Dolly Departed dtdf-3

by Deb Baker

  "Ditto," Caroline echoed.

  Gretchen gave in to temptation but spoke gently, in consideration of her mother's feelings for the dead woman.

  "According to Matt, Charlie was murdered. She was poisoned with a concentrated dose of nicotine. A lethal dose was in her coffee."

  Nina gasped dramatically. "Nicotine can kill just like that." She snapped her fingers. "I've heard of dogs eating nicotine patches and dropping dead."

  "Matt said nicotine is more poisonous that arsenic."

  "I think it's used as a pesticide," Caroline said, her face pale.

  Nina drummed a fingernail on her chin. "Charlie's murder had to be premeditated."

  "I hadn't thought of that. You're becoming quite deductive." Gretchen could see a hiker climbing steadily up Camelback Mountain and suddenly wished she were doing the same thing instead of discussing murder.

  "Do you think the killer wanted her to die during the parade right in front of all those people?"

  "You're the psychic. You tell me."

  Nina shrugged and didn't answer. Her aunt's powers short-circuited without any advance warning.

  Nimrod flew through his doggie door, ears flapping wildly. He leapt into the pool, paddled in circles, climbed out, and shook water all over the women's legs.

  "Watch what I taught him," Nina said, clapping her hands to get his attention. Gretchen knew she was trying to restore a lighter mood. "Come, Nimrod, let's show Momma your new trick." Nina moved her right hand in what must have been a sit command, because Nimrod sat down and dutifully watched her for the next order.

  "Smile," Nina commanded.

  Nimrod pulled his lips back, exposing his teeth.

  "That's a pretty grotesque smile," Gretchen said, giggling.

  "He has nice teeth, though," Caroline observed cheerfully, but Gretchen could see tears welling in her eyes from the recent news of the circumstances surrounding her friend's death.

  "Good boy." Nina gave him a doggy treat. "We're still working on the smaller details."

  "We're still waiting for your secret, Nina," Gretchen said. "Share."

  Nina fluffed her hair and cleared her throat, preparing for her stage entrance. "Bonnie, as you know, lives for gossip and spends most of her time tracking it down. She overhead her son speaking on the phone." Nina paused. "I can just see her, slinking around, listening at doors, can't you?"

  "And?" Gretchen said.

  "He thinks the two deaths are related. Charlie and her sister, Sara."

  That was it? The extent of Nina's information? "I already know that," Gretchen said. Nina raised a perfect eyebrow.

  "I forgot to tell you. Seriously," Gretchen said. "I wasn't holding out. I forgot."

  "You two are way ahead of me," Caroline said, sitting up straight. "Why kill both of them? And why wait a year to murder the second one?"

  "The killer will turn out to be a family member," Nina said. "A nut. . ooh. . sorry about the unintended pun. You know, nut and all. Anyway, it must be a family member who is crazy and has some knowledge of poisons."

  "That person is heartless, brutally so," Caroline said.

  "Both women must have suffered terribly before they died. Poor Charlie."

  "That was the intent," Nina said. "Don't you think? To make them suffer."

  "It appears so," Caroline agreed.

  "I'm sure the police are doing everything they can."

  Gretchen looked at her mother, worried about her.

  "I have more to tell you." Nina leaned forward. "Bonnie has sharp ears. She heard Matt talking about a miniature peanut butter jar."

  "Peanuts killed Sara," Caroline said.

  "Exactly. Anaphylactic shock," Nina said. "Her entire body went into a serious allergic reaction."

  Gretchen was surprised at Nina's knowledge. Her aunt wasn't exactly the medical type.

  "I looked it up on the Internet before I came over," Nina said. "Don't look so surprised."

  "I'm not," Gretchen fibbed. "Tell me more."

  "The peanut isn't actually a true nut. Did you know that?"

  Gretchen and Caroline shook their heads.

  "It's really a legume, and a ton of people are allergic to it. Some people can have a life-threatening reaction just by inhaling the odor of a peanut."

  "You sound like a walking encyclopedia," Caroline said. Nina looked flattered. "See? I'm good for something."

