by Deb Baker
Jerome relaxes slightly, hand still stuffed in his pocket, gripping his switchblade just in case. He is taking a chance, letting someone get behind his back. She’s quick. Holds the price tag up so he can see. Goes back to her machine.
That was close.
He helps himself to a cup of coffee before tackling the boxes of equipment. His first captured bird pops in his head, just like that, for no reason. When he was a kid he liked to sneak up on birds. He’d wait patiently, motionless, then strike like lightning. The first time, he took the bird home in his backpack, proud of his accomplishment. His mother wigged out, made him release it.
“That’s not normal behavior,” she said. “You should be playing ball with the rest of the kids.”
But birds, he discovered, were much better companions than people.
He gulps the last dregs of coffee, wipes his mouth, and gets to work.
12
The majority of metal-head dolls were made in Germany, although some came from the United States and France. Metal heads were primarily produced from 1861 to the mid-1920s. Materials ranged from copper and zinc to brass, pewter, tin, lead, and aluminum. Gold and silver were used in rare and valuable cases. The heads were nearly indestructible. Metal doll heads could be purchased through Sears, Roebuck and Company, and Montgomery Ward until the early 1930s.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Thursday morning Gretchen was on her first round of exercises on the Curves circuit when the subject of the haunted house came up, thanks to Nina, who couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
And Gretchen had thought her aunt’s fascination with tarot cards had been intense!
“April’s not here,” Nina pointed out unnecessarily, suspiciously. “She isn’t at the museum, is she? I don’t want anyone over there. I made it quite clear.”
Bonnie glanced up from the abductor machine. “She’s at the banquet hall finishing up her sewing project.”
Aside from Gretchen, her aunt, and Matt’s mother, the only other women in Curves at the moment were Julie and Ora, the manager. The doll collectors had studied the crowd patterns and had picked a time to exercise when they had more space and privacy.
“What a relief,” Nina said. “Thank goodness we aren’t planning to open the museum to the public soon. I don’t want anyone near the place until I get to the bottom of our problem.”
“April thinks your ghost is really a genie,” Bonnie said. “She wants to rub the travel trunk to see what happens.”
Nina frowned. “She’s still on that kick? I can’t decide if she’s making fun of me or not. April doesn’t have any experience with ghosts. She isn’t qualified to make a statement like that. Genies! That’s ridiculous.”
Gretchen could have mentioned that April had as many credentials as Nina, which were none at all. Nor was she going to tell Nina that Caroline had left before sunrise to work at the very place that Nina was warning them to avoid. Bonnie and Julie knew, too, but were sworn to secrecy.
“An apparition is a very serious phenomenon,” Nina said, running in place on a mat. “It’s the disfranchised body of a displaced person, stuck between this plane and another one. We have to help her get unstuck so she can finish her journey.”
“How did you actually see a ghost?” Ora called from the front desk. “Aren’t they supposed to be invisible?”
Bonnie nodded her bewigged head. “I’m wondering the same thing.”
“I thought I heard a sound coming from the vicinity of the trunk,” Nina said, continuing on to the next machine. “Once I opened the lid, something swished past. I felt it touch my cheek on the flyby. It was very cold and silver. Yes, it absolutely, positively was silver.”
“Why don’t you go back and photograph it?” Bonnie said.
“That’s a good idea,” Nina said. “I’m one hundred percent sure I was touched by an apparition and it has something to do with the girl and her travel doll. Want to see a picture of Flora when she was young? I remembered to bring it.”
Everybody did.
The familiar programmed voice reminded them to switch stations while Blondie belted out “One Way or Another” from a speaker on the wall. Nina left the circle, dug through her purse on a shelf by the entrance, and came back with a sheet of paper. “The historical society people wouldn’t let me take the actual photograph out of the building, but they made a copy of it.”
She handed the sheet of paper to Gretchen. “That’s her father, John Swilling. And that’s Flora.”
An unsmiling man with dark, neatly parted hair stared at the camera. He sat next to a young girl. Flora wore a chiffon dress with ribbons and a large bow on the right side of her short, dark bob. She held a doll in her arms. Part of the travel trunk was visible in the corner of the frame, not all of it, but enough to tell that it was the same trunk from the museum.
“Let me see,” Julie said.
Gretchen passed the photo to her.
“A metal-head doll,” Bonnie said, viewing the photo from behind Julie. “Those metal-head dolls really held up well, much better than porcelain,” Bonnie continued, giving Nina a lesson in doll history. “Too bad the paint they used in those days wasn’t better quality. You can’t find a metal head today that doesn’t need major repainting. The heads were sold separately from the bodies, did you know that? And some were made from tin.”
“And a cloth body,” Gretchen said. “Probably homemade, as most of them were in the 1920s.” Since working with her mother, Gretchen’s doll knowledge had improved tremendously. She’d recently repainted a metal-head doll, and the owner had liked her work.
“Just like a bunch of doll collectors,” Nina said, not sounding pleased at all. “The first thing you notice is the doll. Keep the picture, Gretchen. I made extras.”
“I wouldn’t try to take a picture of the ghost,” Julie said. “What if it’s a bad ghost?”
