by Deb Baker
“I can vouch for that,” Gretchen said, remembering his trailer’s collectibles were of the kind most people disposed of.
“But he was murdered at a doll show, and that’s significant.”
Gretchen went back to the open folder and spread out two more sheets of paper.
One was a copy of an article torn from the Boston Globe.
“He copied most of his material verbatim,” Nina said after reading the piece. “What a louse.”
“Quit speaking ill of the dead, Nina.”
“I spoke ill of him while he was alive. Why do I have to clam up just because he’s dead?”
Gretchen tuned Nina out and focused on the file. The Boston Globe had printed the story on August 6 of the previous year. She vaguely remembered seeing it when she lived there. “This article doesn’t name names,” Gretchen said. “It’s a piece on the effects of the black market during the war. William O’Connor’s name doesn’t appear. It’s a very general outline of profiteering activities. Ronny must have discovered additional information.”
“Or made it up,” Nina said.
Gretchen set the copy of the article aside and picked up the last item in the folder. “A letter,” she announced to Nina, holding it up.
“ ‘Dearest Florence’,” Gretchen read aloud. “ ‘Your willingness to assist me in my quest for my well-deserved and long-awaited fortune tugs at my heartstrings. Family must always stick together. Just don’t plan on double-crossing me, or you’ll go the way of all other flightless birds. Another meal for a hungry predator. Keep casting molds. Eventually you’ll get it right’.” Gretchen looked up at Nina. “No signature.”
“Give me that,” Nina tugged it out of Gretchen’s hands and read it herself. “Jeez,” she said.
“Who’s Florence?”
“Florence,” Nina said with flourish, “is Chiggy Kent’s real name.”
Howie Howard’s comment the night before at Bonnie’s party popped into Gretchen’s head: “Brett caught the little weasel inside the house going through some of Chiggy’s personal things and escorted him off the property.” Ronny must have taken the letter and the Boston Globe article from Chiggy’s house on Wednesday.
So far, she could attribute several deaths to the hunt for hidden treasure, starting with Percy O’Connor’s in Boston. Then a cross-continental trek to Arizona and two more murders: a doll auctioneer’s assistant and a second-rate reporter trying to legitimize his work with a real story instead of his usual trashy tales.
Gretchen had wandered into the middle of the mystery because of a mistaken box of Kewpie dolls. But how did that box fit in? She and Nina and April had searched every Kewpie in the box without finding a single clue to the dolls’ significance.
Gretchen knew one thing for sure. She better get rid of Chiggy’s broken Kewpies as fast as possible.
****
“You have enough to go to the police,” Nina said.
“No, I don’t,” Gretchen argued.
“This is too scary.”
Gretchen’s cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number showing on caller ID. When she answered, she heard Steve’s voice.
“Well, I can kiss that sweet partnership deal good-bye,” he said curtly. “I’m sure I’ll be charged with first-degree murder anytime now.”
“Where are you?”
“Tucked away where they can watch every move I make.”
“I’ll help you find a criminal attorney,” she offered. “You’ll beat this.”
“What makes you so sure?” he said petulantly. “Everyone else thinks I murdered Ronny.”
Gretchen could have told him the truth, since she knew him better than anyone else did. Steve didn’t have much capacity for anger in spite of his silly, macho confrontation with Ronny. That was the only time she’d seen him even slightly ruffled. Most of the time, he remained remarkably indifferent to everything and everyone around him.
Steve couldn’t have killed Ronny because he didn’t have any passion inside him.
Instead she said, “I trust you. If you say you didn’t do it, you didn’t do it.”
“Well, I can’t say the same for you. That’s why I’ve made my own arrangements for representation. And Gretchen, I’m going to tell the truth, even if it implicates you.”
“I’ve told you all along to be truthful. Nothing you can say will hurt me.”
Steve humpfed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I was in a cell for one very long day, in the company of the worst degenerates you’re ever likely to meet.”
Gretchen heard a hairline crack in his asphalt composure.
“The universal opinion in the bullpen,” he said, “is that you set me up with your cop boyfriend.”
“That’s preposterous,” Gretchen said when she’d recovered from the outrageousness of his comment. This from the man she had almost married.
She thought about defending herself against his charges, but she’d played defense for the entire length of their relationship. Always apologizing for being herself instead of the woman he thought she should be, always making amends for perceived missteps. The list of faux pas grew steadily over the years. The attorney in Steve couldn’t leave the drama in the courtroom and carried his litigation over into their relationship.
Without another word, she hung up.
Turning to Nina she said, “Silly Steve swims surely south seizing sticks. There’s a tongue twister for Howie Howard.”
“Was I supposed to follow that?” Nina asked.
“Steve’s grasping at straws. You’re never going to guess what his latest theory is.” She summarized the conversation. “We better figure out who really did it very soon. He’s cracking.”
Gretchen began gathering up her belongings. Traveling with a purse dog entailed almost as much strategic planning as traveling with a baby. “I think I’ll find our homeless friends and see if they’ve heard anything new.”
