Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Mignon remembered the doll maker as beautiful and gregarious, but from everything she’d heard, the accident had turned her into a recluse. And even though her dolls were still exquisitely sculpted and painted and remained highly coveted, the artistry in her creations had never been quite the same. Mignon would bet her teacher’s retirement fund that the doll in the window had been sculpted before the accident. She was that perfect.

Turning away from the sirens and flashing lights, Mignon sent up a prayer for the victim as she reached for the sign in the window. Before she could flip it to Closed, however, the bells over the door tinkled, and she chided herself for not being quicker. She could always turn the customer away, of course, but that wouldn’t be good business. So instead, she shrugged off her impatience and plastered a welcoming smile on her face.

Most of her regulars were women, but there were enough male collectors in the area that she wasn’t too surprised to see a man walk through the door. What did take her aback was his appearance. She’d rarely encountered anyone so…arresting.

The round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a rather delicate nose gave him a scholarly appearance, even as the full lips hinted at an unexpected sexuality. Blondish-brown curls fell across a high forehead, and a white orchid adorned the lapel of his dark jacket. But rather than detracting from his subtle masculinity, the exotic flower somehow suited him.

He gave a courteous little bow as their gazes met, and Mignon’s grandmotherly heart fluttered with awareness.

“Hello,” she said with an indrawn breath. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I hope so. I’m interested in one of your dolls.”

His cultured voice sent another shiver up her spine. “Let me guess, you’ve come to see the latest Queen Tatiana collection.”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m interested in the Savannah Sweete in the window.”

Ah, a collector. And one who knew his stuff. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Savannah Sweete is undoubtedly the most talented doll artist working today, but I suppose I could be a bit biased. She’s a native Louisianan and we do tend to brag on our own.”

“How much is she?”

“I’m sorry, she’s already sold.”

One brow lifted. “Really? I would have assumed since you have her so prominently displayed—”

“I haven’t had a chance to remove her from the window yet.”

He sighed. “I don’t suppose you would consider another offer.”

“No, I’m sorry. A deal is a deal. But I could show you something else. The Queen Tatiana—”

“I’m only interested in the one doll.”

Mignon gave him another apologetic smile. “Then I can’t help you.”

She expected him to turn and leave, but instead he took a step toward her. Mignon saw something in his eyes then that the glasses had previously masked. A coldness that made her shiver.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “I was just about to close up.”

“I won’t keep you. If you could just tell me from whom you acquired the doll…?”

Mignon frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. Now if you’ll please excuse me—”

“Then perhaps you’d rather talk to the police.”

The police? Oh, dear Lord…

Her hand flew to her chest. “What do you mean?”

“The doll was recently stolen from my private collection.”

Mignon’s heart sank. She’d known something was fishy about the doll when the other man couldn’t produce the certificate of authenticity. She should have listened to her gut, because her greed and carelessness had brought this strange man to her shop. And now Mignon’s instincts were warning her again. But she wouldn’t let him see her fear. She somehow knew that would be a mistake.

Her voice sharpened. “You can prove ownership? You have the certificate of authenticity or a receipt of some kind?”

“I have something better than that.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a child who bore a striking resemblance to the doll.

Mignon’s eyes fastened on the picture. For a moment she couldn’t tear her gaze away, and her uneasiness faded. “What a beautiful child. Your daughter?”

“A childhood friend.” His lips curled grotesquely, in a smile that made Mignon’s skin crawl. And his eyes…they were so…empty. They didn’t even look real.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and was annoyed when she heard her voice tremble. “If the doll really does belong to you, then perhaps this is a matter for the police….”

She trailed off when he whirled and headed for the door. He’d forgotten his picture, but Mignon didn’t call him back. She slipped the photograph into her pocket and kept silent, glad to be rid of him.

But instead of leaving, he locked the door, drew the shade over the window and slowly turned back to face her.

He was still smiling.

Mignon backed away from him, but when she saw what he held in his hand, she spun and tried to run. He was so much younger and so much quicker, however. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to him. She started to whimper.

“Stop it! Stop that racket this instant, do you hear me?”

Mignon nodded and swallowed a sob. “Don’t hurt me. Take the doll and whatever else you want, but please don’t hurt me.”

“Hush, now,” he crooned as one hand feathered over her hair. “It’s okay.”

His voice turned so soothing and liquid that for a moment Mignon wondered if he would let her go. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her, after all. Maybe she would still be able to give little Piper her gifts.

The needle sank into her neck, and almost immediately, her knees buckled.

Slipping from his arms, she fell to the floor.

She didn’t make a sound because she couldn’t. She lay with her eyes open, watching him move about the shop.

He found packing materials and a box in the storeroom, and when he came back, he was surprised to see that she’d managed to crawl over to the counter. She had a strong constitution for someone her age. She’d even pulled off the telephone, but she hadn’t mustered enough muscle coordination to punch in a number. He could hear the drone of the dial tone as he peered down at her.

Kicking away the phone, he squatted beside her. Spittle ran out the side of her mouth as her eyes pleaded for mercy. He smiled and patted her head, then got back up to finish his tasks.

Lifting the doll from the window, he wrapped her in several layers of plastic, placed her carefully in the box and sealed the flaps with packing tape. And all the while, he sang softly as he worked. “‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….’”

Once he had the doll protected, he came back over and stood looking down at the old woman. Ignoring the terror that gleamed in her pale eyes, he grabbed her ankles and dragged her to the back of the shop.

From the window in her hospital room, Claire watched the flashes of lightning as the storm rolled in from the Gulf. Her door had been left ajar and hospital noises drifted in, but she tuned out the sounds. If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough she could hear the rain.

She imagined the patter of it through the palm fronds and banana trees in the courtyard behind her house. She could smell the musty scent of wet dirt and ancient brick, and she pictured herself standing beneath the eave of the house, her palms turned up to the sky.

When she was a child she used to catch rainwater in a fruit jar. Her mother could never understand her fascination, but to Claire there had always been something soothing about the rain that fell in New Orleans. Something spiritual about the way the trees would begin to whisper in the sweltering heat and the sky would darken suddenly, as if a curtain had dropped over the landscape. And then the rain would come.