Ding Dong Dead (9 page)

She withdraws dolls from storage containers, one at a time, unwraps them, examining each to determine if it needs repair. Some are antiques, some vintage. Most of the dolls have been preserved well, packed away with expert care. Little is required other than smoothing a wrinkled costume here and there, recurling a lock of hair, wiping a smudge away, finding the proper stand. She has a few of her supplies at hand for the most simple repairs.

The next item that she unwraps is a metal doll head. The doll head has yellow painted hair, red lips, enormous blue painted eyes. The face paint is chipped away in spots, leaving marks like white chicken pox. Caroline isn’t surprised to be holding a head without a body. Many of the metal-head dolls were sold that way, and the new owner would then find a suitable body. She wonders about the body this one might have had. Metal, wooden, kid leather, cloth? She works her way through the rest of the container’s contents without finding an unattached body.

The paint she needs to restore the doll face is at home in her repair workshop. She’ll take the head with her when she leaves, find time when it becomes available. There is no rush. One doll head won’t be missed. The collection is enormous, and this isn’t even one of the most rare or valuable types of metal heads.

Caroline rewraps it in the original packing paper, puts it into a white plastic bag, and places it in a shopping bag with several other dolls needing work. Then she locks the museum’s door and drives toward home, thinking of the customer she’s about to meet.

The call came from a man who has never used her service before, but is excessively demanding, wanting a rapid repair in spite of his tenuous position as a first-time client. She should have refused, but he pressed hard and the financial reward offered for quick service was too high to turn down.

She weaves through the gridlock traffic. It’s always rush hour in Phoenix, too many people, too few lanes, the new highway systems becoming jammed as soon as they are built. Camelback Mountain is in sight and beckons to her as always, a calming natural force in the mass of humanity.

The traffic frees, and she quickens her pace.

A white van pulls up alongside her at a red light, blocking her view on the right side. Again. She notices it because it seems to pace her; whether she speeds up or slows down, the van is right there at her side. It’s beat-up, junky, most of the side panel damaged, dented and rusty. The vehicle’s windows are heavily tinted, privacy windows.

She has room ahead to speed up and rid herself of the van. She does, but the van does the same.

Jerk!
She hates driving in the city, the rudeness and unpredictability. The games of chicken.
Look at me, I’m king of the road.
Everybody driving massive SUVs, one-upping each other in size and power.

The white van is almost in her lane, veering over the line, forcing her closer to the center where cars rush at her from the opposite direction. A horn blares. An oncoming car swerves. She weaves, then returns to her lane.

What a close call!

“Take it easy. Get in your own lane!” she shouts out loud even though the van driver can’t possibly hear her. Her heart is thumping.

The van still paces her. Either the van driver is drunk or distracted by a phone call or something equally inattentive and dangerous. She glances over to see the side of the van within inches of striking her car. Now it is her turn to lay on the horn, a shrill plea to the other driver to pay attention, the flat of her hand hitting the horn hard.

Instead of moving off, the van lurches at her, sharply, a wrenching at her as though they are playing roller derby and are adversaries. A solid hit.

She feels the impact and grips the wheel with both hands, struggling to control the car, intuitively knowing that her efforts are wasted. She uses every muscle in her body, focuses with all the power in her being, but still the car swerves beneath her, heading the wrong way.

Then another impact that should have been head-on, but her car has a life of its own and is turned sideways when the collision occurs. She sees the woman’s face up close, too close, horrified, mouth open in alarm as she plows into the passenger side of Caroline’s car.

Oncoming cars are running into the other woman’s car from behind, sending them both spinning. Glass breaks. The sound is loud, louder than she could ever have imagined. Her neck is wrenched. She feels a sharp pain, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters at the moment, because time is suspended. It has ceased to exist.

Caroline closes her eyes. There’s nothing more she can do to save herself. She feels her world turn upside down.

Gretchen watched Matt get out of his car holding a bouquet of flowers. He sprinted into the banquet hall without seeing her approaching from the coffee shop down the street.
Some detective
, she thought with a smile. Coffee in hand, she perched on the front of his car and waited for him to come back out, not wanting to share him with the others.

The sun still felt like an old friend this early in May, but it would start to sizzle and scorch the desert by June, at the latest.

Julie came rushing along the street, her haphazard updo as messy as ever. She stopped when she saw Gretchen. “What are you doing on top of that car?”

She must look foolish! “It’s Matt’s car. He’s inside. He’ll be right out.”

“Hope I’m not too late.”

“Bonnie’s been working on her lines. You’re fine. Don’t tell Matt I’m out here.”

Julie looked puzzled but willing. “I won’t.” She slipped into the hall.

After several more minutes, Matt came out of the building and was startled to find her lounging on the hood of his car.

“What’s this?” he said, fistful of roses whipped behind his back. “You knew I was taking my life into my hands by going into this building and you didn’t warn me?”

“You mean because of your doll problem?” Gretchen pretended not to notice the flowers. “You must like me a lot to risk the sight of all those Barbie dolls on the stage.”

“I didn’t know the stage setting was in place, or I never would have gone in, even for you.” He offered his free hand in a gallant gesture to help her alight from his vehicle. She accepted. “But I really meant those women. I’m lucky I got out with my clothes still on my body.”

“They are a scary bunch.”

“My mother appeared from a back room just in time to save my clothes, but calling me Matty in front of everyone was thoroughly embarrassing.”

“Yup. She always calls you Matty. And the rest of them are man-starved.”

“One of them pointed a gun at me.”

“Tsk. You poor thing. Want to escape to my secret hideout until we’re sure it’s safe to come out?”

He glanced at the door to the building. “Absolutely.”

“What’s behind your back?”

He presented the roses. A dozen vibrant red roses resting in baby’s breath.

