Dolly Departed dtdf-3

by Deb Baker

  "But neither of us can figure out how to use the camera part of our phones." April chuckled. "You're the only one of us that isn't technology challenged."

  Gretchen pulled her cell phone from her purse. "Smile."

  She took April's picture, then showed it to her friend. April sighed. "I've lost five pounds, but you'd never know it. I have another hundred to go."

  "One day at a time. Smile, Mom."

  Caroline turned away from the camera's eye. "Not me!

  The room boxes."

  Gretchen took pictures of the empty room boxes. After each snapshot, she checked it for clarity on the small phone screen.

  "Joseph Reiner stopped by while you were gone," April said, wiping grime and footprints from a little mahogany bed frame. "He was extremely upset by Charlie's death. He broke down and cried twice in the short time he was here."

  "I'm sorry I missed him." Gretchen had lost a convenient opportunity to ask the Joseph's Dream Doll shop owner about his presence at the parade. She still wondered why he hadn't been at Charlie's doll shop with the rest of the invitees.

  "I have the room box pieces separated as best I could,"

  Caroline said. "It wasn't as hard as we originally thought it would be. The different time periods helped. But I still have a small pile of unknowns."

  On one corner of the card table, Caroline had placed Victorian pieces. Gretchen studied the grouping, gently touching the fabrics. A miniature mohair sofa, wooden bedstead, mirrored dressing table, a woolen floral rug. And all the articles that would complete a setting from the late 1900s.

  Gretchen glanced sharply at her mother.

  "I know," Caroline said softly. "I see it."

  "What?" April said, hurrying over.

  "Flecks of blood on the sofa," Gretchen said. "Not too much. Just a little. And more on this painting. A spot or two."

  "It almost looks like an accident," April said. "Like Charlie spilled red paint."

  "What about the red paint on the edge of the axe and knife? Those weren't accidents." Gretchen went through all the pieces on the card table, one by one.

  "What in the world was Charlie thinking?" Caroline rubbed her eyes. "This one is a Victorian household, That"-

  she said, pointing at a different pile-"is a farmland setting with a church in the background. Little crab apple trees, a bale of hay, not much else."

  April held up two tiny steps. Decrepit, worn, a touch of blood on the first stepping-stone. "From the backyard pile. Mini windows with small panes, some broken, a wooden door."

  Caroline gestured toward another group of items. "This is also a bedroom, but from a later era and much more luxurious. An Oriental rug, mahogany bed and dresser, fanback chair. Look at the precious Martha Washington bedspread."

  "And the pile of unknowns." Gretchen looked through the leftover pieces. Tiny sheets of old plywood, bits of paper, things that might not have anything to do with the room boxes.

  "It sure would be fun to make my own miniatures sometime." April picked up another item and wiped it with her cloth. "I'd never be as accomplished as Britt, though. Few doll makers are. It's extremely detailed work. You need a lot of patience."

  "Was Sara's craftwork as good as Britt's?"

  "At least as good, maybe better," her mother answered.

  "Where are the dolls Britt made for the room boxes?"

  Gretchen asked.

  "We haven't gotten that far," Caroline said. "Now that we've cleaned up and organized the room furnishings, we'll place those where we think they go and move on to finding the dolls."

  April sucked soda through a straw. "I'd like to give Gretchen an award," she said, presenting Gretchen with a small wrapped box. "I'm so proud of you. I thought you'd like a little memento of your accomplishments since coming to live in Phoenix."

  "But why?" Gretchen said. "I haven't accomplished anything."

  "You will."

  "And that isn't true, Gretchen," Caroline said, watching from the table. "You're very talented."

  Gretchen opened the cover and peeked in to find a gold badge. It had a shiny gold finish and was shaped like the sun. The inscription read Best in the West.

  "Let me pin it on you." April scooped up the badge.

  "Best in the West?" Gretchen asked, laughing. "Best what?"

  "Best restoration artist," Caroline called out.

  "But that's you."

  "There." April finished pinning it on and stood back to admire it. "You look great, real professional. The gold matches your hair. And I have one for Caroline, too."

  April handed another package to her mother.

