Dolled Up for Murder (2 page)

“Have you heard anything more?” I asked, hoping my tone conveyed my genuine concern, not just my curiosity.

She looked up from the doll and met my eyes. “No, but they always say the victim is the last to know, right?”

She thinks of herself as a victim,
I noted, wondering if it was true. Was she being set up as a scapegoat? Was Lenny? In his article, Wes had quoted an unnamed senior official in the district attorney's office as saying the two of them, and maybe additional employees and vendors as well, were going to be indicted within days, maybe within hours. Grim. Alice was watching me, gauging my reaction to her words. I tried to think of something kind or supportive to say.

“It's no fun waiting for someone else to make a decision about your future.”

“Especially for a control freak like me,” she said, trying to smile. “Whatever. Instead of spinning my wheels, I'll admire this young lady's complexion—classic peaches and cream. What talent the makers had! Tell me about her.”

“With pleasure. How about a cup of tea? Would you like one?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Tea—awful stuff. Maudles your insides. I never go near it. I'll take a coffee, though, if any is available.”

“Absolutely,” Gretchen said. “I'll bring some gingersnaps, too.”

“Thanks, Gretchen.” I turned my attention back to the doll. “This doll, which is one of twenty-three that make up the Farmington collection, is a Bébé Bru Jne.” I pronounced the tongue-tangling word as a cross between June and gin. “Her coloration is typical for the style, and as I'm sure you know, nineteenth-century dolls in unused condition are as rare as all get-out. Her head is made of bisque, pink tinted and unglazed, a proprietary formula. Her wig is made of human hair, probably original to the doll. Ditto her clothes—the white underdress appears to be fine cotton. The blue overdress is probably made of silk. Once we complete the appraisal, we'll know for certain what the materials are and whether they're original. Both dresses are hand-stitched. Unfortunately, at some point her head got cracked and someone repaired it, not well. They didn't use archival-quality products, and significant yellowing has occurred. The only good news is that the crack is hidden by her wig.”

“A cracked head! The poor girl. Still, I think she's spectacular, cracked head and all. I look forward to holding her very frequently.” Alice paused and sighed. “My mother never let me play with her doll collection, did I ever tell you that? They were to be admired from afar, but never touched.” She snorted, a humorless sound. “Now here I am doing the same darn thing, building a collection to give to my granddaughter, knowing that her mother, Ms. Attila the Hun, won't let her play with them.” She shook her head. “Funny how what goes around comes around, isn't it?” She waved it away. “Old news is boring news—throw it out with the trash. All I can do is hope that Brooke loves the collection as much as I do—even if she won't be allowed to play with it.”

“I bet she has other dolls, not collectibles, that she can use,” I said, hoping it was true.

“Dozens,” Alice acknowledged. She looked at me as an impish smile transformed her countenance from polished adult to mischievous child. “When I was about seven, I sewed myself a sock doll. I used cotton scraps from my mother's quilting basket for the stuffing and for her dress. I named her Hilda, after my favorite teacher, Miss Horne. I painted Miss Horne's face on her, too—big blue eyes and a bright red heart-shaped mouth. I even stitched brown yarn on her head for hair. I loved that doll. I loved that teacher.” She smiled wider. “When my sister saw it, she wanted one, too.” Her eyes twinkled. “I charged her a dollar.” She chuckled. “I left a little opening in one of Hilda's seams, a hidey-hole under her dress for my diary key. My sister searched and searched for that key and never found it. Ha!” She shook her head, a rueful expression on her face. “Jeesh! That's more than fifty years ago, Josie, and I remember it like it was yesterday. Fifty years ago. Life was simpler then, that's for sure. All I had to worry about back then was hiding my diary from my sister.”

“Hilda wasn't included in the collection we appraised, was she? Do you still have her?”

“You betcha! And she's still my favorite. I didn't include her because I know she has no value—she's just a handmade kid's toy.” Alice handed over the Bébé Bru Jne with a sigh. “I know you can't say what you'll charge for Selma's dolls until you've finished the appraisal, but are you confident it's a good investment?”

