Dolly Departed Part 18

--From World of Dolls World of Dolls by Caroline Birch Once home, Caroline clattered over Gretchen like a mother roadrunner, as though just recovering from the shock of the explosions. She brushed shards of gla.s.s from Gretchen's hair. by Caroline Birch Once home, Caroline clattered over Gretchen like a mother roadrunner, as though just recovering from the shock of the explosions. She brushed shards of gla.s.s from Gretchen's hair.

Gretchen picked up a six-inch naked porcelain doll andnoted the doll's painted black hair and white body. "A Frozen Charlotte," she said.

"Poor, vain Charlotte. If only she'd listened to her mother's warning and wrapped herself in the blanket."

Caroline examined Gretchen's shoulders and arms.

"If you're comparing me to Charlotte," Gretchen said.

"I'd like to remind you whose idea this was in the first place."

"I know. I regret ever suggesting that we restore Charlie's display. Do you think her son threw the bomb?" Caroline's face was a study in sorrow.

"Stranger things have happened." Gretchen remembered Ryan's remote eyes and the way he'd struck out at her.

"Into the shower with you," her mother said, breaking into her thoughts.

Every bone in Gretchen's body ached. She stood under the hot water for a long time. "You have a visitor," her mother said when she came out of the bathroom toweling her hair.

"He's on the patio. I set out two gla.s.ses and a bottle of wine."

Wine?

Gretchen peeked through the window. Matt Albright sat by the pool with Nimrod on his lap. Dusk settled over the desert. Camelback Mountain was a dark outline in the sky. The lights around the patio lit up.

"I hope you don't mind that I let him stay," Caroline said, whisking away without waiting for a response. Gretchen stroked Wobbles, who sat on the window ledge next to her. "What do you think?" she said to the tomcat. "Is this business or pleasure?" Wobbles rumbled a deep purr and licked her finger. Gretchen pressed her head against his side to listen to his soothing inner machinery, keeping one eye on the unaware detective. "We think alike," she told Wobbles. "I agree. It's business."

It turned out to be a little of each.

"This case has more twists and turns than a desert dust storm," Matt said as soon as she walked onto the patio. He poured two gla.s.ses of white wine.

Gretchen glanced at the gla.s.s in his hand. "Off duty?"

He nodded. "I need a break. I've been working this case every waking hour. After I leave you, I'm getting some sleep."

She sat down on the chair next to him and ran her fingers through her wet hair. "Tell me what you've learned."

Matt sighed. "Joseph Reiner came in today accompanied by his Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor. He had a troubling setback in his recovery program last Friday night. He fell off the proverbial wagon and doesn't remember anything about the evening. And he didn't remember a thing about the next day until you told him you saw him at the parade. Seems you prompted a return to reality for him, but before that . . ." Matt shook his head in disbelief. "Nothing. Or so he claims."

"Interesting," Gretchen said.

Matt scowled at her. "You should have told me you saw him at the parade."

She shrugged an apology. "I didn't think it was important."

"You'd never accept that excuse from me."

True. But Gretchen wasn't about to admit it. "Joseph really didn't remember until I reminded him?" she asked. But Gretchen wasn't about to admit it. "Joseph really didn't remember until I reminded him?" she asked.

"A total blackout."

"Did you arrest him?"

"I can't book a man for murder simply because he can't remember where he was."

"I thought you brute cops were all-powerful and could do anything you wanted."

"Ah, but we're confined by foolishness like laws, rules, and regulations."

"I might have evidence you can use."

"Tell me."

Gretchen picked up her gla.s.s of wine and took a sip before answering. "Joseph was chewing nicotine gum the last time I saw him."

Matt stared at her. "Well," he said very slowly. "That's certainly the worst circ.u.mstantial evidence I've ever heard." He grinned.

Gretchen giggled. "You're right. It is." Quit acting like a Quit acting like a teenager, you dope. teenager, you dope. She tried to straighten her expression-- She tried to straighten her expression-- more serious, more professional, more adultlike--but it was hard. The night lights, the wine, and relief that she and the others were still alive and unharmed made her giddy. Nimrod scampered down from Matt's lap, dove into the pool, paddled around, jumped out, and shook himself dry in his favorite spot--right next to Gretchen.

