Goodbye Dolly

30

Tuesday morning Gretchen sipped coffee and watched the sunrise from a window in the doll repair shop. On a regular day not marred by recent dead and disturbing occurrences, dawn brought a vibrant energy to the start of her day. This morning she'd risen earlier than usual after a fitful night's sleep interrupted by murky dreams. Murky because the dreams hovered on a fragile line close to horrifying blackness. They weren't certifiable nightmares, but close enough to force Gretchen out of bed before daylight rather than risk having another one if she dozed off again. Dark and foreboding thoughts continued to run through her head as she sat at the window.

Why had Steve followed her to Arizona in the first place? It was out of character for him to seek reconciliation. He had always left that to her. Steve, staunchly cautious and emotionless when dealing with their conflicts, had paid a heavy price for finally allowing real human emotions to surface.

But he was too late. Gretchen had seen other relationships crumble because one of the partners refused to acknowledge the other's discontent. It seemed as though change was usually offered after the door to reconciliation had already closed. If only Steve had been a little more attentive to her and a little less so to other women, she probably would have stayed with him forever. He'd reacted too late to save their relationship, way too late. But Gretchen couldn't bear to see him destroyed. He'd lost his chance for partnership at the law firm in Boston as well as her. She hoped, for his sake, he'd manage to prove his innocence, keep his freedom, and move on with his life. Like she was trying to do.

After seven years of couplehood, she was struggling through a vast and complex desert of singleness, and today, another perpetually sunny Arizona day, Gretchen felt totally alone in the world. But aloneness, as she was finding out, wasn't synonymous with loneliness.

In fact, it felt good, sort of renewing.

Gretchen selected a doll from a repair bin. She applied a line of glue around the edge of a kid leather patch she had made before the doll show, worked the glue around with her fingers, and placed the patch over a hole in a French fashion doll's leather body. She used a doll hook to secure it against the doll's body.

Nina had been furious when she learned that Tutu was fine and that Gretchen had used the dog as an excuse to wrench her away from that intriguing man. "Jealous," Nina had snarled, "jealous that I might find a shred of happiness."

Nina, the drama queen, had made it very clear that Gretchen should stay out of her path until she cooled down. Whenever that might be.

The phone rang, and her mother's cell number appeared on the caller ID.

"What's new?" Caroline asked.

What's new? Why did her mother have to ask that every time she called? Gretchen wasn't about to spoil her trip, but her cover-ups were quickly becoming full-blown lies.

"New? Not much. I'm working on the dolls from the show."

"Is Steve still in Phoenix?"

Oh, yes, he is. "Unfortunately."

"He has a lot of pride. It'll take him some time to come to grips with your decision."

"I have a few repair questions for you," Gretchen said, steering the conversation to safer topics.

They spent a few minutes talking about some of Gretchen's more complex doll repair problems before disconnecting. Dolls. Her eyes swept the shop's wide assortment of dolls and doll parts. How could something created with such loving hands, that invoked memories of warmth and comfort in adults as well as children, become a tool of greed and destruction?

Gretchen laid the doll aside, rose from the worktable, and wandered to the kitchen.

She found the note from Daisy right after she poured a cup of coffee. "Gone to an audition. Be back later. Don't let anyone go into my room." Gretchen wondered how the woman managed to disappear without a trace. Did she have an invisible cloak? Gretchen grinned. An audition. Daisy, always waiting for her star.

Still smiling, Gretchen went to the cabana next to the pool, which she had taken over when she moved in. Her mother had remodeled the bathhouse, and now it served as a guesthouse for visitors. More of a casita than a cabana. Staying there made her feel as though she had a place of her own.

Gretchen tapped a few keys on her computer, and the screen lit up. Last night she had quickly scanned through Peter Finch's pictures, but weariness and her argument with Nina had prevented her from a thorough study of them. What did she hope to see? A grinning murderer mugging from one of the pictures?

That would be a good start.

Scrolling rapidly through the photographs of dolls, she stopped when she came to the series of pictures taken at the scene of Brett's death, after the ambulance pulled away. Gretchen recognized some of the people milling around on the curb.

A woman who'd bid on a couple of Chiggy's worst reproductions.

