Goodbye Dolly

by Deb Baker

  But it all fell on deaf ears. Probably bought off the judge.

  She has finished soaking the roses when the police officer walks toward her from the other side of the house next door. Lilly Beth drops the hose, a wild jet of spray jumping back at her. She sidesteps and scurries over. What could it possibly be? A break-in? In this neighborhood? Lord help us.

  “They just left,” she says, “that Birch girl and a bunch of other women. People traipsing in and out of that house at all hours, it’s a wonder they made it this long without trouble.”

  She hears barking on the other side of the Birches’ door. Several different pitches of barks, which means a houseful of dogs. The noise from those animals! Lilly Beth wonders what the local rules are regarding pets. How many are legal? One? Two? Tomorrow she’ll follow up.

  She taps her head with the palm of her hand. What is she thinking? She can follow up right this minute, since the proper authority is standing right before her.

  “I think they own too many dogs. Do you know how many are…what’s the word…legal?” she feels disappointed when he shakes his head. “Never mind, I’ll call down to the local station. Are you from the local station?”

  The police officer strides forward, arms swinging loose and with authoritarian hands, she thinks, wide and powerful.

  “Oh, hello, Lilly Beth,” someone calls from the sidewalk.

  Drats, now all the other nosy neighbors are spilling out of their homes like ants following a crumb line. Janice Schmidt waves a greeting, glances at the police officer, and continues to move past, an extra-wide stroller rolling ahead of her with two sleeping toddlers inside.

  Lilly Beth notices the police officer stop abruptly when he sees Janice, like the fizz went out of him or like he’d been bent on a task and then changed his mind.

  “You need to go back in your house, ma’am,” he says, flashing a badge just like in the movies. “This is a homeland security issue, highly classified. Talk about it to anyone, and you risk prosecution.”

  “Oh, my. Well, yes, of course, Officer.” He guides her along, pushing on her back, a little too hard, she thinks. “Anything I can do to help, you just call me. I’m a patriotic American, not like some I could mention.” She gives a meaningful glance back at the Birch house.

  She opens her door. What a pushy officer. “I’ll keep close tabs on them for you,” she says. “Don’t you worry.”

  He continues to stare at her house even after she backs away from the window. Then he gets into the truck and drives away, probably to return later with reinforcements. Strange that he didn’t drive a squad car, but maybe that was too obvious for homeland security. He wouldn’t want all the neighbors wondering why a police car was parked out front.

  She hopes she hasn’t interfered. She does tend to rush in impulsively without thinking things through. If she had stayed on her own side, maybe he would have crashed down the door with one powerful, bionic-like leg, and seized evidence that would implicate her neighbor in some kind of international spy operation.

  She vows to stay close to her window in case things heat up.

  Chapter 28

  On the way to Curves, Gretchen tried to steer the conversation back to Albert and his brutal beating, but Daisy’s single-track mind was zeroed in on her future acting career and her chances of success. As hard as Gretchen tried, there was no rechanneling the woman’s focus.

  April and Nina led in their own cars, forming a caravan through the Phoenix streets. Even though Gretchen thought she knew the way, she gunned her Echo through a questionable light rather than risk abandonment by the other two.

  She followed them into the parking lot. Mondays were always high-usage days at Curves for Women, after all those extra pounds added in the pursuit of weekend pleasures.

  “It’s the holidays coming up,” April commented. “Everyone’s trying to get in shape for Thanksgiving so they can go at it again.”

  Bonnie, Rita, and several other doll club members had already begun their workouts. Gretchen and her group jumped in wherever there was room and called out to each other as they exercised around the circle of machines.

  April stayed close to Daisy so she could show her the equipment.

  “You’re new here,” Bonnie said to Daisy. “Where do you live?”

  “Close by me,” Nina said quickly. “Right down the block.”

  “Hear you have a big date tonight,” Rita called to Nina.

  “That’s right. Eric is taking me out to dinner at the Phoenician, where the Boston Kewpie Club is staying.”

  “Wow,” April said.

  “The resort has eleven restaurants,” Nina said.

  “I’ve eaten there,” homeless Daisy said, her legs pumping up and down on the Stepper.

  Nina threw her a warning glance.

  Gretchen thought Daisy handled the equipment and the workout better than most of the longtime members, and once again wondered about her background.

  “Steve’s out of jail,” Bonnie said, a sly look on her face. Her eyes slid to Gretchen. “But of course you knew that.”

  Gretchen continued running on a platform.

  “Really.”

  “Tell her the rest,” Rita urged. “Everyone else knows.”

  “Steve can’t talk to you anymore. He met with his lawyer, and he said Steve’s to have no contact with you.”

  “Why on earth…” Nina began, frowning.

  “Only thing I can think of,” Bonnie said, all innocence, “is that his defense is going to be that you did it. Remember, it was your knife.”

  “The knife didn’t kill him,” Gretchen said.

  “Bonnie, you know better,” Nina scolded. “Gretchen had nothing to do with Ronny Beam’s death.”

  “That’s the truth,” Daisy said with conviction.

  Gretchen whirled to look at her, but Daisy seemed oblivious, preoccupied with shoulder presses.

