Goodbye Dolly

by Deb Baker

  The large hall was filled with stocked tables and lively exhibitors. She scanned her own collection of dolls marked for sale. Usually her mother sold an eclectic grouping, but since this was Gretchen’s first show, she planned to focus on just one type of doll: Ginnys, which were extremely popular at the moment.

  She wished again that she could have added the dolls from Chiggy’s auction. If she ever saw that guy who had cheated her out of those dolls again, she’d chase him down. She’d keep an eye out for Duanne Wilson. Maybe he’d attend the show, if he was really a doll collector and not a scam artist.

  Her mother’s hard-plastic Ginny dolls were lined up on small stands, waiting for buyers. Gretchen knew she would have her hands full all day, answering questions about the Ginnys and repairing whatever came her way.

  “Look at this,” someone said, approaching the table. “A Goldilocks Ginny.”

  “This one is called Doctor Scrubs,” someone else said, reading a tag. “Booties, a mask, green scrubs. Isn’t it cute? Can you knock ten dollars off the price of this one?”

  The doll show had begun.

  ****

  Nina’s table, as Gretchen had predicted, was a huge hit. Everyone stopped to watch Nimrod ride in his purse on Nina’s shoulder, his tiny face a study in sweetness.

  “Nimrod, hide,” Nina commanded. And the teacup poodle ducked down inside the purse to appreciative cheers.

  Bonnie Albright breezed by with a group of collectors at her heels. She stopped abruptly, as though Gretchen were an afterthought, and circled around to approach the table.

  Gretchen lowered the antique ball-jointed doll she was attempting to restring. This one was challenging because of the small holes that the stringing nylon had to pass through, so she was glad for the distraction.

  “Gretchen, there you are.” A chunk of red lipstick graced Bonnie’s front tooth. “This is Helen Huntington, president of the Boston Kewpie Club.”

  Gretchen rose and shook the older woman’s hand.

  The contrast between the two club presidents was striking. Bonnie looked like a clown with her harsh red wig and painted features. Although well into her seventies, Mrs. Huntington had a face the texture of a newborn’s belly. Plastic surgery, Gretchen guessed. And silver hair expensively bobbed. A Chanel suit. Svelte figure. Probably ate nothing but celery and carrots.

  Bonnie continued the introductions.

  “Eric Huntingon is accompanying his mother,” Bonnie said.

  Flabby, with a weak chin, the son had obviously indulged in a few too many pastries, making up for his mother’s healthful habits. “What a turnout,” he said. “I had trouble parking the car.”

  Bonnie frowned in concentration, apparently never having heard the often-mimicked “pahk the cah.”

  “Yes, well,” Bonnie said, hesitantly. “Yes. And this is Milt Wood and Margaret Turner.”

  Milt Wood grabbed her hand and squeezed hard. He was fortyish and built like a linebacker, all shoulders and solid girth. “It’s exciting to be here. A few days in Phoenix, then we’re headed to Palm Beach on Wednesday,” He released her hand. “Margaret’s planning a party to announce the season of parties. Isn’t that right?”

  Margaret Turner looked like a classic grandmother. Reading glasses hanging from her neck, yellow polo shirt tucked neatly into crisp shorts, and sensible walking shoes.

  “You have to be careful these days,” the granny lookalike said, leaning forward, speaking in a stage whisper. “The nouveau riche are invading all the old neighborhoods. The announcements have to be given discreetly, or there’s no telling who will show up.”

  Gretchen’s smile slid sideways and froze. Looks weren’t everything. Perceptions had fooled her before, and Margaret Turner had just reminded her that pretentiousness came in all physical forms, even with support shoes.

  These were Steve’s kind of people.

  “I know your mother,” Eric said. “I bought a doll from her years ago, when she still resided in Massachusetts. Lovely woman.”

  “She’s in San Diego,” Gretchen said. “I’m sure she will be disappointed to have missed you.”

  After a few more pleasantries and Gretchen’s promise to stop by the visiting club’s Kewpie table, the group moved on to watch the next act in Nina’s theatrical debut.

  “You don’t have that eastern accent,” Bonnie whispered to Gretchen as they were leaving.

