by Deb Baker
“I’m putting out an APB.” He was really, really mad, if she was any judge of male voice tones. “And how do you know about the victim’s computerized family history? What do you think you’re doing outrunning an officer of the law, Gretchen?”
She ended the call.
Was he serious about the APB? Could he have her picked up? She doubted it. What was he going to do? Have her arrested every time she did something he didn’t approve of?
Gretchen sensed a glitch in their previously harmonic relationship. They had had another disagreement.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t be their last.
27
Caroline and Gretchen spent the next hour parked in the crowded lot of the Biltmore Fashion Park making phone calls and warning their other club friends to be on the alert. No one knew why Caroline and Gretchen had been targeted, but all the Phoenix Dollers agreed that the Birch women must have crossed someone, someway, somehow.
Gretchen and Caroline had been the driving force in negotiating the terms of the agreement regarding the museum; they had been singled out to represent the club by the attorney and had handled most of the transaction. They were also the only members with keys to the house, a stipulation required by their benefactor.
The other club members debated whether they too were in danger; it was a possibility they couldn’t ignore.
April had a theory.
“The most active members of the doll club are in big trouble,” she said when she answered her cell and learned of the day’s events. She considered herself in that group, along with Bonnie and Julie. The women would spend the night with friends and stay close together during rehearsals. They were armed with lipstick-size pepper spray, gifts from Nina to all the club members last holiday season.
“It’s the pattern of threes,” April said. “Everything, including murder, comes in threes. Sets. For example, we eat three meals a day.”
Gretchen had heard this before.
“Three cheers,” April continued. “More sets of three-Hip, hip, hooray. Small, medium, and large. Three again. And then abbreviations. ABC, AAA, PTA, TNT, VIP. Before, during, and after. More threes.”
April was building steam. “How about jokes? The minister, priest, and rabbi. The blonde, brunette, and redhead. Tom, Dick, and Harry. All threes.”
“Third time’s the charm,” Gretchen added when April paused for breath. “Gotta go.”
Nina offered to make sure Wobbles was well fed. She’d also pick up Nimrod from their house immediately and keep him with her. Nina, in case she was also on their adversary’s bad side, had her own safety plan.
“I’m staying with Brandon for a few days,” she said coyly, turning the situation to her advantage. “It’ll give me a chance to see if he’s strong relationship material. No sense getting too involved if we aren’t cohabitatively compatible.”
Gretchen hadn’t thought of asking Matt for help. Instead of arguing with him should she have moved in under his protection?
Not that he’d offered.
Not that she would have taken him up on it. She wasn’t the type of woman to play the helpless card. If they were going to make it for the long term, he needed to understand that she wasn’t going to walk two steps behind him.
Gretchen felt better after talking to her friends. For now, everyone was safely off the streets and holed up in various hideouts.
Thinking of being holed up in hideouts reminded Gretchen of her father’s sister, her aunt, Gertie Johnson, who ran her own investigative business in the backwoods of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. She’d given Gretchen advice in the past that had helped her get out of some tight places.
It was too bad that Gertie and Nina didn’t get along. The two women weren’t related by blood, but Gretchen’s aunts were very much alike-eccentric, opinionated, and stubborn-which was a major contributing factor in their inability to see life through the same type of lenses.
Gretchen could use some of her Midwest aunt’s home-spun solutions. If only she didn’t live across the country.
While Caroline sat next to her in the car talking to Bonnie on her cell, Gretchen called Aunt Gertie. She answered right away.
“How are things in the wild Southwest?” her aunt said.
It took a long time to relate the entire situation from the very beginning, but Gertie was a good listener, rarely interrupting, although she produced several vocal sounds, ranging from snorts to tongue clicks.
Caroline hung up from her call and leaned back in the seat with her eyes closed as Gretchen continued on.
“Whowee,” Gertie said at the end of the story. “That’s quite a tale. Do you want my opinion?”
“I would appreciate it more than you could possibly imagine. I’m putting you on speaker phone, if that’s all right. Then Mom can hear what you have to say.”
“Hi, Caroline,” Gertie said. “You’re in a fine mess.”
“You could call it that.”
“Here’s what you need to do. Ready?”
“Ready,” Gretchen said.
“Find out as much about the Swilling family as you can, and I don’t mean the family tree branch like who’s related to who. You need the more personal stuff, like where are those kids? Find out what happened to Flora’s son and daughter. What are their names?”
“Richard and Rachel.”
“Them. Find out if they reported their mother missing.”
“I’m sure the police are following up on all those connections,” Caroline added.
