Shut the door, the woman said on the piano recording.
Were they looking for a man and a woman?
Byrne had the afternoon off, but his mind would not leave the image of the man and woman on the surveillance tape.
It was with that image that he stood in his driveway, measured the small flower beds. He hadn’t even considered the landscaping costs.
Before he could write down the dimension he heard a soft thump. Then a second thump, which was a bit louder than the first.
Then he heard a baby cry. Or was it?
He stepped into the driveway, trying to determine where the cry came from when heard another thump – this time quite loud. And it was accompanied by a louder cry.
He stepped into the flower bed next to the house.
There, in the bushes, just a few feet away, was a cat. Or, more accurately – at least from his perspective – a former cat. The cat was stretched out on the mulch below the spirea, a fallen brick on its head.
Bricks that would almost certainly be on top of Byrne’s head if he had not stepped into the driveway. He stepped back just as another few bricks tumbled off the roof, a safe distance away.
The chimney was crumbling.
He stepped back to the cat, gently removed the brick. The cat was dead.
‘Ah, shit.’
Byrne looked around for something with which to cover the animal. He retrieved a small tarp he kept in the trunk of his car. When he tried to put it over the cat, the cat opened its eyes, and extended all four paws, claws out, ready to rumble.
‘How is it?’
Byrne had made a call to a friend in the Animal Protective Services, and found the nearest vet.
The vet gave him a sideways glance. ‘It?’
‘Well, yeah,’ Byrne said. ‘The cat. How is it?’
‘Not your cat then, I take it?’
‘No.’ Byrne decided against telling the doctor how he and the cat met.
‘Well, the cat – it’s a he, by the way – is just fine. Just a concussion.’
Byrne had not had a pet of any kind since he was a child. Although it made perfect sense, he had not considered that cats could suffer a concussion. Of course they could. Cats and dogs had brains. Where there are brains, there are concussions.
‘Great,’ Byrne said. ‘So he’s going to be okay?’
‘He is.’
Byrne pulled into the driveway, looked over at the cat. He still looked a little groggy, maybe wondering who threw the brick at him.
‘It wasn’t me, buddy.’
Byrne opened the car door, the cat leapt out, followed him. He went in the house, grabbed a couple of small Dixie Cups and a bottle of Jameson. He stepped back onto the porch, tore off the top of one of the cups, poured a half-inch of whiskey into it. The cat, who had been lying on the porch, perked. He struggled to his feet, sniffing the air. Byrne pushed the cup closer.
‘This is probably wrong on so many levels, but if anybody has earned a thimbleful of Irish today, it’s you.’
Byrne poured himself a shot, tapped his cup against the cat’s cup. They both took a sip. The cat looked at him. No reaction at all. No cat-grimace. Byrne wondered if he’d done this before.
A few minutes later Byrne stepped back into the driveway, looked at the chimney. The mortar that had at one time been tuck-pointed between the courses of bricks – the tuck pointing that had disintegrated to the point where the bricks came loose – was scattered along the shingles. He picked up the cat, pointed to the chimney, by way of explanation. The cat wasn’t interested.
‘On the outside chance that you and I meet up again, I’m going to call you Tuck.’ He put Tuck down in pretty much the same place he had found him. The cat struggled to maintain his legs, but soon found them. He glanced up at Byrne and then, with a speed and strength Byrne would not have thought possible – considering the brick concussion and the shot of Irish – took off like a rocket.
‘Tuck,’ Byrne said. ‘Nice to have met you. Next round is on you.’
41
When Jessica and Sophie entered the shop, Jessica immediately smelled the scent of lavender.
She scanned the room, did not immediately see Miss Emmaline. Instead she saw that there were two teenaged girls dusting the shelves.
‘Hi, ladies,’ one of them said. She had short blond hair, and wore a U Penn sweatshirt. ‘Welcome to The Secret World!’
‘Hi,’ Sophie said.
‘Is Miss Emmaline around?’ Jessica asked.
‘Sure,’ the girl said. ‘She’s in the back. Do you want me to get her?’
‘Maybe you could just tell her I’m here, and ask if it’s okay if I come back to her sitting room. My name is Jessica. She’s expecting me.’
‘Sure thing.’
The other girl – taller, with deep auburn hair – slipped on her coat and gloves. ‘Got to catch my bus,’ she said. ‘See you next week.’ A few moments later she left the shop.
The blond girl got down from her step stool, crossed the shop. ‘I’ll tell Miss Emmaline you’re here.’ She parted the curtains that led to Miss Emmaline’s parlor.
Before Jessica stepped through she looked at her daughter.
Sophie was starstruck. She’d had a few dolls when she was younger, but it was never anything like an obsession. As far as Jessica knew, none of her dolls had been off the shelves in her bedroom for a few years.
When Jessica turned in the doorway, and saw the look on Sophie’s face as she talked to the other girl, it looked like all of that was about to change.
Jessica hoped not. Swimming was a lot less expensive than collecting antique dolls.
The blond girl stepped back into the shop.
‘Miss Emmaline said to just come on back.’
‘Thanks,’ Jessica said. ‘Is it okay if my daughter looks around? She won’t be a bother.’
