Deb Baker - Dolled Up For Murder

“Try me.”

“We’ve issued a warrant for your mother’s arrest,” he said. “We want her for questioning in the death of Martha Williams.”

“Quit beating around the bush,” Gretchen said with exaggerated sarcasm. “Get right to the point. All this small talk is killing me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t think of an easy way to break it to you.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“All the signs point to her.”

“Expound on that,” Gretchen said tightly, working to dredge up some of that Birch inner strength.

Strength. That was something she and her mother knew about. A malignant tumor like Caroline had encountered inspired courage and resolve in the face of adversity.

She twirled her mother’s pink bracelet.

“First, we have the note Martha managed to write before she died. That’s damaging. We have the first evidence of a motive. Money. That doll from your mother’s workshop was worth three thousand dollars. The entire list could be worth a half million dollars or more.”

“The entire collection of dolls on the list, perhaps,” Gretchen agreed. “You’re forgetting that they no longer belonged to Martha when she died. For all we know, the collection was broken up and the dolls sold as individual pieces. One three thousand dollar doll is hardly a motive for murder.”

“That remains to be seen.” He studied Gretchen. “Your mother also had means. Martha died on that mountain.” He pointed up to the peak. “Practically in Caroline Birch’s backyard. And where is she when we want to question her? She’s disappeared.”

“Circumstantial evidence, Detective.” Gretchen followed his gaze upward. The red rocks glowed in the sunlight. “I can’t believe you got a warrant on those grounds.”

He held up his hand, and with his other hand ticked off each point. “She had means-it happened on her home turf.” He tapped a finger. “She had a motive-valuable dolls.” Tap. “And she’s missing-no alibi.” Tap.

“She’ll explain everything when she comes home,” Gretchen insisted.

“We have witnesses,” he said, dropping his hands to the table and spreading his fingers wide. “A man and a woman were hiking together on the mountain at the time it happened.”

Gretchen felt light-headed. “They saw it? They saw my mother murder Martha Williams?” Her voice climbed several octaves.

He shook his head. “They didn’t see Martha fall. But they saw your mother fleeing. She came from the exact spot where Martha Williams was pushed.”

“Martha Williams committed suicide,” Gretchen said weakly.

“I’m afraid not. Martha Williams was murdered.”

Gretchen stared at the mountain blankly. There had to be a logical explanation. All the strength she had summoned threatened to seep away. Two witnesses saw her mother on the mountain when Martha died. She could no longer dismiss his theory as pure speculation. Something awful occurred on Camelback Mountain, and her mother was there at the time. What explanation would she give for running away? Did innocent people run?

“We have an APB out on her car,” he continued. “I’m sorry.”

Gretchen’s gaze met his, and she almost believed that he truly was sorry.

“You have to tell me where she is. She has to come in and clear this up.” He leaned closer. “Where is she?”

“I’m afraid I really don’t know.”

Maybe, Gretchen thought, it’s time to pool our resources and work with the police. To a degree. She considered sharing the discovery of the doll shawl and photograph with him, but that might only give the police more reason to suspect her mother. It wouldn’t help find her, and it wouldn’t help exonerate her. The bag Gretchen found must remain her secret until she understood its significance. Until she located the French fashion doll and the trunk, the shawl would stay hidden with Nina.

“She left without telling anyone where she was going. That’s why I came to Phoenix. Nina’s worried about her.”

“You wouldn’t withhold information to protect her, would you?”

Gretchen shook her head. “Believe me, I want to find her more than you do. Tell me who appraised the doll you found in the workshop?” April Lehman knew about the doll shawl, and Gretchen hoped she hadn’t shared her knowledge with the police.

“An appraiser over in Glendale. April Lehman wasn’t available. Seems she left town for a few days.”

The detective drained his glass of iced tea and stood. Gretchen slipped on a pair of flip-flops and walked with him through the backyard gate and around the side of the house. The home’s landscaping matched the wildness of the Sonoran Desert and Camelback Mountain: spiked cacti, red-hued boulders, and spindly, whiplike ocotillos that were leafless in dry July but exploded with red blossoms in April.

A chameleon darted across the walkway in front of them.

“Someone threatened me last night,” she said, and related the encounter and the words spoken by the homeless man: “Get out while you still can.”

“And you think he has something to do with the Williams murder.”

Murder. Gretchen cringed at the word.

“Yes,” she said. “I think he knows something important. My plan is to find him.”

“Well, my plan is to find Caroline Birch.” Matt stopped at his car, a nondescript blue Chevrolet with no official markings. “How about this? You keep me informed, and I’ll do the same.”

“Aren’t you going to threaten me with jail if I withhold information? I am, as you recall, the main suspect’s daughter.”

Matt smiled. “You watch too many cop shows. This isn’t a movie. Besides-”

She interrupted him. “I know. Our mothers are friends.”

Gretchen sat on a stool in the workshop and imagined her mother bent over a broken doll, in the process of restoring it to its original splendor. A healer. Her mother’s lifework brought renewal, not destruction.

From one of the repair bins marked as sale dolls, she selected a grime-coated wax doll with a damaged nose. Once the doll was cleaned and repaired, her mother would take it to a doll show along with boxes of other dolls collected for that purpose.

Sitting in the shop, she felt closer to her mother.

Using light pressure, she began to clean the doll with cold cream, carefully spreading it around the eyes and ears with a Q-tip.

Gretchen smiled to herself. When she was learning the business, her mother had set her up at a table laden with paraffin wax and candles and supplies, and instructed her to experiment. Carve it, she’d said, mold it into shapes, and color it with crayons. Then melt some in a pot and create something entirely new.

It was one of her most memorable adult play days, and when she had finished, she possessed a working knowledge of wax dolls and their care.

This particular doll’s nose had worn away. Gretchen reached for a hair dryer hanging from a peg over the bench, turned it on, and blew the hot air on the area until the wax surrounding the worn nose became malleable. Carefully and patiently, she pushed the wax toward the end of the nose until she had created a new one.

She held the doll up and examined her work.

Caroline approached the luxury condominium without a concrete plan of action. Turning off Michigan Avenue, she found the condo units she sought. Complete with indoor parking and spectacular lake views. A uniformed doorman stood at attention inside the glass doors, a buffer between the building’s self-proclaimed elite and the commoners from the street below.

Caroline tucked silver strands of hair under her baseball cap. She brushed her hands across her shorts and top, smoothing out wrinkles caused by sleeping in her clothes. Her right hand clutched her laptop. She knew she would never get past the guard.