Gretchen Birch Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Deb Baker

  Old memories that wouldn’t fade.

  She wasn’t looking forward to the memorial service tonight.

  _________________________

  “I’m an old friend of hers,” Gretchen said to the administrator on the phone, after looking up the number for Grace Senior Care.

  “I don’t see a Chiggy Kent listed here,” the voice replied, sounding young and hesitant.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot. Her real name is Florence. Florence Kent.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Gretchen heard papers rustling.

  “Yes, I’ve found her.”

  “Good. I’d like to drive over and visit her.”

  “I’m sorry…Ms…. what did you say your name was?”

  “Um…Mary Smith.” It was time to go undercover for her own extended good health.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Smith, but Ms. Kent has been moved from assisted living, and she isn’t accepting visitors.”

  “Moved from assisted living?”

  “Yes, she now requires an elevated level of care.”

  That translated to nursing home care. Gretchen remembered talk among the other club members of the ever-present oxygen tank.

  “But she only arrived last week. Surely her health hasn’t declined that rapidly.” According to Peter Finch, Chiggy had been well enough a week ago to supervise the disposition of her household furnishings and arrange to auction off her collection of handmade dolls. “I was under the impression she had some sort of apartment arrangement.”

  “I really can’t tell you any more than that. The federal privacy act doesn’t allow me to elaborate on her condition without her written consent. Would you like to speak to my supervisor?”

  “I don’t understand why I can’t visit with her. Chiggy…I mean, Florence, was an active member of the Phoenix Dollers Club, and I’m representing the members when I say we are all concerned about her well-being. You can’t just shut her away and refuse to allow us to visit.”

  “It was her wish to discourage visitors. She isn’t being held against her will. Can I get my supervisor?”

  “How about family? Can family visit?”

  “She was very clear. Absolutely no visitors. I’m getting a supervisor.” The woman sounded impatient but continued to hold her ground.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Gretchen said, glad that she had blocked her call before dialing the senior care center. She’d assumed that they would have caller ID, and she didn’t want her real identity known.

  “I think I’ll drive over and make the request in person.”

  “This is a gated senior center.”

  It figures, Gretchen thought. The old woman had been permanently locked away.

  _______________

  Gretchen inched along the sidewalk while tiny Nimrod’s scurried along beside her. He stopped often to sniff the ground and mark his territory.

  “Hello there,” someone said.

  Gretchen turned to see a woman around her age walking rapidly toward her, pushing two toddlers in a double stroller.

  “You must be Caroline Birch’s daughter,” she said. “I’ve seen you coming and going but haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. I’m Janice Schmidt, and these are my twins, Troy and Tim. They’re almost two.”

  Gretchen smiled at the twins and wiggled her fingers next to her face in a silly wave. “Hi, kids. This is Nimrod. We’re going for his daily walk.”

  Not the most disciplined walking-on-a-leash trainee, Nimrod proceeded to wrap the leash around Gretchen’s feet in a frantic burst of energy. She stepped out of the center before becoming completely ensnarled. The twins spotted the miniature puppy and leaned out of the stroller, giggling in unison.

  “I hope everything is okay at your house,” Janice said. “Did someone break in, or try to?”

  “I’m sorry?” Gretchen said, confused. “A break-in?”

  “Yes, well, I saw Lilly Beth speaking to a police officer in your front yard, and I assumed…” She let the sentence fade away, a pink flush rising from her neck. “Judging from your reaction, you don’t know anything about it, do you?”

  Gretchen glanced at Lilly Beth’s house and thought she saw someone step back from the window. Her mother had warned her about the nosy, gossipy neighbor as soon as Gretchen moved in. “Don’t speak to her,” she’d said. Lilly Beth will turn your words against you no matter how innocently spoken. Nina had agreed that the woman was poison.

  “Tell me,” she said to Janice.

  “I don’t know anything else. They spoke for a little while, and the officer left. I assumed he was responding to a break-in at your house or perhaps a tripped alarm.”

  Lilly Beth had been nothing but trouble for the Birch family, attempting to shut down the doll repair business her mother had started and going so far as to call the police several times over vividly imagined and nonexistent infractions.

  What had she called the police about this time?

  “When did this happen?” she asked Janice.

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  What had they done wrong this time? Closed the door too loudly when they left? Allowed a scrap of blown litter to linger a moment or two in the front, where it had drastically reduced Lilly Beth’s property value? A facial expression that Lilly Beth had interpreted as hostile? One more citizen complaint, and Gretchen would begin to fight back.

  “Look, I’ve had my own share of trouble with her,” Janice said. “But she’s just a lonely, bitter woman who needs someone to extend a hand in friendship. You’re thinking she called the police planning to make trouble for you, and you’re probably right. I shouldn’t have said anything. It only creates more problems, and I’m sorry I was part of it.”

  “It’s okay.” Gretchen picked up Nimrod and let the twins feel his soft fur. “She can’t do anything to cause real harm. I’ll let it go.”

  Janice let out a sigh of relief. “I can’t imagine what it could have been about,” she said, her forehead creasing as she spoke. “I did find one thing a little odd, however.”

