by Deb Baker
April, the consummate doll appraiser, couldn’t help saying, “It’s not worth a nickel now.”
“Please don’t tell me something’s hidden inside,” Nina said. “This is too weird.”
Gretchen, silently agreeing with her aunt, peered into the Kewpie’s hollow legs. “I do see something.” She drew tweezers from the toolbox and poked inside the doll.
April saw a customer approaching her table and called out, “You’ll have to come back in five minutes. I’m working on something else at the moment.” She leaned forward. “This is so exciting.”
Gretchen extracted a small square of paper, neatly folded in quarters.
“Keep going,” April said. “Don’t stop now.”
Gretchen unfolded the paper. “It’s a name,” she said. “Percy O’Connor.”
“Let me see that.” Nina plucked it from her fingers. “You’re right. That’s all it says.”
“Maybe this Chief Wag belonged to Percy O’Connor,” April suggested.
“It’s possible.” Gretchen was hesitant. “If that’s so, he went to a lot of trouble to put his name inside of it.”
“I’ve never heard of collectors defacing their own dolls to put their names inside,” April said. “It isn’t done.”
“Like cattle branding,” Nina said.
“But he destroyed the doll’s value,” April insisted.
“Has anyone heard of Percy O’Connor?” Gretchen asked.
Nina and April shook their heads.
“What’s going on over there?” Susie Hocker called from across the aisle.
“We’re wondering if you know anyone by the name of Percy O’Connor?” April called back.
“Never heard of him. Is he giving a presentation or something?”
“Something like that,” April said to her, heading back to her table. “I better get back to work. If you find out who he is, holler over.”
“Find out who who is?” Eric Huntington said, leaning over the table and startling Gretchen and Nina.
“Percy O’Connor,” Nina said.
Gretchen shoved the red shoes back onto the Kewpie’s chunky legs, hoping Eric hadn’t noticed the missing feet at the very bottom of the doll.
“He was a Boston doll collector,” Eric said.
“Was?” Gretchen asked.
“He’s dead.”
“This must have been his doll.” Nina held up the Kewpie. “His name was inside.”
It was too late to give her aunt a warning signal. Nina’s cosmic antenna had malfunctioned. Again.
Eric frowned. “It’s possible that the doll belonged to him. He collected Kewpie dolls. But what do you mean, his name was inside?”
Gretchen watched Eric’s face. If he had packaged the doll and sent it to her, he was an impressive actor. No sign of recognition flickered in his eyes.
Nina held up the piece of paper with Percy’s name sprawled across it.
Eric stared at it. “A Kewpie doll belonging to Percy O’Connor was inside the package I handed to you?” He was either genuinely surprised or an accomplished fraud.
“What makes you think this doll was in the package you delivered?” Gretchen asked. “We didn’t tell you that.”
Eric pointed to the floor. “Brown bag, newspaper, and the same packaging. I simply surmised that you had recently opened it. The Kewpie would have fit conveniently inside the box. Quite a sleuth, I must admit.”
“Very astute of you, Sherlock,” Nina said, a silly smile on her face. “Do tell us about Mr. O’Connor.”
“Percy O’Connor pretended he was of the Old Guard from the wealthiest end of Boston. Old, old blood, he said, but of course, the actual blue bloods of Boston knew he wasn’t, and he never quite fit in. His father came into some money during the war, I believe, an inheritance or something.”
“Nouveau riche,” Nina said.
“Exactly.” Eric nodded solemnly. “Aside from quite an impressive collection of dolls, he was also an avid historian. Fascinated with World War Two. Talked about it ad nauseam.”
“I assume,” Gretchen said, “he was a member of the Kewpie Club?”
“Yes, but not an active member. He rarely attended meetings.”
“When did he pass away?” Gretchen took the piece of paper from Nina and glanced at the name.
