Dolly Departed dtdf-3

by Deb Baker

  Dolly Departed

  ( Dolls to Die For - 3 )

  Deb Baker

  Deb Baker. Dolly Departed

  (Dolls to Die For — 3)

  1

  Gretchen Birch was still several blocks from the doll shop when Charlene Maize, better known to her friends as Charlie, failed to suck in enough air to feed her panicking brain and various other vital organs. She keeled over in the center of her miniature doll shop, Mini Maize, amid the clutter from a tipped display case. Charlie took the dive in full view of a group of Parada del Sol spectators gathered in front of the shop's window to watch Old Scottsdale's largest western parade.

  No one noticed.

  A marching band, passing at that precise moment, struck up the familiar beat of "Louie, Louie," and people along the parade route swayed and bopped to the music. Caught up in the swell of humanity, Gretchen was running late, and as if enough hadn't gone wrong already, her teacup poodle, Nimrod, was slowing her down even more.

  "Here comes the parade!" someone shouted as Gretchen hurried past a crowded corner on her way to Mini Maize. Nimrod, all five inches and three pounds of black puppy fur, heard his cue. He pitched his fluffy body out of Gretchen's white cotton purse, which was adorned with red bows and embroidered with little black poodles, Nimrod look-alikes. She frantically grabbed for the pup, managing to break his fall to the pavement. Then she lost her grasp, and Nimrod shot off toward the street.

  Every time the miniature pup heard the word parade at home, he headed for the kitchen doggie door, burst through into the backyard, and trotted around the perimeter of the privacy fence that encircled the pool, barking away as though he were the grand master of a parade. It was a cute stunt at home, but out in public. . well, she'd never expected it to be an issue. Gretchen raced after the wayward canine, jostling past a rowdy group on the curb who had obviously started partying well before the ten o'clock a.m. parade began. One reveler almost stepped on Nimrod.

  "Watch out for the puppy!" she yelled. "Don't move!"

  No one heard her. "Help!" she screamed, imagining the worst as she lost sight of Nimrod. "Catch him!" A few people turned and stared at her, but no one jumped to her assistance. Gretchen burst through to the front of the parade line, knocking over a lawn chair and almost falling across an elderly couple sharing a sun umbrella. She saw Nimrod dart back into the street directly in front of the parade's lead vehicle, a Scottsdale police cruiser. The squad car, strobe lights flashing in honor of the event, jerked to a halt, and a uniformed Scottsdale police officer jumped out.

  Nimrod scampered for the other side of the street, where he was instantly enveloped in a circle of kids. Gretchen waded in, not far behind him.

  "You've disrupted the parade, lady, you know that?" the cop said. "I ought to write you up for having an unleashed animal. Move back and try to stay out of the way!" He hurried back to his car, slammed the car door, and began to edge forward.

  Gretchen and Nimrod ended up on the wrong side of the street, forced to wait for the parade to pass. Parada del Sol, Spanish for walk in the sun, was a spectacle to behold on this warm and brilliant February morning. The world's largest horse-drawn parade meandered down Scottsdale Road. Cowboys on horseback pranced by, and women in carriages threw candy into the crowd. Kids scrambled off the curb, grabbing Tootsie Rolls and bubble gum. Giant floats rambled along, trailed by clowns rolling wheelbarrows and cleaning up behind the horses.

  While Gretchen watched, she had plenty of time to blame her absent Aunt Nina for teaching Nimrod such a useless trick. Purse dog trainer extraordinaire Nina hadn't anticipated problems, either.

  "Don't you just love a parade?" someone said behind them. Gretchen had another tangle with Nimrod, but she was ready this time and held him back.