The driver whose SUV had struck Brett, a Phoenix Police Department investigator at her side, her hands clasping a face that registered anguish.

Half of Howie caught in another photo, his left side. Gretchen saw raw grief etched along the portion of his jawline that showed. Real pain, or contrived emotion for the camera? From everything Gretchen had heard, Howie and Brett had had a long and close friendship in addition to a business relationship, synchronized like the gears inside the wristwatch repaired by the jeweler.

Pictures popped onto the computer screen, and Gretchen continued to click slowly through them. Uniformed police officers caught in the camera frame, frozen in varying positions among groups of stunned onlookers. Gretchen searched for the face of the homeless man who had claimed to have witnessed a murder, although by the time these photos were taken, he might have moved away from the accident. The homeless community and the local police force, Gretchen knew, barely tolerated each other. Street people like Nacho, Daisy, and Albert didn't trust cops. Maybe for good reason, considering what happened to Albert. Paranoia would have driven him away at the first sign of trouble.

How long had the spectators stayed along the street after Brett was struck and killed? It had seemed to Gretchen that time stood still, but in fact, at least one agonizing hour had elapsed between the first squeal of tires and the time when she had wandered up to the registration desk to get the Kewpie doll owner's address. By then, the police had already interrogated those closest to the accident and had encouraged the rest to move on.

She thought about the sequence of events. A call for an ambulance, the wait for it to respond, the paramedics' efforts to revive Brett before transporting their unresponsive patient, the police and their search for eyewitnesses. The ambulance pulling away, and everyone remaining in Chiggy's yard, in shock, moving aimlessly around the flatbed truck. Gretchen leaned heavily on her elbows and squeezed the bridge of her nose as she continued to search the pictures. Oh, the glory of modern technology. Digital cameras, no longer constrained by antiquated film and the costs of processing, allowed a photographer to shoot continuously, almost like movie frames, catching the action in a series of fluid movements. Photo after photo.

Viewing Finch's pictures brought back memories that would haunt her for a long time. She relived the horror of that moment when she first realized what the squeal of tires meant. When she saw Brett lying in the street. Her own father had died next to her. Again she heard the squealing tires and the impact of the other car slamming into the driver's side of her father's car.

Old memories that wouldn't fade.

She wasn't looking forward to the memorial service tonight.

"I'm an old friend of hers," Gretchen said to the administrator on the phone, after looking up the number for Grace Senior Care.

"I don't see a Chiggy Kent listed here," the voice replied, sounding young and hesitant.

"I'm sorry. I forgot. Her real name is Florence. Florence Kent."

"Just a minute."

Gretchen heard papers rustling.

"Yes, I've found her."

"Good. I'd like to drive over and visit her."

"I'm sorry… Ms… what did you say your name was?"

"Um… Mary Smith." It was time to go undercover for her own extended good health.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Smith, but Ms. Kent has been moved from assisted living, and she isn't accepting visitors."

"Moved from assisted living?"

"Yes, she now requires an elevated level of care."

That translated to nursing home care. Gretchen remembered talk among the other club members of the everpresent oxygen tank.

"But she only arrived last week. Surely her health hasn't declined that rapidly." According to Peter Finch, Chiggy had been well enough a week ago to supervise the disposition of her household furnishings and arrange to auction off her collection of handmade dolls. "I was under the impression that she had some sort of apartment arrangement."

"I really can't tell you any more than that. The federal privacy act doesn't allow me to elaborate on her condition without her written consent. Would you like to speak to my supervisor?"

"I don't understand why I can't visit with her. Chiggy… I mean, Florence was an active member of the Phoenix Dollers Club, and I'm representing the members when I say we are all concerned about her well-being. You can't just shut her away and refuse to allow us to visit."

"It was her wish to discourage visitors. She isn't being held against her will. Can I get my supervisor?"

"How about family? Can family visit?"

"She was very clear. Absolutely no visitors. I'm getting a supervisor." The woman sounded impatient but continued to hold her ground.

"That won't be necessary," Gretchen said, glad that she had blocked her call before dialing the senior care center. She'd assumed that they would have caller ID, and she didn't want her real identity known.

"I think I'll drive over and make the request in person."

"This is a gated senior center."

It figures, Gretchen thought. The old woman had been permanently locked away.

