by Deb Baker
"I understand," Gretchen said softly. The image of Brett crumpled in the street like one of her broken dolls flicked through her thoughts often, too.
"As far as the boxed dolls, I didn't take pictures because Chiggy was firm about that."
"So you were there on Wednesday, too, the day before the auction?"
"I was. She said no pictures of the stuff in the boxes in the corner of her bedroom. The boxes were supposed to be taken out to the retirement community when she moved. That's why I was surprised to see one of them on the auction block."
Gretchen sat up straighter. "Are you sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. She told me not to touch them, and I saw her boxing up those Ginnys you're talking about. Brett must not have been paying attention, because I heard somebody behind the flatbed the day of the auction giving him a hard time about it. Sounded like someone might of slapped him, and I heard a man say, 'You better get it back right now.' "
Peter shook his head. "Brett must have been so shook up, he ran right out in the street without looking."
"Did you tell the police that?"
"Oh, yes, an officer came by after the accident, and I told him just what I told you."
The photographer clicked on an icon, and one of Chiggy's dolls appeared on the screen. Gretchen wasn't past the wincing stage every time she saw one of Chiggy's poorly made copies.
"See all the stuff in the background," Peter said. "I haven't had time to play with the photographs, fading out all that extra stuff. These aren't scheduled to hit the Internet for a few more weeks. I like to play with light and color for a while first."
Gretchen studied the photographs as Peter scrolled through them. Not the best quality, she thought. And he hadn't been careful with his backdrops. Gretchen could see other dolls from the flatbed behind the posed doll. He continued clicking until pictures of the crowd appeared.
"I thought you said you didn't take pictures of the accident," Gretchen said, recognizing other bidders from that day's auction.
"I didn't."
"What are these then?" Gretchen pointed at the screen.
"You asked if I took pictures of the accident. I didn't. These are from afterward. See that one? That's the back of the ambulance as it drove off. Finally got my wits about me by then and started shooting."
"Could I have copies of these?" Gretchen asked, keeping any sign of eagerness out of her voice.
"I shoot quick and often. There must be a couple hundred shots. Do you want to go through them first?"
"No, I'd like to buy them all."
Peter looked surprised. "Tell you what, you have a computer at home, right?"
Gretchen nodded.
"I'll download all the pictures, and you can look at them on your own computer. I won't charge you much."
Gretchen nodded. "Great."
Peter efficiently zipped through the files.
"When did Chiggy tell you to stay out of the boxes in her room?" Gretchen asked while she watched him work.
"Wednesday night. She was bossing the mover around, and she gave everyone strict orders to stay out of her bedroom, because the only things in there were her personal belongings."
"Who else did she tell this to?"
"Howie was at the house, but he spent most of the time out by the truck getting organized. But I thought Brett heard her for sure. That's why I can't understand how he could have mixed up her personal boxes like that. He must have picked that box up before the mover got to it, and hauled it out to the truck. Like I said, he must not have listened. And me, I was there, of course. I called Chiggy up as soon as I saw the ad in the paper and asked permission to take pictures of the dolls."
"Anyone else?"
"That newspaper reporter, Ronny Beam, who wanted to write a story about the dolls." Peter tapped more keys, and the screen went blank. "Oh, yes, and that guy from Boston."
Gretchen, rising from a seat next to the computer, froze.
"What guy from Boston?" she managed to ask.
"Tall, blond, about your age, maybe a little older. Can't remember his name." Peter rubbed his rough face. "Steve something, I think it was."
29
It took Gretchen three tries before she punched Nina's phone number in correctly, only to learn that Nina had turned off her cell. Where could she be? Gretchen checked her watch. Six o'clock. Ah, yes, the big date with Eric Huntington at one of the Phoenician's exclusive restaurants. Cocktails beforehand in his suite. No wonder she found herself connected directly to Nina's voice mail. She walked down Southern Avenue so Nimrod could sniff and go about his business. She tried to organize the events of the last six days, starting with Wednesday, the day before the doll auction and Brett's death, and the subsequent chain of unexplained occurrences. The news that Steve had been in Phoenix a day earlier than she thought, and that he had been at Chiggy's house, disturbed her greatly. Her confidence in his innocence dissipated like the daylight now leaving the city. What had he been doing there?