‘Of course!’ she said. ‘She’ll be fine.’
‘I won’t be long, sweetie,’ Jessica said to Sophie.
No answer. Sophie’s mouth was open, but she didn’t make a sound.
Today Miss Emmaline wore a teal dress and a single strand of pearls. Her brilliant white hair was pulled back into a single braid.
Jessica hoped she’d be able to pull off such elegance and grace at Miss Emmaline’s age. Actually, she hoped to be able to pull it off next week.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Jessica said.
‘Not at all, my dear. You are always welcome here.’
Jessica put down her shoulder bag. ‘I’ve brought the doll with me.’
Miss Emmaline said nothing.
‘Do you have a few moments to take a look at it?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Shall I put on gloves?’
‘Only if you want to. The doll has been processed.’
Miss Emmaline raised an eyebrow. ‘Processed?’
‘What I mean is, we’ve processed the doll for fingerprints. It’s okay if you touch it.’
Miss Emmaline looked at Jessica’s bag for a moment, back at Jessica. ‘So, what you are saying is that this doll is somehow relevant to a crime?’
Jessica had thought this might have been obvious, but she could see how it might not.
‘It was found at a crime scene, yes, ma’am.’
Miss Emmaline nodded. The moment had taken on gravitas, but perhaps not more than Miss Emmaline had experienced in her eighty-plus years.
‘May I?’ Jessica asked.
‘Please.’
Jessica unzipped the bag, took the doll out of the bag, set it on the table. Miss Emmaline put on her glasses.
The woman nodded.
‘I thought as much, but there is no substitute for having an item right in front of you.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘This is a bisque doll, made in the style of the French.’ She ran a finger gently over the doll’s face. ‘In the early twentieth century the French and the Germans were the undisputed masters of the craft, you see. For more than eighty years, no one
could touch them in terms of quality and design and craftsmanship.’
‘So you’re saying this doll is an antique?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s a Sauveterre.’
‘Could you spell that for me?’
Miss Emmaline did. Jessica wrote it down. As she did this, the blond girl from the front brought a pot of tea, set it down on the corner table next to Miss Emmaline’s chair.
‘Would you like a cup, my dear?’ Miss Emmaline asked.
‘No, thanks,’ Jessica said. ‘I’m fine.’
The girl walked back into the shop as Miss Emmaline poured herself a cup, and then turned her attention back to the doll.
‘The face has been painted over, of course. These are not the original eyes.’
The lab had confirmed as much, but Jessica wanted an expert’s opinion. The eyes were a dead-on match to Nicole Solomon’s eyes.
‘I would say the hair is different as well.’
‘The hair is newer?’
‘No, but I believe it has been dyed,’ she said. ‘And then there’s the clothing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The clothing is modern. Even in terms of comparison to a Sauveterre. Whoever dressed this doll sewed the clothing herself.’
‘Herself?’
Miss Emmaline looked up.
‘Funny how we believe ourselves to be tolerant and open-minded,’ she said. ‘But when presented with something that dovetails with our preconceptions, we just presume. I just assumed that the person who sewed this clothing was a female.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Still, I am probably correct in this. The stitching is a handkerchief stitch. Very fine work.’
‘What can you tell me about Sauveterre?’
‘Not much, I’m afraid. He was French, but not in the league of the major doll makers. Those would be Bru and Jumeau, of course. Jean Marie Sauveterre, in essence, made replicas of their works. Rather hastily made and obvious copies.’
‘He was from France?’
‘Originally. The rumor was that he went a bit mad, then moved here to the States.’
‘Do you have any of his dolls here?’
‘I did have a few, but I believe they were sold.’
Jessica consulted her notes. ‘The last time I was here you mentioned that doll makers sometimes mark their dolls on the back of the head.’
The crime lab had examined the Nicole Solomon doll’s head, and found the number 10, which matched the killer’s mark on Nicole’s scalp.
‘That’s correct.’
‘Would you happen to know how many dolls Jean Marie Sauveterre made?’
‘I don’t know.’ She gestured to the bookshelf against the far wall. There, on the top shelf, were a dozen bound reference books. ‘I’d have to do a little research on that. But if an answer to your query is to be found, it will be found here.’
Jessica took a moment, prepared her thoughts. ‘I think I know the answer to this, but I’ll ask it anyway …’
Miss Emmaline smiled. ‘I’ve always found this to be the best way to find out what you need to know.’
‘Who collects dolls?’
Miss Emmaline gave her answer some time. ‘Dolls are ancient, as is the practice of collecting them. Doll collecting is similar to the collecting of anything, as you might imagine. Some, as with those who collect stamps, or paintings, or even classic cars, do so for the beauty of the object. Others care only about the acquisition, and many more care only about the value, treating an object – even a rare and exquisite object – like a commodity.’
‘So there is no one type of person who collects dolls.’
‘Collecting dolls can be a wonderful way to be part of a community, a worldwide community,’ she said. ‘On the other hand, some of the most antisocial people I’ve ever met have been doll collectors. To them, it is akin to hoarding.’
