Deb Baker - Goodbye Dolly

Maybe she could swing by on her way home if it wasn't too late.

Right now, as she turned onto McDowell and realized how dark and desolate the area was, she longed for Aunt Nina and the spectacular lights of the elegant Phoenician Resort. What was she thinking to come over here by herself?

She flipped on an overhead light and checked the address on the invitation. The 1500 block.

"We just passed Fourteenth Street," she informed Nimrod. "So it has to be in the next block." The teacup poodle wagged his tail.

She crawled along McDowell looking for the address, then turned the car around and slowly edged back along the other side.

She stopped the Echo and looked at the address on the invitation again.

That was the house where the memorial service should be starting, a one-story with a swamp cooler on the roof. But something was wrong.

No lights illuminated the interior of the house, no cars were parked in front, no mourners congregated inside waiting to hear comforting words to ease their grief. The house was totally dark.

She looked at the invitation for the third time. It was the kind you could buy in any store that carried greeting cards. The details of the memorial service had been handwritten. She'd automatically assumed that Howie Howard had organized the event because the handwriting was distinctly male. No graceful loops or careful lettering to denote a feminine hand.

Gretchen double-checked to make sure the doors of the Echo were locked and pulled quickly away from the darkened house, circling the block one last time. The house with the swamp cooler on the roof remained dark. The more she thought about it, the more unlikely it became that the service would be here, next to the airport, and that no one else from the Phoenix Dollers Club had been invited. Absolutely no one that she knew would be in attendance.

Not only that, it had coincided with the Boston Kewpie members' farewell party, so she wouldn't have Nina or April or any of the other club members to attend with her. Convenient for someone who might want to get her alone. Hadn't she seen this exact scenario in enough thrillers? Hadn't she laughed cynically at the hapless victims and their incredible lack of forethought?

"Gee," she said, talking to Nimrod again. "Wouldn't you think we'd stay out of dark alleys when a killer is on the prowl?" His ears twitched as he listened. Gretchen drove toward the bright lights of the airport.

She asked herself again, Why?

That had been the three-letter word of the day, of the week.

Why, why, why had she received a bogus invitation?

Maybe because someone wanted to lure her away from her home by inviting her to an event she would feel compelled to attend. Gretchen Birch's whereabouts could be guaranteed for Monday night at eight o'clock. So much for varying her routine to throw off the bad guys.

Several blocks ahead, the street she was on would end abruptly, the overpass into the airport directly in front of her. Bright lights and safety. Looking into the sky, she could see planes lining up awaiting clearance to land. But the invitation had arrived several days ago. If this was premeditated, the sender knew even then what he wanted her to do and where he wanted her to be. He also could have known that the Boston visitors would be having a party and that her friends and family were not likely to attend the memorial service with her. They would opt for the opulence of the Phoenician over a service they hadn't been invited to.

Gretchen felt manipulated and angry with herself for blindly following the predictable path she'd been so artfully steered along. Was he at her house right now? Waiting for her?

No-not for her. If she was the target, he could have waited for her on this lonely street. Gretchen stared into the few parked cars scattered along McDowell and was relieved to find them empty. He must have wanted her house vacant tonight when Lilly Beth's prying eyes wouldn't be able to see him. He would have parked the truck down the road and crept in under cover of night. Would he wear his police uniform?

Probably.

He'd want to fall back on his image of authority if any of the neighbors became suspicious.

What was inside the house that he wanted, if not her? The only thing she could think of were the Kewpie dolls that had been sent through the mail. They, along with the messages she had found inside, were in the workshop in plain view. Gretchen picked up her cell phone to call the police again, wondering why Matt hadn't returned her call yet. She would ask the dispatcher to send a squad to meet her at her home. Gretchen tromped on the accelerator and, with one eye on the road as she steered, she searched through her recently called numbers for the right one. At the stop sign, she signaled to turn left and hit the Send key on her cell phone.

As soon as she turned the corner, another vehicle came up rapidly behind her. It must have been parked close to the intersection and had started up when she passed by. The car was following close behind her, too close. Her cell phone flew from her hand at the first impact. If she hadn't grabbed Nimrod to protect him, she would have had both hands on the steering wheel and might have stayed on the road. Instead, when the second blow struck the driver's side of the car somewhere close behind the front seat, the Echo careened into a shallow ditch that separated the street from the airport on-ramp. It happened so quickly that she didn't see the vehicle until it appeared in front of her after striking her the second time. Now it forced her car away from the street and toward the fence.

A green truck.

She slammed on the brakes and came to a stop, with the pickup truck wedging her next to a concrete pylon. Before she could throw the car into reverse and make a run for it, she saw the blur of a uniform.

And a gun.

And a familiar face.

Duanne Wilson of the bushy eyebrows and gleeful bidding tried to wrench the car door open. The jolliness was gone.

"Unlock the door," he snarled, the barrel of the gun up against the glass.

Gretchen had never looked into a gun barrel before, and if she survived tonight, she hoped it would be the last time. She'd never thought of herself as a particularly brave person, and she wasn't out to win any medals right now. Brave and smart weren't the same things.

You could be brave and foolish and dead.

Not having a lot of options to choose from, she chose to go with cowardly, alive, and still foolish.

Gretchen unlocked the door while scanning the seat and floor for the cell phone that had flown out of her hand. No such luck.

"Moonlighting as a Phoenix Police officer?" she said as he opened the door. The badge on his uniform seemed to mock her. The Phoenix bird adorned it. The mythical bird that could never die. "Halloween is still a few weeks away,"

she said.

What a card she was.

"Move over. NOW." The threat in his voice was enough to make her spring across to the passenger seat and wedge Nimrod into her purse.

Gretchen gulped air through an obstruction in her throat the size of a Gila monster.

Maybe he didn't kill women. That would be good news for her. He'd take what he came for and leave. Gretchen didn't believe that for a minute.

Duanne took the wheel. The car lurched backward and sprang from the ditch.

"Finally, I've got you," he said, slamming the gears into drive. "Captured."

Captured? Like a flag?

It's strange what goes through your head when you're paralyzed with fear , Gretchen thought.

"Where are we going? To the farewell party?"

"Not even close."

Gretchen slid her hand closer to the door. Next light, and she'd make her escape. She'd take her chances that Duanne wasn't a sharpshooter. She'd risk a bullet in her back. As if reading her mind, he said, "Try it, and I'll make a point of eliminating every single thing you value, starting with that ragged, floppy mutt and ending with your devoted aunt."