Amanda Stevens - The Dollmaker

“Did he tell you where he sold it?”

“No, that’s just it. It’s been more than a week since he left, and I haven’t seen him since. He lays out every once in a while, but not like this. He’s never stayed gone this long before. I’m starting to worry that something might really have happened to him this time.”

“Have you reported him missing to the authorities?”

“I didn’t think that was such a hot idea, him being in possession of stolen property and all. That’s why I came here to see you.”

“What’s his full name and what kind of car does he drive?”

“Travis Lee McSwain and he drives an old white T-bird that my daddy let him have.”

“Do you know the year and license plate number?”

“No, but I can get it for you.”

“I’ll need a recent photo as well.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “You think you’ll be able to find him?”

“I’ve got a buddy who’s a cop in New Orleans. I’ll have him run the plates, see if the car has been impounded or involved in an accident. He can check the hospitals, too.” And the morgue, Dave thought.

She nodded. “Since you’re going to all this trouble for me, maybe I’ve got something more that will help you out.” She opened her purse, removed a snapshot and slid it across the desk to Dave. “This was pinned to the doll’s dress. Sounds a little strange, but one of the little girls in the picture looks a lot like that doll. Is that the kid you’re looking for?”

Dave’s heart stopped for a split second as he picked up the photograph. But he saw almost at once that none of the children in the picture was his daughter. Six little girls were seated at a table, and the one at the end bore a striking resemblance to Ruby. Same hair, same features.

“There’s some writing on the back,” Desiree informed him. “It’s a date and a Baton Rouge address. I guess that’s where the picture was taken.”

As Dave studied the photograph, gooseflesh rose on his nape. What were the odds of another child looking that much like his daughter? It could happen, he guessed. Everyone was supposed to have a twin somewhere. The little girl in the photo looked to be about seven, the same age as Ruby when she’d disappeared. But if the date on the back was accurate, the picture was nearly thirty years old. It had been taken more than two decades before Ruby had even been born.

Was it possible the doll Claire saw in the shop window had been made to resemble this child rather than Ruby?

A thought came to Dave suddenly, and the hand holding the photograph started to tremble. What if his daughter had been kidnapped because of her resemblance to the little girl in the picture? What if someone had been trying to replace a child that had been lost twenty-some years before Ruby had even been conceived?

Late that afternoon, Dave drove into Baton Rouge and located the address on the back of the photograph that Desiree Choate had given him. The house was only a few blocks from Louisiana State University, in an historical neighborhood that reminded him of the Garden District in New Orleans. A live oak canopy covered the streets, and the homes were a mix of colonial, Victorian and Greek Revival, most with tall chimneys and wraparound galleries.

He pulled to the curb in front of a stately redbrick colonial with dark green shutters and tall, white columns in the front. It was cool and shady beneath the trees, and he sat for a moment, enjoying the breeze through his open window. When he got out of the truck, he saw a woman in a straw hat next door, down on her knees weeding a flower bed. She looked up when she heard his door slam, gazed at him curiously for a moment, then went back to her work.

Dave stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. A wrought-iron gate was set in the garden wall, and he could see orange and yellow hibiscus blazing through the pikes.

The trim on the house looked freshly painted and the lawn was cut and watered. As he contemplated going up to knock on the door, the woman in the straw hat came to the edge of her yard and hollered over to him.

“If you’re looking for the new owners, they haven’t moved in yet.”

Dave turned and walked over to join her. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, slim and handsome in bright orange capris and a white cotton blouse tied at the waist. Her cheeks were red from the heat, but she still managed to have the fresh, crisp look of a woman who came from a world of good breeding, good manners and good connections. She’d been weeding her own flower beds, not because she had to, but because she liked to, Dave surmised.

“I’m not looking for the new owners,” he said, taking out his identification and P.I. license. “My name is Dave Creasy. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to locate a family who used to live here.”

She glanced at his I.D., then her gaze lifted to his bruised face, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “I’m Doatsy Benoit. I’ve lived here for nearly forty years so if you can tell me a name, I may be able to help you.”

“The only thing I have is a photograph.” He took the snapshot from his pocket and handed it to her. “Do you recognize any of these children?”

The woman held the picture out in front of her. “Well, I certainly do. The little girl in the yellow dress is my niece, Annie. And the others used to live in this neighborhood. I’ve known most of them all their lives. They’re grown up now and scattered across the country.” “Can you tell me who the child is at the end of the table?”

“That’s Maddy Cypher. This must have been taken at her seventh birthday party. It was a long time ago, but I remember because Annie was visiting from Monroe that week. Maddy’s mother, Katherine, saw us outside one day and came over to ask Annie to the party.” The woman paused, smiling. “Now you have to understand, Annie was a real tomboy. She hated dress-up parties, and I all but had to hog-tie her to get her to go. But I thought it was the neighborly thing to do, and besides, I always felt so sorry for poor Katherine. She just seemed so lost and lonely, bless her heart. Not a single friend in the neighborhood, and you hardly ever saw her out and about.”

“When did the family move away?”

The woman thought for a moment. “My goodness, it must have been thirty years ago. In fact…they left rather abruptly the night after Maddy’s party. I never saw any of them again.”

“Do you have any idea why they left so suddenly?”

Her eyes darkened. “Why are you looking for the Cyphers?”

“I’m working on a case involving a missing child. I have reason to believe the little girl in this photo may somehow be connected.”

Doatsy Benoit’s brows lifted as her gaze flashed to the house next door. She put a hand to her throat. “Oh, dear. In that case, maybe you’d better come in. If you want to know about the Cyphers, this could take awhile.”

A few minutes later, Dave was seated across from Doatsy Benoit on her sunporch, a glass of iced tea in front of him and a plate of lemon cookies between them. She’d taken off her straw hat when they came inside, and her short, blond hair was mussed on top, like a child’s after a nap.

She was one of those women who appeared completely comfortable in her own skin, with the kind of confidence that belonged to the very wealthy or the very beautiful. Dave suspected that Doatsy Benoit had once been both.

“There were two of them,” she said. “A girl and a boy. Maddy and Matthew. They were the same age and looked almost identical.”

Dave frowned. Savannah Sweete had said her nephew’s name was Matthew. “Were they twins?”

“That’s what I thought.” Doatsy glanced out the window, her eyes softening. “Maddy was such a beautiful, charming little girl. To look at her, you’d never know anything was wrong with her.”