Now that Gretchen had discovered that Steve had been at Chiggy's home along with Brett, it seemed that Steve had possible connections to all of the murdered men, even Percy O'Connor, since both of them lived in Boston. As for Steve's connection to Ronny Beam… well, he had shoved the reporter around in front of a hall full of shoppers. Maybe the police had arrested the right man. She shuddered at the thought. How little we know the people closest to us.
Nimrod spotted a woman ahead of them walking a great dane. The mighty hunter wagged his tail and gave two sharp yips. Gretchen quickly turned around and headed toward the car to avoid the enormous dog and its owner. Who else could it have been? Howie Howard, by his own admission, had a dispute with Ronny over Chiggy's personal belongings and had thrown him out. He also was present when Brett died. And Albert, the homeless eyewitness, saw the killer get out of a blue truck, and later Gretchen observed Howie getting into a blue truck and driving away after the ambulance left. As far as murdering Ronny, Howie easily could have waited for him in the parking lot. But so far, he, like Steve, had no real connection to Percy that she knew of. Yet. Gretchen loaded Nimrod into the Echo and pulled away from Peter Finch's home.
Of the small group who had assembled at Chiggy Kent's house to prepare for the auction, two were dead and two were at the head of her suspect list. Only the photographer and Chiggy, aka Florence, remained beyond scrutiny-for the time being.
But what about the incriminating note that Gretchen found in Ronny's file? It was addressed to Chiggy from a family member eager for what he saw as his inheritance. Despite its implication that Chiggy was involved in a fraudulent scheme, the old woman suffered too many debilitating medical problems to kill two strong men like Brett and Ronny. From what other members of the Phoenix Dollers said, Chiggy and her oxygen tank could hardly make it across the room.
Tomorrow Gretchen would visit the woman at the nursing home. Who else should be on her list of suspects?
What about the members of the Boston Kewpie Doll Club?
Eric Huntington had delivered the second package to her. He'd known Percy and was also a lifelong Bostonian, like Steve. For Nina's sake, Gretchen hoped Eric wasn't involved. Then there was Milt Wood. Something about him gave Gretchen the creeps.
She shook her head, chiding herself, as she drove in circles trying to find her way to Camelback Road. She couldn't add Milt Wood to the suspect list just because of a feeling. That was too Nina-like. She'd leave auras and energy fields to her aunt and proceed with hard facts.
Fact one, regarding Milt Wood. He tried to buy two Kewpie dolls from her, becoming increasingly offensive and pushy when he didn't get his way. He remained persistent even when told that one of the dolls had been extensively repaired and wasn't worth purchasing. Fact two, Milt had easy access to Percy, just as Steve and Eric had. Who else? Detective Matt Albright. Not that he was on the suspect list. He certainly had an air of arrogant selfconfidence about him, but last she heard, that wasn't a qualifier for murderous intent. Although the promise of
treasure might trip a latent trigger. Who knew what went on inside a killer's mind?
And Albert had been beaten by a cop. That cop could have been Matt.
Her opinion of the detective was sinking as rapidly as a rock thrown from the summit of Camelback Mountain. He was probably gathering evidence to make his case and earn himself a big promotion, and he had chosen a brutal, cruel avenue to the top. Assaulting helpless indigents was as low as anyone could stoop.
So much for the men in Gretchen's life. Once this situation was firmly behind her, she vowed to distance herself from the entire male population and focus on her career. Men had already taken up too much of her time and energy, and the only thing she was getting for her efforts was disappointment.
Shouldn't she be home right this minute, answering business calls and repairing dolls? Piles of unfinished broken dolls didn't put food on the table, or give her the income necessary to get her own place. You're still living with your mother, she reminded herself. Time to grow up and move out. Gretchen entered the Biltmore Fashion Park with Nimrod riding in her purse and walked briskly through the exclusive mall until she found what she was looking for. Ricardo's Fine Jewelry.
