“We have an APB out on her car,” he continued. “I’m sorry.”
Gretchen’s gaze met his, and she almost believed that he truly was sorry.
“You have to tell me where she is. She has to come in and clear this up.” He leaned closer. “Where is she?”
“I’m afraid I really don’t know.”
Maybe, Gretchen thought, it’s time to pool our resources and work with the police. To a degree. She considered sharing the discovery of the doll shawl and photograph with him, but that might only give the police more reason to suspect her mother. It wouldn’t help find her, and it wouldn’t help exonerate her. The bag Gretchen found must remain her secret until she understood its significance. Until she located the French fashion doll and the trunk, the shawl would stay hidden with Nina.
“She left without telling anyone where she was going. That’s why I came to Phoenix. Nina’s worried about her.”
“You wouldn’t withhold information to protect her, would you?”
Gretchen shook her head. “Believe me, I want to find her more than you do. Tell me who appraised the doll you found in the workshop?” April Lehman knew about the doll shawl, and Gretchen hoped she hadn’t shared her knowledge with the police.
“An appraiser over in Glendale. April Lehman wasn’t available. Seems she left town for a few days.”
The detective drained his glass of iced tea and stood. Gretchen slipped on a pair of flip-flops and walked with him through the backyard gate and around the side of the house. The home’s landscaping matched the wildness of the Sonoran Desert and Camelback Mountain: spiked cacti, red-hued boulders, and spindly, whiplike ocotillos that were leafless in dry July but exploded with red blossoms in April.
A chameleon darted across the walkway in front of them.
“Someone threatened me last night,” she said, and related the encounter and the words spoken by the homeless man: “Get out while you still can.”
“And you think he has something to do with the Williams murder.”
Murder. Gretchen cringed at the word.
“Yes,” she said. “I think he knows something important. My plan is to find him.”
“Well, my plan is to find Caroline Birch.” Matt stopped at his car, a nondescript blue Chevrolet with no official markings. “How about this? You keep me informed, and I’ll do the same.”
“Aren’t you going to threaten me with jail if I withhold information? I am, as you recall, the main suspect’s daughter.”
Matt smiled. “You watch too many cop shows. This isn’t a movie. Besides-”
She interrupted him. “I know. Our mothers are friends.”
Gretchen sat on a stool in the workshop and imagined her mother bent over a broken doll, in the process of restoring it to its original splendor. A healer. Her mother’s lifework brought renewal, not destruction.
From one of the repair bins marked as sale dolls, she selected a grime-coated wax doll with a damaged nose. Once the doll was cleaned and repaired, her mother would take it to a doll show along with boxes of other dolls collected for that purpose.
Sitting in the shop, she felt closer to her mother.
Using light pressure, she began to clean the doll with cold cream, carefully spreading it around the eyes and ears with a Q-tip.
Gretchen smiled to herself. When she was learning the business, her mother had set her up at a table laden with paraffin wax and candles and supplies, and instructed her to experiment. Carve it, she’d said, mold it into shapes, and color it with crayons. Then melt some in a pot and create something entirely new.
It was one of her most memorable adult play days, and when she had finished, she possessed a working knowledge of wax dolls and their care.
This particular doll’s nose had worn away. Gretchen reached for a hair dryer hanging from a peg over the bench, turned it on, and blew the hot air on the area until the wax surrounding the worn nose became malleable. Carefully and patiently, she pushed the wax toward the end of the nose until she had created a new one.
She held the doll up and examined her work.
Caroline approached the luxury condominium without a concrete plan of action. Turning off Michigan Avenue, she found the condo units she sought. Complete with indoor parking and spectacular lake views. A uniformed doorman stood at attention inside the glass doors, a buffer between the building’s self-proclaimed elite and the commoners from the street below.
Caroline tucked silver strands of hair under her baseball cap. She brushed her hands across her shorts and top, smoothing out wrinkles caused by sleeping in her clothes. Her right hand clutched her laptop. She knew she would never get past the guard.
She entered a series of numbers on her cell phone, and the same woman picked up on the first ring.
“Please,” she said, trying to keep the sound of desperation out of her voice. “I realize that Mr. Timms is away, but if I could only see the doll for a minute. That’s all I need.” It was the truth. One of the first truths in this scheme of deception and lies.
Caroline leaned against the side of the high-rise building and closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the security guard had repositioned, moving closer and eyeing her with distrust.
“Mr. Timms called early this morning,” the woman said. “I told him you had arrived. His private plane will land within the hour. His trip was successful, allowing him to return earlier than expected. Call again in a few hours.”
“Thank you.” Caroline disconnected as large raindrops splattered on the walk around her. Thank you. Thank you. She trembled in anticipation. A few hours of waiting would feel like several long, agonizing days. She could hear every lost minute ticking away in her mind.
Rain pelted her, and she ran to the other side of the street, protecting her laptop and cursing Chicago’s unpredictable weather: damp, humid, dreary.
With any luck she would be out of this city by nightfall.
8
The key to repairing an antique doll head is to make the repair as inconspicuous as possible. The porcelain must be simulated, and the colors must be exact. Quality fillers and sealers are applied, and colors are perfectly matched. Detecting such work is difficult when expertly done. A dishonest dealer might represent a repaired doll as mint and sell it for much more than it is worth. A beginning collector is wise to seek an appraisal before purchasing an expensive doll.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Nina sat at the kitchen table, her hands covering her face in horror while Gretchen broke the news. Tutu and Nimrod, temporarily forgotten by their caregiver, ran roughshod over the house. Gretchen heard a warning hiss from the bedroom followed by a yelp, and both dogs bolted back into the kitchen. Tutu sported a fresh claw mark on her nose, and Gretchen measured the extent of Nina’s anguish by her failure to even notice.
“This is a nightmare,” Nina wailed. “Slap me. Wake me up.”
Gretchen would have gladly followed Nina’s instructions if she thought a slap would help. Wasn’t she the one who should be crying on Nina’s shoulder, not the other way around? What had happened to her cool, mystical aunt?
“Call Steve,” Nina said through broken sobs. “We need a lawyer.”
“Steve’s a divorce attorney. He won’t be able to help us. Matt said the most important thing is to find her and bring her back.”
“Matt who?” Nina asked through a space between her fingers.
“Matt Albright, the detective.”
“Oh, suddenly he’s Matt. What happened to Detective Albright? You’re forgetting who the enemy is.”
“No, I’m not.” Gretchen handed Nina a box of tissues. “He’s right. She has to come back and explain what happened. He isn’t the enemy. Martha’s killer is the enemy.”