Deb Baker - Dolly Departed

"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 butter 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 fullsized paper, not a miniature rendition, like it was assembled 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 sexual 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 glass.

"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 sexy voice. He was still moving toward her. Slowly. Closer. Coming into her personal space. His lips met hers. Longingly.

Gretchen knocked over her wineglass.

"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.

Daisy, future Hollywood star and current member of the Red Hat Society, trudges along the edges of crumbling adobe walls, pushing 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 onceflourishing 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 so she'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 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 canals 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?

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 shifts 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.

Gretchen overslept and almost missed her workout group at Curves. She rushed through the house, throwing on exercise garb as she went. "I fed Wobbles and Nimrod," her mother said, ready to go and holding out Gretchen's purse and a cup of coffee. "You needed the extra sleep."

When Gretchen and her mother arrived at Curves, most of the doll club members were in full throttle on the machines. "He's missing," Bonnie said in a stage whisper when Gretchen jumped onto the abductor. "Born to Be Wild"