Deb Baker - Ding Dong Dead

Richard hasn’t moved since he sat down in the chair, not a muscle, but the detective-what’s his name… Albright?-paces. The cop’s voice and facial features don’t display any emotion, no inflections whatsoever. He sounds like the computer program that they are running to record his blood pressure and pulse, to verify the truth.

How can his blood pressure not be through the roof? But they told him he passed the pretest with flying colors. And they have control questions. It’s all been explained to him. He’s more than willing to go along, whatever it takes to make them believe him.

He’s careful to conceal his anger, to not let it control him. That’s how she won before, driving him to the point of explosive rage.

“Anything to make me look bad,” he continues, trying not to reflect too much on his sister and the memories that are surfacing like monsters from the depths of a lagoon. “When I was a teenager, my parents had me committed to an insane asylum. As bad as it was, it was better than living in the same house with her. Two years later, I was out, but I didn’t go home. I kept in touch with my parents, though. By then they knew the truth about Rachel, but they didn’t send her away. She got shock treatments instead. At least I escaped that.”

Richard’s voice is becoming emotional. He has pent-up anger, but he can’t let them see the rage. The detective leans against the back of a chair, hunches his shoulders forward to stretch his neck muscles. “Go on,” he says.

“When our mother disappeared, I knew Rachel must have killed her. I came back to Phoenix and told the police my suspicions, but I was the one who had been institutionalized, not Rachel. Nothing came of it.

“Some unexplainable force wouldn’t let me leave this city. I hated the house and all its memories, but I couldn’t run away from my past. I bought the building I own now, paid it off as quick as I could. Rachel owned the family home, although she didn’t live in it. We kept our distance from each other.”

“She didn’t bother you?”

“Not really. She had become good at hiding the crazy side. She said she had a therapist and the right medications. I didn’t see her much. Then recently I heard that she had died.”

The detective glances at the technician then back to Richard. “Could you get to the point, please? I understand that your sister did you a huge injustice, but if she’s dead-”

Richard shakes his head. They have to believe me! Otherwise she will have won again. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he says. “She had different personalities. She could be anybody she wanted to be. She killed that woman in the cemetery and faked her own death. She’s still in Phoenix, but she isn’t Rachel Berringer anymore.”

Another glance between the two men. Richard wants to rip off the polygraph equipment and run away. They aren’t believing his story. He never should have come here.

“Explain,” Albright says.

“Rachel isn’t really dead. I’m telling you the truth. She’s simply taken on a different personality.”

“And what would that personality be?”

Richard leans in closer.

“She’s become someone else, one of our relatives,” he says. “And she will kill again, if we don’t stop her.”

“Give me a name to go on.”

“Julie Wicker,” Richard says.

Gretchen unlocked the museum door, disappointed that the police weren’t there to greet them. “I’m going to wait outside,” she said, watching Julie pull a large tote out of the backseat and walk up the sidewalk toward her. The woman carried a ton of stuff. Not that Gretchen should talk. She usually had Nimrod and all his supplies with her.

She felt a pang of loneliness, missing her lovable creatures. Wobbles and Nimrod. What a pair.

“The police told us to wait inside,” Julie said.

“I need fresh air. Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay close by the door.”

“Call me when the police arrive,” Julie said. “I’ve been so busy with the play, I haven’t had time to go through the museum.”

“Sure. Take your time, but watch out for the ghost.” Gretchen tried to make light.

“Ghost?” Julie stopped. “I forgot that the house is supposed to be haunted.”

Gretchen grinned. “That’s what Nina thinks. Remember? She insists that Flora’s spirit is trapped between two worlds, that she has unfinished business on earth and that her spirit needs to be reconnected somehow.”

Reconnected to her head, Gretchen thought, but that’s morbid and Julie seems nervous as it is.

Gretchen didn’t tell Julie that she believed right along with Nina that the house was haunted. Hadn’t strange noises alerted them to the contents of the armoire? And later hadn’t chimes warned of Jerome’s presence? If not for the intervention of the ghost, they may have been killed.

She wasn’t ready, though, to announce it to the world.

“Maybe I won’t go inside after all.”

“No, really, it’s nothing to be afraid of,” Gretchen said. “If the house has a ghost, I’m sure it’s a benevolent ghost. I’ll come inside, turn on lights for you, and we’ll prove that the building is safe.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

Julie stepped over the threshold.

So did Gretchen.

“Last year,” Richard says after Detective Albright refills their coffee cups, “she gave me my father’s rock collection.” The technician is done. Richard’s fingers are free. “I was so grateful. Finally, a piece of family history, a small treasure, for myself. But then I couldn’t help thinking that she had a motive for that generosity.”

The detective seems to perk up at the reference to rocks and asks Richard about his father’s work, which Richard expands on. “He traveled most of the time, one geological dig after another.”

“And the equipment? What happened to his tools?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she has them, or they still could be in the house. Nothing was ever thrown out.” That’s the truth. All those dolls and the same furnishings. The secrets are still there, too.

“I’d like permission to search your home,” the detective says. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Richard says. “All I had to hide was my institutional history and my insane sister, and even that’s out in the open now.”

Richard is left alone while the search is arranged. The lock on the interrogation room clicks into place, trapping him. He wonders how long Rachel has been a member of the doll club, masquerading as Julie Wicker. Just like Rachel to gravitate to a bunch of doll enthusiasts.

He has nothing left to hide from the police, his soul has been stripped bare, but he’s worried anyway. What if they find something inside his house that they can use against him?

Stranger things have happened.

Paranoid tendencies, that’s what the doc said. Richard’s never been able to trust anybody. How can he start now?

“Richard,” Albright says from the doorway, “I’d like you to come along with us.”

“Of course.” Be agreeable.

Richard sits in the backseat of a squad car. A uniformed police officer is driving. Albright gets into the passenger seat. Richard thinks of another story to tell on the way over to search his house. One he’s been saving for last. This will seal the deal. They have to believe him now.

“One of those doll women came to the hall early this morning,” he says. “I saw her go in from my window. Then, a little while later, Rachel showed up.”

“She did? No kidding.”

“I thought I’d spotted her on the street outside the hall the day before, walking with some of the others, but I wasn’t certain. She’d changed her appearance. It was the eyes that gave her away. She has my mother’s eyes, the shape, the color, everything the same. But Rachel’s dead, I said to myself. I didn’t want to face the truth.”