Dolled Up for Murder
Table of Contents
Very hard to find
Nacho, the homeless man, wore the same clothes he’d worn the night before and had the same black garbage bag tucked under his arm. As he approached, his gaze fell on Nina’s red Impala, and he froze in place.
“What . . . ?” Gretchen began, confused by his response. Nacho hadn’t seen her in the passenger seat yet. He was reacting to the car as though he knew it. She jumped out when she saw him running away.
“Stay here,” she commanded Nina, slamming the car door and breaking into a run. He turned a corner. Gretchen’s pulse throbbed as she gave pursuit but Nacho had a wide lead. He cut across the street against the lights. Horns blew. Someone shouted.
Gretchen looked ahead just as he left the sidewalk and disappeared between two commercial buildings. Nacho was the path to her mother, the key to Martha’s murder. She felt sure of it. This might be her only chance, and she wasn’t about to blow it.
He ran like a desert coyote, like his life depended on it, his arms pumping hard and his eyes, when he glanced back, frightened.
Gretchen remembered the alcohol on his breath from the night before and wondered where his stamina came from. Maybe his fear was greater than hers, and his fear drove his momentum. Although he had nothing at all, he might have more to lose than she did. If that were possible . . .
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DOLLED UP FOR MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2006
Copyright © 2006 by Deb Baker.
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eISBN : 978-0-425-21263-9
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Jacky Sach, the most amazing and talented agent on the planet, and to Chris Roerden, good friend and editorial wizard extraordinaire, for giving this manuscript extra pizzazz. Without her, I’d still be in the slush pile.
Thanks to Anita Husby, who welcomed me into her doll workshop and answered questions throughout the writing process. Any mistakes I’ve made regarding doll repair are strictly my own.
Thanks to poet and playwright Anne Godden-Segard for never losing her enthusiasm, and to best friends, Mary Goll, Mary Korkor, and Lee Wolfs, for forcing me away from the computer when I thought I might assimilate into it.
Special thanks to my kids for never complaining about all the frozen pizzas, and to my husband, who gave me the space I needed to follow my dream and who taught me to never, ever give up.
1
Antique dolls have histories much like their human counterparts. They have beginnings, and they have endings. Occasionally a doll collector is fortunate enough to acquire a doll with a hand-written history dating back to its creation. The collector can trace the doll’s journey through its past owners and its travels. It is up to the new owner to continue writing the history, to keep a detailed record of the doll’s lifetime.
—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Head buried under a mound of pillows, Gretchen Birch struggled to ignore the phone’s incessant ringing. She had stopped answering the phone at midnight, and it had rung every hour on the hour since. Gretchen lifted a corner of the pillow and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. Three in the morning. The answering machine would pick up after one more ring, and Nina’s urgent message, the same hour after hour, would reverberate in her head until the woman called again at four.
What was the use? She wasn’t sleeping anyway.
Gretchen fumbled in the dark for the phone and knocked it to the floor. Tangled in a sheet, she yanked herself free and lunged for the phone.
“What now?” she said. “Don’t you ever give up?”
“You have to come to Phoenix.” Aunt Nina, her mother’s sister. Bold, bigger-than-life Nina. The dramatist. “Martha Williams is dead, and your mother is missing.”
Gretchen rubbed her red, sleep-deprived eyes. “Drunken Martha tripped and fell from a mountain ledge. That’s what you told me when you called the first time. Again, I extend my sympathies to you, even though you hardly knew her.”
“Your mother is missing.” Nina’s husky voice strained upward, hitting a high soprano note. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“According to you, she’s been missing . . .” Gretchen checked the clock again. “. . . approximately fifteen hours. That isn’t missing. That’s out power shopping or taking a personal day to recharge. Knowing her, she’s probably in Vegas, finishing up at the blackjack table as we speak.”
“She didn’t take her lucky bracelet. She would never go without it. And she wouldn’t leave without telling me.”
