Along the four sides of the building, the rows of glass doors reflected leafy patterns. Most stood open to the soft breeze. In some rooms a lamp was lit, or he could see the shifting colors of a TV. The corner room was dark, the glass sliders closed and covered by heavy draperies. Dillon, tightening her hold on him, pressing him against her shoulder, headed quickly for Jane Hubble's old room.
13
Up in the hills above Molena Point the Martinez family was gathered at the pool, Juan and Doris Martinez sitting at their umbrella table wrapped in thick terrycloth robes, their hair streaming from their swim, the two children still doing laps, skimming through wisps of chlorine-scented steam. The harsh light of afternoon had softened, and the shadows stretched long. Though the wind was chilly, the spring day was bright and the pool was comfortably heated-the water was kept all year at an even seventy-eight degrees. The couple sipped their coffee, which Doris had poured from a thermos, and watched ten-year-old Ramon and seven-year-old Juanita swim back and forth the length of the long pool as effortlessly as healthy young animals. The adults had already completed their comfortable limit for laps. Doris's limit most days was about twenty, Juan's twice that. The kids would swim until hunger drove them out.
With careful attention to the changing times even here in Molena Point, to the increase in household burglaries even in the village, they had left only the patio door unlocked, and it was in plain view behind them. They were discussing an impending trucker's strike, which would delay deliveries of window and wall components for Juan's prefab sunroom company. This, in turn, would delay scheduled construction and throw the small firm behind in its work for the next year or more, depending on how long the strike lasted.
While the adult Martinezes were thus engaged discussing alternate sources of income to tide them through the coming months, a woman entered the yard behind them, making no sound, and slid open the glass door, timing its soft sliding hush to the noisy rumble of a passing UPS truck.
Slipping inside, she found herself in the large, comfortably appointed family room, all leather and soft-toned pecan woods. Crossing the thick, soft carpet, she headed for the front hall and moved quickly up the stairs; she liked to do the upstairs first. Usually, when people were in the pool or the yard, there would be a billfold left on the dresser, perhaps a handbag. Or she would find the handbag in the kitchen when she went down. Climbing the stairs, she thought about making a trip soon up to the city. She didn't like keeping such a large stash of stolen items. She liked to move the goods on, dump the take-all but those few pieces that were so charming she couldn't bear to part with them.
She thought of these as keepsakes. She was not without her sentimental side. She enjoyed the houses she entered, liked looking at the furnishings and getting to know the families, if only superficially, by the way they lived. Each new house, while offering fine treasures, offered also a little story about the residents. And though she knew it was foolish to hang on to keepsakes, she did love the little reminders she had saved, the lovely Limoges teapot from the McKenzie house, the five porcelain bird figurines carefully packed, and the little Swiss clock with a white cloisonne face that she couldn't bear to part with. She had yet to determine the value of the clock, but she thought it would be considerable. She needed more specific information on these miniature clocks; she was finding quite a few. The cloisonne clocks, imported from Europe, were big in California just now. She'd take care of the research up in the city at the main branch of San Francisco Public, not here in Molena Point, where someone might recognize her; she felt particularly wary of that ex-parole officer in the library's reference department.
She'd like to drive up to the city early, spend several hours with Solander; Solander's Antiques was the most reliable fence, and she didn't have to hobnob with little greasy shoplifters. No, Solander was strictly first-class. Then a stop at several banks to get rid of the cash, and a nice lunch, maybe at the St. Francis. Then the remainder of the day in the art reference room of San Francisco Public. The trips made a really nice change from her everyday routine. Maybe she'd stay over, catch a play, do a little shopping.
Though before she left, she did want to get her map of Molena Point in better order. She'd nearly made a bad mistake yesterday, had really scared herself when she realized she was in the Dorriss house. And she had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that the upstairs was a separate apartment.
But no matter, she hadn't gotten that far. Though not until she saw Bonnie Dorriss's car pull into the drive, saw her getting out with that big brown dog, that poodle, did she realize where she was. Luckily the young woman had taken the dog around to the backyard, and she had slipped out the front. She hadn't time to lift anything, and the experience had left her unsettled.
Upstairs, in the Martinez master bedroom, she found a billfold containing something over two hundred in small bills. She didn't find a purse, but she did find a jewelry box and picked up a nice pearl choker and a lovely antique emerald necklace. This last could be a real find-it must be well over a hundred years old and was probably Austrian by the looks of it. If those tiny emeralds were real, she had a fortune in her hands. But even if the emeralds were only chips, or even paste, the finely made antique piece would still be worth a nice sum.
She found a few gold and silver coins in a cuff-link box, none of them in protective envelopes, but found nothing else of value. She was checking the other bedrooms when, in what appeared to be the guest room, she came on a glass case containing five big dolls.
These were not children's toys, but replicas of adult women, works of art so lifelike that at first sight they shocked her. As if, peering into the case, she was looking into a tiny alternate world, spying on live miniature people. The doors of the case were locked.
Each female figure was a very individual little being, her skin so real one wanted to feel its warmth, her tiny fingers perfect. And each lady was totally different from the others, each face different, registering very different human emotions. She could not resist the Victorian woman's aloof smile. Each tiny woman was so alive that even their individual ways of standing and looking at her were unique. In their lovely period lace and satins, these lively ladies were surely handmade. She wondered if they were one of a kind; certainly they were collector's dolls.
Thinking back, she could remember glancing at magazine articles about doll shows, and at ads for dolls, but obviously she hadn't paid sufficient attention. She had missed a whole movement here.
Well she would pay attention from now on, close attention. Her fingers shook as she fished out her lockpicks.
The operation took forever, and she was growing nervous that some member of the family would come slipping in from the pool and up the stairs before she had the glass case open. Her hands were trembling so badly that when she did get the lock open she almost dropped the first doll. The little lady's full silk skirts rustled, and her direct, imperious gaze was disconcerting.
Each doll was over twelve inches tall. They were going to make a huge bulge under her coat. But at last she got them tucked away in the deep pockets that lined the garment, and, still in the guest room, she checked herself before the full-length mirror.
Not too bad, if she stood with her shoulders hunched forward to make the coat fall away from her. She could hardly wait to research these beauties and get them up to the city.
She would take these to Harden Mark; he was the best with the real art objects. And, of course, before she saw him she needed to educate herself. There wasn't a fence in the world who wouldn't rip you off if he could.