“I have to spend a few hours training Sophie,” Nina said, her eyes shifting from side to side. Gretchen recognized the signs. Her aunt was looking for a way out. “Why don’t you leave Nimrod here, and I’ll put him through a refresher course. How’s he been doing?”
“Great. Except when I tell him to hide, he ducks into his purse and falls asleep at the bottom.”
“You call that a problem?” Nina scooped the tiny teacup poodle into her arms. “Let’s try a new trick today, buddy,” she said to him.
“I’ll see you later.” Gretchen headed determinedly for the door.
“Lunch?” Nina called out behind her.
“Not today,” she said without turning. “I have to figure out some way to help clear an old boyfriend, and I’m not sure how to accomplish it.”
“Clueless?”
Gretchen put on her sunglasses as she stepped into the late-morning sunshine. Clueless was right.
Chapter 25
After fighting gridlock traffic, Gretchen found Daisy sitting on a park bench on Central Avenue, her trusty shopping cart containing her life story at her side. Nacho, looking grim and menacing as usual, sat beside her. When he saw Gretchen pull over to the curb and jump from the car, he rose without acknowledging her presence, handed something to Daisy, and strode rapidly away.
“What’s with him?” Gretchen said, plopping down beside Daisy. Heat rose in waves from the concrete, and she looked around for a more shaded spot to sit.
She missed shade trees more than she missed anything else from back home in Boston. Oaks and red maples and towering elms. She’d traded them for lanky, transplanted palm trees and spindly desert shrubs. Phoenix’s desert landscape offered no relief from the sun’s hot rays.
“He’s mad at you,” Daisy said, her arms crossed in front of her, same red hat pulled down close to her eyes, same purple dress. “You snitched.”
Gretchen watched Nacho’s back disappear among the lunchtime crowd. The man was like a chameleon. “Snitched about what? I never snitched.”
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Daisy held out the object Nacho had given to her before hurrying off.
Gretchen took the photograph from her and winced. “The poor man. What happened to him?” A battered face stared at the camera through a swollen slit in one eye. The other eye was completely closed. His face looked like ground hamburger.
“His name is Albert Thoreau. I thought you might know him,” Daisy said, stiffly. Gretchen knew Daisy was studying her reaction with a steady, judging gaze. She shook her head. At least she thought he was a stranger to her. With his face swollen into an unrecognizable mass, she couldn’t be sure.
Gretchen looked away from the picture in her hand. Life on the street was decidedly hard. “Should I know him? Is he okay?”
“He’s alive, and that’s all I can say for him.”
“What happened?” Gretchen asked again.
“You told the cops that Thoreau saw that guy get pushed into the street.”
“No, I didn’t.” Gretchen argued in her defense. “I never saw the man in this picture before.” With wild accusations slung by Steve and now Daisy, she should have been the one studying litigation techniques and defensive strategies. “Daisy, you were in the parking lot when Nacho told me someone had seen Brett pushed, but he refused to tell me who it was. Don’t you remember?”
“Well, you must have told somebody, because a cop came after him.”
Gretchen looked at the picture again. “A cop did this?”
Daisy nodded.
Gretchen blanched, remembering that she had told a cop. Matt Albright. She hadn’t gotten a name from Nacho, but she did tell Matt about the witness’s account of what had taken place on the curb in front of Chiggy Kent’s house. How hard would it have been for Matt to find him? Simple. Hit the streets and start asking questions.
She forced herself to look at Albert’s battered face again.
Could Matt Albright have done this to Albert Thoreau? “What makes you think Albert’s beating had anything to do with what he saw at the auction?” she asked.
Daisy’s eyes shifted away. “I just know, is all,” she said, in a small voice. “Albert’s sister is famous, you know, and he used to be, too.”
Gretchen gave her a hard look. Fame played too much of a role in Daisy’s life.
“I need a place to lay low for a little while,” Daisy said, drawing Gretchen away from a jumble of disturbing thoughts. “Can I go home with you?”
Gretchen, startled by the request, felt hopeful that Daisy was moving in the right direction, away from her destitute life. It was the first time she had ever reached out for help. “Sure,” she said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Daisy shook her head. “There’s something ugly happening on the street right now. This could have been me,” she said, taking back the picture and waving it at Gretchen. “I’ve been advised to find a safe house for the time being. But I have to bring my shopping cart.”
Gretchen looked at the cart, then at the trunk of the Echo. “I can get your things inside, but the cart itself is too big.” Then she realized she hadn’t emptied the trunk last night after the doll show. Daisy’s so-called treasures would have to fit in the back seat.
“I can’t leave my cart. I’ll find someplace else to stay.”
Daisy stood up and smoothed her dress, defiance in her stance and in the sharp glint in her eyes.
“Wait,” Gretchen said. “I have an idea.”
Digging her cell phone out of her pocket, she called Nina. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Okay,” Nina said. “I don’t mean okay, I’ll do it. I mean, okay, tell me.”
“Daisy needs a place to stay and insists on bringing her shopping cart along. It won’t fit in my car.”
“I’m taking back every single okay that I’ve ever uttered. I know what’s coming next.”
“So…”
“I hate sentences that start with so.”
“I thought you could run down here and pick her up.”