“I don’t think ghosts can be bad,” Nina said, looking unsure.
Until recent events, Gretchen hadn’t had strong personal opinions on any of Nina’s past delvings-tarot cards, auras, her conversations with the universe, the telepathic communications she’d tried to share with Gretchen with limited and questionable success. Throughout all of it, Gretchen usually had a wait-and-see attitude.
“I heard,” she said to the doll collectors, “that almost half of the population believes in ghosts.”
“And one in five has seen a ghost,” Nina added. “Ghost hunters have documented sightings that have been verified by other people who were with them at the time.”
Unlike colored auras and Nina’s other pursuits that were all based on her testimony alone, ghost sightings were group activities. Was there truth in numbers?
Gretchen didn’t know and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. It was exciting to think about, though.
The cemetery murder came up next. Gretchen had made a point of avoiding the subject. Since Bonnie was Matt’s mother and the club’s biggest gossip, all Matt needed to hear was that Gretchen was discussing his cases with his mother and her other workout buddies.
She needn’t have bothered, though, since Bonnie chimed in with, “My Matty is working on a tough case, a murder in Eternal View Cemetery. He can’t tell me a thing about it, because it’s highly confidential. However, my friend Anne works in the office at the cemetery and she gave me all the gory details.”
Bonnie’s red wig was adjusted properly for a change, and her penciled eyebrows were straight. Recently she’d switched to half-decaf, half-regular coffee. It had been Nina’s suggestion, a “psychic moment” she called it, and the results were amazing. No more jitters for Bonnie. No more crooked wigs or wobbly eyebrows. “Want to hear the details?” she asked.
“My. More juicy gossip,” Ora said. “You girls are energized today.”
Gretchen was all ears. Anything she could learn might help solve the crime and put a killer away. And as an added benefit, getting the case wrapped up quickly would get Matt back in
her arms with his mind focused completely on her.
“We’re ready, Bonnie,” Nina said. “Don’t leave out a thing.”
“Well, Gretchen was there when it happened,” Bonnie said. “She should help tell it.”
“Really?” Julie said, swinging her head toward Gretchen in surprise.
“What?” Nina shouted. “Is that true? I’m family. Why am I always the last to know anything?”
“I’m sorry, Nina.” Thank you, Bonnie. “It was so late by the time I got home…” What else could she say?
“My own niece,” Nina said. “Absolutely no consideration for me at all.”
Bonnie jumped in again. “I knew Gretchen had been there the minute Anne said the detective had a woman with him.”
“Was your friend Anne in the cemetery when it happened?” Gretchen asked.
“No, but she was behind on her work, so she stayed late in the office that night. She was going to her car when she heard a ruckus in the cemetery. She’s the one who called the cops. Of course, she didn’t know about the dead woman until the police arrived and searched the area.”
Two other Curves members came through the door, putting an end to their private conversation. “Let’s stretch,” Bonnie said, leading them to another room. Gretchen took up the end position. They were like a flock of inquisitive turkeys all in a row, trotting along with their necks craned.
Nina hadn’t said a word since she found out that Gretchen had been in the cemetery and hadn’t told her. She was too busy showing Gretchen that she was angry by ignoring her. “I’m sorry,” Gretchen mouthed the next time Nina glared her way. No reaction from her aunt.
Bonnie was already sitting on a floor mat, twisting over one raised knee. “Here’s the scoop. It wasn’t a random murder. A bunch of those homeless people were lurking in the cemetery, so that would have been my first thought, that one of them did it, or all of them together.”
Gretchen couldn’t imagine Nacho or Daisy killing anyone or anything. She’d have to take Bonnie down to the rescue mission for a little charitable giving. “People everywhere come in all kinds of packages,” she said. “Good and evil exists on all social levels.”
“But that’s what the police would have thought,” Bonnie continued. “That she had been picked just because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because she reminded the killer of someone, or because of whatever reason a psycho kills. But that wasn’t the case because the police found a big clue.”
“What big clue?” Julie asked.
“A doll,” Bonnie said. Gretchen made a point of keeping her mouth shut.
Everyone had forgotten to stretch. Instead they huddled together like football players. Bonnie continued in a whisper. “I put two and two together when Anne told me the dead woman’s name. Allison Thomasia. I searched on the Internet and found her right away. She was a fantasy doll artist.”
“My mother knew her,” Gretchen said quietly. “They were old friends but had lost touch over the years.”
“What was Allison doing in the cemetery?” Nina asked. Gretchen took it as a good sign that the intrigue was winning her aunt over enough that she hadn’t even commented on Caroline’s connection to the dead woman.
“No one knows,” Bonnie said. “Or if they do, they aren’t saying. I’m going to keep at Matty, but my son has tight lips.”
Since learning he can’t trust his mother to keep a secret, Gretchen thought.
“What I want to know,” Nina said, “is whose grave was she visiting after dark?”
All eyes turned to Gretchen, who shrugged.
“Gretchen doesn’t know,” Nina said, still testy. “Right there at the scene of the crime and she doesn’t notice the engraving on the headstone.”
