by Deb Baker
Gretchen thought the same thing. Bonnie’s story only confirmed the existence of dolls worth stealing, worth killing for. If only Martha had mentioned a name, things might have turned out differently. Her furtive actions and evasive words could destroy an innocent person and allow the guilty one to escape.
Gretchen took her copy of the inventory list out of her purse and handed it to Bonnie. “This is a list of the dolls Martha used to own. It’s becoming clearer that she had at least some of them in her possession when she died. We don’t know whether she actually owned them or if she was in the process of stealing them. Take a look at the list. Have you ever seen any of these dolls? In the past or recently?”
Bonnie slipped on reading glasses and bent over the list. “These here,” she said, pointing at the list. “I saw these years ago.”
Gretchen pulled the list over and read the description. “Kammer & Reinhardt 101 Character children, composition and wood jointed bodies, sixteen inch and seventeen inch, c. 1916.”
“Beautifully made dolls,” Bonnie said, taking the list back. “German manufacturers. Kammer & Reinhardt popularized character dolls, you know. Quite wonderful dolls. I remember them well.”
“Pictures of the dolls would be helpful,” Gretchen said, always amazed when collectors could identify a doll by such a brief description. The picture of the French fashion doll flashed through Gretchen’s mind. Once she’d seen a picture, the doll would remain in her memory forever. Martha had catalogued her dolls with such detail. Why wouldn’t she have taken pictures?
“Anything else look familiar?” Nina asked.
“Noooo…,” Bonnie said, reading intently. Then she gasped, a little puff of air escaping from pursed lips. “Maybe this one. I’ll read it to you.” She looked up over her reading glasses. “You know I like Kewpie dolls. Actually, I’m obsessed with them. Listen to this.” She cleared her throat. “Blunderboo laughing baby Kewpie, Bisque, c. 1915, O’Neill mark on feet, original red heart label.”
“What about it?” Nina demanded. “What’s familiar about it?”
“I saw a Kewpie fitting this description at Joseph’s Dream Dolls. That has to be the same doll. No question about it.”
“When did you see it?” Gretchen asked.
“Two days ago,” Bonnie answered. “I couldn’t afford to buy it. He had priced it right, considering the age and condition, which was excellent, but I’m on a fixed income. The price was out of my budget.”
Around in circles we go, Gretchen thought. Like musical chairs. The music stops, players scramble for seats, and I’m left standing in the middle staring at the same faces and asking the same questions.
What had today’s intruder expected to find in Caroline’s workshop besides a bag of old clothes? Another doll from Martha’s original collection? If Gretchen could believe April and Bonnie, they hadn’t shared news of the discovery of Martha’s bag with anyone else. That left only a handful of people who knew about it and had the opportunity to steal it. But why risk exposure by taking the bag if it contained nothing of value? And why draw more attention by hanging the Shirley Temple doll?
“Wait a minute,” Bonnie said, still concentrating on the list. “I’ve gone over this inventory twice, and it isn’t here.”
“What isn’t here?” Nina said.
“Martha showed me several dolls. This was long before the bank repossessed her house, and I had gone over to solicit donations for the Phoenix Dollers annual fundraiser, which by the way is coming up again soon. I hope I can count on you two for a contribution. Anyway, she showed me the character children, and she showed me another doll. A Madame Rohmer. I remember how surprised I was at the time, because she never let anyone see her dolls. But this group was new to her collection, and she was very excited.”
Nina swung the list around to her side of the table. Gretchen watched her index finger underline each entry. “No Madame Rohmer,” she agreed.
“That’s so odd. It had a darling blonde wig.” Bonnie posed both hands lightly on top of her own wig for emphasis. “And the cutest little cream dress with a blue feather pattern.”
“Maybe she sold the doll and revised the list,” Gretchen suggested. “But from what I hear, she refused to sell anything from her collection.”
“That’s right,” Bonnie said. “Even at the end, she wouldn’t sell any of them. They were like her children. She never had children of her own, you know, and I think she transferred all her pent-up affection onto the dolls.”
