Deb Baker - Dolled Up For Murder

Nina cruised next to her in the Impala with the window down. “Let him go,” she called. “It’s not worth it.”

Gretchen looked ahead just as he left the sidewalk and disappeared between two commercial buildings. Ignoring Nina, she gave chase. Nacho was the path to her mother, the key to Martha’s murder. She felt sure of it. This might be her only chance, and she wasn’t about to blow it.

He ran like a desert coyote, like his life depended on it, his arms pumping hard, his eyes, when he glanced back, frightened.

Gretchen remembered the alcohol on his breath the night before and wondered where his stamina came from. Maybe his fear was greater than hers, and his fear drove his momentum. In spite of having nothing material to show for his life, he might have more to lose than she did. If that was possible.

She began to gain on him. Closer and closer. She could hear her breath, usually controlled when she ran distances, pounding in her ears. Now it came out ragged, and she struggled to establish a rhythm. The sweltering heat beating down from the desert sun was unbearable.

He vanished behind another building, and Gretchen rushed after him. Rounding a corner, something shot out at her from a Dumpster against the wall and struck her below her knees. Gretchen felt herself falling. She lurched forward, trying to recover from the fall, but it was too late. She put her hands out in front of her to break the fall and felt a sharp pain in her left wrist as her body slammed into concrete.

Footsteps thundered past her. Then silence.

She struggled to her feet, holding her wrist.

Nacho, her only lead, had vanished.

When Gretchen emerged from between the buildings, Nina jumped from the car and shouted at her. “Are you crazy?” she screamed. “You could have been killed. You didn’t know if he had a gun. What were you going to do if you caught him?” She clasped her hands on top of her head. “He could have had a knife and sliced you to pieces.”

Gretchen gasped for breath. She bent over and cradled her wrist.

“What happened to you?” Nina said, noticing Gretchen’s protective stance.

“Hurt… my… wrist.” An image of Nacho running flashed through Gretchen’s head. His long strides. His arm motions assisting him, increasing his speed. The arms were important.

“Let me see.” Nina hurried over to her.

Gretchen shook her head. “He…” She gasped. “… tripped me.”

The arms, she thought. What am I missing?

She realized what it was. “He dropped the bag.”

Nina scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“The garbage bag. He must have thrown it off somewhere along the way.” Gretchen straightened up. “Hurry. We have to find it.”

Gretchen ran quickly along the sidewalk, retracing her steps. Nina swung the car around and followed. The dogs, sensing a game afoot, watched side by side out the back window. Tutu yelped encouragement, her excitement spurring Nimrod to join in.

When did she notice that he was swinging both arms? After they crossed the intersection but before Nacho ducked between the buildings. She walked to the intersection and studied her surroundings. Sharp pain shot through her wrist, forcing her to support it with her other hand.

Where was Nacho now? Was he watching from a hiding place? She had to beat him to the garbage bag. Gretchen looked up and down the street but didn’t see him. She peeked into a trash receptacle on the corner, then motioned to Nina with her head.

“What?” Nina asked, stepping out of the Impala.

“You’ll have to grab it,” Gretchen said. “He stuffed the bag in here.” She gestured with her hands.

“Do I have to?” Nina said, wrinkling her nose.

“Afraid so.”

Nina pulled out the black bag with a grimace of disgust and held it away from her body. “Now what?”

“Let’s look through it in the car, then I’ll return it,” Gretchen suggested. “I don’t want to take it away from him. It’s all he has.”

Nina looked at her sharply. “After what he’s put you through, how can you sympathize with him? He threatened you. And look at your wrist. An innocent man doesn’t run away like he did. And you don’t want to take his bag? Unbelievable!”

Nina continued to grumble as they returned to the car, and her protests grew louder when she realized she’d have to search the bag herself. Gretchen’s wrist began to swell and turn a deep purple.

The search produced a single change of clothes, not especially clean, and a thick, tattered notebook held together with two rubber bands. At Gretchen’s insistence, Nina found a piece of paper and a pen and Gretchen wrote out a message for Nacho with her good right hand, advising him that she had his notebook. She would return it, she wrote, when he was ready to answer her questions. She included her cell phone number.

“I’m holding it hostage,” Gretchen said to Nina. “Maybe he’s written something useful in it.”

Nina stalked over to the garbage receptacle and stuffed the bag inside. “He’ll probably murder us in our sleep,” she said on returning to the car. “That’s how he’ll get his notebook back.”

Gretchen wondered why he had run away. What had scared him?

Nina pulled away from the curb. “Where to?”

“That gas station on the corner for ice,” Gretchen said, wincing. “Then the hospital.”

Caroline’s eyes traced the arch of the high ceiling, the original paintings on the walls, and the marble floor beneath her feet. She sat on a high-backed tasseled sofa. Rudolph Timms sat across from her in a broad leather chair-tall and slender, with a pronounced widow’s peak and dark, piercing eyes.

“I still don’t see the fuss over this particular doll,” he said.

“As I explained earlier, I’m researching my next book, and I’d like a photograph of the doll you own,” Caroline said, her story believable even to her ears. “For the book.”

He chuckled, obviously proud of his latest acquisition. “It is a perfect Madame Rohmer from the mid-eighteen-hundreds. Original costume and the blue Rohmer stamp on the leather body. Quite a find.”

“Glazed china,” Caroline muttered. “Swivel head?”

Rudolph Timms nodded. “And blonde wig.”

Caroline held up a small Leica camera. “A shot or two would be appreciated.” The day before her frantic race across the country, she had dropped off film for developing and tossed the empty camera in her satchel-like purse. It was proving useful today as a prop, with or without film.

His thick brows met the dark widow’s peak. “How did you find me so quickly? I only acquired the doll recently.”

“I followed the auction on eBay,” Caroline said, feeling chilled in her damp clothes. “I considered bidding myself.”

“I would have outbid you, no matter the cost,” he said. “I had to have this doll for my very own. Whatever the price.”

Caroline arched a brow. “Whatever the price?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I would have paid whatever it took.”

Rudolph Timms rose. “I’ll get her.”

Caroline held her breath as he walked away.

When Gretchen emerged from Scottsdale Memorial Hospital at a little after seven o’clock with a cast on her broken left wrist, she found Detective Albright leaning against his car at the curb. He sauntered over to join her.