“Just three weeks ago. But he didn’t exactly pass on. Percy was well into his seventies, yet he had boundless energy, worked out at the men’s club, swam, jogged. Incredible form really, for his age. Remarkably healthy, we all said down at the club.”
Eric’s weak chin and flabby jowls contradicted his own claim to physical fitness.
“So what happened to him?” Nina asked, a starry look on her face.
Gretchen knew what Eric was about to say. Nina would attribute this knowledge to Gretchen’s alleged psychic abilities. But it was deduction, really. No one from the doll community seemed to be dying of natural causes lately. Why start now?
“The poor boy was shot dead. Right in his home, in the library.”
Nina, the supposed psychic, hadn’t seen it coming. She gasped and covered her mouth with a jeweled hand. “How awful.”
“Two shots to the head, it was,” Eric said, immersed in the drama and savoring Nina’s reaction. He held up his forefinger and thumb in the classic pistol pose and said, “Bang, bang.”
Nina gave a theatric squeal, setting off the dogs. All three started barking madly, emitting piercing, shrill yaps. The story of Percy O’Connor’s untimely demise was temporarily interrupted while Nina quieted the dogs.
“Doggie cookies,” Nina shouted over the yipping, rapidly distributing a round of biscuit. “I have to take them outside for a little walk,” Nina said. “Would you like to join me, Eric?”
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Wait a minute.” Gretchen put up both hands to stop them. “What happened? What’s the rest of the story? Did they catch the killer?”
“Alas,” Eric said. “The police had very little to go on. Nothing was stolen, so they ruled out robbery. No one seemed to have a personal vendetta against Percy. Nothing that the police could sink their teeth into, so to speak. All very strange.”
Nina had already thrown a purse over each shoulder, each containing an energetic ball of fur, and Tutu, the self-absorbed schnoodle, pulled impatiently on her pink leash. “Ready,” Nina said to Eric.
“The only thing out of place,” Eric continued, “I mean when the police arrived, was…well, besides the poor boy slumped over his rosewood desk… was a Kewpie doll shattered on the floor.”
“Really?” Gretchen felt queasy. “What kind of Kewpie?”
“If I recall correctly, it was a Blunderboo,” Eric said, taking Tutu’s leash from Nina and guiding her down the aisle.
****
“What’s with all the Blunderboos?” April said, after Gretchen filled her in. Business was light at the moment, allowing the dealers time to visit with each other.
“I think someone’s trying to scare me by sending Kewpies to me.” Gretchen nervously rearranged the dolls on the table to fill gaps where some had been selected for purchase. “What if I’m next?”
“Next?” April exclaimed, frowning over the top of her reading glasses. “Next to what? Die? Ridiculous. You aren’t next.”
“Three deaths, April. Count them.” Gretchen held up her hands and ticked off the fingers on her left hand. “Brett, Ronny, and this Percy O’Connor.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I accidentally inherit a box of Kewpie reproductions. Never mind that they are awful copies. Focus on the fact that there’s a Blunderboo in the box. Then Ronny’s killed, and a Blunderboo is delivered to me with a message inside.”
“The Blunderboo could have come before Ronny was murdered.”
Gretchen kept going. “Next, we learn that this doll collector in Boston was murdered, and what’s found at the scene?” Gretchen clapped her hands together. “A Blunderboo Kewpie doll.”
“A co
incidence?” April said, weakly. Even she was no longer convinced.
“Afraid not.”
“But why you?”
“I keep asking myself the same question.”
“Maybe you saw something at the auction, but you don’t know that you saw it, but the murderer knows you know and has to silence you before you realize that you know what you know and expose the killer.” April stopped for breath.
Gretchen decided not to ask April to repeat her theory. “Why grind off the bottom of Chief Wag’s feet?” she said.
“You’re being tested? To see how smart you are?”
“Whoever sent it knew I wouldn’t be fooled,” Gretchen said. “I think I’m being watched. It’s a spooky feeling.”