Matt laughed while wiping water from his legs. Tan, muscular legs, Gretchen noticed. He had a smile like a strong magnetic force. It pulled her in.

"Do you have a suspect in the attack on us?" Gretchen asked. She really really hoped it wasn't Ryan. hoped it wasn't Ryan.

"We've eliminated Bernard Waites, as much as you'd like to see him behind bars," Matt said, not exactly answering her question. "He's still in the hospital."

"Maybe he snuck out when no one was looking, threw the bomb, and ran back to the hospital before the nursing staff missed him."

Matt raised a brow. "Nice try. You really dislike that guy, don't you?"

"He stole from me. And he has creepy eyes."

"Creepy eyes, huh. Another bit of evidence to explore, another break in the case." Matt leaned over and slid his hand under her chin. He turned her head toward the light.

"You have abrasions on your cheek."

"A little shattered windowpane, is all," Gretchen said, like gla.s.s in her face was an everyday occurrence. "It'll heal."

He released her and leaned back. "You could have been killed today. Personally, I'm relieved your work at the shop is over. Although I would have preferred that you go out with less of a bang."

"We had finished the room boxes. In the end, the scenes weren't anything we'd want to show at Charlie's funeral. But we did get pictures for her brother before the blast destroyed them."

"Did you find any connection to Charlie's murder in your work?"

"That's an odd question." Gretchen glanced at him quickly, but his face was in shadow.

"I'm a detective; it's my job to ask questions. Well? Did you find anything?"

"We found bloodstains painted in two of the boxes and discovered tiny weapons on the floor. We realized that one of the street signs was a replica of that of Lizzie Borden's home, where she was accused of axing her parents to death. And today we found mutilated dolls in a desk drawer."

Matt sipped his wine. "Macabre. But it only proves that Charlie had a few emotional issues."

"One unfinished room box appears to be a kitchen."

"So when you consider the miniature peanut b.u.t.ter jar."

Matt paused to sip his wine. "Things begin to add up."

"Yes."

He leaned forward, piercing her with his vivid eyes. She took a sip of wine and turned away, focusing on what she wanted to tell him. "I think Charlie planned to reveal her sister's killer when she unveiled the display. I believe the incomplete room box scene could be a replica of the killer's kitchen where the poisons were concocted.

That particular room box's walls were hastily wallpapered with a full-sized paper, not a miniature rendition, like it was a.s.sembled in a big hurry."

Matt's dark eyes locked onto hers again. He didn't look convinced.

Gretchen continued. "I think all five room boxes were ready for the showing. After poisoning Charlie, the killer must have tried to rip apart the fifth room box, then picked up the incriminating pieces."

"But overlooked the jar because it was under Charlie's body," Matt finished.

"Exactly. All we have to do is find the room with the same wallpaper, and we have the killer."

"Except the kitchen room box went up in flames."

Gretchen struggled to keep her mind on the case instead of the man seated next to her. His body was emitting some sort of s.e.xual energy, and it was affecting her. She wondered if he felt it, too. Matt poured more wine for her. "The destroyed evidence presents a problem," he said, handing her the gla.s.s.

"Not as much of a problem as you might think," Gretchen answered, taking a small sip. "You see," she leaned closer, "I took a picture of the room box with--"

Matt slid his chair closer and leaned in as though he was having trouble hearing her. "--my phone," she croaked. That was really a s.e.xy voice. That was really a s.e.xy voice. He was still moving toward her. Slowly. Closer. Coming into her personal s.p.a.ce. His lips met hers. Longingly. He was still moving toward her. Slowly. Closer. Coming into her personal s.p.a.ce. His lips met hers. Longingly.

Gretchen knocked over her winegla.s.s.

"You did that on purpose." Matt whispered, his lips close to hers.

"I . . . really . . . didn't . . . mean," Gretchen stammered, sitting upright and realizing she'd spilled the wine into his lap. She reached for a beach towel on the back of a lounge,stood up, and leaned over to blot the front of his shorts. She stopped just in time.