  “Change stations now.”

  Nina bumped into Gretchen, who hadn’t moved. “Pay attention. You’re supposed to move.”

  Gretchen saw all eyes on her, all waiting for a response to the news about Steve.

  What could she say?

  To change the subject, Gretchen said, “Anyone else going to Brett Wesley’s memorial service?”

  “When is it?” April asked.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Haven’t heard a thing about it.”

  “Me either.”

  “I wasn’t invited,” Rita said.

  “Maybe,” Nina said, “the service is for those who were at the auction that day?”

  April nodded agreement. “Someone could have put the invites together from the registration list.”

  Gretchen sincerely hoped that all the bidders were invited. Maybe the memorial organizers had Duanne Wilson’s correct address. Maybe he would show up. She had a few questions for him. For that matter, she had a few questions for Howie Howard. She crossed him off her mental to-do list for today. Tomorrow night at the memorial would be soon enough.

  ****

  Peter Finch, the photographer, lived in South Phoenix, according to the address on the business card he’d given her at the auction. With South Mountain as a backdrop, Gretchen drove down Fifty-first Street and turned onto Southern Avenue. She gazed at the dilapidated apartment building on her left, slowed, and pulled to the curb.

  She made her way along the sidewalk leading to the building, stepping over and around an assortment of toddler trikes. A drape in the closest apartment moved slightly, and Gretchen saw fingers in the shadows grasping the heavy material.

  Where was Nina when she really needed her? Probably having her hair done again, or her nails repaired, or Tutu’s nails polished.

  Her niece’s life might be in jeopardy, and Nina was off primping.

  What had she been thinking to call the number on Peter Finch’s card and agree to meet at his apartment? He could be Jack the Ripper incarnate for all she knew. Gun toting was legal in Phoenix as long as the we
apon wasn’t concealed.

  Instead of a gun she had Nimrod, although that didn’t make her feel any safer.

  Gretchen rang one of six buzzers on the outside of the building, the one labeled P.F. She saw Peter’s bony, unshaved face peek out at her from a door pane. Then he unlocked the door and ushered her into his apartment.

  Gretchen sized up the room. Sagging couch, weathered wood breakfast table, small refrigerator, no stove, hot plate on the counter. No obvious sign of weaponry, no piano wire coiled on the table. Aside from the ratty furniture, he owned a sleek forty-two-inch flat-screen television and one of the fanciest computer and printer combinations Gretchen had ever seen.

  What his space lacked in basic luxuries, he made up for in electronic gadgetry.

  A bachelor, for sure.

  Gretchen looked around for signs of a woman’s touch. Not a thing.

  “Over here,” Peter said, leading her to the computer. “I shoot digital all the time. It’s so easy. I’ll show them to you on the monitor, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” Gretchen moved closer.

  Nimrod’s tiny face poked out of his poodle purse, and he seemed inquisitive rather than threatened. Possibly a good sign.

  “Is that a real dog?”

  Nimrod’s ears perked up as though he knew he was the center of attention.

  “Never saw a dog in a purse before.”

  “I hadn’t either until my aunt started training them.”

  “What did you have in mind? Just dolls from that auction?”

  Because Peter Finch had snapped pictures of dolls lying on the flatbed truck, she had used that fact to set up this appointment. A ruse.

  She wasn’t interested in doll pictures, unless…

  “Did you take any pictures of Ginny dolls?”

  “Refresh my memory,” he said. “What does one look like?”

  Gretchen described the doll and the box the best she could.

  “I didn’t shoot anything already packed in boxes.” He started up the computer, and Gretchen heard the motor kicking in. His fingers flew on the keyboard, and photographs began popping up on the screen. “Grab a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair next to him.

  She sat down next to him with Nimrod still in her shoulder bag, and for the first time wished he was larger and more intimidating. A German shepherd or pit bull would be good.

  “To be honest,” she said, “I’m not really interested in the doll pictures.”

  Peter pushed back in the chair. “Well, what then? All I take is pictures of dolls.”

  “Yes, well, I was hoping you took a few pictures later when Brett was struck by the car. People pictures, maybe of the accident scene. You said on the phone that you were still at the auction when it happened.”

  “Awful, what happened. Unbelievable.”

  “Don’t you have some pictures of the accident?” Gretchen asked again. “Any at all would help.”

  “I know what you’re thinking. I’m supposed to be a professional, and a professional would have taken pictures. But, frankly, I was so stunned I completely forgot. Brett was a friend. I still keep seeing it happening all over again in my head.”

  “I understand,” Gretchen said, softly. The image of Brett crumpled in the street like one of her broken dolls flicked through her thoughts often, too.

  “As far as the boxed dolls, I didn’t take pictures because Chiggy was firm about that.”

  “So you were there on Wednesday, too, the day before the auction?”

  “I was. She said no pictures of the stuff in the boxes in the corner of her bedroom. The boxes were supposed to be taken out to the retirement community when she moved. That’s why I was surprised to see one of them on the auction block.”

