The note found with Martha implied that Caroline had killed her. But would Martha have had enough time to write out a message to the police?
The message scrawled by Caroline on the back of the photocopy of the picture of the French fashion doll and trunk upset Gretchen the most. She could think of multiple reasons for her mother’s disappearance and for the note found in Martha’s hand. But the picture she found last night in Nacho’s notebook wasn’t ambiguous. It stated the facts boldly.
Caroline was hiding a doll, and not just any doll, but a doll worth a lot of money, and it didn’t belong to her.
The parian found in the police search hadn’t belonged to Caroline.
The French fashion doll-whereabouts unknown-didn’t belong to Caroline, either.
If she didn’t know her mother as well as she did, she might agree with the authority’s decision to issue an arrest warrant.
Gretchen glanced at the two pink bracelets on her right wrist. She would never lose faith in her mother. There had to be another explanation, and she would find it.
As soon as Gretchen turned onto First Avenue she spotted Nacho pushing a shopping cart. He saw the car at the same time and looked desperately around for an escape route.
Gretchen slid the Impala along the curb and slammed on the brakes. She jumped out, sure that she had Nacho trapped this time. If he took off, he’d have to abandon the cart, which he gripped possessively.
“That’s Daisy’s cart,” Gretchen said to him as she approached, noting a few familiar items under Nacho’s black garbage bag, which sat on the top of the heap. She lifted a corner of the bag, and Nacho slapped her hand away.
“Hey,” she said. “Keep your hands off me.”
She smelled unwashed body odor and sour alcohol.
“Yo no entiendo inglés,” he said. “Tú debes irte.”
“I know you can understand me,” Gretchen said. “You spoke perfect English when you threatened me at the restaurant.”
Nacho glared at her and kept his hands firmly locked on the cart. He tried to move past her, but Gretchen ran to the front of the cart and pushed back.
A crowd of people walked by, and several turned to look.
“Leave the poor guy alone,” someone shouted.
Gretchen scanned them with a weak smile but stood firm.
“You are going to answer a few questions first,” she demanded. “Where is my mother?”
“Yo te dije antes que te fueras. Tú solo eres un problema.”
Gretchen stared at him. Somehow she had to force him to speak English. “Police,” she said, bluffing. “I will call the police.”
That did the trick. Nacho’s eyes widened in fear. “No police,” he said. “That would be foolish.”
“I need some answers from you.”
“You stole something from me. I want it back first.”
“Wait here.” Gretchen went to the car, keeping a watchful eye on Nacho, and returned with the notebook. She handed it to him, and he wedged it into the plastic bag.
“You should be more afraid,” he said. “Aren’t you scared?”
Heavy traffic streamed by them, music blared from open windows, and the ground shook from amplified bass settings. Sunday strollers ambled by. At the moment, Gretchen felt reasonably protected from a violent assault.
“What would you do to me? Would you kill me like you killed Martha?”
Nacho’s response was quick but wary. “Martha was my friend. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Tell me about the French fashion doll and the trunk.”
“You’re snooping where you aren’t welcome.”
Gretchen was angry. “My mother is missing, and she is accused of killing your supposed friend. I plan on snooping into your life until you give me answers. Now tell me what I want to know.”
Nacho’s eyes flicked briefly to the shopping cart before answering. “I know nothing about any doll.”
Gretchen leaned her body into the cart, one hand resting on top of the plastic bag. Nacho’s eyes shifted nervously from the cart to Gretchen.
“Where is Daisy?” Gretchen said evenly. “This is her cart.”
“Daisy asked me to watch it for her,” Nacho said, finally answering a question. “She had business.”
“What’s inside the cart, Nacho?”
His knuckles were white, and sweat slid down the side of his face.
“Hide the trunk,” Caroline had written. Where would a homeless man hide a large doll trunk? Certainly not on the street or in the Rescue Mission. Finding a safe hiding place would be a complex task for a man without a home.
Gretchen reached into the cart and tossed his garbage bag onto the pavement. Before he could resist, she pulled the top layer of junk aside.
“Well, well,” she said. “If it isn’t a doll trunk.”
The antique wooden trunk was wedged in the cart between layers of clothing. Gretchen glanced up at Nacho. He backed away.
Gretchen held up a hand in warning. “Don’t go,” she demanded. “You have to help me.”
“Yo traté de ayudarte,” he said, forgetting to speak English in his haste. “Tú debes irte.”
And Nacho grabbed his plastic bag and broke into a run. Gretchen refused to abandon the trunk to pursue him. She watched helplessly as he disappeared around a corner.
Great, she thought, now what do I do?
She wheeled the cart the few feet to Nina’s car and gingerly lifted the doll trunk from the cart and placed it in the passenger seat. She flipped through the other items in the shopping cart without finding anything else of significance. Two shabbily dressed women sat on a park bench watching pigeons compete for bakery scraps. One of the women tossed a torn piece of bread onto the sidewalk and scrutinized Gretchen as she approached.
“Do you know how to find the Rescue Mission?” Gretchen asked them.
After some thought, one woman said, “Yes.”
“Will you take this cart there?” Gretchen said.
“No,” the same woman responded.
“I will pay you five dollars.”
“Yes,” said the other woman. “I will take it.”
“Walk slowly, and if a man asks for the cart or tries to take it from you before you get to the mission, give it to him. If not, leave it with the people there.”
Gretchen handed over the five dollar bill, and both women rose and shuffled down the street, guiding the cart in the direction of the mission.
She sat in the car with the air-conditioning turned all the way up and the doors locked, and studied her remarkable find. Approximately twenty inches long, as April had predicted, the outside of the trunk was in excellent condition. No major flaws in the wood. The brass-headed tacks and brass handle shone as though recently polished. She carefully opened the trunk, and even though she knew from the message found in Nacho’s notebook that the doll had been hidden someplace else, she half expected to see it inside.
The upper tray, designed to hold the doll, was empty.
The interior of the trunk was lined with finely striped beige and blue fabric. When Gretchen removed the tray, her eyes lit up with delight at the wealth of accessories. She gingerly picked up each one, elegantly hand-stitched dresses, little ankle boots, a tortoiseshell comb, corset, bonnet, fan, and a full-length brown kid leather raincoat.
She carefully replaced the accessories, closed the trunk, and pulled out into the early afternoon traffic.
Gretchen racked her brain for her long-dormant knowledge of doll collecting. This was an unbelievable trunk, worth a slew of money. Think, Gretchen. Think back to your mother’s book and the chapter on French fashion dolls. What can you learn from examining this trunk?
The size of the doll, Gretchen thought. Based on the length of the trunk and the size of the clothing, the doll must be about seventeen inches tall. Was that information helpful? Not at the moment, but she filed it away for future reference.