  Gretchen stood, leaned over her aunt, and gave her a big hug. "What would we do without you?"

  "I ask myself that every day."

  "Where did Matt find the miniature peanut butter jar?"

  Gretchen asked.

  "I thought you'd never ask," said Nina. "Brace yourself." She paused for effect, her jeweled fingers fluttering.

  "The police found the little jar under Charlie's dead body."

  Gretchen stared at her.

  "Maybe the killer is leaving a calling card," Nina hypothesized. "Or he wants to be caught."

  "Gretchen, dear daughter," Caroline said. "Matt might be right. It could be very dangerous to go there."

  "Both sisters are dead," Gretchen reasoned. "There's no reason to believe anyone else will die."

  "Maybe the brother killed them?" Nina suggested.

  "Not likely," Caroline said. "He has serious health problems. Charlie had a son, but they were estranged. I wonder if he knows about his mother's death." She paused in thought. "When Sara died, the police determined that the banana bread must have come from a farmer's market. Sara went to various markets every Saturday morning. The authorities looked for a vendor who might have sold it to her but never found one."

  "If you want to abandon the room boxes, I'll understand," Gretchen said. "Or we could move the project to our workshop where we'd feel safer."

  Caroline sighed heavily. "Charlie worked hard on the room boxes," she said. "They were her final artistic endeavor. I want to restore them more than ever."

  Gretchen took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter when she thought of Charlie dying after drinking poisoned coffee.

  "Should we move everything here?"

  "No," Caroline said. "There's more elbow room at the shop. And with all of us working together, we can wrap it up quickly."

  Gretchen remembered the authoritative way Matt had ordered her away. She hadn't planned to quit, no matter what her mother and the others decided. She wouldn't let him win.

  Over my dead body, she thought.

  9

  Some doll collectors believe the eyes make the doll. Googly eyes are big, round, side-glancing eyes that are much larger than the doll's other facial features. They usually have large, exaggerated eyelashes, as well. Flirty eyes move from side to side, giving the doll a watchful appearance. Paperweight eyes are curved glass eyes that give a doll a very natural look. Sleep eyes close when the doll is laid down and open when she is upright. One of the most complex doll repairs involves working with eyes. They have to be placed just right, with no room for the slightest error. Look into your doll's eyes. Are they gateways to the mystery of her life? What would she tell you if she could speak?

  – From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch Gretchen stared at the tiny penny doll's painted eyes as if she might find the answer to Charlie Maize's death. Why had the woman constructed room boxes containing bloody stains? Why furnish them with killing objects?

  Had that been her way of finding peace within the boxes'

  confines?

  The answers eluded her, and the penny doll's eyes didn't give up any secrets.

  "The keys to Mini Maize are on the kitchen table,"

  Gretchen said to Nina, who buzzed into the workshop with her canine entourage. "I need to spend a few hours working here. I've promised to complete several dolls before the end of the day. I'll join you as soon as I can.

  "Where is Caroline?"

  "Mom's running errands," she answered. "She'll be at the shop as soon as she can."

  Gretchen scanned her basket cases, those dolls that needed extensive reworking
, the real fixer-uppers. She'd made a commitment to repair a basket case for a customer today.

  "I can't start without you," Nina said with a small whine. "I wouldn't know what to do."

  "Do the same thing you did yesterday. Figure out where the pieces go. The sooner we put them together, the better for Mom."

  "We?" Nina complained. "Is there a mouse in my pocket?"

  "I won't be far behind you."

  "What about the danger? You know, the killer?"

  "We decided last night that we're perfectly safe working at Mini Maize."

  "I thought we would stick together."

  "Make sure you lock the shop door behind you. I'll call Detective Kline and ask him to keep an eye out for suspicious characters."

  "How old is this Detective Kline?"

  Gretchen glanced at her aunt. "Why?"

  "Just wondering."

  "He's tall, intelligent, has a good sense of humor. He talked about karma last time I saw him."

  Nina perked up. "Is he married?"

  Gretchen searched her memory. "I don't know." If he was single, she'd hook Nina up with the Scottsdale detective. Wouldn't that be fun?