  On the other side of the street, she saw Joseph Reiner make his way through the crowd in the same direction the parade traveled. He was hard to miss in a pink, shortsleeved, button-down shirt and yellow shorts. Joseph's Dream Dolls was one of Gretchen's favorite doll shops, but Joseph did tend to dress like a parrot. He looked her way. She waved, but he continued on without seeing her. Hadn't he received one of Charlie's mysterious invitations? She was sure her mother had mentioned his name, but he was headed in the wrong direction. Odd. Gretchen cuddled Nimrod and waited impatiently for the parade to pass. She'd be late for the party, and Charlie had stressed the importance of being on time for a grand unveiling at Mini Maize. Ten sharp, she'd written in the invitation. When the last horse-drawn float rolled past, Gretchen stuffed Nimrod back in her purse and made for the other side, weaving among the straggling, shovel-clenching clowns. She ran right into one of them, bouncing off an enormous stuffed stomach. She fell sideways, clutching Nimrod and the purse protectively to her chest.

  "Watch where you're going," the clown said, not bothering to stop or to help her up. Gretchen saw a bald head with two large patches of green hair protruding from the sides like clumps of moldy cotton candy. The clown loomed over her momentarily, and then waddled away, a purple sack slung over a shoulder and enormous red feet flapping.

  "Thanks a lot," Gretchen muttered, rising and brushing herself off. What else could possibly go wrong? Today was turning out to be one of those days when absolutely nothing went right.

  By the time she arrived at Charlie's doll shop, it was almost eleven o'clock, and quite a crowd had gathered in front of the store. Most of the other parade-goers along the route were drifting away from the curb to explore the shops of Old Scottsdale or head for the party at Trail's End.

  "She didn't open up," a man said when Gretchen edged through and tried the door to Mini Maize. It was locked.

  "That can't be right," Gretchen said, holding her invitation in the air. "I'm invited to a special celebration." She noticed a posted sign. "It says the shop opens at ten."

  "We all have invitations," the same man said. "Maybe Charlie's sick?"

  "She has a bad heart, you know," said a woman with an enormous straw sun hat and dimpled cheeks.

  Gretchen had heard about Charlie Maize's heart condition. When the invitation arrived a week ago, her mother, Caroline, had filled her in on the doll shop owner's health situation. A recent physical had prompted the diagnosis. Immediately afterward, Charlie had arranged for the celebration at her shop, as though she worried that her time was near, and she had one last wish.

  "Oh my Gawd!" A woman nearest to the window shouted. Another woman screamed. "She's on the floor!"

  "Where?"

  "Right over there! In the middle of all that doll furniture. Looks like a display tipped over."

  "We have to get inside and help her!"

  Gretchen couldn't get anywhere near the window to see for herself. Not that she wanted to. Emergencies made her feel totally helpless. Next time she had an opportunity, she promised herself, she would take a CPR class and learn how to save people.

  "Someone call nine-one-one!"

  Maybe she could help by making the emergency call. Standing next to the locked door, Gretchen dug in her purse past Nimrod's tiny body. His head poked out of her bag, taking in the situation. She pulled out her cell phone, dialed the emergency number, and gave the dispatcher as much information as possible.

  As she ended the call, a man with a full head of white hair and a white mustache that reminded Gretchen of Geppetto pushed through on his way to the shop's door.

  "Bernard!" the big-hat lady called out shrilly. "I think that's Charlie on the floor inside, and the door is locked. Do you have a key?"

  "Of course I do, Evie."

  "Quick then. Hurry."

  The crowd pushed closer. Once the door was unlocked, the entire mass surged in behind Gretchen, who was front and center whether she wanted to be or not. "Give us room
, please," Bernard shouted.

  "I'm a doctor," someone called from the back. "Can I help?"

  "Let the man through!"

  People continued to flow into the shop. Unwilling to look at the woman sprawled so close to her, Gretchen inched sideways to give the doctor space to work. She glanced around the miniature doll shop with a trained eye, taking in all the sights in the mini wonderland. Dollhouses lined one side of the shop and display cases were stuffed with every imaginable furnishing from every era: tiny Oriental rugs, little dishes, platters of food, flower arrangements, pictures for small-scale walls, and of course, miniature dolls. Her eyes roamed to the floor involuntarily. She caught a glimpse of one of the fallen woman's legs, splayed at an awkward angle. The toes of Charlie's sandaled feet were motionless. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. The doctor, crouching beside Charlie, changed position, blocking the woman from view. Gretchen edged away. The doctor spoke to someone, but she couldn't make out his words.

