Deb Baker - Ding Dong Dead

He hadn’t been mentioned in Rachel’s obituary.

Who knows, she thought, maybe he’s dead, too.

Doll repair can be likened to surgical procedures performed by medical surgeons. The best doll doctors have an array of specialized instruments and are skilled in their use. Doll doctors must be adept at putting patients back together again. In a sense, they restore life.

– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

“What are you doing here?” attorney Dean McNalty asked, looking from one woman to the other. His eyes, distorted by the lenses of his Coke-bottle glasses, appeared overly large and reptilian. He sat behind a desk of worn, marred wood, surrounded by cheap vertical file cabinets. The carpet was faded and dirty. Gretchen wouldn’t have taken a seat in the old upholstered chair if someone had threatened her life.

“I’m surprised to find you in your office on Saturday,” Gretchen said.

Thrilled, really!

“What do you want?”

“We’d like to take a quick peek at a file.” Gretchen smiled sweetly.

“Confidential,” he grunted. “We’ve been through this already. I have a responsibility to my clients. I wouldn’t last long if I divulged personal information.”

Caroline walked around behind the desk. Attorney McNalty tried to watch both women at once, but the logistics weren’t working well for him. He wasn’t an owl.

“We thought you might say that,” Gretchen said. His eyes swung back to her. “But we have resources at our fingertips. We can convince you otherwise.”

“Get out of here,” he said, looking over his shoulder to see what Caroline was up to.

She casually displayed a surgical scalpel. “A tool of the trade,” she said. “I use it in my workshop for repairing dolls. My particular line of work requires a razor-sharp blade and a keen eye for using it.”

“What are you doing?” McNalty’s voice hit a high note. He started to rise from the desk. Gretchen stepped closer, displaying her own repair tool. The attorney sat back down with a thump.

Gretchen wondered about the direction of her moral compass. What were they doing?

“You have two choices,” she said to Dean, throwing aside her doubts. “You can tell us which one of these cabinets contains a certain file. We don’t have time to search through them to find it on our own. Deadlines, you know. Second choice, of course, is protect your client. Then we’ll have to carve the information out of you.”

McNalty’s eyes grew wider, if that was possible.

“And,” Caroline added, “we’re very, very good at slicing.”

“The file is in that one right there,” he said, pointing. “Second drawer down, filed under Swilling.”

“Stay where you are,” Gretchen warned him. She opened the drawer and quickly found the file.

“The Swilling home is owned by a trust,” Gretchen said to her mother, skimming through the paperwork. She glanced at McNalty. “You’re the trustee?”

“You’ll have to sort it out on your own,” he said. “I’m not helping you.”

“According to this, John Swilling established the trust upon his death. It can’t be sold by any of the beneficiaries.” Gretchen glared at the attorney. “This is going to take time for me to understand. Why don’t you make it easy?”

“That’s impossible.”

Caroline flashed her weapon. “We don’t have time for this. Explain the document.”

“Okay.” McNalty held up his hands. “Back off with that thing.” He adjusted his thick glasses. “You’re right. The house was placed in trust with the stipulation that it would remain in the family. Until her untimely death, Rachel Berringer was the beneficiary of the trust. Although she didn’t live in the house, she continued to show interest in its maintenance up until she died.”

“What about her brother?” Gretchen asked.

“We weren’t able to locate him in spite of our well-intentioned efforts. After a reasonable amount of time, he was declared dead in absentia.”

Gretchen tossed the file on his desk. “How could he just disappear?”

“It happens all the time,” McNalty said. “People want a new start, or they have a reason to want to avoid discovery. Perhaps Richard Berringer committed suicide or committed a crime under an assumed name. Mental illness might have caused him to vanish. Who knows?”

“Who is the current beneficiary of the trust?” Caroline asked.

“I hold ownership of the trust for the benefit of the trust’s beneficiaries,” the attorney said. “I located a distant relative who resided outside of the state. Before I could make contact, I discovered that the next in line was actually living right here in Phoenix.”

Gretchen paged through the document while McNalty was speaking. “Trudy Fernwich.”

“Yes.”

“Where does she live? How can we reach her?”

“That is your problem.”

No address was listed on the document. “Let’s go,” she said to her mother, dropping the file on his desk.

Within minutes, they were out the door and on their way.

“Will he call the police?” Caroline asked.

“I don’t think so,” Gretchen said, hoping she was right. “All he lost was a little professional dignity. And it’s his word against ours.”

They had come for information, and they left with what they came for. Neither was sure what to do with it.

They knew the name of the distant cousin who was the newest beneficiary of the trust that owned the Spanish Revival house that the club was converting into a museum.

But they had never heard of her.

Nacho has heard the man’s sob story and isn’t at all moved by it. They’d spent the night inside a shed, down a dead-end alley. He isn’t about to show a stranger into the home he’s created under the viaduct. He built it himself out of plastic and duct tape. Gray to match the girders. Only his real friends know about his place, and he’s keeping it that way.

He’s not dumb.

This Andy has money in his pocket but doesn’t have a bit of street smarts, waving the roll of bills around like he wants somebody to take it away from him. If Nacho hangs with this guy too long, he’ll worry about his own future health.

What he’ll do for his friends. And Caroline is one of the best.

Andy bought him a nice bottle, a token of his gratitude, and that counts for a lot. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Nacho’s getting married to the love of his life and has promised Daisy that he will dry out. Soon. He’ll do it soon. She’s promised to help him beat his demons, and he’ll do anything for her. Right now though, he’s drunk on gold-label whiskey. Johnnie Walker. Eighteen-year-old blended to be exact. He knows his liquor.

Andy’s a talker, which suits Nacho. He’s observing instead of participating, which is his style. Sit back, stay alert, absorb. All night, he tipped back, wetting his lips, savoring the amber liquid, watching it swirl like the gold it’s named after.

Otherwise he would have been bored out of his skull, having to listen to how this guy’s wife had left him and he’d been trying to get her back. How they came to Phoenix thinking the trip away from LA would be good for them, and how it wasn’t.

How she had told him right before she was killed that it wasn’t going to work after all.

Andy was just as drunk as Nacho, even more, slurring his words, nodding off, waking up, and continuing his boohoo story.

They all had it rough. Why should this guy’s problems be any worse? All kinds of people have wandered through Nacho’s life. Every one of them thinks they are worse off than the next guy. Like it’s a big competition and being the biggest loser is some kind of win.