Gretchen inched along the sidewalk while tiny Nimrod scurried along beside her. He stopped often to sniff the ground and mark his territory.

"Hello there," someone said.

Gretchen turned to see a woman around her age walking rapidly toward her, pushing two toddlers in a double stroller.

"You must be Caroline Birch's daughter," she said.

"I've seen you coming and going but haven't had a chance to introduce myself. I'm Janice Schmidt, and these are my twins, Troy and Tim. They're almost two."

Gretchen smiled at the twins and wiggled her fingers next to her face in a silly wave. "Hi, kids. This is Nimrod. We're going for his daily walk."

Not the most disciplined walking-on-a-leash trainee, Nimrod proceeded to wrap the leash around Gretchen's feet in a frantic burst of energy. She stepped out of the center before becoming completely ensnarled. The twins spotted the miniature puppy and leaned out of the stroller, giggling in unison.

"I hope everything is okay at your house," Janice said.

"Did someone break in, or try to?"

"I'm sorry?" Gretchen said, confused. "A break-in?"

"Yes, well, I saw Lilly Beth speaking to a police officer in your front yard, and I assumed…" She let the sentence fade away, a pink flush rising from her neck. "Judging from your reaction, you don't know anything about it, do you?"

Gretchen glanced at Lilly Beth's house and thought she saw someone step back from the window. Her mother had warned her about the nosy, gossipy neighbor as soon as Gretchen moved in. "Don't speak to her," she'd said. Lilly Beth will turn your words against you no matter how innocently spoken. Nina had agreed that the woman was poison.

"Tell me," she said to Janice.

"I don't know anything else. They spoke for a little while, and the officer left. I assumed he was responding to a break-in at your house or perhaps a tripped alarm."

Lilly Beth had been nothing but trouble for the Birch family, attempting to shut down the doll repair business her mother had started and going so far as to call the police several times over vividly imagined and nonexistent infractions. What had she called the police about this time?

"When did this happen?" she asked Janice.

"Yesterday afternoon."

What had they done wrong this time? Closed the door too loudly when they left? Allowed a scrap of blown litter to linger a moment or two in the front, where it had drastically reduced Lilly Beth's property value? A facial expression that Lilly Beth had interpreted as hostile? One more citizen complaint, and Gretchen would begin to fight back.

"Look, I've had my own share of trouble with her," Janice said. "But she's just a lonely, bitter woman who needs someone to extend a hand in friendship. You're thinking she called the police, planning to make trouble for you, and you're probably right. I shouldn't have said anything. It only creates more problems, and I'm sorry I was part of it."

"It's okay." Gretchen picked up Nimrod and let the twins feel his soft fur. "She can't do anything to cause real harm. I'll let it go."

Janice let out a sigh of relief. "I can't imagine what it could have been about," she said, her forehead creasing as she spoke. "I did find one thing a little odd, however."

"What's that?" Gretchen asked.

"The police officer wasn't in a squad car. I didn't see him pull up to your house, but he drove away in a truck. Isn't that a bit unusual?"

Gretchen felt prickles of fear on the skin of her exposed arms. The sun, comfortably warm a moment ago, felt unbearably chilly. "What kind of truck?" she asked in a whisper, pretending to be engrossed in puppy play with the children.

"A pickup truck. I don't think I've ever seen that kind of vehicle used by the police department. Well, maybe he was on his way home from work, off-duty, and he responded because he was closest? That must be it. Why didn't I think of that sooner?"

Gretchen tried to speak, but her words stuck in her throat. She cleared it, emitting a croaking frog sound.

"What color was the truck?"

"Hmm…" Janice paused, and Gretchen drew Nimrod closer to her chest.

"Green," Janice called out, like she'd remembered the winning Trivial Pursuit question. "It was green."

Gretchen sighed in relief, louder and longer than she'd ever sighed before. If Janice had said blue, Gretchen would have keeled over in a dead faint.

Albert Thoreau had seen Brett's killer step from a blue truck.

Green was a nice, safe color. It meant life, growth, and good health. The green grass of home, forest green. It also could mean jealousy and envy and green money, which could come from a doll full of diamonds.

She shook her head to change her train of thought. She'd been a little nervous lately, not feeling quite right. Yes, green was very, very good.