Young, fashionably bejeweled women helped customers from behind resplendent display cases.
"Nimrod, hide," she commanded as she entered the store. Nimrod ducked down.
She strode past the glistening cases and toothy sales staff to the back of the store, where an elderly man with coke-bottle eyeglasses sat stooped over a cluttered worktable. "Can I help you?" he said, reluctantly glancing up from a Rolex watch he was repairing.
"I have a hypothetical question," Gretchen said, wondering how best to approach the subject. The truth would take too long to explain, and besides, he would write her off as a kook. She almost didn't believe what she was thinking. Okay, so a small fib was the best tactic. "A bet I have going with a friend."
He looked at her questioningly.
"If a little doll, a hollow doll, about this big," said Gretchen, holding her forefinger and thumb apart to approximate three inches, "was filled with diamonds, would it be heavy enough to alert anyone who handled it that something was inside?"
The jeweler frowned. At first, Gretchen thought he might dismiss her as crazy or-worse-a potential thief.
Maybe he had an alarm button under the table like a bank teller and was alerting the police at this very moment. After a long pause to size her up, the jeweler said, "Not necessarily. It would be relatively light, hard to detect by a casual observer. Even one who might hold it. That is, as long as the diamonds were secured so they weren't rattling around inside." He rose from the table. "Not a likely scenario though."
"Why not?" She felt Nimrod stirring in the bottom of the purse. He liked the game of hide, but he was easily distracted. Gretchen dug a liver snap out of one of her pockets and casually dropped it into the purse.
The jeweler looked through his magnification glasses at the purse, then over the top of them at her.
"Why isn't it likely?" she asked again.
"A doll filled with diamonds would be worth an immense fortune. Who would own that many diamonds?"
"How many diamonds could a doll that size hold? Hypothetically."
"Ten or twelve fine diamonds could fit easily into a doll that size and could be worth a million dollars or more, depending on their size, brilliancy, and clarity."
"So a doll filled with diamonds could be worth multimillions."
"Correct. Hypothetically, as you say."
"Thank you, you've been a big help."
Gretchen smiled at him broadly to express her gratitude.
"Well?" he said.
"Well, what?"
"Who won?"
For a moment, Gretchen didn't understand his question. Then she remembered the imaginary bet.
"I did," she said. "I won."
A million dollars or more. A fine, sparkling jewel of a motive. A million plausible reasons for murder.
Like winning the lottery.
Gretchen thought back on all the things that had happened to her in the last few days: the scorpion, the killer's use of her hobby knife, the messages that continued to arrive addressed to her. She sincerely hoped she would win. It was apparent that the killer thought she was close to either the diamonds or the truth-or both-and he was taking steps to stop her. She had to win. Or at the very least, come out of this unharmed. As she stepped out into the warm desert night, Gretchen opened the poodle-embroidered purse and praised Nimrod for remaining out of sight. His furry body bounced to the top of the purse, and Gretchen fed him another treat. All she wanted to do was walk away. But how? She hadn't asked for any part of this, but she was into it up to her neck, like quicksand, and she was sinking fast. The truth, and that alone, would save her.
"I don't know what you're doing here," Nina said through clenched teeth. "Can't you see this is a private dining room? And look at the way you're dressed."
"I'm not staying long," Gretchen said, extremely conscious of her wrinkled shorts and inappropriate footwear. Flip-flops were acceptable nearly everywhere these days, but as Gretchen looked around her at the opulence of the Praying Monk, the Phoenician's finest private dining room, she could think of one exception. She sat down and buried her feet under the table, sliding the tapestry-covered chair Eric provided closer to the table.
Nina gasped when she noticed Gretchen's purse. "Please don't tell me Nimrod's in there." She clutched her heart.
"All right, Nina, I won't. You look lovely."
Nina shot her a look. "You could have left him at home with Daisy."