  Her aunt packed up. Nina carried as much doggie equipment as a family with twin babies carried baby equipment. "Are you sure I'll be okay?"

  "If you're that worried, call April and ask her to go over instead." Gretchen picked up a German dolly face doll and looked at the work tag attached to its arm. "Go on home and let her handle it."

  Gretchen glanced at her aunt. That wasn't very thoughtful. Why did I say it like that?

  Nina's eyes turned into narrow slits. "I have to pick up Enrico first, then I'll go to Mini Maize. I can manage just fine by myself, thank you very much."

  Gretchen sighed. "What's going on with you and April?"

  "Nothing's going on. I don't need her. After all, I'll only be there alone for an hour or two. Right?"

  "Maybe less."

  "And I'll have Tutu."

  "The guard dog."

  "And I'll keep the door locked and won't let anyone in."

  "Great." Gretchen bent over the German doll, and a few minutes later she heard the door slam.

  Quiet at last. Sometimes she wondered why she became so claustrophobic when she was around other people for any length of time. No one else seemed to have that problem. Nina, for example, thrived on hordes of humanity; the thicker the brew, the better.

  Gretchen looked longingly out the window at Camelback Mountain. She was too busy for a hike up the mountain, but she needed fresh air and Arizona wildlife to maintain her equilibrium. She felt the stress building. Repairing dolls was another perfect escape from the crowded planet. Dolls didn't talk back. No complaining, no arguing, no whining. She placed the basket case doll on the worktable and picked up Charlie's penny doll again. She had used small stringing elastic and her tiniest stringing hook to attach a new arm. It looked good as new.

  Gretchen tackled the German dolly face doll, which needed an eye repair. This one had glass sleep eyes with hair eyelashes. When Gretchen laid the doll on its back, the eyes remained open instead of closing as they should. She removed the head from the body, lifted the wig, then washed the doll's head and cleaned the eye-rocker unit. Time seemed to stand still while she immersed herself in her work. The doorbell rang, bringing Gretchen back to the present. She glanced at the clock and was surprised to see that more than an hour had gone by since Nina had left for Charlie's shop.

  Nimrod flew out of his bed and shot for the door, barking a shrill warning.

  "I heard it, too," Gretchen called out to him. "You're supposed to warn me before the fact, not after."

  As she walked down the hall, Wobbles slid around the corner, intently watching the commotion.

  "Bernard Waites," said an old man when Gretchen opened the door. He looked vaguely familiar. He held out a small paper bag. "You left this at Mini Maize on Saturday."

  She took the offered bag and used her foot to gently keep Nimrod from bolting through the opening in the door. She edged out, closing the door behind her, and looked inside the bag. "My checkbook," she said. "Where did you find it?"

  "Right by the entrance. You must have dropped it when you left."

  She remembered digging through her purse before she left the Scottsdale shop. It must have fallen out, and she hadn't noticed. "Please come in." Gretchen moved to open the door.

  "No, I don't want to come in," he said, gruffly. "I need to get going."

  "You can tell how much money I have in my account by the fact that I haven't even missed my checkbook in the last four days," Gretchen said, realizing he must have seen her balance. She would have peeked if she had found a lost checkbook. Her bank balance wasn't much to look at, slightly embarrassing.

  Bernard gave her a hint of a smile, like he wasn't listening. "I found your address on the checks," he said. The old man wasn't any too steady on his feet. Brown suspenders, a full head of white hair, and a long white mustache. He looked kindly but crotchety. "Shame about Charlie," he said.

  "I saw you at the shop on Saturday. You were the one who opened the door and let everyone in."

  "The police didn't like that one bit."

  "Yes, I know."

  "I made all the dollhouses in that shop," he said. "Last year I won Phoenix's Best Dollhouse Design award for the Victorian dollhouse on the shelf above the counter. It's not for sale, only for show. I'm keeping it."

  "That's wonderful, a very prestigious award. I'll have to take a look at it when I go back to the shop."

