“I’m sure you will. But today I’m looking for someone else.”
Daisy sighed. “Always someone else. I’m always passed over. Too short for the part, they say, or too tall. Always wrong for the casting.” She gave Nimrod a final pat, hung her head, and began pushing her cart.
“Do you know the man?” Gretchen followed, walking in step with her. “I don’t know how else to describe him. The lump on his head is sizable. Do you know him?”
“Nacho,” Daisy muttered. “Macho Nacho. What’s the doggy’s name?”
“Nimrod.”
“Ah, the mighty hunter.”
Gretchen felt frustrated. The woman’s delusions must have been caused by mental illness or by the infernal, suffocating desert heat. The weight of the sun burned down on Gretchen as she slowed her steps and fell behind Daisy, soon coming to a complete stop. Nimrod waited patiently at her side as they watched the homeless woman walk away, pushing her cart.
“His name is Nacho,” Daisy called loudly without looking back.
Gretchen ran to catch up, forgetting about the heat. “Where can I find him?”
“You look like a nice lady. Can you spare a dollar?”
Gretchen moved Nimrod to her other shoulder and fished a five dollar bill out of her purse.
“A fiver is just right. High-five,” Daisy exclaimed.
She extended her open palm, and Gretchen hesitantly followed her lead. Daisy slapped their hands together briskly. “He sleeps some nights at the Rescue Mission. Later today he’ll eat at St. Anskar’s Parish. The soup kitchen opens at five. You can find him there.”
Maybe Gretchen had misjudged her mental capabilities.
She thanked Daisy for the information and hurried back to the car.
Nimrod woofed from the purse, reminding her abruptly that she had a purse dog to worry about as well as her mother.
Gretchen stopped at a grocery store to stock up on a few days’ worth of supplies and was relieved that Nimrod slept at the bottom of the purse while she shopped. She doubted that a food store would welcome a teacup poodle.
Gretchen arrived at the hair salon in time to escort the freshly shampooed duo. Nina and Tutu wore identical candy-striped bows in their hair.
After Nina reclaimed her position in the driver’s seat, Gretchen related her meeting with Daisy. “You never said you were looking for that homeless man,” Nina whined. “I would have liked to come along.”
“Would you like to go to St. Anskar’s Parish with me later to look for him?” Gretchen’s offered consolation prize would serve her own interests, too. She needed transportation.
“Of course,” Nina said, perking up.
“In the meantime, let’s call Gertie. Maybe my mother went to Michigan to visit.”
Gertie Johnson, her father’s sister, lived in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. She wasn’t related by blood to Nina or Caroline, a fact Nina pointed out every time she heard another story about the aunt-in-law’s antics. Gertie had named all three of her children for horses: Blaze, Star, and Heather. Because Blaze was the local sheriff, Gertie fancied herself an expert on police procedure and investigative technique.
“That aunt of yours causes nothing but trouble,” Nina said, watching the road with one eye while Gretchen punched in numbers on her cell phone. “She’s an odd duck, if you ask me.”
Nina and Gertie are exactly alike, Gretchen thought. Quirky, flamboyant, and always right. That’s why they don’t get along.
“Haven’t seen her,” Gertie said after exchanging the briefest of pleasantries.
Gretchen explained the events of the last few days, and when she finished, Gertie whistled. “That’s complicated,” she said. “Have they issued a warrant for Caroline yet?”
“No, of course not. She didn’t kill Martha.”
“Bet my shorts they’ll arrest her anyway.”
Gretchen shuddered. The thought had crossed her mind as well.
“The answer,” Gertie continued. “Is always right under your nose.”
Gretchen looked down at Nimrod, who rode on her lap and had a contented smile on his face. At the moment, he was the only thing right under her nose.
She heard a distinctive sniff from the backseat where Tutu rode solo.
“Gretchen, are you listening to me?”
“Yes. But I’m confused.”
“Pay attention to everything that’s happening around you; watch people’s reactions. Add everything up, and remember that nothing unusual that happens will be a coincidence. Trust your instincts.”
Gretchen smiled. That’s exactly what Nina always said.
“And find the dead woman’s bag of clothes.”
Gretchen was startled. “What bag of clothes?”
“You said she was homeless, so she doesn’t have a home you can search for clues. Normally I’d advise you to break in and have a look around. But this isn’t a normal situation. She must have had a few personal things. Where are they, and what are they?”
Gretchen thought about Nacho’s garbage bag and Daisy’s shopping cart. Even though Martha lost all her worldly possessions, she may have collected personal odds and ends since then.
“I’ll check it out. Thanks, Aunt Gertie.”
“Have you seen your Aunt Nina lately?” Gertie asked. “That’s one goofball. Is she still baby-talking to that spoiled dog of hers and carrying silly miniature dogs in her handbag?”
“Aunt Gert says hi,” Gretchen said after disconnecting.
“I heard the whole thing,” Nina said, indignant. “The woman’s voice carries like a bad virus.
The shuttle squealed to a halt on Michigan Avenue, and Caroline joined the crowd of travelers surging to the sidewalk. The drops of rain had turned into a windy squall but subsided as quickly as it came, and Caroline was grateful for the reprieve. She walked briskly away, ducked under a breeze-way, and cut into a department store entryway. Clutching her laptop securely to her, she waited against the wall. No one appeared to be following.
Good. She had taken too many precautions to lose now. They would find her car soon, if they hadn’t already. The car, parked far from the Phoenix airport, would buy her more time. Time. Everything depended on her speed and perfect, exquisite timing. She considered calling her sister, but Nina could be unpredictable. A wild card in this game of skill could upset her lead. No. Nina had done enough damage by bringing her daughter to Phoenix.
Thinking of Gretchen drove her back onto the wet sidewalk, and she turned away from Lake Michigan and headed in the direction that would lead her to the doll. The Chicago air hung thick and humid in spite of dark clouds spinning overhead.
She steeled herself for the long walk ahead.
7
Although an imprint is not always a foolproof indication of authenticity, many antique dolls were marked with a letter or number to identify the maker and country where the doll originated. These identifying symbols were incised on the back of the head, under the wig, or on the back of the shoulder. The early Bru doll bore a circle and dot on the back of the neck.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
“No,” Nina said, hanging up. “Bonnie says the only thing Martha had in her possession when she died was the parasol, the note, and the clothes on her body. And she knows that for certain, because she identified Martha for the police.”
“Okay, we have a starting point. We have to find out where Martha kept her belongings, if she had any, and we have to find the man who threatened me.” Gretchen said, watching Nina select two of her mother’s Shirley Temple dolls from a cabinet and arrange them on a bench next to the front door. She fluffed their costumes and carefully placed them in position.
“Do you think it’s wise to approach someone who recently threatened you?” Nina stood back and admired her handiwork.