  “What’s that?” Gretchen asked.

  “The police officer wasn’t in a squad car. I didn’t see him pull up to your house, but he drove away in a truck. Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  Gretchen felt prickles of fear on the skin of her exposed arms. The sun, comfortably warm a moment ago, felt unbearably chilly. “What kind of truck?” she asked in a whisper, pretending to be engrossed in puppy play with the children.

  “A pickup truck. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that kind of vehicle used by the police department. Well, maybe he was on his way home from work, off-duty, and he responded because he was closest? That must be it. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

  Gretchen tried to speak but her words stuck in her throat. She cleared it, emitting a croaking frog sound. “What color was the truck?”

  “Hmm…” Janice paused, and Gretchen drew Nimrod closer to her chest.

  “Green,” Janice called out, like she’d remembered the winning Trivial Pursuit question. “It was green.”

  Gretchen sighed in relief, louder and longer than she’d ever sighed before. If Janice had said blue, Gretchen would have keeled over in a dead faint.

  Albert Thoreau had seen Brett’s killer step from a blue truck.

  Green was a nice, safe color. It meant life, growth, and good health. The green grass of home, forest green. It also could mean jealousy and envy and green money, which could come from a doll full of diamonds.

  She shook her head to change her train of thought. She’d been a little nervous lately, not feeling quite right.

  Yes, green was very, very good.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Nina, pick up the phone. I know you’re home,” Gretchen said under her breath, having been reduced, thanks to Nina’s antics, to holding conversations with herself.

  Gretchen disconnected and punched in Nina’s cell phone number.

  “Nina, I called your house and you wouldn’t answer.
Also your answering machine didn’t turn on, so I assume you shut it off. You know I’m worried about this killer, and I’m worried about you. Refusing to talk to me is making my fears worse. Where are you?”

  Gretchen struggled to keep the frustration out of her voice.

  “If you don’t respond to this message within the next two hours, I’m calling the police.”

  That ought to fire her up. Obviously, Nina wasn’t taking overt threats by a maniacal killer seriously. Hadn’t Gretchen just received a “you’re next” threat hidden inside a Kewpie Doodle dog? If Nina wasn’t concerned about herself, the least she could do was pretend to show a little concern for Gretchen’s welfare.

  Gretchen ended the message to Nina and speed-dialed her mentor in the Michigan Upper Peninsula.

  “Aunt Gertie, I need more advice.” She related all the happenings she thought might be associated with the three murders, leaving nothing out. “I’m at a dead end, a brick wall,” she finished.

  Gertie laughed. “You sure do give up easily. There’s lots that you can do. This Chigger…”

  “Chiggy.”

  “Whatever. That woman has some answers, if you can get to her.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. You can infiltrate that nursing home if you put your mind to it. Find a time when all the staff are watching some popular soap opera in the nurses station and crawl right past. That works every time.”

  Gretchen decided not to ask her aunt how she came to know this.

  “But first, you have to find the bozo who’s sending you the messages.”

  “Impossible.”

  “I don’t ever want to hear you say that word again. It’s a sorry excuse for refusing to think your way through a situation. I’m going to help you this time because you’re new at this, but after this time, you’re on your own. Listen up. Are you listening?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Sometimes you’re dopier than a dwarf. Every single one of those cupid dolls came in the same wrapping. Right?”

  Cupid dolls?

  Gretchen let the misnomer slide. “Right.”

  “Then why haven’t you been down to that liquor store?”

  “How many people would you guess buy alcohol from a liquor store? Hundreds?”

  “Stake it out. You’ll know the culprit the minute you spot him.”

  “Aunt Nina thinks it might be a woman.”

  “Your Aunt Nina is one stop short of the nearest loony bin, and the train is leaving the station soon with her on board. Last stop: Nutsville.”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Gretchen said in defense of her temperamental aunt. The only reason the two women disagreed so often was because they were exactly the same. Strong, independent females, used to running their own shows, their own ways.

  “It’s a man, all right,” Gertie said again. “Mark my words. I’d hop a plane and help you out, but I’ve got an investigation going on here that I can’t leave. Three murders.” Gertie whistled. “That’s a handful. Watch your back, dearie.”

  Gretchen had enough trouble watching her front and flanks. She felt naked as a Kewpie doll but not nearly as happy. Still, she felt better having spoken with her Yooper aunt.

  When the doorbell rang and she found April standing outside, Gretchen almost kissed her. Finally, someone to commiserate with.

  “I hear you and your shadow are fighting,” April said. “Want some company?”

  She noticed Gretchen staring at her outfit. “You like it?” April twirled in a blaze orange sundress the size of the state of Michigan, where wearing orange was the height of fashion. Aunt Gertie’s hometown seemed to have one hunting season after another, and everyone wore blaze orange. In Arizona, well, April looked like a retro Volkswagen Beetle.

  “Lovely, as usual,” Gretchen said, grabbing her purse and calling Nimrod. He charged in, ready to go.

  Wobbles strutted behind him, graceful and lithe even without his back leg. April bent to pick him up, but he gave her a warning glare and flattened his ears.