April opened a large bag of potato chips and crunched on one. Stress seemed to increase the woman’s hunger. “I’ll bet it is. Where’s Nina?”
“She’s walking the dogs with Eric.”
Walking the dogs reminded Gretchen of the “Wag, the Dog” note hidden inside the Blunderboo. “Maybe the first message had two meanings.”
“You sure do switch topics quickly,” April said. “I can hardly keep up. What message?”
“Wag, the Dog.”
“Two meanings? Like a double entendre?”
Gretchen thought about it. “Sort of. The sender wanted to alert me to Chief Wag’s appearance so I would discover the piece of paper.”
“How could the sender know you would crack open the doll head?”
Gretchen shrugged. “If someone sends a doll for repair, I usually check it over very closely. I guess it’s possible that I would have opened it regardless and attempted a better repair.”
“That’s a stretch,” April said.
“But ‘Wag, the Dog’ still could have meaning. Like in the movie. Maybe I have to stay smarter than my tail.” A thought occurred to Gretchen. “I had a tail yesterday.”
“Very funny,” April said. “Ha, ha. Was it long and hairy or short and bushy?”
Gretchen smoothed a Ginny doll’s dress. “I mean someone followed me. A woman in a black Jetta. When I stopped, she pulled up next to me and told me that I would pay, then she sped off.”
April stopped munching. “That’s scary. Maybe you should tell Matt and have him assign a bodyguard. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll volunteer to personally protect you. That is, if he isn’t too busy guarding Steve.”
“I wonder how Steve’s doing?” Gretchen had forgotten all about him.
“Maybe he and Matt are bonding.”
“This isn’t funny, April.”
“Have to laugh,” she said. “Or you’d cry.”
Gretchen watched her return to her table. A steady stream of people continued to stop and look at Gretchen’s Ginny dolls and Barbies, but business had been better the day before. Not many were buying today.
Gretchen’s cell phone rang. The caller ID displayed her mother’s mobile number.
“Hey,” Gretchen said.
“Hey, yourself. How’s business?”
“Great,” Gretchen said, forcing a light tone that she didn’t feel. She wasn’t about to alarm her mother with disturbing news. “I’m almost sold out of Ginnys, and the repair basket is full. I can’t seem to work through it.”
Caroline laughed. “Take them home, and I’ll help you when I get back. Things are going well here, too. This was a whirlwind tour. I’m taking the day off from working to visit friends. Is Daisy still staying at the house?”
“She came around but vanished like she always does.”
“Daisy’s good for Nina. My sister needs to be reminded of social issues occasionally. It keeps her grounded on earth.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I’d like to stay a few extra days. I want to drive along the coast and visit bookstores.”
“No problem,” Gretchen said. “By the way, the Boston Kewpie Doll Club is in town.”
“Stuffed shirts, aren’t they?”
“Eric Huntington likes Nina.”
“Who’s he?”
“The president of the club’s son. Helen’s son. Remember him?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Can’t say as I do.”
“He says he met you.”
“Maybe he did. My mind is going in my old age. Say hi to Nina. She could use some male attention for a change.”
Gretchen closed the phone and glanced down the aisle, her eyes scanning the crowd. She had that feeling of being watched again, but didn’t see anything, or anyone, out of place.
Chapter 18
It isn’t a fair fight from the very first punch, but Albert Thoreau learned long ago that life isn’t fair. He has no false illusions, therefore he isn’t prone to indulge in useless emotions such as disappointment or recrimination.
This he firmly believes.
He has no illusions.
What he does have are delusions.
Drinking helps him escape the worst of reality. But, as another blow lands on the side of his face, he wishes he had waited until a little later in the evening before imbibing.
Or possibly he should have started earlier and passed out someplace safe.
As he goes down, knees all rubbery and head spinning, he notices specks of blood on his shirt.
The blood is the same color as the sky, he notes, staring upward, flat on his back. The entire world has lost its vivid colors.
