Kevin O'Brien - Disturbed

Molly glanced down at the other receipt. It said: Dollhouse figures, and had a list of codes for four items that totaled with tax to $99.30. She started to shake her head, but then hesitated. “Sure, why not?” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble — that would be great. By the way, you’ve been very nice, thank you.”

“No problem.” He picked up the receipt and came around the counter. “I–I’m really sorry about your husband, Mrs. Dennehy. The dollhouse accessories are over here. . ”

She followed him into the parlor, where the different dollhouses were on display. He checked the receipt. “The first thing on here is a doll,” he said, reaching for an item on a wall hook. He took down a see-through plastic container with cardboard backing and a brown-haired man-doll inside.

“The dad,” Molly said.

“Actually, it says on here, ‘Teenage Son,’ ” the man corrected her. He read the back of the container. “They’re very specific about these things. Next we have something in the dining room section. . ” He glanced at the receipt again as he moved to a glass case, where miniature furniture pieces were displayed. He pointed to a tiny round table with four curved-back chairs. The set reminded Molly a bit of her own breakfast table — or rather, Angela’s.

“And she got a living-room piece as well,” he said, showing her to another glass case. “There it is — number four-hundredtwenty-nine. .” He pointed to a miniature grandfather clock.

Molly stared at the dollhouse clock. It was just like the one in her family room that didn’t work.

“And finally. .” The store clerk checked the receipt again and led her back to the doll display. “She got another member of the dollhouse family.” He plucked a blond doll from the hook, glanced at it for a moment, and then showed it to Molly.

She stared at it, and slowly shook her head.

“Isn’t that the damnedest thing?” she heard the man say. “That doll looks just like you, Mrs. Dennehy.”

And he was right.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey!” he heard someone yelling over a chorus of cheers.

Threading his way through the crowded market, Chris could tell he was getting close to the fish place. For one thing, he could smell the fish — and he saw the crowd of people ahead, most of them tourists, no doubt. “Coho Salmon!” someone yelled. “Hey, hey, hey!” For a second, the crowd parted and Chris caught a glimpse of one of the merchants. The guy — with thick suspenders holding up yellow wading trousers — grabbed a big fish from a bed of ice and hurled it through the air at one of the guys behind the counter. The crowd whistled and clapped.

Chris noticed among them a dad with his toddler son on his shoulders. The little boy wore a Mariners hat and was clapping with delight.

Watching them, Chris felt an awful pang in his gut, and tears clouded his eyes. His head down, he looped around the onlookers by the fish market and continued past the stores and the vendors. People bumped him and brushed past him, but he didn’t look up — not until he found a Kleenex in his pocket and blew his nose. He wiped his eyes with the cuff of his school jacket, the same cuff someone had cut a piece from when they’d broken into his locker. It was all frayed now.

He heard the crowd behind him, cheering on the fishthrowers. Some sidewalk musician nearby played “Moon River” on a harmonica. He started looking for the flower vendors. Felix had said it was the first dried-flowers stand by the fish place. Chris saw a stand with all sorts of fresh flowers in tin buckets. A thin Asian girl with a boy’s short haircut was at the register. Chris approached her. “Are you Roseann?”

She gazed at him curiously, and then nodded. “Yes, yes, we have roses.”

“No, I was asking if your name is Roseann,” he said loudly — to compete with another round of shouts and applause from the fish market fans. “I’m looking for Roseann!”

“I’m Roseann,” he heard someone say.

Chris turned and saw a display table of dried flower bouquets — in baskets and vases and wrapped in cellophane. The prices were posted beneath each arrangement. Sitting at the end of the table, a pretty Latino woman with big eyes and long black hair was busy at work. She wore pale blue rubber gloves while she strung together dried flowers into an arrangement. “Who are you?” she asked, giving him a wary look.

Chris could barely hear her over all the people. He sheepishly approached her, and then glanced around to make sure no one heard him. “Felix over at the Marriott said you might be able to help me,” he explained. “He said you waited on my father and some woman at the bar there on Friday.”

She frowned. “Yeah? Well, Felix has a big mouth, and I don’t know your father from a hole in the wall. So do me a favor and get lost.” She looked down at her work again.

After what Felix had told him about her being an illegal immigrant, Chris hadn’t expected her to speak English so well. “Um, my father’s the guy they found dead in one of the rooms on Saturday morning,” he said. “Felix told me you remembered him. I promise, I won’t cause any trouble for you. Felix already told me he’d kick the shit out of me if I went to the police or anything.”

She studied him for a few moments, and finally nodded. “I see it now,” she murmured. “You look a lot like your father. He was a very handsome guy. He drank a Wild Turkey with rocks on the side. I have a memory for these things. The woman, she had a Tom Collins. Your father paid — in cash, and he was a good tipper. What else do you want to know?”

He was at a loss for a second. “Well, the woman he was with, what did she look like?”

Roseann let out a little laugh. “Like trouble. I could see he was mad at her about something. They were arguing. Your father kept talking in a low voice. And I heard her say to him — like twice, ‘I just wanted to be close to you.’ Then she started crying, but I could tell she was faking the tears.”

“How could you tell?”

She shrugged. “With some women, you can just see when they’re working a guy. And this one was a real hustler.”

“So do you think she might have drugged my father or did something to make him overdose?”

Roseann shrugged. “I only saw them in the bar together. She left first, then your father paid the tab. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she talked him into meeting her in that room later.”

“Could you describe her — the way she looked?”

“Light brown hair, cute face, good figure,” Roseann said.

“Did my dad ever call her by name?” Chris asked. “Maybe Natalie ?”

Frowning, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think I heard him call her anything. But you know, I just thought of something else. She ordered a Tom Collins, but hardly drank any of it. That’s the mark of a true hustler. She’ll get a guy drunk, while she just pretends to drink. That way, she keeps a clear head so she can work him later. Anyway, that’s my take on that lady. But don’t quote me, okay? I can’t get involved with any police. Felix wasn’t kidding. He’ll beat the shit out of you if you go to the cops with any of this. I’ll make sure he does, too. I don’t care how cute you are.” She sighed. “I hope you’re able to track down that bitch. But you can’t expect any more help from me. Understand?”

Chris just nodded.

Roseann put down the bouquet she was working on, then got to her feet and plucked an $11.99 dried flower bouquet from a vase. She wrapped some cellophane around it. “Take this— para su padre , for your father’s grave.”

Chris took the dried flowers. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you very much.”

Sitting down again, Roseann solemnly went back to her work. “No worries,” she said.