Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“My mother is. My sister and I were shopping for a birthday present for her when I saw the doll in the window. I was involved in an accident that day or I would have gone in and asked about her then. When I came back on Friday, the shop was closed and the doll was gone from the window.”

A note of desperation in Claire’s voice seemed to filter through Lily Devereaux’s grief, and she looked up with a frown. “Which doll was it?”

“She had curly blond hair and beautiful turquoise eyes. She seemed so lifelike I had to look twice to make sure she wasn’t real.” Claire paused, fighting back her own rush of emotions. “This may sound strange, but she looks exactly like…my daughter.”

For the first time, Lily smiled. “It doesn’t sound strange to me at all. I had a twin doll when I was little. Mother still has her in her collection. You must have seen the Savannah Sweete doll. Mother only got her a few days ago and was over the moon about the purchase. If you know anything about doll collecting, you’ll understand why.”

Claire’s heart had started to beat an erratic tattoo inside her chest, but she tried to keep the excitement from her voice. She didn’t want to say or do anything that might alarm Lily Devereaux, because the poor woman had already been through enough. “The little I do know, I’ve picked up from my mother. I’ve heard her mention Savannah Sweete. I think she even took some classes from her at one time.”

“It’s quite possible. Savannah used to teach doll making classes here in New Orleans and in Houma, which is close to where she lives. But she had a terrible accident a few years ago that confined her to a wheelchair, and I understand she’s been almost a recluse since then. I don’t know much else about her except that she’s regarded as one of the finest doll artists in the country. That’s why Mother was so elated when a man brought one into the shop. As I said, portrait dolls rarely come on the market and you almost never see a Savannah Sweete.”

“Did your mother happen to mention the man’s name?”

“I don’t think she knew him. He wasn’t a collector or dealer, just someone who had a doll for sale. She said he mentioned that a child had died and the reminder was just too painful. That’s why he needed to get rid of the doll.”

Claire turned to the window, her own eyes filling with tears. A child had died and the reminder was just too painful.

Outside, the wind picked up, and she watched a paper cup roll across the street and into the gutter. In her mind she saw a bright yellow kite skim low over the surf as Ruby ran laughing behind it.

“Are you okay?”

The woman’s concerned voice drew Claire’s attention back to the table, and she had to swallow past a sudden knot in her throat. “I don’t want to bother you at a time like this, but…it’s very important to me that I find this doll. Do you have any idea what happened to her? Did your mother say anything about selling her?”

Curiosity sparked in Lily Devereaux’s eyes, but she shook her head. “The last time I talked to her was on Thursday morning. She said the doll had generated a lot of interest and she was anticipating a fairly heated bidding war. The piece was that spectacular.”

“Did you see the doll yourself?”

“No, but I feel as if I did after the way Mother went on and on about her. She said the attention to detail was extraordinary. The eyes, the mouth, the nose…everything exquisitely sculpted and painted. She even had a tiny strawberry birthmark on her left arm….”

Lily’s voice faded and everything inside Claire stilled as her mind slipped back in time. She could see Ruby so clearly. The two of them were sitting on the porch swing, waiting for Dave to come home.

“Why do I have this red bump on my arm, Mama?”

“It’s a birthmark, Ruby. You were born with it.”

“Maw-Maw says it’s where an angel kissed me. But Daddy has one just like it. Does that mean an angel kissed him, too?”

“Somehow I kind of doubt that, honey.”

Claire’s chest tightened, and for the longest time, she could hardly breathe.

The crime scene was crawling with cops. Uniformed officers were stationed at the front and rear entrances of the shop in order to limit access, and another half-dozen or so milled around in the showroom and on the street outside the front door.

John Gilby, the heavyset coroner’s investigator, squatted near the body, while Patrice Petty, the crime scene investigator, collected and bagged forensic samples. She wore faded jeans and paper covers over her sneakers, and her red hair was pulled back into a tight, sleek ponytail that glistened like copper. She and Alex Girard had worked together on dozens of crime scenes, and when she caught his eye, she gave him a smile and a slight nod. They’d had a flirtation going for years, and had even gone out a few times after he and Claire first split up. But nothing had come of it. Alex had told Patrice that he wasn’t ready for anything serious, and that was the truth. He also didn’t see any reason to complicate a working relationship that could be advantageous for both of them.

Two homicide detectives had been sent over by the division commander, and they stood directly across from Alex, both staring down at the body. Tony Maddox had his hands shoved deep into his pockets, jangling his keys as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He was a few years younger than Alex, maybe thirty-one or thirty-two, with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. He was a good detective, but there had always been something about him that rubbed Alex the wrong way. Sometimes his intensity and his dogged approach to an investigation reminded Alex a little too much of Dave Creasy.

Tony’s partner, Remi Broussard, was the exact opposite, a good-natured Cajun with thick, black hair he kept clipped close to his scalp, and a brush mustache that hid the scar over his lip where a suspect had sliced him open one night during an arrest.

Like Alex, both men were dressed in lightweight summer suits that were already rumpled from the heat. Maddox had gum in his mouth, and his jaw worked fiercely as he watched the coroner’s investigator finish his examination.

Alex’s gaze moved to the open refrigerator. The wire shelves that had been removed to accommodate the body had been slid behind the refrigerator, against the wall. Unnoticeable, unless you were looking for them. If the woman’s dress hadn’t been caught in the door, compromising the seal and allowing the smell to seep out, it might have been days before anyone found her.

Good idea, but sloppy execution, Alex thought. Especially from a killer who’d gone out of his way to keep the crime scene immaculate. Something or someone must have spooked him in the act, and Alex’s mind went back to Friday morning, when Claire had insisted that she’d seen someone inside the shop.

He’d dismissed the claim as her imagination, and when he’d had a look around the shop and alley to appease her, he hadn’t been as thorough or concerned as he should have. But he also knew that if the fabric had been visible then, he would have seen it. Which suggested to him that Mignon Bujold had either been killed at a later time or in a different location, her body then brought back to the collectibles shop and stuffed inside the appliance.

Or a third possibility. The killer had gone back to the body for some reason after Alex and Claire had left the shop.

Logical explanations aside, Alex could too easily imagine how all that would play out in the press, a body going undiscovered by a seasoned detective. The last thing he needed was to come off looking incompetent—or worse, a laughingstock—when his career was finally gathering some steam.