“Only since yesterday. But the timing isn’t good.”
“You mean because Martha died yesterday?”
Gretchen nodded. She felt weary and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and wake up to a new day and fresh energy. Maybe tomorrow everything would be clearer.
“Your mother is fine,” Larry reassured her. “She’ll turn up, and she’ll wonder what the fuss is about.”
Gretchen idly fingered a stack of doll clothing lying on Julia’s desk. She picked up a doll with a repair tag around its wrist-a Schoenhut wooden doll-and admired the expertly carved face. The enamel face paint was slightly cracked around the nose, but the doll was in good condition.
“Nice,” she said, noting the spring joints and maneuverability of the parts before she carefully returned the doll to the desk. She glanced up and saw Larry studying her. She looked away. His eye spasms seemed worse than she remembered. “I better find Nina,” she said.
The shop was empty when Larry and Gretchen joined Julia in the studio. Nina was nowhere in sight. Julia stood like a guard dog at the front door, blowing loudly into a tissue.
“She takes that animal everywhere she goes,” Julia complained. “I know she’s your aunt, Gretchen, but others don’t appreciate Tutu quite as much as Nina does. She’s waiting outside for you.” Julia fanned her face with her hand. “Martha’s suicide has taken quite a toll on me. What a terrible tragedy.”
“Martha’s entire life was a tragedy,” Larry said. A hardness edged in his jaw. “She turned into a bitter, pathetic drunk. She used to come into the shop, but she scared away business with her alcoholic theatrics. Julia eventually threw her out.” Larry pulled the plug on the Open sign in the window. “I’ll stop by in the morning. Maybe something in your mother’s workshop will give us some idea where she went. What about her customers?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t answered her business line. Anyone calling about repairs will get her machine.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he said. Julia nodded and kissed her on the cheek, and Gretchen walked slowly into the parking lot, where Nina waited in the coolness of the running car.
“What an absolutely horrible woman Julia is,” Nina said. “And did you see that face problem Larry has? Your great grandmother had one of those tics, and it got worse when she was tired or excited or under a lot of pressure. Poor Larry has to be constantly stressed living with that woman. His eye was blinking like one of those airplane warning lights on top of a cell tower.”
Gretchen struggled to stay awake on the ride home, not even caring that she shared her seat with Tutu. When she was dropped off in her mother’s driveway, she muttered good night and stumbled inside. She fumbled for the light switch and saw Wobbles peeking at her from the laundry room.
“Bedtime,” she said to him, too exhausted to think anymore. She shed her clothes and collapsed into her mother’s bed. The last thing she remembered before falling into a dreamless sleep was Wobbles snuggling up to her bare feet, purring loudly.
Caroline wanted to use a credit card, but she couldn’t take the risk. She hunted through her purse and found a twenty dollar bill folded inside a side zipper. She added it to the bills in her wallet. Sixty-six dollars left after paying cash for her airfare. Not nearly enough to rent a hotel room for the night and still have enough for a cab and a meal tomorrow. Three credit cards, all useless to her, but invaluable to a pursuer if she was foolish enough to charge anything.
This wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept in an airport terminal. Once, on a Midwestern flight, a blizzard had shut down flights and stranded her overnight.
Caroline bought a Chicago-style hot dog from a kiosk and devoured it while she searched for a quiet, unused gate to spend the night.
At precisely ten o’clock her cell phone played Pachelbel’s Canon, and she answered after checking the caller ID. Calls from her sister and her daughter had gone unanswered all day, but she took this one.
Caroline listened, and what she heard caused her to reel. She felt weak with shock. It couldn’t be possible. What was her daughter doing in Phoenix? Was it a calculated trick to lure her back? No. She sensed Nina’s hand in this turn of events, and she mentally chastised herself for failing to anticipate her sister’s response to her disappearance. Caroline’s lack of foresight would get someone else killed if she wasn’t more careful.
“Get her out of there,” she said into the phone. “Whatever it takes, get her out of the way before something happens to her.”
The doll was more important now than ever. Tomorrow she would find it, even if she had to resort to drastic measures.
5
What makes one doll more valuable than another? Top prices are paid for swivel-head dolls created between the 1860s and the early 1900s by famous dollmakers such as Bru, Jumeau, and Kestner. Collectors look for European dolls with swivel heads made from an unglazed porcelain called bisque. Add a kid-leather body and original wardrobe, and the value climbs significantly.
Closed-mouth dolls are worth twice as much as open-mouthed dolls.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
The man standing at her mother’s front door wore khaki cargo shorts and a “Running Strong for American Indian Youth” T-shirt. Poking her head through the partially open door and hiding behind it in cotton boxer shorts and a skimpy camisole, she did a quick mental check of her appearance: no makeup, hair in its usual early morning tangle, sleep lines probably creasing her face. Perfect. Great start to the day.
Gretchen had to squint in the radiant light shining from his smile. She shaded her eyes with her hand and caught a whiff of Chrome cologne, one of her favorites.
“Yes?” Gretchen produced a weak smile.
He flipped a badge and held it close to her face. Her tentative smile faded.
“Detective Albright,” he said. “I’m looking for Caroline Birch.”
“You’re Bonnie Albright’s son. Matt.”
He flashed another dazzling smile. “And you must be Gretchen Birch from Boston.”
“News travels fast.” Gretchen raked her fingers through her unruly hair. “Did my watch stop?”
“No, it’s six.”
“Six o’clock on Saturday morning?”
“Correct.”
Gretchen edged further behind the door. “Seems a little early for official business. My mother isn’t home right now.”
“I’ve heard that news, too,” he said. “I was hoping it was a rumor.”
“You aren’t what I expected.” Gretchen imagined his mother. Bonnie of the red flip hairdo and uneven penciled eyebrows. The man looming on the other side of the door had dark wavy hair and a body builder’s biceps. He must take after his father.
“What did you expect? Bald and beastly?”
“Where’s your uniform?”
“I’m undercover.” His eyes slid past her head. “Can I come in?”
“I don’t think so.” She wedged a bare foot against the door. “Do you have a search warrant?”
He grinned. “Do you have something to hide?”
His smile was disarmingly charming, but Gretchen felt sure that he was acting. She had an overwhelming urge to protect her mother. The role reversal seemed awkward and unnatural. Her mother had always been her shield against potential danger.
“Look,” he continued, sliding his badge into his wallet. “I’m investigating a death, and your mother’s name came up. This is all very routine. If she didn’t do anything wrong, you have nothing to hide.”
Gretchen hated logic, especially from a cop. “Who said I have anything to hide?”
“You did.”
“I did not.” See how a cop will twist your words until you don’t recognize them anymore, Gretchen thought, glancing past his shoulder and watching a neighbor walk her dog past the house. Six A.M. Didn’t these people sleep in on Saturdays? She lowered her eyes and met his gaze. Neither one of them flinched or looked away.