Deb Baker - Goodbye Dolly

Walking along, Gretchen noted that the block was mostly commercial buildings. In fact, they all were. Not one single family residence. No apartment buildings. No condos.

But this time, at least the address she had written down existed.

Gretchen entered a tattoo shop, pretty sure she wouldn't find Duanne Wilson inside.

Her developing psychic intuition was correct. They'd never heard of him.

The party was picking up speed when Gretchen arrived with Nimrod in tow. He joined his own party of miniature dogs in the back entryway. A baby gate kept the canine revelers from joining the human throng. People from all aspects of the doll business jammed the open, rounded rooms of Bonnie's modest Arizona-style home.

The club president's dolls had their very own separate display room off the entryway-in consideration of her son's severe phobia, Gretchen assumed. Pine curio cabinets housed Bonnie's collection of fragile and expensive Kewpie dolls. Cloth and hard plastic Kewpies adorned the chairs and tables, and Kewpie plates and cups lined ledges along the walls.

Nina met Gretchen at the doggie gate with Sophie, her current Yorkie trainee. "Sophie's family wants her socialized, so I'm keeping her a few extra days. This certainly is the place to acclimate her to her own kind."

"Are all these dogs past clients of yours?"

Nina, decked out in a vibrant orange pantsuit, nodded proudly, sipping a martini from a large glass hand-painted with colorful swirls. "Business has been good. Doll collectors love purse dogs. Who knew? I only started the training program last year, and I can hardly keep up with the demand." She pointed. "There's Rosebud; you remember her."

Gretchen grinned at the little Maltese.

"And Enrico." Nina pointed at a Chihuahua.

"I can't believe it," Gretchen said, remembering him as a pint-sized Tasmanian devil. "Enrico's behaving himself."

"He comes to visit me frequently for a refresher course in social skills."

Nina led the way to a cocktail bar in the corner of the crowded living room. Gretchen chose red wine and then scanned the room. She recognized most of the people in the room from the doll show. Eric Huntington waved, and Nina scurried off his way.

"So sorry to hear about your Steve," Bonnie said over her left shoulder.

"I thought that was confidential," Gretchen said. Bonnie swept her hands across the room. Gretchen followed her hand and saw Matt chatting with Howie Howard.

"I overhead Matty talking on the phone. It's awful."

Just great. If Bonnie knew, the entire Valley of the Sun knew. Bonnie was like an old-fashioned bullhorn, trumpeting news more effectively than the late Ronny Beam's Phoenix Exposed . And about as accurate.

"I wonder how long he'll get for killing Ronny?" Bonnie said.

"He hasn't been charged, as far as I know."

"It's only a matter of time."

" If that happens, he'll have a trial, Bonnie. A jury has to prove him guilty."

"He did it. Matty's good at his job. He wouldn't arrest the wrong person."

Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?

Once suspicion fell on someone, people automatically assumed the worst. Guilty until proven innocent seemed the new American philosophy.

Gretchen felt compelled to help Steve.

Her aunt Gertie's advice resonated: "Search Ronnie's house, and watch your back." She should have followed her aunt's direction.

Tomorrow, at the first light of day, she would start her quest for the real killer. Now that the doll show was over, she could put all her effort into it.

She made her way across the room to join Howie and Matt. The auctioneer wore a ten-gallon cowboy hat that took up most of the alcove where the two men stood. It would have been easier navigating around an open umbrella.

"This is the perdy lady in person," Howie said after Matt introduced her. "Find your Ginny dolls yet?"

"Still looking."

"They'll turn up," Matt said.

"Unless you have information I don't, they're gone."

Matt grinned at her. "I'll see what I can do. You never know."

"You just keep busy trying to find Ronny's real killer,"

Gretchen said icily.

"That was one little jerk of a guy," Howie said. "He had me so mad, I almost hog-tied him inside my truck."

Gretchen looked at him sharply. "Was Ronny at the auction on Thursday?"

"Didn't see him on Thursday, which was lucky for him, but he showed for the estate sale on Wednesday."

"I didn't know anything about an estate sale," Gretchen said.

"We auctioned off the household goods, furniture, dishes, appliances, that sort of thing. Brett caught the little weasel inside the house going through some of Chiggy's personal things and escorted him off the property. If he'da showed up Thursday, I really would have tied him up and left him to squeal." Howie stopped to take a drink from the bottle of beer in his hand. "Ronny Beam had a snake tongue that a rattler would have been jealous of."

"I'm sorry to hear about Brett," Matt said. "Tough break. He seemed like a nice guy."

"The best," Howie agreed.

"Any evidence of foul play?" Gretchen threw it out there to see what developed.

"Foul play?" Howie said. "Whatever gave you an idea like that?"

Both men stared at her.

Gretchen concentrated on running her finger around the rim of the wineglass. "Speculating, is all."

"Do you really think that little lady driver planned to run over Brett?" Howie said. "I've known him for years, all the ins and outs of his life, all the people he knew, and I never saw her before the accident."

"Maybe someone pushed him," Gretchen suggested. She wanted to mention the blue truck to gauge Howie's reaction but decided against it. Howie tipped the brim of his Stetson hat. "No disrespect intended, but they grow large imaginations in your family. I know your mother, and you're the spittin' image."

Gretchen chose to take that as a compliment. She noted that Matt watched her closely, amusement playing on his lips.

"Detective Albright," Gretchen said, "what do you think?"

"I'm glad you asked. I want to know how someone who talks as slow and relaxed as Howie Howard can become an auctioneer."

Howie chuckled. "You have to learn to chant in rhythm and practice tongue twisters. Here's one for you. A skunk sat on a stump and thunk the stump stunk, but the stump thunk the skunk stunk. Go ahead and try it."

Gretchen knew that Matt had intentionally redirected the conversation, and she appreciated his consideration. But what kind of detective would rather thunk skunks than solve crimes? She gave Matt a withering glance, which he didn't notice, and walked away.

She smiled with satisfaction when she realized that something really important had occurred: she had connected the two dead men. On Wednesday, one day before Brett died and two days before Ronny was killed, they had been together in Chiggy Kent's house.

"That was quite a bombshell you dropped on Howie," Matt said to her when their paths crossed shortly after in the kitchen. "He's grieving for Brett and doesn't need that kind of speculation right now."

"You changed the subject to protect Howie's feelings?"

"Least I could do."

"I have information that Brett was pushed in front of that car," Gretchen said.

"Tell me about your source. According to the responding officer's report, not a single eyewitness came forward. Everyone's attention was riveted on the auction."

Gretchen felt her face flush and tried to stop it from deepening. "I'd rather not."

"Are you withholding important information in an ongoing investigation?"

"Ongoing? Did you say ongoing?"

"Police business. My mouth is sealed. Now tell me who your source is."

"I promised I wouldn't tell."