said. "Someone shoved the package under the club's table, of all places, then ran off. Rather scruffy character, probably earned a few coins to deliver it. I'm surprised someone didn't stop him at the entrance."

His eyes followed Nina. "Where are you off to?"

"I need a cup of coffee," she said. "I've only had one jolt so far this morning, and I need another."

"I could use one myself," Eric said. "Mind if I join you?"

Gretchen watched them walk away, Tutu in the lead, straining against her leash, and Sophie checking out the show's action from Nina's purse.

Nimrod settled into Gretchen's lap, and she bent down to rummage through her tools for the perfect doll hook to slice through the strong packaging tape.

She scanned the front for information. No return address. No postal stamp. Yet she recognized the same handwriting as the last package: large, loopy letters. If this was someone's idea of a joke, the timing couldn't be worse.

"Aren't you going to open it?" April peered at her from the next table, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. A purple muumuu covered her enormous body like a pair of drapes.

"I don't know."

"Want me to do it?"

"No, I need some fresh air first. Can you watch my table?"

"Sure. Without Nina's dog act, business is light. I'll sit at your table. But don't stay out there too long. This heat will suck every bit of moisture out of your body."

Gretchen opened Nimrod's white poodle purse. His tiny tail beat madly in anticipation of a ride.

The tail thing.

If the dog isn't smart, the tail wags the dog. Gretchen and Nimrod strolled through the hall, taking the show in for the first time. Yesterday's lunch break and a visit to the Boston Club's table had both followed the shortest, quickest routes.

Doll dealers nodded and greeted her, although most didn't know her well. Two months wasn't much time to establish contacts with the entire doll community. They accepted her because of her mother. Caroline was the center of everything related to dolls in Phoenix. She was an active member of the Dollers Club, a dealer in quality dolls, a successful author with the publication of World of Dolls, and she had a reputation as a gifted restoration artist.

"Where's your mother?"

"When's she coming back?"

"What about Ronny Beam? Wasn't that awful?"

"Come check out my Betty Ann dolls."

"Cute dog."

Gretchen made her way down each aisle, stopping to talk, offering up a willing Nimrod for infinite head pats. Finally she skirted the line of people coming into the hall and burst through a rear door used by the exhibitors, welcoming the late-morning sun reaching out to her. She closed her eyes and turned her face upward, enjoying the warmth permeating her skin after the chill of the air-conditioned hall.

Fresh air. She took it into her lungs and felt slightly better.

She found a few clumps of pampas grass at the back of the parking lot and released Nimrod for a short romp. He did the two-yard dash back and forth in front of her, ears flapping comically. Then he lay on his back waiting for a belly rub.

Gretchen shaded her eyes, crouched down to oblige him, and tried not to look toward the area where Ronny's body had been found. She didn't envy Matt. The list of suspects would be longer than the lines that kept forming to enter the doll show. She hoped he wouldn't overfocus on Steve and thereby stall the investigation.

In the distance, she spotted two forms moving toward the parking lot. The one wearing purple clothes and a red hat was pushing a shopping cart.

Gretchen grinned as she rose. She hoped Daisy's companion was the missing Nacho, and after another minute, she knew for sure.

Nimrod sat up on alert as they drew closer.

Daisy scooped him up, while Gretchen hugged Nacho.

"Welcome back," she said, ignoring the ripe odor of stale alcohol and unwashed body.

"Quite a vacation I took," he said. "Ended up in Nogales."

"Trying to cross the border into Mexico?"

"I always liked foreign cultures."

Gretchen studied Daisy's friend. Scruffy beard, hair popping out in unlikely places on his cheeks, a strange growth on the side of his head that Nacho insisted was benign.

Gretchen should try to convince him to have it removed. There you go again. Trying to change others to suit yourself. Worrying about your own comfort level, instead of accepting him for what he is.

"How's the little doggie?" Daisy had a special way with animals. Nimrod would have gladly abandoned Gretchen and followed Daisy's shopping cart forever.

"What brings you two to the doll show?" Gretchen asked.

"Looking for you," Daisy said. "I knew you'd be here. We have news you might be interested in."

"Street talk?"

Daisy nodded somberly.

The network among the homeless was a far-reaching cache of information. The latest Internet technology had nothing on the street people's information highway. Gretchen could only marvel at it.

"Tell me," she said.

"Word on the street is that Brett Wesley was murdered."

"Brett accidentally walked in front of a car," Gretchen said. "I was there."

Nacho shook his head. "He was pushed."

Pushed! The word from the napkin found in her purse at Garcia's.

"It was you," she said. "You put the napkin in my purse."

Nacho looked at her like she was crazy. "Didn't you hear what I said? He was pushed."

Gretchen blinked and shook her head hard. "I don't think so."

Daisy shrugged as if it didn't matter to her one way or another whether Gretchen believed them.

"Someone saw it happen," Nacho said. "We have a witness."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you that," he said. "You'll have to take my word for it and work with what I'm offering."

Nacho's word carried weight with Gretchen. He'd been right in the past. She trusted him. "Tell me more."

Nacho leaned against the shopping cart. "Brett Wesley was agitated, pacing, behind the truck. All of a sudden, he walks to the curb and looks down the street. Another guy, who's sitting in a parked truck, gets out and walks up behind him. They argue. Then the other guy practically picks Brett up and throws him into the moving traffic."

"Why didn't anyone else see this happen?" Gretchen pictured the scene, and the large crowd. A thin line of perspiration inched down the side of her face and she wiped it away. Heat? Or fear?

"Maybe the truck blocked the view," Nacho said. "Who knows?"

"What did the guy who pushed him look like?" Gretchen asked.

Daisy cooed to Nimrod, paying little attention to the conversation going on.

"Don't know. The person who saw it happen was sitting on the curb and couldn't see behind Brett. Also, he was a little… uh… incapacitated."

Great. Gretchen's "reliable" source of information was a lush.

"That doesn't help much," she said. "Could your witness remember anything significant?"

"The guy who pushed him got out of a blue truck. That's all we have."

Gretchen looked up, thinking.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she said.

"You were at the auction."

"Along with a lot of other people. Shouldn't you go to the police?"

"Yeah right." Nacho snorted. "Very funny. I'm telling you as a friend. If you bring cops around, we'll deny it. And you'll lose my trust."

Gretchen's eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. How do you know I was even there?"

A slight grin flickered across his face. "Talk on the street."

"Good to know I'm thought of among your friends. But…" She hesitated and looked at Nacho. "Something you said."

"I said talk on the street."

"No, not that. What color did you say the truck was?"

Gretchen had watched Howie Howard get into a truck after the accident.

"Blue," Nacho said. "The truck was blue."

"Yes," Gretchen said, feeling feverish. "It was, wasn't it?"