Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Luckily, the gallery had been so busy all day that she hadn’t had time to dwell on the gruesome aspects of the shopkeeper’s death. But now, in the quiet of the studio, the horror came rushing back, and with it, Claire’s mounting frustration. It was obvious to her that a connection existed between the woman’s murder and the doll, but why would no one believe her? Her desperation had finally driven her to Dave, and when he’d refused to help her, Claire’s disappointment had been crushing, even though she’d tried to tell herself the outcome was to be expected. When had she ever been able to count on Dave Creasy for anything?

But a part of her had wanted to believe that he’d changed, and that when he heard about the doll, he’d be the one person who would believe her, who would be willing to move heaven and earth to help her.

Instead, he’d turned everything back to him and his needs, and Claire didn’t know why that had surprised her. She’d once loved him deeply, but when she looked back now, she realized that their relationship had always been about him. The dark moods, the drinking, even his betrayal. He’d slept with another woman not because he loved her, but because Angelette Lapierre had offered something he wanted and needed that Claire couldn’t give him. And because he was Dave, he’d taken it.

Sometimes Claire still wondered if the devastating hurt and humiliation of his betrayal, perhaps even more than her grief over Ruby’s disappearance, had been the catalyst that pushed her into Alex’s arms. And then once there, she hadn’t wanted to admit that she’d made a terrible mistake.

Now her second marriage had dissolved, too. Lucille thought it was because Claire had never gotten over Dave, but if seeing him again had proved anything to her, it was that her decision to walk out on him seven years ago had probably been the smartest thing she’d ever done. On most days, it was all she could do to battle her own demons, much less his.

As Claire continued to mold the glass, she tried to clear her mind, but tonight work wasn’t as therapeutic as she had hoped it would be. She couldn’t seem to concentrate, and found herself going through the steps automatically, reheating the glass, attaching the punty rod to the bottom, removing the blowpipe from the lip. Someone had borrowed her tools earlier and left them on her workbench. As she reached for the jacks, her hand stilled and a shiver crept over her. For a moment, she could have sworn someone was watching her.

She glanced at the row of windows, then turned to scan the space behind her. The studio was well-lit and she could see the whole room from where she was sitting. The door to the gallery was closed and locked, as was the rear entrance. Claire had worked alone in the studio dozens of times, and the solitude had never spooked her before. She didn’t know what had triggered her apprehension now, but suddenly she had the same premonition she’d experienced standing outside the back door of the collectibles shop. And as she turned, her gaze moving slowly over every inch of the studio, her heart began to hammer against her rib cage.

This is crazy.

She’d been in the studio since the gallery closed at five, and she’d made sure to lock both outside doors when everyone else left. No one had come in or out since she’d been at her workbench, so there was nothing to worry about.

But for some reason, Claire’s mind flashed to the woman who had taken the tour of the studio on Saturday. Even though she’d stayed at the back of the crowd, Claire had noticed her because of her unusual appearance. She hadn’t thought much about her since that day, but now Claire found herself remembering the woman’s strange behavior.

But there was no way that woman—or anyone else—could get inside the studio without Claire knowing it. She was letting her imagination get the better of her. Taking a deep breath, she went back to work.

When she finally had the piece inside the annealer oven, where the glass would gradually cool until morning, she removed her Kevlar gloves and started to clean up around her workbench. Then she went to get her purse and keys, and recheck the gallery door before letting herself out the back way.

As soon as she opened the door, she saw the white box. It was tied with a pink ribbon and placed on the pavement where she wouldn’t miss it when she left.

Claire glanced up and scanned the parking area.

A security light had recently been installed at the back of the warehouse for nights when one of the glassblowers stayed late and had to leave the building alone. Her car was the only one left. No one else was around. No one that she could see, anyway.

She picked up the box and stepped back into the studio, closing and locking the door and turning the lights back on.

Adrenaline was suddenly pumping through her veins and her hands were trembling. She tried to calm her racing pulse, tried to tell herself there was no reason to panic. She didn’t even know if the box had been left for her. There was no name on the package. Maybe she should just leave it until morning and see if it belonged to one of the other glassblowers.

But even as the notion flitted through her head, she was already removing the lid, her hands fumbling with the layers of tissue paper until the contents were revealed.

It was the picture of Ruby that had been taken from Claire’s home a few nights ago. The original wooden frame had been replaced by one cut from cardboard and decorated with spray paint and glitter. The kind of frame a child might make in school for a Mother’s Day gift or Christmas present.

Claire’s stomach churned with dread as she turned the picture over and read the inscription on the back. Icy fingers stroked up and down her spine.

The childish scrawl read simply: “To Mama.”

Claire was still shaking when she pulled into her driveway a few minutes later. Dave’s truck was parked at the curb, and she had no idea why he was there. She supposed she should be grateful that she wouldn’t have to enter her dark house alone, but mostly what she felt was isolated and helpless. No one had believed her about the doll. Why would the photograph be any different?

Shivering, she got out of her car and walked across the yard to the porch. At some point during the evening, someone had stood outside the door of the studio while she worked, had perhaps even watched her through a window. Someone had left the picture for her to find, but who would do such a thing? And, for God’s sake, why?

She’d run out of the studio in a panic after opening the box, barely taking the time to lock the door before bolting across the parking lot to her car. Claire could see herself in her mind’s eye, and her overwrought reaction shamed her a little. And then she grew angry.

Someone had deliberately used a photograph of her daughter to frighten her. Was it not enough that Ruby had been taken from her? Did her memories have to be tainted now, as well?

As Claire climbed the porch steps, she could see Dave sitting in one of the rockers, but neither of them spoke until she reached the top. He rose then, his face still in shadows.

“Hello, Claire.”

“Hello.” Her voice sounded strained and shaky, and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea of why she was upset. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

She clutched her purse close to her side as their eyes met in the darkness. It was all she could do not to blurt out her discovery, but she’d swallowed her pride and gone to him once for help. He’d turned her away, and she had no reason to believe that she could count on him now. She couldn’t count on anyone. Not Dave, not Alex, not her family. Claire had been on her own ever since she’d first seen the doll in Mignon Bujold’s window, and the only thing she had any control over was her fear. She couldn’t let it overwhelm her. If she wanted to find out the truth, she had to remain strong.