  Gretchen turned to check her reflection in the window and was startled to see a man peering in. He wore a dirty sleeveless T-shirt, and a black do-rag covered his hair. A silver ring pierced his lower lip, and a tattoo like barbed wire wound around his right arm.

  He stared at Gretchen.

  April shrieked.

  "That's Charlie's son, Ryan Maize," Caroline said softly. He was young. About twenty. Wiry with dirty, ill-fitting jeans that dragged on the sidewalk. Black running shoes that had seen better days. Ryan's eyes shifted nervously to the badge pinned on Gretchen's chest. His eyes grew wide and frightened. When Gretchen moved closer to the window, he darted out of sight. Gretchen slammed out the door, breaking into a run.

  "Wait," she shouted. He disappeared around a busy corner. She raced behind him onto the sidewalk bordering Scottsdale Road. So this was Charlie's son. But why was he running away? Why did he look so frightened? Gretchen was used to jogging and hiking. Camelback Mountain and the desert air were perfect conditioning tools, and though she wanted to lose a few pounds, Gretchen considered herself aerobically fit. She'd been a runner her entire life. Ryan Maize, however, was younger and very quick, weaving among shoppers, never looking back. He shoved someone out of the way. Gretchen heard gasps and squeals from those on the sidewalk as she chased after him. She threaded through the crowd and leaped over a dropped shopping bag, running as fast as she could.

  What was she doing? What was she going to do if she actually caught up to him? What if he had a gun or a knife?

  She'd karate kick the weapon out of his fist. Sure, right. Brucaleen Lee.

  Ryan pulled ahead. Gretchen was fast, but she wasn't fast enough. He was getting away.

  Stop, she thought, let him go. No, she wouldn't give up. The loose soles of his shoes were his downfall. Gretchen saw him stumble. She picked up speed, giving it all she had. Did he know about his mother? That she was dead?

  Gretchen was using all her energy to catch him. She didn't have the breath to speak. She reached out, and her fingertips almost touched his back.

  He pulled away. And tripped again. This time she got a firm hold on the back of his shirt. She heard it rip.

  12

  Ryan Maize ducks down and tries to twist out of the woman's grasp. She has him by the back of his shirt, and she's incredibly strong, like the lioness of Babylon. He hears the cloth tear.

  If he wasn't bingeing at the moment, she wouldn't be catching him.

  Too much alcohol and crack cocaine in his past. Whatever he's on, he can't remember taking it. That worries him.

  It isn't his fault that he's in a weakened condition. Everything goes wrong for him. People don't help him enough. Like his mother. If she hadn't refused to help him out, he'd be doing really good. Healthy, happy, and rich. All he needs is a little support from the people around him. He needs just one little break.

  Life sucks, and then you die. That's his motto. He twists again, trying to break her grip. She's on him like the evil witch she is.

  Shapeshifters masquerading as cops. What's next?

  He's coming down, slowly descending from an alternate reality.

  She's a real cop. He'd seen the badge. That's what he gets for going back to the shop, for wanting one last look.

  "Stop running and listen to me," the female cop says. Words staccato through the air like breaks in the time continuum. Moments
lost. For him, it isn't lost moments, it's lost years. All gone. Twenty-one going on dead.

  The cop's breath is labored, or is that his?

  He whirls and catches another glimpse of the badge. You can't even tell the law from the rest of society. A fake woman has him in her power. A Matrix society, and he alone realizes the truth.

  Ryan karate-chops the hand.

  No reaction.

  She must be undercover.

  Then why the badge?

  A voice inside of Ryan's head answers him. It always does. It's dependable, like nothing else in his life is. Ego. Power. They're all alike, even the women. Especially the women. Ryan jabs her hard with his elbow, and he feels the release. Freedom.

  Run!

  If she catches up again, he'll sucker punch her. Anything to get away. Anything at all.

  "Your mother is dead," the woman says, and Ryan is slammed up against the side of a building. She must know all the martial arts. A trained assassin. Who would have guessed by looking at her?

  He thinks he will throw up because of the heat pouring through the cracks of the street. He sees serpents twisting out of the poured concrete, coming for his soul. She repeats the statement. Dead, dead.

