“It was a case of mistaken identity. I didn’t know it was you.”
“We seem to have a lot of mistaken identities as well as disappearing acts going on.” Matt ran his fingers through his hair. “Who’s the colorful character?”
“A friend of Daisy’s.”
“We had an agreement to share information, remember?”
“That was your idea, not mine. As far as I’m concerned, we’re on opposing sides.”
Matt leaned in. “We both want the same thing. We want to see this case closed.”
“We differ in the end results. I care about the outcome.” Gretchen glanced over at Nina and Nacho. What could she tell him that would help her mother? Nothing. What could she say? Excuse me, but the latest facts are a little puzzling. You see, my mother conspired with these nice homeless people to conceal her movements in an effort to throw off pursuers and evade capture.
She glanced at Nacho. What other bits of useful information could she share?
Then there’s the note I found scribbled on a photocopy of a doll. My mother hid a French fashion doll and asked her coconspirators to hide a valuable doll trunk, which they did. Oh, and by the way, I stole the trunk from them.
The situation kept getting better and better and her involvement deeper and deeper.
Gretchen thought of one thing she could tell him that might help. She wondered how much information Daisy would willingly offer the authorities. Based on her lifestyle, probably not much.
“Daisy had the car accident because someone rammed into the back of my mother’s car,” Gretchen said. “Since the Birch women don’t believe in coincidence, let’s assume it was intentional. This means that someone was trying to kill Daisy or someone was trying to kill my mother.”
With one last scathing look, Matt headed for the elevator.
Caroline stood inside a Western Union on the south side of Chicago and counted out the money in her hands. Thanks to her sister-in-law’s generosity and her amazing ability to stifle her ususal runaway curiosity, Caroline would buy a change of clothes, splurge on a hot meal, and check into a modest hotel room for a much-needed shower.
She had had no choice but to appeal to someone for help, and her late husband’s somewhat cantankerous sister, Gertie, had been the right choice after all. No questions asked. Beyond the limited information Gertie was offered, she had a certain innate understanding of the complex circumstances that controlled Caroline’s actions.
Of course, she’d wire the money.
Caroline left Western Union and hastened along, her laptop an extension of her arm, anxious to find a private place to search the Internet once again.
Hurry up. And wait. Hurry up. And wait.
This whole unpleasant business was taking much longer than she anticipated. Without a strike soon, she was doomed. Like a broken doll consigned to the waste heap.
She fervently hoped she was right and that his greed would compel him to sell another one. It could as easily be a woman, she reminded herself. She had no idea who her antagonist was. Male or female, it didn’t matter at all.
The time had come, she decided, to call her daughter.
17
Collectors have as many ways of displaying their collections as their unique and creative personalities allow. Some like to be surrounded by their dolls, in the kitchen, halls, and covering every available space throughout their homes. Some collectors dedicate one room to their dolls, practicing strict temperature control and avoiding humidity fluctuations. Some use cabinets to keep the dolls free from dust and other airborne particles. Some hide their dolls in locked rooms, guard them jealously, and live in constant fear of break-ins.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Gretchen had many questions for Nacho, but he became withdrawn and uncommunicative without Daisy to prompt him along. His eyes grew fearful, his glance darting, searching for an escape route like a trapped animal.
It was the thunder that did it.
They stood in front of the hospital and watched the sky. The wind had picked up speed, roaring to the south. Rain clouds were visible on the horizon and moving toward them.
“I thought it didn’t rain in Phoenix in July,” Gretchen said to Nina. “Maybe the storm will bring cooler weather.”
Nina snorted. “Don’t count on it. This isn’t the East Coast. Arizona is a planet of its own, like Mars or Jupiter, and it’ll stay stifling hot with or without rain.”
Lightning speared into the desert floor somewhere in the distance, and Gretchen could feel static electricity snapping through the air.
“The monsoon,” Nacho muttered, with increased agitation.
“Flashflooding,” Nina said.
Nacho turned to Gretchen. “You have to take me home. Quickly.”
“Lead the way,” she said, feeling she was finally breaking through a barrier.
The storm moved in behind the Impala as they traveled from Scottsdale into Phoenix’s central city. Nacho led Gretchen past the Southern Pacific Rail Yard and the freight trains that brought lumber and building materials into the construction-crazed city. They drove along the Black Canyon Highway on an elevated viaduct and exited with the first drops of rain beginning to splatter on the windshield.
The monsoon, Nina explained as they drove, started in July and ended sometime in August. It brought torrential rains and damaging hail, water that the hard-packed earth couldn’t absorb and the inadequate drainage system couldn’t transport.
Streets could become rapidly moving rivers, tearing out trees and destroying buildings.
“Surely, you’re exaggerating,” Gretchen said, her eyes wide.
Nina shook her head. “Six inches of fast-moving water can knock you right off your feet. I’ve seen cars swept away.”
Gretchen glanced back and saw black sky outdistancing them and swirling clouds approaching fast. Ahead, in the boulevards, palm trees bowed under the increasing force of the wind.
Nacho directed them to pull off beneath a freeway viaduct. As soon as the car stopped, he bolted out the door and ran down into a shallow wash. Nina and Gretchen followed, stumbling on the rough ground. Nina, who thought shopping at the mall qualified as strenuous exercise, scrambled to keep up, and Gretchen slowed to wait for her.
“How do we know he isn’t dangerous?” Nina puffed. “He could have killed Martha and lied about helping your mother.”
“I’m willing to take that risk if it means finding her.”
The sky gave way, and rain pounded down, hammering the car and everything else in its path. The bridge overhead saved them from the deluge.
“This isn’t too bad,” Gretchen said. “We can wait out the rain right here.”
“You have a lot to learn,” Nina said, tripping along. “It’s a good thing I’m around to protect you. This dry wash will be underwater in no time at all. You’re standing in the worst possible place.”
Gretchen looked back at the rain, then turned in time to see Nacho disappear into the side of a large beam that supported the viaduct. One minute he was running toward the support beam, the next minute he was gone. She opened her mouth in surprise and started running. Rain trickled past her feet. Over the roar of the wind, she thought she heard her cell phone ringing on her belt clip. She let it ring and kept running in the direction she had last seen Nacho.
On closer inspection, his shelter under the cover of the bridge was a work of genius. Nacho had created a facade around the beam, a false wall of cardboard made from several refrigerator boxes. He had painted the cardboard a slate gray to match the color of the beam and brought the pieces together with gray duct tape, effectively concealing his makeshift home from prying eyes.
Gretchen found the opening and pushed through. Inside, Nacho leaned against Daisy’s shopping cart and took a long draw from a cheap bottle of wine. He offered her the bottle, and she shook her head. He raised it to his lips and drained what was left. The shopping cart, filled to overflowing, took up most of the room in his hand-made shelter. An old piece of outdoor carpeting covered the ground.