“Absolutely. While there's no guarantee, prices on dolls have been going up steadily for years, and I have no reason to think that will change anytime soon.” I smiled at her. “I know you're impatient, but these things take time. We'll know more soon.”

Gretchen set a tray on the guest table. As I thanked her, Alice reached for her coffee.

“Do you think my granddaughter will like them?” she asked.

“Of course!” I said, surprised at the question. “What little girl wouldn't?”

“I suppose.” She sounded unconvinced. “Can you guess which doll is most valuable?”

“Until the appraisal is complete, I really can't. That said, Selma kept meticulous records, so I know how much she paid for each doll and where she purchased them. It appears that none is unique, and most of them have flaws, like that Bébé Bru Jne's poorly repaired head. Of course, you know what a lack of scarcity and poor condition do to value.”

“I sure do.” Alice turned to assess the dolls lined up on Sasha's desk. Sasha, my chief appraiser, was about to begin the complex appraisal. “Those are Selma's dolls, too, right?” Alice asked, pointing at the far end of Sasha's desk where a rugged-looking, decked-out-for-jungle-combat male doll leaned against Sasha's monitor next to a dramatically carved and boldly painted cottonwood doll with a fierce expression. “What are they?”

“According to Selma's inventory, this one is a second-round prototype of G.I. Joe.”

“Which I suspect is less valuable than a prototype from the first round.”

“Much. Assuming it is what I think it is, instead of being worth a quarter of a million dollars, which is what an original prototype would sell for, it's worth about five thousand.”

She whistled softly. “That's quite a difference. Isn't it amazing that collectors are willing to pay that much for a doll?”

“Dolls have proven to be a solid investment over the years. By the way, as an aside, G.I. Joe has never been called a doll. G.I. Joe is an action figure.” I smiled. “When this fellow was made, he wasn't even called G.I. Joe. Three prototypes were created: Rocky the Marine, Skip the Sailor, and Ace the Pilot.”

Alice smiled, too, a small one. “He looks like a Rocky. How about that other one? What is it?”

“It's called a kachina. It's native to the Hopi.” The doll's face was hand-carved with an open mouth and bug eyes. It appeared to be half mythical beast and half bovine. Horns and feathers shot out from its head like rays of sun. Green serpentine swaths were painted across the nose and cheeks. The chest was dark red. The doll had presence, conveying drama and a sense of danger. “The dolls were created to represent and honor ancestors. The elders used them to teach younger generations about their ancestors' spirits and to solicit their blessings.”

“It looks like you'll be expanding my horizons, Josie. Up 'til now, I've limited my collection to European dolls.”

“Nothing says you have to buy the entire lot. I'll let you cherry-pick.”

“Thanks, Josie! That's sweet of you, but I want the whole kit and caboodle. Who knows which ones my granddaughter will fall in love with. For all I know, it might be that kachina. Just because I prefer traditional dolls, traditional, that is, to me, doesn't mean she will.” She sighed, maybe thinking of her granddaughter. “How much is it worth, do you think?”

“Not so much. It's about a hundred years old, but only kachinas that are three hundred years old, or older, have significant value. Kachinas from the seventeenth century in fine condition go for nearly three hundred thousand dollars. I expect that this one will sell for around a thousand.”

“The differential is astonishing.”

“Supply and demand.”

She kept her eyes on the dolls. “Poor Selma,” she said. “Did you ever meet her?”

“No. I just met her daughters this week for the first time.”

She nodded. “That's how I knew to contact you. I asked about buying the collection directly from them. They told me they sold you the dolls. Smart girls, I told them. Josie's the best. I'm just as glad, to tell you the truth. I hate doing business with heirs.”

“It can be challenging … all that emotion. Jamie and Lorna seem to be having a tough time deciding what to keep and what to sell, and who can blame them? Clearing out a house is difficult enough under any circumstances. It's extra hard when your mom's only been dead a week and everywhere you look you see memories.”

“Especially when she dies so suddenly. Drunk drivers … they make me so mad I could spit.”

“Me, too,” I agreed. “It's got to be extra challenging for them so far from their own homes. They need to get everything settled this week so they can get back to Houston.”

