Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

Savannah Sweete lived at the end of a gravel road in a white-pillared plantation house surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Magnolia trees and crepe myrtle bushes lined the winding drive, and when Claire rolled down her window, she could smell honeysuckle mingling with the earthier scent of the swamp.

The gates were closed across the drive, but the parish sheriff who had arranged the meeting told Dave that Savannah would be expecting them. All he had to do was tap his horn and she would use her remote to let them in.

She must have been watching for them because the gates swung open before Dave sounded the horn, and they were able to drive straight through. The house sat on a slight incline, in deep shade, surrounded on three sides by towering oak and pecan trees and on the east side by the bayou. The lawn sloped down to the water’s edge, and Claire could see a pirogue tied up at a wooden dock.

Dave parked in the gravel drive, and as they got out of the truck, Claire lifted a hand to her eyes. White wicker rockers on the front porch were cooled by ceiling fans. Hollyhocks grew in the sun, blue hydrangeas in the shade, and as she climbed the porch steps, Claire could hear the drone of bees swarming a bottlebrush bush at the corner of the house.

She waited nervously while Dave rapped on the door with the big brass knocker. When the lock clicked open, seemingly of its own accord, Claire said, “How did that happen?”

“It must be on a remote like the gate.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The foyer was dim and smelled musty and damp, as if no one had lived in the house for years. The ravages of time and neglect were clearly visible in the faded wallpaper, the peeling woodwork and the water-stained ceilings.

An oak staircase curved up to a shadowy gallery, but the parlor to the right of the front hall was filled with sunlight. To the left of the foyer, an elevator with an ornate grille had been installed to accommodate Savannah’s wheelchair.

Dave walked over to the stairs and called up. “Hello? Anyone home?”

Everything was silent except for the gold-and-walnut grandfather clock ticking in the foyer. A moment later, floorboards creaked overhead. A woman’s voice said from the shadows, “Yes?”

“I’m Dave Creasy and this is Claire Doucett. We’re here to see Savannah Sweete. She’s expecting us.”

“Of course. Sheriff Granger called and said you were on your way. There’s a pitcher of sweet tea in the parlor. Please make yourselves at home. I’ll be down in a moment.”

They walked through the wide opening into the parlor, and Claire glanced around. Despite the sun shining in through the long windows, the room was dreary, furnished with heavy draperies and dark velvet divans. Windows looked out on an enclosed terrace, and beyond the garden, she could see a white, lattice summerhouse down by the bayou.

But what caught her attention more than anything were the dolls. They were everywhere. Peering down from the walls. Peeking playfully around curtains. Having tea at a tiny table set for two. And all of them so lifelike that Claire found herself having to look twice.

“Holy cow,” Dave muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck as if the hair there was suddenly standing on end. “Why do I feel as if we’ve just landed in some sort of freak show?”

“They are a little unnerving,” Claire agreed. “But wouldn’t Mama get a kick out of this place?”

A few minutes later, they heard the elevator descend. The iron gate swung open and Savannah Sweete’s wheelchair rolled smoothly onto the hardwood floor.

She was slim and attractive, her face unlined, the skin at her throat still smooth and supple. Her gray hair was cut short and fringed at the ends, and her smile, when she entered the room, seemed genuine and friendly. She was much younger than Claire would have guessed, or else she was very adept at concealing her years. She was beautifully made up—eyes, lips, cheeks all dusted with soft colors that complemented her pale skin. She was as perfect as her dolls.

She wore a black pleated skirt that fell over her knees and a silk lavender blouse draped with a matching sweater. There were pearls at her throat and in her lobes, and it was obvious to Claire that she still took a great deal of pride in her appearance. Even her hands and nails were perfectly groomed.

“I’m Savannah,” she said, and held out her hand first to Claire and then to Dave. Her drawl was very pronounced, her demeanor pure Old South. “Won’t you sit down?”

When they were settled on one of the divans, she rolled over to the coffee table to pour the tea. “I understand you have some questions about one of my dolls. Sheriff Granger said something about a resemblance to a missing child?”

Claire glanced at Dave and he nodded, indicating she should explain. “This may sound strange, but a few days ago, I saw a doll in a French Quarter shop that looked exactly like our little girl. She was kidnapped seven years ago.”

“Oh, my dear.” Savannah’s hand went to the pearls around her neck. “I don’t know what to say. What a terrible ordeal you’ve lived through all these years.”

Claire’s throat knotted at the woman’s compassion. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“And then to see your child’s face on a doll. The shock must have been devastating.”

“Yes, it was.”

“You believe the doll you saw was one of mine?”

“I’m almost certain of it.”

“But surely you don’t think I had anything to do with your daughter’s kidnapping.”

“We don’t think you had anything to do with her disappearance,” Dave said. “But we think the person who took her may have commissioned you to make a doll in her likeness. The kidnapper may have even brought Ruby to see you.”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. I always work from photographs. And seven years ago, I was already confined to this chair. I rarely saw callers apart from my nephew. If anyone had brought a child to see me, I’m sure I would have remembered.”

“If you only use photographs, how do you manage to get the details of your subjects so perfectly?” Claire asked. “I’m told that the doll I saw had a tiny birthmark on her left arm, exactly where our daughter had a birthmark. I don’t think it would have even shown up in a photograph.”

“My clients are required to fill out a questionnaire before I’ll even touch the clay. I ask them to describe things like birthmarks, freckles and even scars.”

Claire opened her purse and removed a picture of Ruby. She passed it to Savannah. “Do you recognize her?”

“Oh, my. Would you look at that precious face.” Savannah glanced up, her eyes soft. “What a perfectly beautiful little girl.”

Claire leaned forward. “Have you ever seen her before? Or a photograph of her?”

Savannah Sweete studied the picture a moment longer before handing it back to Claire. “I’m sorry. Over the years, I must have received hundreds of photographs, and at my age, I can’t possibly remember them all.”

“My mother is a collector,” Claire said. “She took one of your classes several years ago in New Orleans. She said that some of your students were fairly adept at copying your style. Were any of them good enough to make a doll that could have been mistaken for one of yours?”

“Most of the people who signed up for my classes were dabblers. Bored housewives or retirees looking for a new hobby. Once in a blue moon someone truly talented came along. To answer your question, I suppose it’s possible. If I could see the doll, I would be able to tell you definitively if it’s one of mine. I have a certain technique I use that, so far as I know, has never been duplicated by any other doll maker. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s all in the making of the mold. The method I’ve perfected is what makes my dolls appear so lifelike.”