Monochromatic. Just like life.
“Tell me where it is, and I’ll stop.” His attacker’s breath is warm, smells like sour milk.
Once, long ago, Albert had done a little boxing, the old two-step in the ring.
Lightweight.
“Tell me.”
Albert thinks about taking a swing. No point. His assailant has an arsenal of lethal weapons.
He’ll take his chances surviving a pair of fists rather than a heavy metal flashlight or police baton.
Maybe Nacho will happen along and rescue him. Then he remembers he is supposed to join Nacho at their usual meeting place.
No help coming from that quarter.
“All any of you miserable derelicts understand is pain. Have a little more.”
The man leans down and delivers another blow, and Albert feels his eye swelling shut. There is only one chance to escape.
A last look up at the colorless sky, a roll to his side.
Then Albert goes limp and plays dead.
Chapter 19
Gretchen had learned quite a bit from her first doll show. For one thing, she learned never to turn away without keeping a watchful eye over one shoulder.
She learned this the hard way when she turned back to the table after talking to her mother to find muscular, solid Milt Wood holding Chief Wag in his hand.
“What do you want for it?” he asked, beaming with delight.
Gretchen sighed. “Mr. Wood, you have the misfortune of admiring dolls I can’t sell to you. This one also belongs to a client.”
“Tell me who, and I’ll approach the owner personally with an offer.”
“I can’t tell you at the moment.”
“You are remarkably obstinate, Ms. Birch, for a woman who hopes to make it in the doll business.” Milt wore a smile, but his eyes were steely.
Gretchen picked up the packaging she’d discarded on the floor and showed him the label. “No return address,” she said. “I don’t know who sent it.”
Milt turned the Kewpie over. “It looks like it’s in perfect condition.”
Gretchen took the doll from his hands and returned it to the box before he thought of removing the red shoes.
“Once I find out who it belongs to, I’ll pass along your name.”
“I won’t take no for an answer.”
Gretchen looked at him sharply. Something about the man left a bad taste in her mouth. The slightly raised tilt to his head gave her the impression he was looking down on her.
Am I psychic? Or a good judge of people?
Gretchen s
norted, self-derisively. A good judge of character? Come on, I’m the one who spent seven years on Steve.
If Steve was an example of her stellar judgment, she should give up on men while she had a little self-respect left.
She glanced at Milt, hoping he hadn’t heard her snort, but he was bent over the box, still coveting the doll.
Gretchen pushed Steve from her mind with one final thought. Let him stay in jail for a while. Serves him right.
“Did you know Percy O’Connor?” she asked Milt, pulling the doll box away and closing the cover. Of course he would know the man if Percy had belonged to the same club.
Milt nodded. “What happened to him was horrible. And to that reporter yesterday. What is the world coming to? I don’t envy that detective.”
“Detective Albright? Have you seen him here?”
Gretchen had been keenly aware of his absence from the show today.
“Oh yes,” Milt said. “Hasn’t he been by your table? He’s been questioning exhibitors most of the day. Haven’t you seen him?”
“Why, no.”
Maybe Matt was simply trying to gather more evidence against Steve. In any case, Gretchen was glad that he was being thorough. Strange though, that he hadn’t stopped by.
“Have you seen Matt?” she called over to April.
“He asked me a few questions earlier,” she called back.
“What kind of questions?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what he asked you?”
A pink flush spread across April’s face. “I didn’t want to tell you. You’ve been under enough pressure.”
“What? Tell me.”
“He wanted me to vouch for you and Nina, to make sure you were accounted for around the time Ronny was killed.”
“And?”
“And I knew that Nina was right here with the dogs the whole time.”
“I was here too. Did you tell him that?”
April squirmed like a giant nightcrawler on the end of a fishing hook. “I couldn’t, because you weren’t. That was right around the time Bonnie offered to watch your table so you could go see the Boston Kewpie Club’s table. Remember? I had to be honest with him.”