Alice shook her head. “It's a terrible situation no matter how you cut it. So the girls called you in and now they're having a hard time deciding what to sell. I bet Lorna's the holdup, isn't she? She's a weeping-willow sentimentalist. Jamie's no waffler, that's for sure.”

I laughed. “In your job, I guess you have to be able to read people in nothing flat, right?” I said, using the trick my dad had taught me back when I was in junior high school and found myself scrunched between a gossipy rock named Cheryl and a tattletaling hard place named Lynn. Never gossip, he warned me. When in doubt, talk about process, not content.

“In less than nothing flat,” she said. “So what did they decide?”

“To sell a collection of cobalt glassware that had been packed away in the attic forever and some old wooden tools, you know, planes and levels and the like. The tools belonged to their grandfather who dabbled in carpentry, and just as with the glassware, they feel no emotional connection to them. An old collection of teapots, too, nothing rare.”

“I know those teapots. They're ugly, if you ask me. I never understood why Selma liked them. That's why they make chocolate and vanilla ice cream, right? Who knows why any of us like anything in particular. One of the mysteries of life.” She shrugged. “And the girls sold you the dolls?”

“Most of them,” I repeated, nodding. “There are some they're holding back, sentimental favorites, they said, like your Hilda.”

“Good for them. What do you think, Josie? Shall I give you a check now?”

“Let's wait until we know how much we're talking about before we do anything,” I said, wanting to avoid agreeing to a deal that might soon be voided by a court.

“Sounds reasonable,” she said.

Eric, my facilities manager, stepped into the office from the warehouse. In his midtwenties, he still looked and carried himself like a teenager; he was tall and gangly and reed thin. Eric had worked for me since I opened Prescott's Antiques and Auctions seven years earlier, part-time while he was still in high school, then full-time as soon as he graduated. He was conscientious and dedicated, sometimes too much so, treating even the most routine or mundane task as if it were his top priority.

“I just unloaded those rocking horses,” Eric told me, after saying hello to Alice, referring to a set of three I'd just bought from some empty nesters looking to downsize. “I'll head to the Farmingtons' now.”

“Great. Bring plenty of newsprint for the glassware and tools, and wrap each doll in flannel, okay?”

“And I'll cushion everything in peanuts.”

“Eric!” Gretchen called as he turned to go. “I wanted to let you know that Hank loved Grace's catnip heart.”

He flashed an awkward smile. “I'll tell Grace.”

Gretchen giggled as Eric, obviously embarrassed, slipped away.

“What's that about?” Alice asked.

“Grace is Eric's girlfriend,” Gretchen explained. “Hank is our cat. Grace made Hank a big, heart-shaped, burlap toy, filled with catnip. With a feather.” She laughed. “Eric is a complete dog person, or he used to be.” She turned to me. “You should have seen him tossing the heart to Hank this morning and chattering away as if Hank and he were old friends.”

“Eric?” I asked in mock amazement.

“I know!” Gretchen said. “It must be Grace's influence.”

“Combined with Hank's charm,” I agreed. I turned to Alice. “Hank's a lover-boy, a real sweetheart.”

“Nice—but can we veer back to the central issue?” Alice asked. “My radar is beeping. Did I hear Eric say he was going for more of the Farmington dolls?”

I smiled. “Yup! I only had enough packing material to bring back the teapots and eleven dolls this morning. Eric will get the rest now, along with the other collections I bought—the glassware and tools.”

“I don't know how you do it, Josie. Glassware … teapots … tools … you seem to know everything about everything.”

I laughed. “Hardly! I just know the questions to ask and have secret weapons in the form of Sasha and Fred, my appraisers.”

“Modest as ever.” She turned to Gretchen. “Your big day is close, I hear.”

“Three weeks, five days, and three hours—but who's counting!”

Alice calculated for two seconds. “That's June fifteenth, around six thirty. I love June weddings!”

“Me, too,” Gretchen said, giggling. “It's going to be fabulous—homey and intimate—about fifty people in my fiancé's folks' backyard up in Maine.”

“They toyed with eloping to Hawaii,” I remarked, “and robbing all of us who love them the opportunity to witness their marriage.”