  Evie, the big-hat woman, let out a piercing screech.

  "She's dead. Charlie's dead!"

  There was a collective gasp from everyone inside the shop followed by a moment of silence. No one knew what to say or what to do next.

  Gretchen stepped around several pieces of dollhouse furniture, heading for the door, desperately needing fresh air. She cast her eyes to the floor, so she wouldn't step on any of the scattered items.

  Gretchen stopped abruptly and stared down.

  One of the items. . it couldn't be.

  But it was.

  Gretchen was looking at a miniature axe with a dab of red paint along the blade. She stepped gingerly around it and made for the exit, feeling nauseated.

  A Scottsdale police cruiser pulled up to the curb.

  "What's going on here?" the cop said, unfolding from the squad car. He squinted at Gretchen and then frowned.

  "I know you. Is trouble following you around, or are you starting it?"

  Just my luck. It was the same cop who had threatened her with a ticket at the start of the parade.

  "A doctor is inside," she said with a catch in her voice.

  "Charlie Maize is dead. She had a bad heart."

  "Stay put," he said, heading inside. "I'll need your name and a statement."

  An ambulance rounded the corner and stopped on the street, lights flashing and siren wailing. The sound died away, but the colored lights continued to rotate. Two paramedics jumped out, pulled equipment from the back of the ambulance, and hurried inside.

  The cop came out of Mini Maize a few minutes later, as another squad car arrived. He shook his head when two female officers joined him. "You," he said to one of the officers, "get in there and contain the crowd."

  "Shop was all locked up," he said to the other cop. "And what do they do? They find a key, unlock the door, and storm in. Must be fifteen of them inside, touching everything, kicking little pieces of furniture around. Nobody, not one of them, ever thinks they might be contaminating a crime scene."

  He shook his head again and fiddled with the top of his holster as though the possibility of a rapid draw was always on his mind. "I have them all backed up against the far wall with their hands in their pockets. I need assistance. The doctor who examined her doesn't think it was her heart. We're treating it as a crime scene unless we find out differently."

  Gretchen stood next to the shop's window, watching and waiting while the officer rushed in. The cop from the parade glanced through the window. She thought about the tone of authority he'd used. When other emergency vehicles arrived, he was the one who gave them directions. Equipment was carted past her: cameras, a tripod, video recorders, and something that looked like a large toolbox.

  Gretchen slid along the side of the shop, planning to make her escape unnoticed. The cop turned as if on cue and stared at her. "Come over here," he said. Gretchen eased off the wall.

  "Let's hear your side of it. And you," he nodded to the officer who remained outside, "go inside and make sure none of them get away before we have a chance to talk to them. Handcuff them, duct tape them up in a big ball if you have to. Whatever it takes. And tell them we'll arrest anyone we catch touching any of the dolls. Touching anything, for that matter." He looked back at Gretchen. "Well?"

  "I was running late. I don't know any more than you do."

  "Did you know Charlie Maize?"

  "She was a good friend of my mother's. Charlie sent us an invitation to a party at her shop. It was supposed to be at ten o'clock this morning."

  "Do you have the invitation with you?"

  Gretchen dug in her overfilled purse. Nimrod licked her face.

  "Here it is." She handed him the invitation. While he read it, she noted the name on his uniform. Officer Brandon Kline. He looked up from the invitation. "It doesn't say what the celebration's about."

  "I don't have any idea either," Gretchen said.

  "Where's your mother? Inside?"

  Gretchen shook her head. "She's out of town."

  "Why was your mother on the invitation list?"

  "We are doll restoration artists. We repair and restore dolls for collectors. My mother knew Charlie through her work."

  "Do you believe in the chaos theory?"

  What a question. "I'm not sure." Gretchen hesitated.

  "Why?"

  "If I can create order from this chaos, it'll be more like a miracle."

  He flipped out a notebook and started writing. "Name,"

  he said.