“That’s so strange when women do that,” Nina said, missing the connection between a childless woman and her own four-legged forms of compensation. Everyone needed to love somebody, and it didn’t matter whether they chose children or dogs or dolls. But children and dogs, and - yes, cats - loved you back. Inanimate objects like dolls couldn’t reciprocate.
No wonder Martha felt compelled to finish out her life in a lonely state of inebriation after her lifelong partner had died.
“She must have loved her husband very much,” Gretchen said, “to have fallen so far.”
Bonnie nodded, and the unsecured wig slid to the side of her face. She straightened it. “You have no idea what his death did to her. A match made in heaven, we all said. I hope they finally found each other.” Bonnie looked upward.
Gretchen, caught in a relationship that was quickly spiraling downhill, tried to imagine total and unconditional love with a husband of her own. She loved her mother that way, but could she say the same about her feelings for Steve? Would her world fall apart without him? Would she become a homeless drunk destined for a life of degradation and excess?
Hardly, she thought. She was stronger than that. If they failed to work out their problems, she would go on. Maybe that was the true test. If she wanted to fling herself from the top of Camelback Mountain, would she pass the test of love?
Maybe, after all the speculation and information gathered to the contrary, Martha had simply soared from the mountain heights in an attempt to rejoin her husband.
“It’s possible that she forgot to include the new doll in her inventory,” Gretchen said. “Everyone makes mistakes occasionally.”
__________
Caroline knew that some doll collectors refuse to participate in online auctions. They worry that the seller will exaggerate the condition of the doll and they will unknowingly purchase one of inferior quality. Some say that they must hold a doll in their hands, prod for flaws or misrepresented repair work, look into the doll’s eyes, make a connection.
Watching the computer screen, Caroline again admired the valuable doll. She had already held this particular Bébé in her hands, had examined it from every angle. She knew it was in mint condition, not a single imperfection, and it wore its original white muslin dress and matching bonnet.
Her requirements for purchasing the doll were not the same hands-on connection that some collectors demanded. The doll was superfluous to her. The seller was her target.
Four hours and twenty minutes left in the auction, and twenty-seven bids registered. Caroline watched her email inbox intently for new bids, the auction house alerting her each time another potential buyer outbid her. She rapidly and expertly moved between screens, from email to auction.
Two thirty in the morning, and Caroline felt her resolve slipping as her need for sleep increased. Anxious world-wide buyers were bidding on the same doll. What time was it in London? In Rome? She cursed the seller for accepting international bids but recognized it as a brilliant maneuver to remove the doll from the United States. Crucial for the seller, but she refused to allow it to happen.
Caroline decided to check the auction bid one last time, then break for a few hours’ rest. She needed sleep desperately, her thoughts too loosely connected and ineffective without it. She watched as the auction screen lit up, and her eyes grew wide with urgency. The Buy It Now icon flashed across her screen, the signal that the seller was ready to end the bidding at a certain set price. Usually this option wasn’t available after t
he bidding began. Caroline hadn’t expected it.
The price shown under the listing for the Jumeau Bébé caused Caroline to pause momentarily. Twenty-two thousand dollars, a princely amount.
Her fingers flew on the keyboard, intent on beating another bidder to the treasure, hoping they had been caught off-guard also. All she needed was a lead of a few seconds. Fast fingers.
She hit enter and sat back.
Something must have frightened the seller, too much attention on the site perhaps, or an unforeseen problem in waiting out the remaining four hours. She sensed a change in plans, a quiet desperation.
She punched in her email address and smiled weakly.
Congratulations! appeared on the screen.
Chapter 23
Gretchen rolled out of bed early Wednesday morning after a restless night’s sleep and painfully pulled on a pair of socks over her burnt feet and tied up the laces on her hiking boots. Glancing in the mirror, she noticed that her facial coloring remained a crispy, flaky red.