  His car was parked in the driveway, a white Ford pickup truck. Worn out, like the man before her. Bent and dented, the outer layer of paint peeling away, lumber in the back of the bed, poking over the top of the tailgate.

  "What will happen to Mini Maize now?" Gretchen asked. "With Charlie and her sister dead, will the shop close up for good?"

  "It could continue on," Bernard said. "Sara used to make most of the miniature dolls in the shop. When she passed, Britt Gleeland picked up the slack. Life goes on no matter what. Everybody thinks they're indispensable, but no one really is." He turned his head and looked out at the street. "I've been thinking about taking it over myself. Half of the stuff in there belongs to me anyway."

  How old was this guy? At least eighty, maybe older. Gretchen had to admire him for his ambition. Of course, the opportunity to own the shop could also be a motive for murder, couldn't it?

  "I hear you're working in Charlie's shop," Bernard said, leaning against the door frame for support, a slight tremble in both hands. "What's going on?" His eyes were watchful.

  "We're repairing Charlie's last display in her honor, the room boxes she was going to present the day she died."

  "Funny that," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Charlie always asks me to make the display cases and room boxes for her, then she decorates them up. This time. . funny. . she did one of them herself. This is a first for her." He used the present tense like Charlie was still alive.

  Bernard must be talking about the room box they had decided wasn't part of the display.

  "Thanks for returning my checkbook," Gretchen said.

  "Not many people like me left," he said. "Doing good deeds."

  Gretchen stood in the front yard while he slowly pulled himself into his truck cab and eased away from the house. Strange old man.

  She was just about to turn back into the house when a woman in trendy workout clothing strode briskly down the street toward her house. The walker wore a leopard print sport tank, matching shorts, and dainty white walking shoes. A matching choker clung to the woman's long, slim neck. All she needed to complete the ensemble was a whip and a divorce decree. It was Matt Albright's crazy, stalking, soon-to-be ex.

  Gretchen marched to the street, hoping she looked more ferocious than she felt. The woman was certifiable and had no business anywhere near Gretchen's home.

  "What are you doing here?" Gretchen demanded. Kayla Albright came
to an abrupt halt.

  "Exercising. Something you could use a little of." The Wife closed a cell phone and tucked it in a fanny pack around her waist. The fanny pack was made of matching leopard print material. "No law against keeping fit," she said, tilting up her perky little nose.

  "Stay away from my house."

  "Stay away from my husband."

  The women faced off. They both took a step closer.

  "You slashed my tire," Gretchen said.

  "You stole my husband."

  "So you admit it."

  "Admit what?"

  "That you slashed my tire."

  "I don't know anything about your tire."

  "The police are dusting for fingerprints," Gretchen said. What a stupid thing to say. As far as she knew, a tire had never been checked for fingerprints. Ever.

  "That's ridiculous." The Wife snickered. Okay, she was smarter than Gretchen assumed. Crazy and smart and beautiful. Gretchen looked down at her own rumpled T-shirt. Nail polish peeled from her toenails, and stubble sprouted all over her legs. She felt like a tarantula.

  Leopard Lady was absolutely perfect. She looked like a blonde Barbie doll: an impossibly shaped thirty-nine-eighteen-thirty-three. At the moment, Gretchen hated her and every single sleek and trim Arizona woman. "Get off my property," she said.

  "You don't own the street."

  They glared at each other.

  A siren wailed in the distance. It grew louder. Kayla smiled a nasty, cold smile. A police car turned the corner and stopped in front of Gretchen's house.

  A Phoenix police officer rose slowly from his squad car and hitched his pants. "What's the problem? I got a call for a disturbance at this address."

  Gretchen's mouth fell open in surprise when she saw the smirk on her adversary's face. Kayla had called the police herself. The call she was finishing when Gretchen spotted her! What nerve!

  "That's right, officer," the Wicked Witch Wife said, adjusting her face from smirk to faux fear. "I was walking along, and this woman. . "-she pointed at Gretchen-

  ". . ran out of this house. . "-another point-". . and started saying the most awful things to me. Crude and vulgar language like I've never heard before. There must be a law against verbally assaulting helpless women."