Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

She reminded herself that Alex had gone through the shop on Friday morning and found nothing. The register hadn’t been tampered with, nor had there been any sign of a break-in or struggle, nothing to indicate that the owner had left the shop by any means other than of her own volition.

The shopkeeper next door hadn’t even been alarmed by the unsecured premises, and there was no reason for Claire to be, either. But when the knob turned in her hand, her pulse quickened.

She glanced down the alley to the sunny street. A group of tourists strolled along in the lazy heat, but no one glanced in her direction. The gate to the courtyard was closed and nothing stirred from behind the iron fence except a mockingbird flitting through the branches of a mimosa tree. Claire was all alone in the alley.

Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Nothing at all.

But her palms were suddenly clammy and her heart started to pound in trepidation. As she pushed open the door, the chilly gloom seeped out into the alley. Claire stood shivering on the threshold, still hesitant to enter as her gaze darted about the dim space.

Everything inside was just as she remembered it. Shelves stuffed with boxes and packing materials. The worktable strewn with doll parts. The kitchenette. The beaded curtain that swayed in the breeze from the vents.

It was still cold inside the building, and she wondered if the air conditioner had been running all weekend.

She took a step inside, then paused again as her hand went to her nose. She hadn’t noticed a smell when she was there before, but now something unpleasant permeated the frigid air. She only caught a whiff of it now and then, and she wondered if it might be food that had been left in the trash can for days.

When she walked through the beaded curtain into the shop, the scent faded and she was able to ignore it. She’d looked through all the display cabinets on Friday, but today, without Alex to interrupt her, she conducted a more thorough search. As she knelt to examine the shelves beneath the counter, the phone beside the register rang. The jarring sound startled her so badly, she almost toppled over, and had to grab the edge of the counter to catch herself. But the structure wasn’t stable, and when it shifted, she lost her balance and crashed to the floor.

By the time she’d righted herself, Mignon Bujold’s greeting had played, and a woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Mother? It’s Lily. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, but there’s no answer at the house, and as usual, your cell phone is turned off. The girls are anxious to see you and I’m getting a little concerned, so please call me as soon as you get my messages.” The voice paused, then added with a hint of urgency, “I hope everything is okay.”

The worried tone of the caller triggered Claire’s growing trepidation, and the inexplicable chill she’d felt standing outside the back door came back stronger than ever. Her every instinct told her to get out of the shop as quickly as possible.

The smell grew stronger as she walked back into the workroom, and in spite of her nerves, she paused to glance around. The odor was coming from the garbage can. She was sure of it. The owner had probably forgotten to take out the trash before she left on Thursday. That’s all it was. Just the trash. Or perhaps something in the refrigerator had gone bad….

As Claire’s gaze swept over the old fridge, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Something blue was caught in the door. It looked like a swatch of fabric, so small that Claire probably wouldn’t have detected it now if she hadn’t been searching for the source of the bad smell.

As she focused on the fabric, gooseflesh prickled along her arms and she caught her breath, not daring to move as comprehension dawned in a flash of horror. Her mouth went dry with fear. Cold sweat misted her forehead as dread tightened in her chest. She told herself to turn and leave, go outside into the fresh air and call Alex. She didn’t relish a conversation with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, but he was still a cop, and when she told him what she’d seen, what she feared, he would have to come and check out the shop for himself.

But Claire couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from that blue fabric, and it almost seemed as if she’d been hypnotized into doing something she wouldn’t ordinarily do.

She found herself in front of the refrigerator, but couldn’t remember walking across the room. And when her hand lifted, it was as if she were watching someone else, an impetuous stranger, reach for the handle and pull open the door. She tried to close her eyes because she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see….

The body fell with a hard thud to the floor.

Claire screamed and stumbled back, nausea so thick in her throat she bent double, gagging. Drawing in desperate gulps of air, she lifted her gaze, then shuddered violently when she saw the woman’s eyes. The dead, milky stare was focused on Claire, mesmerizing her with an icy penetration, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away. She felt weak and sick, violated by the smell of death, her own fear and those glazed, sightless eyes.

A dozen thoughts rushed through her head. She had to call 911. She had to reach Alex. She had to get out of there before she fainted dead away.

Still, she couldn’t move. She stood for what seemed an eternity, stunned and trembling, paralyzed by the kind of horror she’d known only in her nightmares.

The refrigerator had slowed decomposition and the woman’s pale features were still clearly discernible. She was older, sixty perhaps, petite and slim with short, white hair. A pair of glasses dangled from a chain around her neck, the lenses frosted over, and Claire saw the flash of a sapphire-and-diamond ring on her right hand. It was Mignon Bujold. Claire was certain of it.

After a moment, when she could get her fingers to work, she took out her cell phone and called Alex’s number. She tried to stay calm, but the words tumbled out in a horrified rush the moment she heard his voice.

“Claire, calm down and tell me what happened. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I’m…at the collectibles shop in the Quarter. Mignon Bujold is dead. It looks like…oh, God, Alex, she’s been murdered.”

She heard the sharp intake of his breath. “Claire, listen to me. Don’t touch anything, just get the hell out of there. Go next door or down the street and wait for me. Claire? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes…”

But her gaze had gone back to the body. The last moment of Mignon Bujold’s life was trapped in those frozen eyes, and a terrible thought came to Claire. What if the poor woman had been alive when she’d been imprisoned inside the refrigerator?

What if she’d been alive…and she knew no one was coming to let her out?

Claire sat in a restaurant across the street, staring at the array of emergency vehicles that had assembled outside the collectibles shop. She counted four patrol cars, their lights still flashing in the sunlight, along with an ambulance, a van from the Orleans Parish coroner’s office, and oddly enough, two wreckers.

The sidewalks were clogged with patrolmen, paramedics and the usual assortment of curious onlookers. Claire could see some of the officers talking to neighboring shopkeepers, and every minute or so they would pause to jot something down on their clipboards or lift their static-filled radios.

Alex came out of the shop once, said something to one of the officers, then went back inside. He and Claire had spoken briefly when he first arrived, and then he’d sent her across the street to wait while the forensics investigator finished sweeping the crime scene.

Claire had ordered a Coke, and it sat in front of her untouched, ice melting, condensation streaming down the glass onto the table.