  Ryan makes a fist. He puts everything he has behind it, everything he has.

  The punch connects, and the woman goes down. Surprisingly fast. His strength and power must be growing.

  She doesn't move.

  Ryan thinks about the concept of remorse but doesn't feel any. He rarely feels anything.

  A being with silver hair comes at him, followed by one the size of a wrestler. He recognizes them from his mother's shop. Ryan saw them there, talking to the woman cop. The enormous woman glares at him but is winded and bends over to widen her airway, to make room for her precious air. She glares up at him, then grimaces without saying a word. The other one is filled with anger but hesitates a moment too long. Her eyes flick to the woman on the ground. His feet pound the pavement, and it sounds like thunder of the gods to him. They have decided to protect him from harm, to champion him for his abilities.

  He is one of them.

  13

  Miniature dolls, also known as dollhouse dolls, are an intricate part of a small-scale scene. Collectors find miniatures in all the usual places: doll stores, online shops, and auctions and doll shows. But for the most fun and versatility, why not try making your own? You can begin by purchasing a basic doll-making kit from a miniature shop or order one through an online catalogue. Kits contain porcelain parts, patterns for making the doll's costume, materials for jewelry, wigging supplies, and easy-to-follow instructions. In no time at all, you will want to cast molds and design your own line of costumes from fabrics and ribbons. You'll be creating hats and shoes from card stock patterns and designing handbags from binder clips. Welcome to the fascinating world of miniature doll making.

  – From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch Wednesday morning the women at Curves hopped to the beat of "Build Me Up Buttercup."

  Gretchen tried to ignore the pain in her temple where Ryan Maize had struck her. One punch from that scrawny kid, and she'd fallen hard, like a rock from a mountain ledge. Her mother and April, miraculously arriving just as Gretchen dropped to the sidewalk, had strong-armed a street vendor into parting with a cup of ice. Their quick thinking had kept the swelling to a minimum.

  A couple of ibuprofen tablets this morning, and her head no longer felt like it had a built-in subwoofer. And her hair covered the ugly purple bruise.

  "I hear you were clobbered good last night," Bonnie said, her red wig stiff with hair spray. Lip liner was drawn in an exaggerated arch around her lips. "Are you okay?"

  She trotted in place on a small platform, swinging her arms above her head as the music changed to "Chantilly Lace."

  "I'm perfectly fine," Gretchen replied, trying not to wince when she bent over. She had a huge headache and two more hours to go before she could take more pain relievers. Nina, working the abductor machine, piped up, speaking around her niece as though she wasn't present. "Gretchen is too impulsive for her own good. Imagine chasing a tattooed, body-pierced, crazy man through the streets of Scottsdale. What was she thinking?"

  Gretchen shrugged. She didn't have a good answer and secretly agreed with Nina.

  "Where's Caroline this morning?" Bonnie asked.

  "Trying to catch up on our repair work," Gretchen said.

  "I should do a reading for you." Nina bounced a large pink ball while running in place. "The tarot cards complement my psychic predictions," she said. "You really need a reading."

  "Maybe later."

  "I'll take one," Bonnie said.

  "I'll watch," April said.

  Nina smiled. "Okay."

  Gretchen noticed a definite clearing of the air around Nina and April. Nina's new friendship with Britt had something to do with it. And Nina seemed grateful that April had helped rescue Gretchen and then cared for her after the blow to her head. April was doing her part by showing interest in Nina's tarot cards. Gretchen knew how hard that was for her.

  April sweated over the shoulder press. "What do you make of the miniature peanut butter jar?" she asked Gretchen. "How does it fit in?"

  Gretchen looked questioningly at her aunt, remembering the promise Nina had made to keep the jar's existence confidential. Nina's eyes shifted to Bonnie, who had originally shared the information with her. Bonnie grinned conspiratorially. "I had to share a teensy bit of police work with my favorite group." She held up her right hand and pressed two fingers together to show how minuscule her sharing really was. "But remember, no talking outside our little circle."

  "Change stations now," the programmed voice commanded, and everyone shifted to the next station in the circle.