Nimrod, ready for high-energy puppy action, bolted his breakfast while Wobbles savored his meal one morsel at a time. After eating, Wobbles nimbly sprang to the floor, and Nimrod proceeded to run in circles around him in a vain attempt to entice him into a game of chase. Wobbles looked on with disdain, his eyelids hooded and watchful. Eventually, he sauntered over to the protective height of the washing machine.
Gretchen drank coffee and ate what remained of last night’s Chinese meal, wistfully remembering the enormous all-American breakfasts of her past. As she approached thirty, she’d been forced to change her eating habits to reflect her slower metabolism and the accompanying ease with which she gained unwanted weight. No more breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast, and fried potatoes for her. Ruby red grapefruits and plain yogurt from now on.
She had jealously observed that Arizona women were fit, trim, and golden tan, and she hoped to model her unemployed self after them rather than eat her way through mounds of seven-layer self-pity.
She also noticed that she had more commitment to self-control and strength in the mornings than later in the day, when most of her determination faded.
A hardy hike up the mountain before the sun began to scorch the earth would solve the metabolism problem, at least temporarily. Last night’s storm had moved toward the coast, and the arid desert heat had already begun to absorb the large quantities of fallen rain. In the next short, sunny hours, all evidence of flooding would evaporate, and the land would appear parched again.
On the day Gretchen arrived in Phoenix, the local news had recounted the rescue of a dehydrated, heat-stricken hiker. Gretchen planned a cautious, safe climb to protect herself from embarrassing media coverage. Water bottle, hat, and an early ascent were essential.
As an afterthought, she grabbed a pair of binoculars in case she spotted a new bird to add to her growing life list of bird sightings.
Taking the footpath to the trailhead, she veered to the left onto Summit Trail and began the rugged one-point-two-mile uphill climb, periodically stopping to rest and to glance at the summit, almost three thousand feet above sea level, according to a sign below. A Harris antelope squirrel darted along the rocks, tail curled across his back, and disappearing into a tangle of mesquite.
Halfway up, Gretchen paused at the hand railing and listened to the high-pitched trill of a rock wren. She felt rejuvenated by the fresh air and the open expanse of the desert mountain. She saw nesting holes bored into a saguaro cactus by a gila woodpecker and daydreamed about life as a bird. Free and mobile. It seemed a peaceful existence compared to the complexities of human relationships.
She looked back down the steep trail toward the trailhead, now a tiny spot in the distance. She saw someone moving up the path toward her with a familiar gait. She held the binoculars to her eyes and watched Matt Albright making the steep climb. He wasn’t doing too badly, considering how unprepared he was for the hike. He didn’t wear a hat, which is the very first hiking rule, and didn’t carry water, as far as Gretchen could see. Obviously, a beginner. Or perhaps he hadn’t anticipated climbing a mountain today. Had he been watching her all along? Following her from home?
Matt looked up in her direction. She reluctantly waved, wishing instead to slide down and flatten into the rocks. He hadn’t exactly been the bearer of good news lately. Matt lifted a hand as a shield from the sun and waved in return. She watched him pick his way through the rocks.
“You obviously never were a Boy Scout,” she said, when he stopped before her, breathing hard. Lines of perspiration ran down both sides of his face, but he managed one of his dazzling smiles. He could make a living as a tooth model.
“Their motto is Be prepared,” she continued, handing him her water bottle. “You’re a classic dehydration victim and potential buzzard food.” She watched him tip the bottle back and take a long drink.
“The fire department needs the extra business,” he managed to say. “They’d be happy to come up and get me.” He sat down on a boulder. “I should have trained for this assignment. Keeping up with you isn’t easy. A triathlon would be less work.”
“I see you’re a walking advertisement for social issues,” she said, pointing at his T-shirt, reading the inscription Follow Your Own Path – Leave Only Footprints. She remembered the Indian Youth Fund T shirt he wore a few days ago. “A cop with a social conscience, imagine that.”
“You make it sound like we aren’t human. Maybe I can prove you wrong.”