“She must have been very upset,” Julie said in Gretchen’s defense.
“It was pitch-black,” Gretchen said. “And, yes, I was upset.” When was the last time you stood beside a murdered woman? “The woman had crawled from one location to another. I really don’t know the answer, but that’s a very good question.”
“Fine,” Nina snapped. “A killer is on the loose, killing doll collectors, which all of you happen to be, and you didn’t notice. Fine. Just fine.”
13
What is the difference between antique dolls and vintage dolls?
Dates!
Dolls produced prior to 1930 are considered antiques. Most antique dolls came from European countries, especially France and Germany. The dolls were clothed in Victorian and Edwardian fashions. Today they serve as delightful historical artifacts.
Vintage dolls were designed between 1930 and 1980, and were produced by doll manufacturers such as the Alexander Doll Company, Ideal Toy and Novelty Company, and Mattel, among others.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Caroline unpacks boxes in the museum’s upstairs storage room, the same room in which her sister claimed she’d witnessed the presence of an apparition. Nina has made her aware of every creak and groan from the old home, thanks to her talk of otherworldly creatures. Nina has always been very different from Caroline, searching for answers best left unfound, those that defy human logic.
Caroline has never been able to decide if Nina is right or wrong. Strange things do happen when she is around. Unexplainable things. But Caroline is more comfortable with her black-and-white view of the world. Why complicate it any more than it already is by throwing in beings from other worlds and other dimensions?
She glances at her watch. Ten o’clock a.m., still enough time to look through one more box of dolls before heading home to meet with a customer. The cast of Ding Dong Dead should be at the banquet hall deep into rehearsal. Caroline is very glad she opted out of that fiasco, preferring to work quietly and at her own pace at the museum. She’s also glad that she didn’t let the other members talk her into trying to open the museum this month. She needs three, four, maybe five months, hopefully less once the luncheon and play are over, when the others can devote more time to help prepare the museum’s displays.
She withdraws dolls from storage containers, one at a time, unwraps them, examining each to determine if it needs repair. Some are antiques, some vintage. Most of the dolls have been preserved well, packed away with expert care. Little is required other than smoothing a wrinkled costume here and there, recurling a lock of hair, wiping a smudge away, finding the proper stand. She has a few of her supplies at hand for the most simple repairs.
The next item that she unwraps is a metal doll head. The doll head has yellow painted hair, red lips, enormous blue painted eyes. The face paint is chipped away in spots, leaving marks like white chicken pox. Caroline isn’t surprised to be holding a head without a body. Many of the metal-head dolls were sold that way, and the new owner would then find a suitable body. She wonders about the body this one might have had. Metal, wooden, kid leather, cloth? She works her way through the rest of the container’s contents without finding an unattached body.
The paint she needs to restore the doll face is at home in her repair workshop. She’ll take the head with her when she leaves, find time when it becomes available. There is no rush. One doll head won’t be missed. The collection is enormous, and this isn’t even one of the most rare or valuable types of metal heads.
Caroline rewraps it in the original packing paper, puts it into a white plastic bag, and places it in a shopping bag with several other dolls needing work. Then she locks the museum’s door and drives toward home, thinking of the customer she’s about to meet.
The call came from a man who has never used her service before, but is excessively demanding, wanting a rapid repair in spite of his tenuous position as a first-time client. She should have refused, but he pressed hard and the financial reward offered for quick service was too high to turn down.
She weaves through the gridlock traffic. It’s always rush hour in Phoenix, too many people, too few lanes, the new highway systems becoming jammed as soon as they are built. Camelback Mountain is
in sight and beckons to her as always, a calming natural force in the mass of humanity.
The traffic frees, and she quickens her pace.
A white van pulls up alongside her at a red light, blocking her view on the right side. Again. She notices it because it seems to pace her; whether she speeds up or slows down, the van is right there at her side. It’s beat-up, junky, most of the side panel damaged, dented and rusty. The vehicle’s windows are heavily tinted, privacy windows.
She has room ahead to speed up and rid herself of the van. She does, but the van does the same.
Jerk! She hates driving in the city, the rudeness and unpredictability. The games of chicken. Look at me, I’m king of the road. Everybody driving massive SUVs, one-upping each other in size and power.
The white van is almost in her lane, veering over the line, forcing her closer to the center where cars rush at her from the opposite direction. A horn blares. An oncoming car swerves. She weaves, then returns to her lane.
What a close call!
“Take it easy. Get in your own lane!” she shouts out loud even though the van driver can’t possibly hear her. Her heart is thumping.
The van still paces her. Either the van driver is drunk or distracted by a phone call or something equally inattentive and dangerous. She glances over to see the side of the van within inches of striking her car. Now it is her turn to lay on the horn, a shrill plea to the other driver to pay attention, the flat of her hand hitting the horn hard.
Instead of moving off, the van lurches at her, sharply, a wrenching at her as though they are playing roller derby and are adversaries. A solid hit.
She feels the impact and grips the wheel with both hands, struggling to control the car, intuitively knowing that her efforts are wasted. She uses every muscle in her body, focuses with all the power in her being, but still the car swerves beneath her, heading the wrong way.