“How thoughtful.” Nina let out a noisy sigh. “This is going to cost you big time.”
“Anything.”
“All right, I’ll bring her back home with me. Karen Phelps wants me to start training her pup, and I’ve been putting her off because I haven’t had time. Ask Daisy if she’s willing to help.”
Gretchen relayed the request, and Daisy broke into a wide grin.
“I guess that’s a yes,” Gretchen said, giving Nina directions and sealing the deal.
As Gretchen drove away, she saw Daisy give her a shy five-finger wave and sit back down.
She also saw the black Jetta pull out right behind her.
At first, Gretchen didn’t think anything of it. Traffic along Central tended to be tight and congested, and even here in this valley of incredibly intense sun, black cars weren’t an exception.
What drew Gretchen’s attention to the tail was the proximity of the other car. Any closer, and they’d be sharing the same rearview mirror.
Now what? Should Gretchen call the police or try to lose the car? Maybe she should drive to the police station, but her pursuer might drive past, and Gretchen wouldn’t be any closer to identifying her.
At that moment the driver must have realized she had breached the imaginary line between a comfortable following distance and extreme road rage, because the Jetta blended back into the obscurity of traffic.
What a dope Gretchen was. She should get the Jetta’s license plate for starters. Gretchen checked her mirror, but the car had allowed some distance to separate them.
Paper and pen within reach, Gretchen slowed, waiting for the other car to creep forward. Still, it was too hard to get a license number while looking through a mirror with one eye and scoping out the flow of traffic ahead with the other. Not to mention the license number appeared backwards in the mirror, making it that much harder to read. And the traffic was as thick as a flock of migrating geese.
Ahead, a light turned red, and she eased to a stop. The Jetta was once again right behind her, now too close to read the number.
Impulsively, Gretchen set the brake, jumped out, and ran to the back of her car. She read the license number with no time to spare for glancing at the other driver, and jumped back into her own car as the light changed. As she drove, she wrote down the number.
The Jetta stayed right behind her. She switched lanes. So did the Jetta.
Maybe jumping out at the light hadn’t been the smartest move she’d ever made. What if the driver had shot her? Or tromped on the accelerator and crushed Gretchen against her own car?
What did the woman hope to accomplish by following her? Gretchen wanted to pull over, stomp back to the other car, and demand answers to a growing number of questions.
Did the Jetta driver want the box of Kewpie dolls? It just happened to be in her car’s trunk at this very moment. If she gave it up, the scare tactics might stop. The lethal scorpions and mysterious packages with creepy messages inside might go away. It made sense to get out of the middle, wherever that was. Let them know she wasn’t a threat any longer and didn’t want anything to do with the Kewpies
Aha! She had a plan.
At the next intersection, Gretchen stopped abruptly when the light turned to red, and she trotted to the back of the Echo with her hands up in classic surrender position.
The Jetta driver’s mouth dropped open at the same time that Gretchen popped the trunk and removed the box of broken Kewpie dolls. She placed it on the hood of the Jetta, directly in front of the driver’s window. Relieved to note that she wasn’t facing the barrel of a pistol, she managed a weak wave and ran back to her car just before the light turned green.
As she turned onto Lincoln Avenue, she watched the woman leap from her car and grab the box. Horns blared behind the Jetta as the light changed again, and the traffic hadn’t moved.
Gretchen dug in her purse for her cell phone.
“I’d like to report an incident of road rage,” she said when the Phoenix Police Department’s dispatche
r answered. She filed the report, giving all details including the numbers of the Jetta’s license plate and her own cell phone. “I’d like to know who that car is registered to.”
“We’ll send a car. We have one close by,” the dispatcher said.
“I just want the name of the driver.”
“That’s not up to me. I’m a police dispatcher, not your personal information clerk.”
Whatever happened to the courteous, helpful public servant of the past?
“Go about your business,” the dispatcher advised. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Sure,” Gretchen said, with no idea why she’d bothered calling the police. All she wanted was the name of her pursuer, and she couldn’t even get that. Once her complaint passed through enough red tape to produce the information she needed, she would have died of natural causes.
Or unnatural causes.
Ten minutes later, she was driving home with an alert eye out for the Jetta and a bag of green chile burgers from a fast food drive-through in the passenger seat. Her cell phone rang.
“I hear you had a close encounter,” Matt said.
“Of the third kind,” Gretchen responded cautiously, the photograph of Albert vivid in her mind. “News travels fast. I didn’t know you hung around dispatch centers.”
“I don’t. This one requires special attention, so they notified me.”
“I should be flattered.” For the first time, Gretchen realized the power of his position. Was he having her watched? As a detective in the Phoenix Police Department, his authority extended farther than that of an ordinary patrol cop. He had access to everything and everyone. Frightening, once Gretchen really thought about it.
“Just tell me what happened,” he said, sounding concerned.
“This car has been following me in a very aggressive way. It almost hit me. Whoever it is, is trying to scare me. It’s working.”
Matt asked her to repeat the license number.
There was a long pause on the other end. Then Matt told her the name of the person registered to the black Jetta.
Her turn for a long pause. He must have thought she hung up, because he said, “Hello? Are you still there?”
