"I'm listening."
"Sometimes you're dopier than a dwarf. Every single one of those cupid dolls came in the same wrapping. Right?"
Cupid dolls?
Gretchen let the misnomer slide. "Right."
"Then why haven't you been down to that liquor store?"
"How many people would you guess buy alcohol from a liquor store? Hundreds?"
"Stake it out. You'll know the culprit the minute you spot him."
"Aunt Nina thinks it might be a woman."
"Your aunt Nina is one stop short of the nearest loony bin, and the train is leaving the station soon with her on board. Last stop: Nutsville."
"That's a little harsh," Gretchen said in defense of her temperamental aunt. The only reason the two women disagreed so often was because they were exactly the same. Strong, independent females, used to running their own shows, their own ways.
"It's a man, all right," Gertie said again. "Mark my words. I'd hop a plane and help you out, but I've got an investigation going on here that I can't leave. Three murders." Gertie whistled. "That's a handful. Watch your back, dearie."
Gretchen had enough trouble watching her front and flanks. She felt naked as a Kewpie doll but not nearly as happy. Still, she felt better having spoken with her Yooper aunt.
When the doorbell rang and she found April standing outside, Gretchen almost kissed her. Finally, someone to commiserate with.
"I hear you and your shadow are fighting," April said.
"Want some company?"
She noticed Gretchen staring at her outfit. "You like it?" April twirled in a blaze orange sundress the size of the state of Michigan, where wearing orange was the height of fashion. Aunt Gertie's hometown seemed to have one hunting season after another, and everyone wore blaze orange. In Arizona, well, April looked like a retro Volkswagen Beetle.
"Lovely, as usual," Gretchen said, grabbing her purse and calling Nimrod. He charged in, ready to go. Wobbles strutted behind him, graceful and lithe even without his back leg. April bent to pick him up, but he gave her a warning glare and flattened his ears.
"That's one ornery cat," April said, settling for running her hands over his lean back and swiping at his tail.
"He doesn't like to be held," Gretchen said, opening a phone book and running her finger down the list of Albrights. "We have to find out where Matt Albright's wife lives and get the Kewpie dolls back. I'm not sure that they mean anything, but I want them all the same."
April sighed. "Still thinking inside the same old box."
"And then we're going to find Duanne Wilson and get my box of Ginny dolls."
"That's more like it. Do you have a plan?"
"I don't have a clue how to find him, so we'll start with the Kewpies." She checked her watch. Eleven thirty a.m. "I gave Nina a two-hour warning. She's not answering my calls."
"That's easy. You want me to get her to respond?"
"Sure."
April picked up the kitchen phone and dialed. "By the way," she said to Gretchen, eyeing the phone book. "The Albrights aren't listed in the directory. Detectives don't usually advertise their home addresses, too many dissatisfied customers. But I know where she lives. Kayla has the house, and he's staying at… Nina, pick up. It's me, April… We're tracking down evidence, and we hope to crack the case today. If you want in on the apprehension and fame and glory, you better pick up the phone."
April paused as though listening and grinned at Gretchen.
"Yes," she said smugly into the phone. "We'll pick you up on the drive-by, and I'll give you the details then."
"See?" she said, hanging up. "You have to appeal to the adventuress in her. Let's go."
32
Peter Finch moves aside and grudgingly allows the uniformed police officer to enter his apartment. The cop eyes him suspiciously, or so Peter thinks, and he hopes he isn't some sort of suspect.
Don't let on that you know, he reminds himself. If Gretchen Birch hadn't told him that Brett might have been pushed, he would still think it had been an accident, that Brett had stepped out into the street without looking. Like everybody else thought.
What a shock, if it is true. Then again, it must be true. Why else would this cop be standing in front of him, saying he is confiscating Peter's equipment?
Don't let on that you know, he says to himself again. For some reason, he instinctively knows that won't be wise. Play dumb.
Unless the cop is here about Ronny Beam. Just his luck to be at Chiggy's house at the same time as Brett and Ronny, and now both of them dead and the cop with a search warrant and eyeing him up like he's a common criminal.
But didn't he hear that they caught the guy who killed Ronny? The cop should pay more attention to the news. Peter spreads a hand across his gaunt face and rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, a dull throb pulsing under his fingertips.
"I can make copies of anything you want," he says again, grasping desperately for alternatives. "This is my lifeline. You take it, I don't have any income. I'll get you copies. What's the difference to you if it's originals or copies?"
The cop brushes past him, a little roughly, pushing Peter against the wall, stalking across the room, arms swinging loose and alert, elbows bent slightly in readiness, prepared for trouble.
Why me? Peter thinks.
And don't these guys travel with backup, other cops?
Before closing the door, Peter sticks his head out. No other uniforms outside.
The cop looks vaguely familiar. Where has he seen him before?
Peter looks at the name on the badge.
Never heard of him.
The cop begins bagging Peter's camera equipment, his flash cards, his downloaded discs. Taking everything instead of sorting through and taking only the photos from the auction. Although the cop has given no explanation for seizing his possessions, Peter knows it pertains to last week's auction and the dolls.
"Let me do it," he says, aghast when the cop starts throwing things haphazardly into plastic bags. "I have padded camera cases. You'll ruin everything that way."
Dumb cop.
Peter gently places his digital camera in a bag. Most of the doll pictures are already on the Internet, already a commodity, but the pictures taken at the auction are gone now. He wonders if he'll ever get them back. Then he remembers the woman and the extra copy he made for her. What a relief.
He recognizes this cop from someplace recently. The auction, perhaps, or the doll show.
That's it.
The doll show.
Peter opens the door for the officer, who has an armful of bags and a camera case slung over his shoulder. Peter watches him store the equipment in his vehicle. He returns, and Peter's heart drops a little lower in his chest when he sees what else the officer plans on removing.
"You can't take my computer." He watches him disconnect the cables and heave the heavy processing unit into his arms. He's strong, like a body builder.
Peter is scared, but he'll file a complaint as soon as the officer leaves. "You can't take a man's only source of income."
The officer doesn't reply. Can't the cop talk?
And why's he putting everything in the back of a pickup truck? Don't cops usually announce their presence better, drive squad cars with flashing lights and sirens?
Peter can't see any lights mounted on top of the truck. The officer adjusts his holster and comes back in. Now what? Peter wonders. There isn't anything left to take.
"Wait a minute." It suddenly dawns on him where he's seen the cop before. He's even photographed him. "I know you."
The cop's eyes narrow. Staring into them, Peter realizes how brutally cold they are and what a deadly mistake he's just made.