  “We moved quite a bit when I was young,” Gretchen explained. “That’s probably why.”

  April sidled over. “I thought having Nina at my table would improve business,” she said with a scowl.

  Gretchen glanced at the crowd. “Business looks good.”

  “Her business, you mean. No one can get through the traffic jam for an appraisal. Even if they manage to fight their way through, they forget why they came over once she starts up.”

  April adjusted her reading glasses with one finger and looked beyond Gretchen. “Uh-oh,” she said. “He looks exactly like his picture.”

  Gretchen followed April’s gaze.

  Steve was weaving through the hall.

  “Uh-oh is right,” Gretchen said.

  Steve wasn’t alone. As unlikely as it seemed, Matt Albright strolled along next to him, scanning the crowd. Matt had dark, wavy hair, and a great build. He wore a white T-shirt that accentuated his tan arms.

  Gretchen and Matt’s eyes met from a distance. Matt nudged Steve and pointed in Gretchen’s direction. She could see beads of sweat glistening on the detective’s forehead even from here.

  “What’s Matt doing at the show?” Gretchen muttered. “I thought he had pediophobia.”

  April shot an angry look at Gretchen. “That’s how rumors get started. Detective Albright would never assault little kids.”

  “Not pedophilia,” Gretchen said. “Pediophobia. It means he’s afraid of dolls.”

  “Well that’s silly.”

  “You’re afraid of clowns,” Gretchen pointed out.

  “That’s different,” April said. “Clowns really are scary. I’m going back to my table. If you need me, holler.”

  Matt gave Gretchen a wave and turned away. She had noticed a nervous tightness along his jaw.

  Steve steamed toward her like a runaway train.

  ****

  “There you are,” Steve said, huffing a little. “This place is enormous. I had to ask that guy to help me.”

  “Where did you run into him?”

  “He was helping little old ladies carry boxes in.” Steve laughed. “Must have been a Boy Scout at one time. Got all nervous when we came inside, though. Funny thing.”

  Gretchen couldn’t believe Matt was even near the doll show.

  Steve noticed the shoppers at her table. “You’re doing well.”

  “I’m amazed at how many people like Ginny dolls. I’ll have to pull more stock from storage for tomorrow’s show.”

  She edged toward the center of the table, hoping someone would interrupt. A question, please. Or buy something, she pleaded silently to the customers.

  A uniformed police officer sauntered past, and Gretchen wanted to call him over to referee.

  “We need to talk,” Steve said to her. “I know this isn’t the best place, but it has to be right now.”

  “I can’t discuss anything now. I’m working.”

  “You’re killing me, Gretchen. I came all this way from Boston to convince you that I need you. You have to listen.” Steve grabbed her arm.

  “I’m busy.” She wrenched away. “Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

  “I can change your mind.” Steve, the great litigator, thinking I’m a jury he can sway.

  “I’m not interested in changing my mind. I’ve started a new life.” And you aren’t part of it.

  “We’ll talk tonight.” It wasn’t a request. “I’m going to insist, Gretchen.”

  “This guy bothering you, princess?” came a voice from behind her.

  Ronny Beam’s narrow Wile E. Coyote face
glared at Steve.

  Steve looked him up and down, then jabbed a thumb toward Ronny. “You know this character?”

  “You’re looking at Cupcake’s sugar daddy,” Ronny said. “Keep your mitts off if you don’t want trouble. I could be your worst nightmare.”

  Gretchen’s mouth dropped open. Ronny gave her a wink. Her skin crawled. Cupcake? Sugar daddy? Puhleese.

  Gretchen saw Steve’s nostrils flare. Not a good sign. Flaring nostrils meant trouble. Steve wasn’t the overly jealous type, but Ronny could ignite the mildest-tempered soul into a flaming rage.

  Ronny reached out with a microphone in his hand and tapped it on Steve’s chest. “Take off,” he said. “Scram.”

  Then Ronny made the mistake of pushing Steve. Microphone curled in one hand, the other hand balled into a fist, he thumped Steve on both shoulders and shoved.

  Steve stumbled, then grabbed Ronny by his shirt and backed him into the table. Several Ginny dolls fell over. “Take your mic someplace else,” he said. “Gretchen doesn’t want your company.”