  "Gretchen Birch."

  "Driver's license." She handed it over.

  "Well, Gretchen Birch, you're in the thick of it now."

  Officer Kline returned her license before handing her a clipboard with a form attached to it and a pen. "Fill this out and stay right here. Since you're the expert, I may need you."

  She stared at him. "I don't think I can be of any help."

  "Well, I don't know a damn thing about dolls. And you do," he said, catching her look of dismay. "Stay put," he warned her before heading back inside.

  Gretchen sighed. She was smack-dab in the middle of a police investigation. She glanced at her watch. High noon.

  2

  Bernard Waites can't pull his eyes from the fallen woman. How many years has he known her? Twenty? Fifteen, at least. They are. . were a team. He built dollhouses to perfect scale, and Charlie designed the miniature furniture and room details.

  They are. . were a good team.

  His eyes swing to the dollhouses displayed on shelves along the far wall. He'd built every one of them with his own hands and his own tools. He lifts a veined and knarled hand and studies the back of it. It shakes slightly. Bernard is proud of his craftsmanship. His favorites are the American farmhouse, a Victorian cottage, the English Tudor, and especially, the Queen Anne mansion. He looks at the dollhouse pieces lying on the floor, furniture catapulted everywhere. His eyes shift back to Charlie's body. Two EMTs are loading her onto a stretcher.

  "Careful," one of them warns the other.

  The one doing the cautioning is a female, as are several of the cops in the room. In his day women didn't do this kind of work. They knew their place just like the men knew theirs. The world is a changed place, and Bernard isn't sure he likes it.

  Will they cover Charlie's face before carrying her past the gawkers outside the shop? Look at them out there, straining to see through the window from their positions on the other side of a line of cops, all hoping for a good view of something horrible. Anything will do.

  And the ones inside don't give a hoot about Charlie Maize. Nosy gossips, the bunch of them. If they craned their necks any farther, they'd look like geese. Bernard watches the EMTs prepare Charlie for the ambulance, strapping her in. Once, long ago, Bernard had been an emergency medical technician himself, back before all the governmental licensing requirements and insurance restrictions. He knows what death looks like. He knows it in all its forms. Grow as old as he is, and you watch friends and family drop one by one. The curse of old
age. All his friends gone and not much family left either. The two EMTs heave Charlie up between them and carry her out. It was hard to see what was happening before, such a cluster of people swarming around her and him forced back into a corner with the rest, like a herd of cattle. Yellow tape used as fencing strung everywhere. Camera flashes going off. Someone is making one of those newfangled movies of the shop. Not good. Several more cops arrive. They begin interrogating everyone inside the shop. Let them. His turn is coming, and he is more than ready. The key weighs heavy in his pants pocket. Bernard is puzzled by one of the boxes on the floor. Why did she build a room box herself? Why didn't she ask me to do it?

  Bernard knows Charlie must have made it herself, because it isn't exactly perfect. Not even close. The edges are rough, the sides don't fit together like they should. A craftsman would have done much better. This one was amateurish. Looks like she used a jigsaw and fiberboard to construct it. He glances around and sees the ones he made. His practiced eye skillfully measures each one, calculates the dimensions: nineteen inches by twenty-six inches by fourteen. Large room boxes, crafted to Charlie's specifications. He wants to pick up the one she made and study it, but the cops are attentive, watchful of the so-called "witnesses," treating them more like suspects than concerned friends of Charlie's.

  "Are you the one who unlocked the door?" a cop asks him. Bernard stares at his badge.

  "Yes, Officer Kline. I have a key." He keeps his voice low and respectful.

  "What are you doing with a key?"

  "I've had one since the day Charlie opened the shop. She gave out keys like candy." He hopes his hand isn't shaking noticeably when he points at the dollhouses. "I made those." He sees the tremor running along his index finger and quickly closes the finger against his palm. The cop's indifferent eyes slide up to the dollhouses. He writes something down in a notebook.

  "Name."

  "Bernard Waites."

  "When was the last time you saw Charlie?"