  "After all, you are my best friends." Bonnie's arms swung to encompass all Curve's members working out, even two women who had signed up that very morning and had only introduced themselves moments before. Her "best friends" nodded enthusiastically.

  "That's right," said Rita Phyller, the Barbie collector.

  "That's right," Ora, the Curves manager, echoed.

  "We're buddies."

  "Does anyone have a theory about the jar?" April asked.

  "I do. I do." Bonnie shouted, waving her right hand like a kindergarten student. "Charlie always thought her sister had been murdered. Matty is looking into it again."

  "Wouldn't that be something if Sara really had been murdered," Rita said, shaking her head. "Too bad Charlie's ticker gave out before the investigation was over."

  Gretchen glanced over at Nina. Other than law enforcement officials working the case, the true cause of Charlie's death should only be known to Gretchen, Caroline, and Nina. This was the moment that would tell her how reliable her aunt was.

  No one said anything. Charlie's suspicious nicotine overdose was still under wraps.

  Nina glared at Gretchen as though she knew that her niece hadn't trusted her, and Gretchen gave her an I'm-sorry look.

  April huffed loudly and paused in her workout to rest. April had chased Gretchen and Ryan down the street yesterday. Today, she couldn't get through a ten-minute circuit, working slow. April's adrenaline must really spike when she gets excited, turning her into superwoman, Gretchen thought.

  "I think someone scared Charlie to death," Bonnie said.

  "Literally. Her heart gave out."

  "That's impossible," Rita replied.

  "No, it isn't," April said. "That son of hers was pretty scary-looking. His face could frighten a person enough to bring on a heart attack."

  "I wouldn't go that far," Gretchen said. In spite of Ryan's grungy appearance, he had seemed young and frightened.

  "I almost fainted from fear after looking into his eyes."

  April shivered. "He's lost his grip on reality; that's obvious."

  "If Sara was murdered, I'd put him first on the list of suspects," Ora said. "Look how he hurt Gretchen."

  "What if Charlie was murdered, too?" Rita
called out.

  "That kid's a drug addict, you know," Bonnie said.

  "Crack cocaine, pot, booze, you name it. He's been in and out of rehab centers, and nothing works. What if he killed his mother in a fit of rage? Maybe she wouldn't give him money for more drugs, and he was strung out. An addict without drugs will do anything to get them, even if it means killing his own mother."

  "There wasn't any sign of a struggle," Gretchen said before the exercise group got too carried away. "And no marks on Charlie's body."

  "Does your detective son know about Charlie's son?"

  Rita asked Bonnie.

  "Of course, Matty's onto him like lint on Velcro." Bonnie grimaced. "That isn't a very good analogy."

  "Like toilet paper on a shoe?" Nina offered.

  "Like a flea on a dog?" April said, laughing.

  "I'm out of here," Gretchen said, heading for the stretching area. Nina followed her over. "I'm having breakfast with Britt."

  "Sounds good," Gretchen said, bending at the waist and touching her toes while the inside of her head pounded on her skull. "Don't worry about coming to the shop. Mom accomplished so much yesterday, we might wrap up the project today."

  "I'm your chief problem solver," said Nina. "I'll be there. After yesterday's excitement, I'm staying close by. Who knows what disaster will happen next?"

  Matt Albright's unmarked blue Chevy passed Gretchen's car going the opposite way. The detective waved, not a friendly hello wave, but rather a trying-to-flag-you-down sort of wave. Gretchen recognized the hand gestures but ignored him. She gave him her best smile and wiggled her fingers as if to say toodle-oo.

  Matt wasn't much of a team player. He worked alone and kept his progress to himself. He didn't take her seriously enough, so today she was following his example and working alone.

  Gretchen turned onto Central Avenue, wondering what the detective was doing in this neighborhood. Central Avenue divided the city into two grids. Numbered streets ran north and south on the east side of Central. Numbered avenues lined the west side. Gretchen drove slowly up First Street, crossed Central, and cruised down First Avenue. Gretchen was looking for Nacho and Daisy, two destitute characters whom she'd become friends with. She had to find time to help out more at the homeless shelter, but life had been busy. Soon, though.