Mountain, Gretchen saw dusk approaching. The orange glow of the setting sun glistened in ribbons over the red clay, highlighting the desert shrubs and solitary cacti. Climbers still traversed the mountain, but most were making their way down. From this distance they looked like industrious ants. Nimrod curled up on his bed in the corner and closed his eyes. Gretchen didn't want to break the news to him yet, but he wasn't through for the day. He had a cocktail reception to attend.
No way was she going to let him out of her sight again. And what about Wobbles? Would the same evil-minded person try to harm him?
Gretchen grinned. Wobbles was a street fighter. He'd left his signature scratches on many overconfident canines. Anyone who messed with Wobbles ended up looking like shredded paper.
Besides, no one would actually break into her home, let alone harm Wobbles, right?
No one had any reason to.
Tomorrow, she would throw out the box of crushed Kewpie dolls.
If she ever managed to track Duanne Wilson down, she'd have to pay him for the broken dolls. That is, assuming he returned her box of Ginny dolls. Gretchen really didn't think she'd ever see them again.
But she couldn't help making another attempt to find Duanne, even though she knew she'd be noticeably late to Bonnie's party.
On her way out again, Gretchen bought a city map at the first gas station she passed and tried to make sense of it. After studying it for several minutes without finding Fortythird Avenue or her present location, she attempted to fold it. Giving up, she threw it in the backseat.
Nimrod watched from the passenger seat with tilted head while she dug through her purse for the original slip of paper she'd used to write down Duanne's address. The inside of the purse was a disaster. She'd have to clean it out or she'd have to carry two purses-one for her and one for Nimrod.
Finding the address, she set out with Howie's directions fresh in her mind.
When she turned onto Camelback Road, Gretchen thought she spotted her tail again. So she veered down a side street at the last second without using her turn signal, and looking in her rearview mirror she saw the black car turn down the same street behind her, almost clipping another car. Horns blared and brakes squealed, and Gretchen took a hard right at the next crossing and sped away into the darkening night.
The drive seemed to take forever. She watched through her rearview mirror for the other car. The street numbers descended until she crossed Central Avenue, then the numbers began to ascend again as avenues. This wasn't so hard. And she didn't even need the map. She turned onto Fortythird Avenue and parked along the street to get her bearings. She found an address on a carpet store across the street. Her address was in the next block up. She drove a little farther, parked, and stuffed Nimrod into her already crammed purse.
Walking along, Gretchen noted that the block was mostly commercial buildings. In fact, they all were. Not one single family residence. No apartment buildings. No condos.
But this time, at least the address she had written down existed.
Gretchen entered a tattoo shop, pretty sure she wouldn't find Duanne Wilson inside.
Her developing psychic intuition was correct. They'd never heard of him.
21
The party was picking up speed when Gretchen arrived with Nimrod in tow. He joined his own party of miniature dogs in the back entryway. A baby gate kept the canine revelers from joining the human throng. People from all aspects of the doll business jammed the open, rounded rooms of Bonnie's modest Arizona-style home.
The club president's dolls had their very own separate display room off the entryway-in consideration of her son's severe phobia, Gretchen assumed. Pine curio cabinets housed Bonnie's collection of fragile and expensive Kewpie dolls. Cloth and hard plastic Kewpies adorned the chairs and tables, and Kewpie plates and cups lined ledges along the walls.
Nina met Gretchen at the doggie gate with Sophie, her current Yorkie trainee. "Sophie's family wants her socialized, so I'm keeping her a few extra days. This certainly is the place to acclimate her to her own kind."
"Are all these dogs past clients of yours?"
Nina, decked out in a vibrant orange pantsuit, nodded proudly, sipping a martini from a large glass hand-painted with colorful swirls. "Business has been good. Doll collectors love purse dogs. Who knew? I only started the training program last year, and I can hardly keep up with the demand." She pointed. "There's Rosebud; you remember her."
Gretchen grinned at the little Maltese.
"And Enrico." Nina pointed at a Chihuahua.
"I can't believe it," Gretchen said, remembering him as a pint-sized Tasmanian devil. "Enrico's behaving himself."
"He comes to visit me frequently for a refresher course in social skills."
Nina led the way to a cocktail bar in the corner of the crowded living room. Gretchen chose red wine and then scanned the room. She recognized most of the people in the room from the doll show. Eric Huntington waved, and Nina scurried off his way.
"So sorry to hear about your Steve," Bonnie said over her left shoulder.
"I thought that was confidential," Gretchen said. Bonnie swept her hands across the room. Gretchen followed her hand and saw Matt chatting with Howie Howard.
"I overhead Matty talking on the phone. It's awful."
Just great. If Bonnie knew, the entire Valley of the Sun knew. Bonnie was like an old-fashioned bullhorn, trumpeting news more effectively than the late Ronny Beam's Phoenix Exposed. And about as accurate.
"I wonder how long he'll get for killing Ronny?" Bonnie said.
"He hasn't been charged, as far as I know."
"It's only a matter of time."
"If that happens, he'll have a trial, Bonnie. A jury has to prove him guilty."
"He did it. Matty's good at his job. He wouldn't arrest the wrong person."
Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?
Once suspicion fell on someone, people automatically assumed the worst. Guilty until proven innocent seemed the new American philosophy.
Gretchen felt compelled to help Steve.
Her aunt Gertie's advice resonated: "Search Ronnie's house, and watch your back." She should have followed her aunt's direction.
Tomorrow, at the first light of day, she would start her quest for the real killer. Now that the doll show was over, she could put all her effort into it.
She made her way across the room to join Howie and Matt. The auctioneer wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat that took up most of the alcove where the two men stood. It would have been easier navigating around an open umbrella.
"This is the perdy lady in person," Howie said after Matt introduced her. "Find your Ginny dolls yet?"
"Still looking."
"They'll turn up," Matt said.
"Unless you have information I don't, they're gone."
Matt grinned at her. "I'll see what I can do. You never know."
"You just keep busy trying to find Ronny's real killer,"
Gretchen said icily.
"That was one little jerk of a guy," Howie said. "He had me so mad, I almost hog-tied him inside my truck."
Gretchen looked at him sharply. "Was Ronny at the auction on Thursday?"
"Didn't see him on Thursday, which was lucky for him, but he showed for the estate sale on Wednesday."
"I didn't know anything about an estate sale," Gretchen said.
"We auctioned off the household goods, furniture, dishes, appliances, that sort of thing. Brett caught the little weasel inside the house going through some of Chiggy's personal things and escorted him off the property. If he'da showed up Thursday, I really would have tied him up and left him to squeal." Howie stopped to take a drink from the bottle of beer in his hand. "Ronny Beam had a snake tongue that a rattler would have been jealous of."