Goodbye Dolly (2 page)

She felt a wave of nausea each time she thought of Brett lying dead in the street. How quickly life can be snuffed out by a misstep between parked cars. An image of the car's tire slamming across Brett's torso forced its way into her thoughts, and she tried to block it from her mind. One of the registration workers slapped a sign on the side of the flatbed trailer. All remaining handmade dolls would sell for ten dollars each. Help yourself. Pay at the register. The notice reminded Gretchen that she still carried the wrong box of dolls. She looked around for the stooped man but didn't see him.

A chunky woman with brassy blonde curls sat at the registration table. Gretchen approached. "I know this isn't really important, considering what just happened," she said. "But I have the wrong box of dolls."

"Nothing I can do about it, sweetheart." A single sob escaped from the woman, but she quickly composed herself.

"I think I know who I need to contact," Gretchen said.

"Can you check the records and tell me who bought a box of Kewpie dolls?"

"I suppose." The woman scanned the registration sheet.

"That would be Gretchen Birch."

"Well, I'm Gretchen Birch, but I bought Ginny dolls, not Kewpies. Can you tell me who the list says bought the box of Ginny dolls?"

"Name's Duanne Wilson. Lives on Fortythird Street. You'd better write that down now."

Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.

"Shame about Brett. I can't hardly believe it," the woman said, tears in her eyes. "He was a good man."

Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people's sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she'd be a basket case for the rest of the day. "Thanks for the information," she said, in a hurry to get away. Most of the cars in front of Chiggy's house had cleared out. Gretchen didn't see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had hit Brett.
That poor driver. How awful.
She stowed the box of Kewpie dolls in the trunk of her car and eased away.

Though she'd only met him once before, Brett had been kind. He had smiled and given her a thumbs-up. She fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen him step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer, but of course, everyone's attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry?

Shouldn't he have been working beside the auctioneer?

Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dollars was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.

As she drove along Lincoln Drive, Gretchen glanced up at Camelback Mountain, Phoenix's monolithic landmark. The mountain dominated Sun Valley, and Gretchen felt comfort in its solid presence.

The boulevards exploded with colorful plantings, and red bougainvillea covered privacy walls, but Gretchen hardly noticed as she made her way toward what she hoped was Fortythird Street. Two months in Phoenix, and she still couldn't find her way around.

After asking for directions twice, she turned onto the street and searched the buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again. No number matched the one she'd been given.

Gretchen frowned in annoyance.

Had she written it down wrong? Not an improbability after the tragic accident. But no. She remembered doublechecking the numbers with the teary blonde. She pulled to the curb in front of the only apartment complex within several blocks. This had to be where the man lived. She pulled open the first set of doors, entered, and tried the second set. Locked.

She scanned the names on the mail slots. No Duanne Wilson.

She waited, hoping someone would come along and open the door. Maybe a manager's office inside would give her the correct apartment number.

No one came.

Standing on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the street.
What now?
She had three hundred dollars invested in those dolls.

Then she noticed a sign announcing a vacancy in the building. Gretchen dug her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number.

After a few holds and redirections, she had her answer, and she didn't like it.

No such person. No such place.

Duanne Wilson had vanished along with her Ginny dolls.

"Brett came sprinting past like he was training for one of those triathlons," she says, looking up from her seat behind the registration table, studying the man and wishing she'd brushed her hair and powdered her nose. Some women can cry their hearts out and still look good.

Not her.

She runs fingers from both sweaty hands under her blonde curls, hoping to give them more bounce. She must look a fright, all puffy and red-eyed. Everybody had gone home after the accident except her, or so she thought. Just a few more things to pack up if she can find the energy.

She still sat in the same position at the registration table, numb all over except for the tears running down her face. But then this man appeared out of nowhere, and she tried to straighten herself up.

"I was working the registration desk. Howie was off in the corner of the truck working his usual magic on the crowd. Right over there."

She points and imagines going back in time to that precise moment when Brett ran past her. If she had it to do over, she'd stop him somehow and change his future. Maybe give him one of those long, passionate kisses she remembers so well.

Her lower lip quivers.

"Don't forget to write that all down now," she says.

"Anyway, he tripped over his own feet he was in such a hurry, and he almost dropped the box."

"You don't say? What kind of box?"

" 'Bout this big," She raises her hands parallel like she's showing off the length of a Gila monster she might spot in the desert near her home. Or a good-sized fish from the Verde River.

" 'Oh damn,' Brett said, all panicked-like, and I was surprised because he is... or was... one of those Promise Keepers. You know, that men's Christian group with the seven promises? I never heard him utter a cuss word before."

She swipes a finger under her eye, sure that she has mascara smudges showing; after all, she's cried a bucketful. "Maybe he was trying to catch up with that woman who came by later and said some boxes were switched."

"Woman?"

"She said she had the wrong box."

"Do you remember her name?"

"Is that important?"

"You never know." He shrugs.

"Gretchen something. Let's see. Like a tree. Oak, maple, uh..." She snaps her fingers. "Gretchen Birch. That's it. Write that down now."

She pauses and watches him scribble in the notebook.

"Next thing I hear are tires squealing and people screaming." She looks out over the empty yard where the auction had been held. It seems so long ago. "Brett and I were engaged once, you know, when we were younger. I should have stuck with him. He was a good man."

"How much time would you say elapsed between the time you saw him and the time you heard the tires squeal?"

"Oh, I don't know. I guess maybe it was one or two minutes after he ran by that I found out it was Brett in the street." She sniffs. "Don't forget to write that down, too."

A loud sob escapes from her throat.