The entree dishes had been quickly removed, and coffee and creme brulee arrived with an extra spoon for Gretchen. Eric pointed up at the barrel-vaulted ceiling. "Wonderful design, isn't it?" he said.
"I don't mean to interrupt your evening," Gretchen said, after agreeing with him, "but I hope you don't mind answering a few questions."
Nina snorted. "Couldn't you wait until tomorrow?"
"I don't mind." Eric patted Nina's hand comfortingly.
"Tell me about Percy's history," Gretchen said. "Where did his family's fortune come from?"
"Ah, you've heard the rumors."
Gretchen nodded.
"The story goes that his father made his fortune as a profiteer during the war. That part of the O'Connor past has been confirmed by local historians, an indisputable fact, and was the main reason why Percy could never be accepted in certain Boston social circles. Black marketeering was an unsavory profession, at best, when the country was working together to ration scarce supplies. Whether his father really converted his wealth into diamonds is strictly hearsay, and a bit unrealistic, I imagine."
"One report suggested that the O'Connors hid diamonds inside of Kewpie dolls." Gretchen dipped into the creme brulee that Eric offered her, recalling that she hadn't eaten anything for hours.
Eric laughed. "Nonsense. What report was that?"
"She doesn't remember offhand," Nina said. "Do you, Gretchen?"
Gretchen felt a sharp heel grinding into the top of her foot, warning her that Nina had reached the end of her patience. Gretchen felt a stab of shame that she was about to bring Nina's evening to an abrupt closure.
"Pretty quiet in that purse," Nina observed. "If he wakes up and causes a ruckus, I'll never live down the embarrassment."
"You could never embarrass me," Eric said to her with a warm smile. "You are the epitome of grace and charm."
Gretchen took a sip of coffee.
"You know," Eric said, rubbing his plump chin in thought, "I recall hearing once of documents hidden in dolls. A United States citizen spying for the Japanese sent damaging information regarding our ships at Pearl Harbor via messages inside of dolls. The FBI finally caught on, and she was arrested."
"How does Percy fit into that?" Nina said.
"He doesn't." Eric sipped his coffee. "I'm simply saying it's been done, and there's a certain fascination among the general populace regarding
that whole subject of dolls and hidden secrets. Your suggestion might not be as farfetched as I originally thought." His eyes widened. "Oh. I see where this is going. A smashed Kewpie doll was found in the study along with Percy's body. Do you suppose the doll contained diamonds? The police didn't find anything missing. Perhaps that was the motive."
"That's my best guess," Gretchen said. "Only the killer didn't actually find any diamonds."
"What makes you think that?" Eric rearranged his chair and crossed his legs.
"Because I think he's in Phoenix, which can only mean that he's still looking for the treasure. Why else would he risk exposing himself? If he had the diamonds, he'd be long gone."
"Or she," Nina said, drawn into the intrigue in spite of herself. "You can't automatically assume the killer is a man. I'm a woman's libber from way back." She grinned broadly at Eric. "I believe in total equality."
They gazed into each other's eyes for a while, and Gretchen used the time to check on Nimrod, lying next to her feet, still curled in the bottom of the purse, sound asleep.
Finally Gretchen said, "He-or she-arrived just in time for Chiggy's auction and the doll show. Don't you see?"
"I'm afraid I don't." Eric's voice turned icy, and he uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. "You aren't implying that one of my club members is responsible for the demise of that abrasive reporter and the poor auctioneer's assistant, are you? Our group was established years ago. Every single member is like family to me."
"That's quite a leap in logic, Eric. You're implying that Brett and Ronny were killed by the same person who murdered Percy O'Connor. Interesting." Gretchen firmly met his eyes and didn't waver. "I didn't think of that. You arrived at that conclusion seconds after hearing the facts, whereas I… well… it wasn't obvious to me until you said it now." Gretchen smiled sweetly.
"I… I…" Eric blustered, thrown off guard. "I merely stated the obvious."
"Still, it's simply speculation, and I'm sure the police will think of every angle." She didn't believe that for a minute. "You're very good at analysis."