You almost stuck your hand in his crotch. Geez. Gretchen blushed, grateful that the darkness concealed her discomfort. He laughed and took the towel from her hand. "I won't need a cold shower now," he said.

"I'm really, really sorry."

"Come here," he said, taking her arm and pulling her down. "Make it up to me."

"How?" But she knew the answer. Wasn't she a member of a well-established psychic family?

She pressed against him. Her lips found his.

* 21 *

Daisy, future Hollywood star and current member of the Red Hat Society, trudges along the edges of crumbling adobe walls, pus.h.i.+ng her shopping cart filled with all her worldly possessions: sleeping bag, bits of food, knickknacks picked out of trash bins, clothes.

Graffiti and iron grates scar what's left of this onceflouris.h.i.+ng side of the city. The streetlights flick on. From the shadows, she looks both ways before turning sharply and slipping down an alleyway. The smell of rotting garbage doesn't bother her a bit. Why should it? She's seen and smelled far worse things than decaying waste. Like that transient last month, new to the streets, beaten until every rib was shattered, blood seeping everywhere. She smelled fear while she watched him die. That smell is worse than a few whiffs of garbage . . . Well, she doesn't allow herself to think of things like that for too very long. It can drive you insane, thinking too much.

Once the talent scouts find her, she's out of Phoenix but fast.

Daisy misses Nacho, her lover and friend. Has he abandoned her for the San Francisco streets, or will he return to the desert? Her life is like a soap opera. He'll come back; he always does. At least he found her a safe place to stay while he's away. An old storage shed behind an abandoned building. Nacho even installed a lock inside the shed soshe'd be protected from the elements. The human elements, that is.

The young druggies are the worst. They are far more dangerous than anything Mother Nature can throw her way. Ready to beat you and stick you in the heart with knives just to steal the smallest bit of spare change. Anything for their next fix. So many threats on the streets: gangs, crazies, cops, druggies.

She has flyers in her shopping cart, pictures of the most deadly ones, circulated by the homeless, for the homeless. Stay away from that one, the posters say: like wanted posters, only these people aren't aren't wanted by Daisy and the others. Daisy is at the hub of the action, as always. She knows everything that happens on the street, and she's extremely wary. That's why she's still alive while most of her old friends are dead. wanted by Daisy and the others. Daisy is at the hub of the action, as always. She knows everything that happens on the street, and she's extremely wary. That's why she's still alive while most of her old friends are dead.

Maybe it's time to pay her good friend Gretchen a visit, clean up, sleep in a real bed, get the jitters under control. The doll repairer was a real find, her and her aunt, and all those little doggies.

But what about her career as a Hollywood star? The street is where it's happening.

Glad it isn't July. How many of her kind died last summer from exposure to extreme heat? No water, the pavement steaming at one hundred and thirty degrees, burning her feet right through her shoes. She swam in the irrigation ca.n.a.ls to survive.

Daisy jerks her head around at a sound behind her. A moan. Coming from the Dumpster, or behind the Dumpster.

Get inside the shed and bolt the door. She hears this in her head and knows it for what it is: good advice. But . . . what if? What if it's someone in distress? She hears this in her head and knows it for what it is: good advice. But . . . what if? What if it's someone in distress?

It's only the sound of despair. You hear it every day.

But . . . what if it's Nacho?

Daisy pulls an aerosol can from her pocket. Pepper spray. She refuses to carry a concealed gun or knife. Wouldn't the cops love that? They're more interested in finding an excuse to arrest the victims than in solving all the homeless murders.

Another moan.

Leaving her shopping cart by the side of the shed, she edges along, flattened to the walls, always in the darkness, hiding from the streetlights and the rising moon. She hears another sound, but it's only a coyote in the distance.

A dark shape on the ground behind the Dumpster s.h.i.+fts slightly, and Daisy catches the movement. She has night eyes, cat eyes, she likes to think. Another reason she beats the odds.

The pepper spray acts as a buffer between Daisy and whoever is crumpled on the ground. She already knows it isn't Nacho.

"Help me." The whisper is so low and weak she almost misses the words.

A hand reaches out for her, and she sees who it is. The man writhing in pain is Ryan Maize.