“My cousin, Blaze, is a sheriff in a little town in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. He kind of gives the profession a bad name, He’s Neanderthalish and loudly self-righteous. I’m going to the top. If you want to make sure I don’t commit a crime against Phoenix, like littering on one of your premier tourist attractions, you’d better go up with me.”
Matt stood and gestured up the mountain. “After you.”
Gretchen hiked fast, determined to make it to the summit as quickly as possible and start the descent before the sun crested over Camelback. “I was hoping to see a gila woodpecker,” she called back, noting that the gap between them had widened. “I’ve seen the holes in the cacti, but I’ve never seen the bird.”
“They have zebra-striped backs,” he called up to her in short, choppy words. A period punctuated every word, each a sentence of its own. “I didn’t know you were a birder.”
“I’ve never considered myself one. I just like to look. It’s another excuse to be outdoors.” She stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“There are eighteen species of hummingbirds in Arizona,” he said, looking miserable, his smile subdued and strained. “Arizona is a bird haven in the winter.”
“Why are you following me?” Gretchen asked. “You aren’t a hiker, at least not at this skill level. You could have waited at the base for me.”
“I could, but I like the challenge.” He lifted his shirt to wipe his face with the edge of the cloth. Gretchen glimpsed a well-toned midsection. Too much weight lifting and not enough aerobic conditioning, she guessed.
“Sapsuckers, whiskered owls, quail, Arizona has it all,” he said. “In answer to your question, your Aunt Nina mentioned that you like to hike. When you weren’t home, I thought I might find you here.”
“On the way down you can tell me why you’re visiting so early in the morning. Come on, let’s go.”
He smiled with relief. “You’ve made my day. I thought I’d have to finish the climb to get your attention. I’ll buy you breakfast to show my gratitude.”
__________
The Waffle House was crowded, but the waitstaff knew Matt and found them a table almost immediately. Gretchen, her early morning healthful diet resolution temporarily forgotten, dove into an enormous platter of pecan waffles.
“Nina says you’re peladophobic,” Gretchen said between bites. “Is that true?”
Matt laughed. “Are you asking me if I have an unnatural fear of bald people or are you asking me if I have pediophobia?”
“The fear-of-dolls one.”
“Pediophobia.” Matt poured more syrup over his waffles and handed the bottle to Gretchen. “It’s weird, but I’ve always had the problem. I’m surprised you spotted it since I go out of my way to hide behind daring bravado.” He thumped his chest. “You know, the big bad cop that’s afraid of a little doll doesn’t exactly enhance my image. My mother tried to break me of it when I was young with no luck. Facing my fear, in this case, didn’t work.”
“Maybe she made it worse,” Gretchen said, thinking of bewigged, gossipy Bonnie forcing dolls on her son.
“Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly, not particularly concerned with resolving his issues or delving into the reasons. “Symptoms mimic those of the flu – nausea and sweating, and I avoid those feelings whenever possible. I couldn’t believe it when I was assigned to this case.”
“Speaking of the case,” Gretchen said, her waffle-filled fork midair. “Any progress?”
“That’s why I came to see you,” he said. “We have a suspect in custody.”
“My mother?” she said, not sure what answer she wanted to hear. She had little doubt that her mother was alive and well, but her physical presence would be confirmation, an erasure of that tiny bit of lingering doubt, unspoken and consciously ignored, yet there all the same. Gretchen craved living proof. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear the thought of her mother behind bars.
Matt shook his head. “No, not your mother. Theodore Brummer turned himself in late last night. He confessed.”
“I never heard of him”
“Well, he said he did it.”
“He confessed to Martha Williams’s murder?” Gretchen sighed with relief, noting the assertion in Matt’s expression. It was over. Her mother could come home, and she could return to Boston and the life she had made for herself there. She tried not to think of the recent negative qualities of that life. She could put it back together again, find a job, salvage her long-term relationship. She would consider it a new beginning, a starting point for the next phase of her life.