The first time in years that Gretchen had received flowers from a man.

“Please don’t tell me I made you cry.” Matt looked worried.

“No. Thank you. I love them. What’s the occasion?”

“Our four-month anniversary.”

“Oh, okay.” Had it really been four months since his divorce was finalized? Since the day they had met on the mountain, at the halfway point?

“Run,” he said playfully. “Quick! The door is opening. They’re going to get me.”

Gretchen turned to see that no one was following them before they trotted down the street, laughing like kids.

This Great Coffee Place was her favorite coffee shop. A Costa Rican light roast and one of the shop’s scones was a small slice of heaven on earth. Matt ordered a cup of coffee, and Joan, the friendly proprietor, topped off Gretchen’s cup.

“Great flowers,” someone called out.

“You must have said yes,” from someone else.

“Way to go, Gretchen.”

Matt led her to the most private table he could find.

“You know everyone in here,” he commented, taking the bouquet from her and laying it on the side of the table. “Is this where you hang out on a regular basis?”

“It’s comfortable, has positive energy, and is convenient when I can’t stand working with the cast any longer.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.” Gretchen cut a chocolate chip scone in half and nibbled on tiny pieces of it. “What happened with Andy Thomasia?”

“Under investigation, top secret.”

“So he’s the prime suspect?”

“Spouses, lovers, they always start out at the top of my list.”

“Nina thinks you’re dealing with a killer who goes after doll collectors.”

A small smile crept over his lips. He was always greatly amused by her aunt’s unusual take on life. “Nina would think that.”

“Tell me what you’ve found so far.” Gretchen leaned across the table. “That is, unless it isn’t any of my business.”

“I value your opinion mightily.” He leaned in to meet her. He kissed her nose, sending a bolt of electricity through her body. How would she react when they got past a few lip-locks? That unleashed bolt of power might kill her.

Matt sat back. “LAPD is assisting. The victim had a small studio in her Los Angeles home where she made dolls. The artistry of the doll found at the crime scene is consistent with her other works. Did you know that Allison and Andy Thomasia were estranged at the time of her death?”

“No.” Gretchen’s mother would be interested in that bit of news.

“She remained in their LA home. He rented an apartment. Recently, according to him, they were in the process of reconciling. He claims she invited him along to Phoenix. He’d hoped to work things out between them while here.”

“What about the homeless people in the cemetery?”

“No help at all so far.”

“Did you let all of them go?” Gretchen was thinking specifically of Nacho.

“What a mess that was.” Matt studied his coffee cup as though remembering every detail with dread. “Seventeen potential witnesses without a single one of them admitting having heard or seen a thing. No drivers’ licenses, no state ID cards, no other kind of identification on any of them. All we could do was put them through the paces—photographs, fingerprints. We let them go.” He looked up at her. “You know some of those people. Maybe you can get them to talk to you?”

“I tried. I haven’t seen Nacho, but Daisy claims she didn’t see or hear a thing, so they’re sticking with their story. Maybe they’re telling the truth.” A thought occurred to her. “Wait . . . does this mean you need me?”

“I always need you, baby.”

“I thought I was supposed to mind my own business.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

“Ahh, those nasty implications.”

“Tell me again that you need my help.”

“I,” Matt said with a great grin, “need your help. But only this one time.”

Gretchen heard sirens in the distance, not an uncommon sound in one of the most congested cities in the country with a large, aging population. Sirens were as routinely heard as other traffic noises, yet the sound always reminded Gretchen of disaster. The sirens gave her pause to reflect on how lucky she was.

“By the way,” Matt said. “There was a multiple-car accident near Twenty-fourth Street and Camelback. Stay clear of that area for a while.”

At first Gretchen thought the object under her windshield wiper was a parking ticket. Until she pulled it loose. She unfolded it and stared in shock at the words.

Die, Dolly, Die
.

The letters had been individually cut out of newspaper print and glued together in a semistraight line on a piece of white paper.

The same words that had been written on the gravestone.

A threat or a warning? A prediction of her future? Could Nina have left it to scare her into taking the tarot reading more seriously? No. Her aunt wouldn’t go that far.

A prankster, maybe? The doll club members were known to pull practical jokes. But this one wasn’t funny. Not one bit.

She looked up and down the sidewalk, scanning both sides of the street. What was she searching for exactly? A killer who targeted doll collectors as Nina had suggested? No one on either side of the street paid any attention to Gretchen. Those passing by seemed focused on their destinations, not on her reaction to a piece of paper. It had to be a bad joke.

Inside the banquet hall, the cast was onstage, reading from their scripts, focusing much more intently than usual, which was highly suspicious. Their deep concentration had her convinced that they were up to something.

“Who put this on my car?” Gretchen demanded, waving the paper in one hand, clutching the roses in the other. “And don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Shhh,” April whispered from Gretchen’s director’s chair. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of rehearsal? And I think they’ve finally got it down pat. Keep going, crew.” She rose and grabbed Gretchen by the arm, pulling her away from the stage and guiding her into the break room. “Don’t stop them now. They’re on a roll.” She looked proud of herself. “All it took was a little tantalizing incentive. Speaking of tantalizing, where’s that hot, sexy man of yours?”

“Gone back to the job. Listen, I have to talk to the cast.”

“Nice flowers.” April took the bouquet and placed the flowers into a tall water glass. “You can talk to them, but you can’t just barge in. They’ll be through with this act in a few minutes. Don’t you want to know what motivated them?”

“What incentive could possibly have Bonnie speaking her lines correctly?”

April tackled a box of glazed donuts, popping a donut hole in her mouth and chewing it quickly before answering. “When they came in this morning after their Curves workout, Bonnie couldn’t talk about anything but the cemetery murder. I told her if she could get through the play, front to back, without any mistakes, you would take her to the scene of the crime.”