Deb Baker - Goodbye Dolly

"Quit speaking ill of the dead, Nina."

"I spoke ill of him while he was alive. Why do I have to clam up just because he's dead?"

Gretchen tuned Nina out and focused on the file. The Boston Globe had printed the story on August 6 of the previous year. She vaguely remembered seeing it when she lived there. "This article doesn't name names," Gretchen said. "It's a piece on the effects of the black market during the war. William O'Connor's name doesn't appear. It's a very general outline of profiteering activities. Ronny must have discovered additional information."

"Or made it up," Nina said.

Gretchen set the copy of the article aside and picked up the last item in the folder. "A letter," she announced to Nina, holding it up.

" 'Dearest Florence'," Gretchen read aloud. " 'Your willingness to assist me in my quest for my well-deserved and long-awaited fortune tugs at my heartstrings. Family must always stick together. Just don't plan on double-crossing me, or you'll go the way of all other flightless birds. Another meal for a hungry predator. Keep casting molds. Eventually you'll get it right'." Gretchen looked up at Nina.

"No signature."

"Give me that," Nina tugged it out of Gretchen's hands and read it herself. "Jeez," she said.

"Who's Florence?"

"Florence," Nina said with a flourish, "is Chiggy Kent's real name."

Howie Howard's comment the night before at Bonnie's party popped into Gretchen's head: "Brett caught the little weasel inside the house going through some of Chiggy's personal things and escorted him off the property." Ronny must have taken the letter and the Boston Globe article from Chiggy's house on Wednesday.

So far, she could attribute several deaths to the hunt for hidden treasure, starting with Percy O'Connor's in Boston. Then a cross-continental trek to Arizona and two more murders: a doll auctioneer's assistant and a second-rate reporter trying to legitimize his work with a real story instead of his usual trashy tales. Gretchen had wandered into the middle of the mystery because of a mistaken box of Kewpie dolls. But how did that box fit in? She and Nina and April had searched every Kewpie in the box without finding a single clue to the dolls' significance.

Better get rid of Chiggy's broken Kewpies as fast as possible.

"You have enough to go to the police," Nina said.

"No, I don't," Gretchen argued.

"This is too scary."

Gretchen's cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number showing on caller ID. When she answered, she heard Steve's voice.

"Well, I can kiss that sweet partnership deal goodbye,"

he said curtly. "I'm sure I'll be charged with first-degree murder anytime now."

"Where are you?"

"Tucked away where they can watch every move I make."

"I'll help you find a criminal attorney," she offered.

"You'll beat this."

"What makes you so sure?" he said petulantly. "Everyone else thinks I murdered Ronny."

Gretchen could have told him the truth, since she knew him better than anyone else did. Steve didn't have much capacity for anger in spite of his silly, macho confrontation with Ronny. That was the only time she'd seen him even slightly ruffled. Most of the time, he remained remarkably indifferent to everything and everyone around him.

Steve couldn't have killed Ronny because he didn't have any passion inside him.

Instead she said, "I trust you. If you say you didn't do it, you didn't do it."

"Well, I can't say the same for you. That's why I've made my own arrangements for representation. And Gretchen, I'm going to tell the truth, even if it implicates you."

"I've told you all along to be truthful. Nothing you can say will hurt me."

Steve humpfed.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I was in a cell for one very long day, in the company of the worst degenerates you're ever likely to meet."

Gretchen heard a hairline crack in his asphalt composure.

"The universal opinion in the bullpen," he said, "is that you set me up with your cop boyfriend."

"That's preposterous," Gretchen said when she'd recovered from the outrageousness of his comment. This from the man she had almost married.

She thought about defending herself against his charges, but she'd played defense for the entire length of their relationship. Always apologizing for being herself instead of the woman he thought she should be, always making amends for perceived missteps. The list of faux pas grew steadily over the years. The attorney in Steve couldn't leave the drama in the courtroom and carried his litigation over into their relationship.

Without another word, she hung up.

Turning to Nina she said, "Silly Steve swims surely south seizing sticks. There's a tongue twister for Howie Howard."

"Was I supposed to follow that?" Nina asked.

"Steve's grasping at straws. You're never going to guess what his latest theory is." She summarized the conversation. "We better figure out who really did it very soon. He's cracking."

Gretchen began gathering up her belongings. Traveling with a purse dog entailed almost as much strategic planning as traveling with a baby. "I think I'll find our homeless friends and see if they've heard anything new."

"I have to spend a few hours training Sophie," Nina said, her eyes shifting from side to side. Gretchen recognized the signs. Her aunt was looking for a way out. "Why don't you leave Nimrod here, and I'll put him through a refresher course. How's he been doing?"

"Great. Except when I tell him to hide, he ducks into his purse and falls asleep at the bottom."

"You call that a problem?" Nina scooped the tiny teacup poodle into her arms. "Let's try a new trick today, buddy,"

she said to him.

"I'll see you later." Gretchen headed determinedly for the door.

"Lunch?" Nina called out behind her.

"Not today," she said without turning. "I have to figure out some way to help clear an old boyfriend, and I'm not sure how to accomplish it."

"Clueless?"

Gretchen put on her sunglasses as she stepped into the late-morning sunshine. Clueless was right.

After fighting gridlock traffic, Gretchen found Daisy sitting on a park bench on Central Avenue, her trusty shopping cart containing her life story at her side. Nacho, looking grim and menacing as usual, sat beside her. When he saw Gretchen pull over to the curb and jump from the car, he rose without acknowledging her presence, handed something to Daisy, and strode rapidly away.

"What's with him?" Gretchen said, plopping down beside Daisy. Heat rose in waves from the concrete, and she looked around for a more shaded spot to sit.

She missed shade trees more than she missed anything else from back home in Boston. Oaks and red maples and towering elms. She'd traded them for lanky, transplanted palm trees and spindly desert shrubs. Phoenix's desert landscape offered no relief from the sun's hot rays.

"He's mad at you," Daisy said, her arms crossed in front of her, same red hat pulled down close to her eyes, same purple dress. "You snitched."

Gretchen watched Nacho's back disappear among the lunchtime crowd. The man was like a chameleon. "Snitched about what? I never snitched."

Daisy held out the object Nacho had given to her before hurrying off.

Gretchen took the photograph from her and winced.

"The poor man. What happened to him?" A battered face stared at the camera through a swollen slit in one eye. The other eye was completely closed. His face looked like ground hamburger.

"His name is Albert Thoreau. I thought you might know him," Daisy said stiffly. Gretchen knew Daisy was studying her reaction with a steady, judging gaze. She shook her head. At least she thought he was a stranger to her. With his face swollen into an unrecognizable mass, she couldn't be sure.