  People near Gretchen’s table backed away from the two men. Others moved closer for better views.

  Gretchen heard Nina’s voice rise in the background. “Steve and Ronny are fighting over Gretchen,” she shouted.

  “Let him go, Steve. Ronny’s harmless.” Gretchen spoke nervously, hoping the police officer she’d seen earlier was on the far side of the hall.

  “You better listen to her,” Ronny said. “Otherwise, you’ll be the feature story on page one. I ought to file a complaint against you for battery. Page one, I’m telling you. That would increase circulation.”

  Steve didn’t release Ronny’s shirt. “Gretchen, should I remove him for you?” His eyes never left Ronny.

  “I hardly know the man,” Gretchen said. “And I don’t want any trouble.”

  “What are you saying?” Ronny said, risking a glance at Gretchen. “Is that all I mean to you? A one-nighter?”

  Gretchen felt like braining Ronny with her toolbox since Steve had him cornered and defenseless. Instead, she placed a hand on Steve’s arm. “He’s a creep,” she said. “Let him go.”

  Steve released Ronny.

  Ronny made a big show of rearranging his clothing, then turned to the crowd that had gathered. He smiled crookedly.

  “I’m taking statements over by that door,” he said, pointing to a back exit. “Anyone see the whole thing, I’ll be waiting to interview you. It’s going to be a big story.”

  Turning to Steve, he said, “You’re lucky I’m on a story that’s about to blow this thing sky high. It’s going to be better than those old-time horror flicks about them dolls that come alive and start murdering people. Yup. Even better than killer dolls. Even better…” he motioned at Gretchen with his head. “…than the story about what just happened here.”

  “Get lost,” Steve said.

  Ronny looked at Gretchen. “You’ll be sorry you passed up a good thing.”

  Steve took a step forward.

  Ronny scurried away.

  ****

  “Boy, oh, boy,” April said for the third time. “Two guys fighting over you. Wow. That was something.”

  “Just great,” Gretchen said, squirting mustard onto a hot dog with one eye on her table. “My cheating ex-boyfriend and the biggest slime in town. How lucky can a girl get?”

  The crowds had thinned at noon as most visitors filed into an attached room for fast-food lunches. The two puppies were exhausted from the morning’s attention and napped inside their respective purses. Tutu curled up under a chair and snored loudly.

  “Good thing Ronny was distracted by Steve,” Nina said from her table. “Or he would have been after me.”

  “He has a petition going on the other side of the hall,” April said.

  Nina paused, a nacho close to her open mouth. “What kind of petition?”

  “Ronny wants you thrown out of the doll show. He says all that dog hair can’t be good for the dolls. Six vendors have signed already.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Nina said.

  April shrugged. “I just heard.” She reached in a pocket of her enormous muumuu and grinned. “Here’s the petition. It won’t be circulating anymore.”

  “Someone’s going to shoot Ronny one of these day,” Nina said, grabbing the paper and reading the names. “I heard he went from table to table insulting the doll dealers with outrageous accusations and comments, trying to rile them.”

  “He’ll do anything to sell papers,” April said, working on her third hot dog and her second bag of potato chips. “Even if he has to make things up.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Nina said.

  Gretchen watched April eat. The woman should go to Curves several times a day to work off the huge quantities of food she liked to consume. No wonder she was broke. She spent all her money on unhealthy snack food.

  Gretchen took a bite of the hot dog and avoided Nina’s eyes, which reminded her of Tutu’s when the schnoodle begged at the kitchen table. Nina was bound to fall off her vegan diet by the end of the day.

  “At least Steve knows he has some competition,” Nina said. “But Ronny? Gag me.”

  Gretchen stared at her aunt. “I really mean it, Nina. I’m not going back to Steve.”

  “Even if he wants to fly to Vegas for a quickie wedding?”

  “Especially not then.”

  “Just checking to see if you changed your mind. I saw you talking to him. You seemed cozy.”

  Cozy?

  “He’s pressuring me,” Gretchen said. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Nina broke a nacho chip in half and nibbled. “I know why Detective Albright’s helping out at the doll show.”