  Gretchen sat up straighter. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. She told me not to touch them, and I saw her boxing up those Ginnys you’re talking about. Brett must not have been paying attention, because I heard somebody behind the flatbed the day of the auction giving him a hard time about it. Sounded like someone might of slapped him, and I heard a man say, ‘you better get it back right now’.”

  Peter shook his head. “Brett must have been so shook up, he ran right out in the street without looking.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “Oh, yes, an officer came by after the accident, and I told him just what I told you.”

  The photographer clicked on an icon, and one of Chiggy’s dolls appeared on the screen. Gretchen wasn’t past the wincing stage every time she saw one of Chiggy’s poorly made copies.

  “See all the stuff in the background,” Peter said. “I haven’t had time to play with the photographs, fading out all that extra stuff. These aren’t scheduled to hit the Internet for a few more weeks. I like to play with light and color for a while first.”

  Gretchen studied the photographs as Peter scrolled through them. Not the best quality, she thought. And he hadn’t been careful with his backdrops. Gretchen could see other dolls from the flatbed behind the posed doll. He continued clicking until pictures of the crowd appeared.

  “I thought you said you didn’t take pictures of the accident,” Gretchen said, recognizing other bidders from that day’s auction.

  “I didn’t.”

  “What are these then?” Gretchen pointed at the screen.

  “You asked if I took pictures of the accident. I didn’t. These are from afterwards. See that one? That’s the back of the ambulance as it drove off. Finally got my wits about me by then and started shooting.”

  “Could I have copies of these?” Gretchen asked, keeping any sign of eagerness out of her voice.

  “I shoot quick and often. There must be a couple hundred shots. Do you want to go through them first?”

  “No, I’d like to buy them all.”

  Peter looked surprised. “Tell you what, you have a computer at home, right?”

  Gretchen nodded.

  “I’ll download all the pictures, and you can look at them on your own computer. I won’t charge you much.”

  Gretchen nodded. “Great.”

  Peter efficiently zipped through the files.

  “When did Chiggy tell you to stay out of the boxes in her room?” Gretchen asked while she watched him work.

  “Wednesday night. She was bossing the mover around, and she gave everyone strict orders to stay out of her bedroom, because the only things in there were her personal belongings.”

  “Who else did she tell this to?”

  “Howie was at the house, but he spent most of the time out by the truck getting organized. But I thought Brett heard her for sure. That’s why I can’t understand how he could have mixed up her personal boxes like that. He must have picked that box up before the mover got to it, and hauled it out to the truck. Like I said, he must not have listened. And me, I was there, of course. I called Chiggy up as soon as I saw the ad in the paper and asked permission to take pictures of the dolls.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “That newspaper reporter, Ronny Beam, who wanted to write a story about the dolls.” Peter tapped more keys, and the screen went blank. “Oh, yes, and that guy from Boston.”

  Gretchen, rising from a seat next to the computer, froze. “What guy from Boston?” she managed to ask.

  “Tall, blond, about your age, maybe a little older. Can’t remember his name.” Peter rubbed his rough face. “Steve something, I think it was.”

  Chapter 29

  It took Gretchen three tries before she punched Nina’s phone number in correctly, only to learn that Nina had turned off her cell. Where could she be? Gretchen checked her watch. Six o’clock. Ah, yes, the big date with Eric Huntington at one of the Phoenician’s exclusive restaurants. Cocktails beforehand in his suite. No wonder she found herself connected directly to Nina’s voice mail.

  She walked down Southern Avenue so Nimrod could sniff and go about his business. She tried to organize the events of the last six days, starting with Wednesday, the d
ay before the doll auction and Brett’s death, and the subsequent chain of unexplained occurrences.

  The news that Steve had been in Phoenix a day earlier than she thought, and that he had been at Chiggy’s house, disturbed her greatly. Her confidence in his innocence dissipated like the daylight now leaving the city. What had he been doing there?

  Now that Gretchen had discovered that Steve had been at Chiggy’s home along with Brett, it seemed that Steve had possible connections to all of the murdered men, even Percy O’Connor, since both of them lived in Boston. As for Steve’s connection to Ronny Beam…well, he had shoved the reporter around in front of a hall full of shoppers.

  Maybe the police had arrested the right man.

  She shuddered at the thought. How little we know the people closest to us.

  Nimrod spotted a woman ahead of them walking a great dane. The mighty hunter at Gretchen’s side wagged his tail and gave two sharp yips. Gretchen quickly turned around and headed toward the car to avoid the enormous dog and its owner.

  Who else could it have been? Howie Howard, by his own admission, had a dispute with Ronny over Chiggy’s personal belongings and had thrown him out. He also was present when Brett died. And Albert, the homeless eyewitness, saw the killer get out of a blue truck, and later Gretchen observed Howie getting into a blue truck and driving away after the ambulance left. As far as murdering Ronny, Howie easily could have waited for him in the parking lot. But so far, he, like Steve, had no real connection to Percy that she knew of. Yet.

  Gretchen loaded Nimrod into the Echo, and pulled away from Peter Finch’s home.

  Of the small group who had assembled at Chiggy Kent’s house to prepare for the auction, two were dead and two were at the head of her suspect list. Only the photographer, and Chiggy, aka Florence, remained beyond scrutiny - for the time being.