Gretchen’s cat, Wobbles, brushed against her bare toes, demanding attention. The stray’s leg had been smashed in a hit-and-run outside Gretchen’s apartment two years earlier. She witnessed the accident as she stood waiting for the traffic light to change; the car traveling too fast on the winding street, the cat lying at her feet. Shocked and outraged, she scooped the injured stray into her coat, ignoring the blood soaking her clothes, and rushed to the vet. Too late to save his back leg, but a partnership developed between them. Wobbles, the three-legged cat, had stayed.
Gretchen ran her hand along the cat’s silky black fur. She sighed and tried another tactic. “I lost my job last week. Downsizing, remember? I was terminated without warning along with several other startled, soon-to-be-starving souls. I don’t even have the money for rent, much less airfare.”
Not to mention that July in Phoenix is like the inside of a blast furnace. You cook from the inside out. Roasting, suffocating, charring heat. But Boston, home sweet home, is at its peak. Green, leafy trees, breathable salty air, foghorns calling in the harbor.
“A ticket is waiting for you at the airport,” Nina replied. “You have to get moving. Check in by seven, or you’ll lose your seat.”
Gretchen shot upright, startling Wobbles. “I need more time to think about this. If I decide to come, I need to make arrangements for Wobbles’s care, and I need to pack. I need to stop the paper for a few days and water the plants.” A to-do list formed in Gretchen’s head. “Impossible. I can’t come tonight. Tomorrow. I’ll come tomorrow. Maybe.”
Nina’s voice was tense. “Not seven P.M., Gretchen. Seven A.M. your time. You have four hours. Throw a few things together and dig out the pet carrier I sent you for Christmas.”
“But, but . . .” Gretchen searched her repertoire of excuses for the perfect response, but Nina had disconnected.
“I have to look for a new job,” Gretchen said aloud to no one in particular. What day of the week was it, anyway? Friday. With luck, she’d be back in Boston by Monday, following more weak leads to full-time employment.
Gretchen flung aside the covers and began throwing cosmetics into her travel case. Three fifteen in the morning. What was she thinking? She was as crazy as her aunt Nina and, for that matter, her mother. All three were wildly impulsive and disorganized, and Gretchen secretly attributed the anomaly to a renegade gene passed down through generations of Birch women. A strong matriarchal line with a few crossed wires.
I have to learn to say no,
Gretchen thought, considering another genome gone askew, afflicting her but having passed up her mother and Nina. Skipping generations, like twins. She could think
no
, shake her head back and forth
no
, and shout
no
in her head, but when it came to forming the word with her lips and emitting the actual sound, she froze. This inability to refuse a request had landed her in many murky situations. This one, for example.
She threw shorts and tank tops into a suitcase and sorted through a pile of laundry in her closet. Nearly all her clothes needed washing, but she tossed in the cleanest of the dirty clothes. She could wash them at her mother’s house. Before she closed the suitcase, she remembered one other essential item: her hiking boots. How could she forget her gear?
Phoenix had few redeeming qualities in mid-July, but it did have Camelback Mountain, and its most challenging series of steep inclines, Summit Trail, was Gretchen’s favorite. Before closing the suitcase, she added a Western states bird book and a pair of binoculars. Traveling to Arizona in July was on a par with arriving in northern Michigan in January, but she planned on making the most of it.
The first call from Nina flashed into Gretchen’s mind. Martha, a casual acquaintance of her mother, had fallen from Camelback Mountain. Found by a group of hikers. Broken. Dead. A destitute alcoholic with the bad judgment to leave the trails and wander along the rock outcroppings.
What could you expect from a crazy, onetime doll collector who roamed the streets and lived inside a bottle? Certainly not a gentle passing.
Gretchen struggled to remember more, but she’d been too tired at the time to listen to the details. Nina sounded concerned about her mother, but Nina tended to overreact to everything.
Gretchen, loaded down with luggage and a drowsy, medicated Wobbles, entered a taxi. While the cabby expertly maneuvered through winding streets and roared toward Callahan Tunnel, which led to Logan Airport, Gretchen called Steve on her cell phone and explained the events of the last few hours.
She tried to keep her voice even, hiding the hurt she felt at his recent betrayal.
“We had dinner reservations for tonight,” Steve said when she finished, sounding groggy and confused.