There was something here. Jessica just couldn’t see it yet. She was just about to ask another question when the blond girl poked her head through the curtains.
‘I’m going to leave for the day, Miss Emmaline.’
‘Okay. Thank you, cher.’
‘Je t’adore.’
It was only a few seconds later that Jessica realized that she was holding her breath. She heard the bell over the front door of the shop tinkle, then the door close.
Seconds later she found herself on her feet.
‘The girl, the one who was just here,’ Jessica said.
‘What about her?’
‘When she left, what did she say?’
Miss Emmaline thought for a few agonizingly long moments. ‘She said “je t’adore.” Why?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It is French. It is a term of endearment. It means “I adore you.”’
In an instant Jessica was out of the back room. She found Sophie sitting alone in the shop, leafing through a doll catalog.
‘That girl,’ Jessica said. ‘The one who just left. Which way did she go?’
Sophie pointed north. ‘That way.’
Jessica ran out of the shop and onto the street. There were a number of people passing by, perhaps thirty or forty people on the block, on both sides of the street. Young men on cell phones, women with young children, older people walking slowly to and from the corner store.
There was no blond girl.
Jessica reentered the store.
‘What’s wrong, Mom?’ Sophie asked.
Jessica locked the front door to the shop. ‘Everything’s fine, sweetie.’
Sophie looked worried. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come stand back here,’ Jessica said, indicating a spot behind the counter, near the doorway into the back.
Sophie didn’t ask any more questions. Being the daughter of two police officers, she knew there were different states of alert. Yellow for thunderstorms. Red for the boogeyman. She knew instinctively that this was one of the latter.
As Jessica stepped around the counter, there were two certainties in her mind. One: There was no doubt that, on the recording, the tape they’d found at the Gillen crime scene – the recording of the piano music – the girl on the tape did not say ‘shut the door.’
She said ‘je t’adore.’ ‘I adore you.’
The other thing about which Jessica was certain was that the girl who spoke the words on that tape had just left the shop.
When Jessica walked into the back room Miss Emmaline was in her chair, her eyes wide open, her hands folded in her lap. She looked to be in a trance. Or worse. Jessica vaulted across the room.
‘Miss Emmaline,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’
For a long moment, the woman said nothing. Jessica reached down, felt for a pulse. She found one.
‘Miss Emmaline.’
No response.
Standing this close to the woman, Jessica noticed that the scent of lavender perfume had an undernote, something she had not noticed before. She glanced at the teacup on the table. She picked it up, sniffed it. There, beneath the aroma of tea leaves, was something else, something earthen and organic, something that smelled like …
Mushrooms.
The blond girl had brought her the tea.
42
As much as I liked working in the shop, I disliked wearing the blond wig. It was quite itchy, and I don’t think it was all that flattering. I wore it at Mr Marseille’s insistence. A compromise, if you will.
I had always fancied being a shop girl, and when we visited Miss Emmaline’s store for the first time – in search of a pair of crystal eyes – I saw the Help Wanted sign in the window, and knew that I wanted to work there. I felt it was meant to be.
But now that the police had found The Secret World, I knew I couldn’t go back there.
I placed the wig in a trashcan.
As I boarded the bus I thought of how I would miss the shop, and all the beautiful dolls. I thought of Miss Emmaline and her many kindnesses. I felt terrible about making her our special
tea – due to her advanced age I feared the consequences to her well-being might be dire – but I made it in the hope that the woman from the police might have some, therefore buying me and Mr Marseille some time to complete our preparations.
I thought of the many people I had met at The Secret World, how each and every one of them had a place on my shelf.
As the bus passed the shop, I looked through the front window, perhaps for the final time. I thought of my new friend, Sophie.
I began thinking about how I might paint her beautiful brown eyes on a Sauveterre.
BOOK TWO
• • •
MR MARSEILLES
43
They met in the emergency room intake of Penn Presbyterian Hospital.
When Byrne arrived Jessica was on the phone with Dana Westbrook, giving her a status report. Westbrook told Jessica that detectives from the homicide unit were currently searching the doll shop for any leads on the shop girl, and that neighborhood interviews were underway.
When Jessica saw Byrne crossing the ER waiting room, she signed off. She took a few minutes to fill Byrne in on the meeting with the dealer, Denny Wargo. She showed Byrne the sketch, which turned out to be none too detailed. All three times Wargo had met with the young man – the man he called Mercy – had been in the parking lot of The Ark. According to Wargo, they did their deals car window to car window, so at best, he got a three-quarter profile at night.
The sketch was a white male, dark hair, no facial hair. Not much to go on.
The good news was that, if this particular strain of mushroom – a chemical found in the bloodstreams of Nicole Solomon, as well as Robert and Edward Gillen – was purchased or grown in Philadelphia, it came through Denny Wargo.
Both Jessica and Byrne were pretty certain that this sketch was of the man they sought.
‘How is Miss Emmaline?’ Byrne asked.
‘She’s sedated. They’re calling her condition stable.’
‘Has she said anything else?’
Jessica shook her head. ‘No. I only had a few minutes with her in the ambulance and in the ER before they kicked me out. She wasn’t making sense.’
The Doll Maker Page 22