The biggest doll show of the year, and Gretchen had to handle it alone.
But that's life.
Like finding yourself in front of a sold-out audience without a script, and just as the curtain rises you realize that you're standing up there stark naked, and there isn't a thing you can do about it, Gretchen thought.

"You can do it," her aunt Nina said, perching like a colorful songbird on a stool next to Gretchen. "You know your mother would be here if she could. It's not her fault." Nina wore an array of bows in her dark hair that matched her outfit right down to the stones in her rings.

Gretchen glanced at a bin of naked dolls and miscellaneous doll parts in her mother's workshop and felt a surge of nervous energy. After weeks of preparation, the countdown was under way. It would be her first doll show, and she hadn't anticipated losing her mother's help at the last minute.

"She could have rescheduled her California book tour,"

Gretchen complained, feeling unreasonable and not caring.

"It certainly is her fault. I've never even done a little show before. How will I get through one this size all by myself?"

"Caroline put a lot of work into her doll book, and she deserves the time off to promote it," Nina scolded her. "Besides, it could be worse. She could have left without arranging for any assistance. Instead, she asked me to help you, so don't worry."

Knowing Nina as well as she did, help
less
would be more accurate. Since her mother's younger sister knew nothing about dolls or doll shows, Gretchen didn't see how helpful she would be.
An excellent reason to worry myself sick.
Gretchen had that naked-onstage feeling again. The final week leading up to the show had been a whirlwind of activity-selecting dolls for the show from her mother's large inventory and repairing damaged dolls they hoped to sell, along with helping the Phoenix Dollers Club coordinate last-minute details.

The workshop where Gretchen and Nina sat talking was cluttered with bits and pieces: fabric, clothes, tools, and dolls.

"Here's the list I was supposed to take to the auction,"

Gretchen said, pulling it from the clutter on the table and surveying the items. "Two Shirley Temples, a Tammy, two or three Ginnys..." Gretchen groaned. "I bought twelve Ginny dolls and none of the others she wanted."

"How could you know Howie would offer them all together?"

"I was a complete failure. I didn't bid on anything else on the list, I paid too much, and, worse, I lost the entire investment
and
the doll show profit."

"You're being too hard on yourself. The dolls will show up. And you have a perfectly good excuse. What with the accident and all."

Brett's death the day before still occupied most of Gretchen thoughts. That, and the show she didn't feel prepared for. She dabbed a doll repair hook with nail polish labeled Poodle Skirt Pink.

"I love the color," her aunt said, observing the splash of pink on the repair hook. "But when I bought the polish for you, I thought you'd wear it on your nails, not waste it on your tools."

"I'm trying to organize my new toolbox." Gretchen picked up a clamp and steadied her polishing hand. "I'll be restringing dolls tomorrow, and I need everything organized."

"That doesn't explain the polish."

"I'm personalizing my tools so they don't disappear. With all the traffic through the exhibit hall, I have to be careful."

"Well, at least color-coordinate your ensemble by painting your toes the same color. And since when are you worried about order?" Nina looked at the surrounding disorder.

"Self-improvement. I'm determined to put some organization into my life. I'm tired of spending so much time looking for things. My mind is scattered, but I'm going to change."

Nina looked skeptical.

Nimrod, Gretchen's black teacup poodle, looked on from his bed in the corner. Wobbles, the three-legged cat Gretchen had rescued a year earlier in Boston after a hitand-run, cleaned himself in the doorway, running a moistened paw over his face, one watchful eye on the activity in the doll workshop.

"I've inherited a menagerie," Gretchen said, holding the hook in the air to dry.

"You love every minute of it." Nina twirled around in a full circle. "The animals are good for you. Admit it."

Gretchen blew on the wet polish to hasten its drying and considered Nina's observation. Did she enjoy Wobbles and Nimrod? Absolutely. Would she admit it? Never. Her aunt claimed psychic abilities. Let her figure it out on her own. Nimrod yawned leisurely from his bed, and Gretchen gave him a tender look in spite of her frayed nerves. Thanks to Nina's experienced guidance, the puppy had quickly adapted to his traveling purse and accompanied Gretchen most of the time.

Nina was a purse dog trainer, teaching miniature puppies to ride in their owners' shoulder bags. Leave it to her aunt to come up with a one-of-a-kind occupation that included unlimited freedom of movement, a unique expertise, and a great deal of patience. Purse dogs were now all the fashion among the local doll collectors.

Nina leaned closer to study Gretchen's polishing technique. "Maybe you should go back to graphic design work. Look how good you are."

"Very funny."

"Do you miss it?"

"Not at all. I'll never go back to the corporate world. This..." Gretchen looked around the workshop, "... is where I belong."

It took all her willpower to keep her hand steady, her heart rate even, and her words light. As if the pressure of her first show and the abrupt demise of the auctioneer's assistant weren't enough. She had another problem.

"You just missed that clamp and globbed polish on your fingers."

Gretchen jammed the cover on the polish and dropped her chin into her hands. "He's here, you know."

"Who? Who?" Nina said with wide, rounded eyes. She dipped a tissue in polish remover and swiped at Gretchen's fingers.

"Steve Kuchen," Gretchen whispered. She tensed at the thought of coming face-to-face with her former boyfriend. Steve, who had cheated on her. With a summer intern, no less. What a cliche. A very young summer intern, at that.

"It's about time he showed up. For a while I thought he didn't care. How long has it been?"

"Two months." Could it really have been that long since she had packed up and fled from Boston and from him?

"How can you walk away from a seven-year relationship without at least talking it over?" Nina asked. "Even if he
did
deserve it." She caught the look in Gretchen's eyes and made a hasty revision. "Which he did. No doubt about it. The cheating pond scum."