The taxi flew into the tunnel, and reception on the cell phone began to break up.
Steve’s voice cracked. “This is sudden. And early. What time is it?”
“You don’t want to know,” Gretchen said, watching the tunnel walls, listening to the rapid clack-clack of the tires on the pavement. “I wanted to catch you before I boarded. It’s only for a few days. Nina’s concerned about my mother, but she’ll turn up soon. She might reappear before my plane even lands.”
“How is your mother connected with that woman’s death?”
“She’s not. Nina should be in theater. Mom’s off someplace, and Nina’s doing her sixth-sense routine. No two events can be coincidence according to her. The universe flows into and onto itself.”
“Your family is too weird,” Steve said.
Too weird for what?
Gretchen felt impatient with Steve, a gathering cloud of annoyance.
Just nerves,
she thought.
And lack of sleep.
She was about to lighten the moment by asking him what was so weird about a mother who restores dolls and an aunt who trains purse dogs, but the cell phone beeped and displayed the message Call Lost. She flipped it closed and tossed it into her purse just as the cab burst through the tunnel into the early morning sunlight.
Gretchen stood on the curb for a moment before entering the terminal, hoping to breathe the crisp Atlantic Ocean air. One last cleansing breath. But all she could smell was auto exhaust from the heavy traffic jamming the lanes leading to check-in. She considered calling Steve again but decided against it. Later, when she felt more rested, she’d call from Phoenix.
She knew she would sleep on the plane, catch up after last night’s lost battle of wills with Nina. She’d have to find a special therapy group when she returned to Boston for people like herself, people who couldn’t say no.
As the plane backed away from the gate, her thoughts turned to Steve. After seven years of dating, their relationship operated more by rote than by reckless abandon. Seven years without progress, without commitment. Gretchen brushed away feelings of rejection.
She thought Steve had been preoccupied with the law firm. He would make partner this year, and that involved a deep commitment to the firm, leaving little emotional energy for a commitment to her. She had tried to remain supportive in spite of a growing sense of resentment and unease.
Then an anonymous phone call had revealed the real cause of his distraction: another woman. It only happened one time, he explained when she confronted him. No, he didn’t know the woman’s name, he said. And it didn’t matter because it would never happen again. He loved Gretchen and would do anything to make it up to her, he said. Anything.
Gretchen felt a sharp pain in her chest every time she thought about it.
Well, others had made it through rough times; so could they.
A few days apart might do them some good.
Caroline Birch was in trouble. Every nerve ending shouted,
Warning! Warning!
The Phoenix airport terminal’s harsh lights and mechanical sounds felt surreal to her; intense, irrational, the day like a long, complex bad dream. She rushed now, holding her laptop close to her chest, frequently looking behind her, afraid she might be followed.
She knew that the note found in Martha’s hand could be her death sentence. What a foolish thing to overlook, considering the seriousness of the circumstances. If Martha had trusted her with more information, she would possess a name and know what her next move should be. But her enemy was cloaked in obscurity. Invisible and, therefore, deadly.
Instead of standing her ground, the author of
World of Dolls
was racing across the country chasing one, betting her life that the doll would give her the answers she needed. A risky gamble.
Whatever it took, she had to get her hands on that doll.
A disembodied voice announced final boarding, and Caroline broke into a run, gasping for air but reaching the gate in time. Not a runner. Usually. But running now. Boarding pass checked, gates closed, cell phone turned off, she sighed in relief as the plane rolled from the terminal and gained speed, lifting into the air.
When the seat belt sign blinked off, Caroline stumbled down the aisle to the rear of the plane and entered a lavatory, clutching her laptop, her lifeline. She splashed cold water on her face and pressed her wet hands softly against her tired eyes. A few wisps of hair had come free from her cap, hanging across her bent face. She straightened and dried her hands, then removed the baseball cap, releasing her shoulder-length silver hair. “Foxy hair,” her sister called it, her trademark. A distinguishing, telling feature, when Caroline needed more than anything to blend in. She ran her fingers roughly through her hair, coiled it on top of her head, replaced the cap, and returned to her seat.