  Gretchen raised her eyebrows.

  “He’s working on his doll problem.” Nina looked at April. “Probably for Gretchen’s sake.”

  “He can ask her out anyway,” April said. “Who cares if he doesn’t like dolls.”

  “He’s off duty today,” Nina said. “And he’s hiding from his soon-to-be ex. She’ll never think to look here. He spends five minutes at a time walking the aisles, looking at the dolls, then he takes a break in the back room to recover.”

  “He seemed pretty uncomfortable when I saw him last,” Gretchen said.

  “And hot,” April added. “As in sexy hot.”

  “I heard Matt’s wife is a nut case,” Nina said. “His mother has plenty of stories to tell about her. Speaking of, here comes Blabby Bonnie.”

  Bonnie bustled up, her red wig slightly askew. “Gretchen, I’ll watch your table for a few minutes. You have to go see the Boston Kewpie Club’s table. You know Kewpies are my specialty, but even I haven’t seen anything like their combined collections.”

  ****

  The Bostonians’ table overflowed with Kewpie dolls. All had knobs of hair on their crowns and long wisps of hair tumbling over their foreheads. Tiny molded blue wings protruded from bare pink shoulders.

  Most Kewpies didn’t wear clothes. Some in the Boston collection wore scarves or sunbonnets and clutched bouquets of flowers or waved flags, and the rest performed their spirited deeds fully exposed for all to see.

  “Kewpie is short for Cupid,” Margaret Turner, of the sensible walking shoes, was explaining to a cluster of curious shoppers.

  “This one…” Eric selected a Kewpie from the table, “…is called Always Wears His Overshoes. And this one is a Kuddle Kewpie. Note the cloth face and soft body.”

  “I have a Kewpie Dog at home,” someone said.

  “His name is Doodle Dog,” Margaret said. “Or Kewpiedoodle Dog. He was modeled after the original designer’s Boston terrier.”

  “Who was the original designer?” someone asked.

  “Ruby O’Neill,” Milt Wood replied.

  “No, it was Rosie O’Neill,” someone else said, correcting him.

  “That’s right,” Margaret said. “Her name was Rosie O’Neill. Let me show you a few more.”

&
nbsp; Several of the club’s members wandered back from lunch. Gretchen, relieved that Steve was nowhere in sight, nevertheless kept a sharp eye out for him. Nimrod yipped from the purse on her shoulder. She took him out and cuddled him in her hands.

  Eric held up another Kewpie for the group. “Kewpie Carpenter,” he said. “He uses the hammer in his belt to fix things.”

  “Here’s a Blunderboo,” Margaret added. “Note how he’s rolling down a hill.”

  Gretchen considered the Kewpie in Margaret’s hand. A far superior design to the one from Duanne Wilson’s box. Much more detailed, and of higher quality material. More importantly, it was the real thing, not a badly botched reproduction.

  “I have a reproduction Blunderboo Kewpie with me,” Gretchen found herself saying to what had now become a large gathering of doll collectors. “It belongs to…” The box of Kewpies in her trunk would involve a long explanation she’d rather not get into. Why did she even mention it? “…a friend,” she said. “It’s not nearly as nice as this one.”

  That was the understatement of the year.

  As she finished speaking, she spotted a man moving through the packed hall ahead of her. Something about his stride and his white hair seemed familiar. Could it be Duanne Wilson?

  “Excuse me,” Gretchen said to the group of collectors. “I need to get back to my table.”

  Still carrying Nimrod, she turned and followed, weaving through the crowd as fast as she possibly could.

  The man ahead of her must have been moving almost as fast, because she wasn’t gaining quickly enough.

  She walked faster, clutching Nimrod to her chest, his tiny ears flapping wildly.

  Determined to catch up with the man, she jostled her way down the aisle. She called his name, but he didn’t turn around or give any sign that he’d heard.

  That has to be him. I’ll get my Ginnys back yet.

  He stopped at a table, his back still to her.

  Gretchen came up behind him and grabbed his sleeve, cradling Nimrod in her other arm.

  The man turned, and Gretchen stared into his eyes.

  She’d never seen him before.

  Chapter 9