Deb Baker - Dolled Up For Murder

Gretchen and Nimrod pulled away and turned toward the center of the city of Phoenix, situated on the opposite side of Camelback Mountain. Three hours didn’t give her much time. She drove to the older part of downtown, west of Central Avenue, and slowly cruised up and down each street, moving to First Avenue then Second Avenue in a quest to find the homeless man.

Her encounter with him on the street in front of the restaurant wasn’t chance, and Gretchen didn’t think he was a ranting madman. She was convinced that he had a compelling reason to threaten her, and she needed to know why.

The midday heat had driven most of the homeless to seek shelter from the sun, but a few directionless people wandered the sidewalks. She weaved through the endless lines of cars. Phoenix traffic was perpetually in gridlock every hour of the day including late evening rush hour.

Gretchen didn’t see the man.

After several passes, she eased to the curb, reached in the backseat, and lifted Nimrod into the front seat. His tiny feet spun in anticipation, and once she opened the purse he lunged eagerly inside.

“You’re an old pro at this, aren’t you,” she said, adjusting dog and purse on her shoulder.

She walked along First Avenue, Nimrod peeking out from the safety of his mobile home. He felt weightless on her shoulder. The noon sun scorched the pavement. Gretchen made an effort to stay in the shadows of the buildings, but they offered little comfort from the oppressive heat.

A woman walked slowly toward her, pushing a shopping cart piled with clothes and a variety of personal treasures most people would have discarded. Gretchen had read somewhere that women were the fastest-growing segment of the homeless population. A sad statement.

Gretchen heard the woman mutter as she neared.

“Excuse me,” Gretchen said. “Can you help me?”

The woman stopped and stared at Gretchen with suspicion until her gaze shifted to the purse. She saw Nimrod and visibly softened.

“I’m looking for someone,” Gretchen said.

“Nice doggy.” The woman reached out with dirty hands and ragged fingernails to stroke Nimrod, and Gretchen willed herself not to flinch or pull the purse away. Nimrod sniffed curiously and allowed her to pat his little head.

“I’m looking for a man with a growth on the side of his head,” Gretchen said. “It’s important that I find him.”

“I’m Daisy,” the woman said, not looking up from Nimrod, stroking his curly black fur. “Have you come to see me? I’ve been waiting years to be discovered. I’ll be famous, you know, very soon.”

“I’m sure you will. But today I’m looking for someone else.”

Daisy sighed. “Always someone else. I’m always passed over. Too short for the part, they say, or too tall. Always wrong for the casting.” She gave Nimrod a final pat, hung her head, and began pushing her cart.

“Do you know the man?” Gretchen followed, walking in step with her. “I don’t know how else to describe him. The lump on his head is sizable. Do you know him?”

“Nacho,” Daisy muttered. “Macho Nacho. What’s the doggy’s name?”

“Nimrod.”

“Ah, the mighty hunter.”

Gretchen felt frustrated. The woman’s delusions must have been caused by mental illness or by the infernal, suffocating desert heat. The weight of the sun burned down on Gretchen as she slowed her steps and fell behind Daisy, soon coming to a complete stop. Nimrod waited patiently at her side as they watched the homeless woman walk away, pushing her cart.

“His name is Nacho,” Daisy called loudly without looking back.

Gretchen ran to catch up, forgetting about the heat. “Where can I find him?”

“You look like a nice lady. Can you spare a dollar?”

Gretchen moved Nimrod to her other shoulder and fished a five dollar bill out of her purse.

“A fiver is just right. High-five,” Daisy exclaimed.

She extended her open palm, and Gretchen hesitantly followed her lead. Daisy slapped their hands together briskly. “He sleeps some nights at the Rescue Mission. Later today he’ll eat at St. Anskar’s Parish. The soup kitchen opens at five. You can find him there.”

Maybe Gretchen had misjudged her mental capabilities.

She thanked Daisy for the information and hurried back to the car.

Nimrod woofed from the purse, reminding her abruptly that she had a purse dog to worry about as well as her mother.

Gretchen stopped at a grocery store to stock up on a few days’ worth of supplies and was relieved that Nimrod slept at the bottom of the purse while she shopped. She doubted that a food store would welcome a teacup poodle.

Gretchen arrived at the hair salon in time to escort the freshly shampooed duo. Nina and Tutu wore identical candy-striped bows in their hair.

After Nina reclaimed her position in the driver’s seat, Gretchen related her meeting with Daisy. “You never said you were looking for that homeless man,” Nina whined. “I would have liked to come along.”

“Would you like to go to St. Anskar’s Parish with me later to look for him?” Gretchen’s offered consolation prize would serve her own interests, too. She needed transportation.

“Of course,” Nina said, perking up.

“In the meantime, let’s call Gertie. Maybe my mother went to Michigan to visit.”

Gertie Johnson, her father’s sister, lived in the Michigan Upper Peninsula. She wasn’t related by blood to Nina or Caroline, a fact Nina pointed out every time she heard another story about the aunt-in-law’s antics. Gertie had named all three of her children for horses: Blaze, Star, and Heather. Because Blaze was the local sheriff, Gertie fancied herself an expert on police procedure and investigative technique.

“That aunt of yours causes nothing but trouble,” Nina said, watching the road with one eye while Gretchen punched in numbers on her cell phone. “She’s an odd duck, if you ask me.”

Nina and Gertie are exactly alike, Gretchen thought. Quirky, flamboyant, and always right. That’s why they don’t get along.

“Haven’t seen her,” Gertie said after exchanging the briefest of pleasantries.

Gretchen explained the events of the last few days, and when she finished, Gertie whistled. “That’s complicated,” she said. “Have they issued a warrant for Caroline yet?”

“No, of course not. She didn’t kill Martha.”

“Bet my shorts they’ll arrest her anyway.”

Gretchen shuddered. The thought had crossed her mind as well.

“The answer,” Gertie continued. “Is always right under your nose.”

Gretchen looked down at Nimrod, who rode on her lap and had a contented smile on his face. At the moment, he was the only thing right under her nose.

She heard a distinctive sniff from the backseat where Tutu rode solo.

“Gretchen, are you listening to me?”

“Yes. But I’m confused.”

“Pay attention to everything that’s happening around you; watch people’s reactions. Add everything up, and remember that nothing unusual that happens will be a coincidence. Trust your instincts.”

Gretchen smiled. That’s exactly what Nina always said.

“And find the dead woman’s bag of clothes.”

Gretchen was startled. “What bag of clothes?”

“You said she was homeless, so she doesn’t have a home you can search for clues. Normally I’d advise you to break in and have a look around. But this isn’t a normal situation. She must have had a few personal things. Where are they, and what are they?”

Gretchen thought about Nacho’s garbage bag and Daisy’s shopping cart. Even though Martha lost all her worldly possessions, she may have collected personal odds and ends since then.

“I’ll check it out. Thanks, Aunt Gertie.”