  “That’s one ornery cat,” April said, settling for running her hands over his lean back and swiping at his tail.

  “He doesn’t like to be held,” Gretchen said, opening a phone book and running her finger down the list of Albrights. “We have to find out where Matt Albright’s wife lives and get the Kewpie dolls back. I’m not sure they mean anything, but I want them all the same.”

  April sighed. “Still thinking inside the same old box.”

  “And then we’re going to find Duanne Wilson and get my box of Ginny dolls.”

  “That’s more like it. Do you have a plan?”

  “I don’t have a clue how to find him, so we’ll start with the Kewpies.” She checked her watch. Eleven-thirty a.m. “I gave Nina a two-hour warning. She’s not answering my calls.”

  “That’s easy. You want me to get her to respond?”

  “Sure.”

  April picked up the kitchen phone and dialed. “By the way,” she said to Gretchen, eyeing the phone book. “The Albrights aren’t listed in the directory. Detectives don’t usually advertise their home addresses, too many dissatisfied customers. But I know where she lives. Kayla has the house and he’s staying at….Nina, pick up. It’s me, April…We’re tracking down evidence, and we hope to crack the case today. If you want in on the apprehension and fame and glory, you better pick up the phone.”

  April paused as though listening and grinned at Gretchen.

  “Yes,” she said, smugly into the phone. “We’ll pick you up on the drive-by, and I’ll give you the details then.”

  “See,” she said, hanging up. “You have to appeal to the adventuress in her. Let’s go.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Peter Finch moves aside and grudgingly allows the uniformed police officer to enter his apartment. The cop eyes him suspiciously, or so Peter thinks, and he hopes he isn’t some sort of suspect.

  Don’t let on that you know, he reminds himself. If Gretchen Birch hadn’t told him that Brett might have been pushed, he would still think it had been an accident, that Brett had stepped out into the street without looking. Like everybody else thought.

  What a shock, if it is true. Then again, it must be true. Why else would this cop be standing in front of him, saying he is confiscating Peter’s equipment?

  Don’t let on that you know, he says to himself again. For some reason, he instinctively knows that won’t be wise. Play dumb.

  Unless the cop is here about Ronny Beam. Just his luck to be at Chiggy’s house at the same time as Brett and Ronny, and now both of them dead and the cop with a search warrant and eyeing him up like he’s a common criminal.

  But didn’t he hear that they caught the guy who killed Ronny? The cop should pay more attention to the news.

  Peter spreads a hand across his gaunt face and rubs his temples with his thumb and forefinger, a dull throb pulsing under his fingertips.

  “I can make copies of anything you want,” he says again, grasping desperately for alternatives. “This is my lifeline. You take it, I don’t have any income. I’ll get you copies. What’s the difference to you if it’s originals or copies?”

  The cop brushes past him, a little roughly, pushing Peter against the wall, stalking across the room, arms swinging loose and alert, elbows bent slightly in readiness, prepared for trouble.

  Why me? Peter thinks.

  And don’t these guys travel with backup, other cops?

  Before closing the door, Peter sticks his head out. No other uniforms outside.

  The cop looks vaguely familiar. Where has he seen him before?

  Peter looks at the name on the badge.

  Never heard of him.

  The cop begins bagging Peter’s camera equipment, his flashcards, his downloaded disks. Taking everything instead of sorting through and taking only the photos from the auction. Although the cop has given no explanation for seizing his possessions, Peter knows it pertains to last week’s
auction and the dolls.

  “Let me do it,” he says, aghast when the cop starts throwing things haphazardly into plastic bags. “I have padded camera cases. You’ll ruin everything that way.”

  Dumb cop.

  Peter gently places his digital camera in a bag.

  Most of the doll pictures are already on the Internet, already a commodity, but the pictures taken at the auction are gone now. He wonders if he’ll ever get them back.

  Then he remembers the woman and the extra copy he made for her. What a relief.

  He recognizes this cop from someplace recently. The auction, maybe, or the doll show.

  That’s it.

  The doll show.

  Peter opens the door for the officer, who has an armful of bags and a camera case slung over his shoulder. Peter watches him store the equipment in his vehicle.

  He returns, and Peter’s heart drops a little lower in his chest when he sees what else the officer plans on removing.

  “You can’t take my computer.” He watches him disconnect the cables and heave the heavy processing unit into his arms. He’s strong, like a body builder.

  Peter is scared. He’ll file a complaint as soon as the officer leaves. “You can’t take a man’s only source of income.”

  The officer doesn’t reply. Can’t the cop talk?

  And why’s he putting everything in the back of a pickup truck? Don’t cops usually announce their presence better, drive squads with flashing lights and sirens?

  Peter can’t see any lights mounted on top of the truck.

  The officer adjusts his holster and comes back in.

  Now what? Peter wonders. There isn’t anything left to take.

  “Wait a minute.” It suddenly dawns on him where he’s seen the cop before. He’s even photographed him. “I know you.”

  The cop’s eyes narrow. Staring into them, Peter realizes how brutally cold they are and what a deadly mistake he’s just made.

  Or maybe nothing he said would have made any difference anyway.

  THIRTY-THREE