Another of Gertie’s tongue noises. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have a son who is a sheriff, and I can’t count on him for much in the way of law enforcement. Your cops in Phoenix might be fancier than ours with more resources, but the first thing you have to decide, if you want to live, is that you can’t count on anybody else to handle it for you. You want a job done right, do it yourself.”
“Gotcha,” Gretchen said. “Go on.”
“Get that new owner’s name, the one who owns the museum house.”
“How, though?” Gretchen said. “The attorney is adamant about protecting his client.”
Caroline leaned closer to the speaker. “I tried to get the information through city hall records. The property is part of a trust. The terms of the trust aren’t public record.”
“Then rough up the lawyer. He’ll spill.”
Gretchen loved the way her aunt spoke, tough and to the point. And from what Gretchen had heard, her aunt’s actions were as strong as her speech. “How are we supposed to learn about the Swilling family? They’re all either dead or missing.”
“You told me they owned that house for decades.”
“Correct.”
“Somebody must still be living in their old neighborhood, someone who would remember the family. And if there was gossip concerning them, that person would remember every last detail of any rumors, too.”
“Thanks, Aunt Gert, you’ve been a big help.”
“The only thing I’d suggest that you ignore,” Gertie said, wrapping up the conversation, “is Nina’s stupid idea about haunted houses and ghosts. That woman is several cards short of a full deck. Find something harmless for her to do before she hurts herself. And keep me posted.”
Caroline and Gretchen had done all they could for the time being. Government buildings were closed for the weekend, making it impossible to delve into any more historical records, and their friends were on high alert.
“What about us?” Caroline said, sounding worn out. “We could go home.”
“That’s probably the last place that Matt will look for us,” Gretchen agreed. “Or we could stay with Daisy, mingle with the invisible people.”
“I’d rather not. I’m getting too old to sleep on hard ground without a pillow if I don’t have to.”
“And I need computer access if I’m going to track down some of the present-day Swillings. I just hope a few of Flora’s family members are still alive.”
They drove home without encountering any pol
ice protection officers. Gretchen drove into the garage rather than leaving her car in the carport. They left the lights off so the house would appear empty, and without another word, Gretchen went to her room and collapsed in bed.
The only thing she heard before morning was a soft and steady purring from Wobbles.
28
Five o’clock Saturday morning Gretchen poured a cup of coffee and made herself comfortable at the computer, expecting that the task would take a long time. The first item she found in her Internet search came quicker than expected. Rachel Berringer’s name was listed in the Arizona Republic obituaries. Two brief impersonal paragraphs to prove that Flora Swilling’s daughter had once existed.
Rachel had died in March of the current year.
Gretchen learned more from what was left out than what was said. There wasn’t a “survived by” list of close relatives. There wasn’t any hint of the cause of death as in many obituaries where the causes were made known through requests for special donations. The obit didn’t say anything about “in lieu of flowers.” Rachel had died at sixty-three, hadn’t taken on another last name through marriage, and had left no children. There was no mention of interment or visitation services.
That was it.
After an unsuccessful search for more information, Gretchen considered that avenue of inquiry a complete dead end. The obit didn’t even tell her where Rachel had lived or died. Just because the obituary ran in the largest paper in Phoenix didn’t mean Rachel Berringer had died in Arizona. She could have been a former resident. Gretchen wondered who had been responsible for placing the information in the newspaper.
The only detail of minor interest was that Rachel had died the week before that anonymous donor had offered the Phoenix Dollers the use of the Swilling family home. Had she been that donor? Or had ownership passed to another relative? And what about Richard? Was he their anonymous benefactor?
Gretchen would delve into Rachel Berringer’s past after all the intrigue and drama died down, after a killer was identified. The club should make some sort of dedication to the deceased woman and to others in her family who had made contributions to the collection. They should be immortalized within the museum.
Next, she searched for Richard Berringer, keying in various combinations of last names. She got over fifty thousand hits. This one was going to be more complex. Gretchen didn’t have a starting point for the brother, didn’t know anything significant to narrow the search criteria.
She refined the search to Phoenix and the surrounding area. Several hours later, she still wasn’t any closer to finding Richard Berringer.
He hadn’t been mentioned in Rachel’s obituary.
Who knows, she thought, maybe he’s dead, too.
29
Doll repair can be likened to surgical procedures performed by medical surgeons. The best doll doctors have an array of specialized instruments and are skilled in their use. Doll doctors must be adept at putting patients back together again. In a sense, they restore life.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
“What are you doing here?” attorney Dean McNalty asked, looking from one woman to the other. His eyes, distorted by the lenses of his Coke-bottle glasses, appeared overly large and reptilian. He sat behind a desk of worn, marred wood, surrounded by cheap vertical file cabinets. The carpet was faded and dirty. Gretchen wouldn’t have taken a seat in the old upholstered chair if someone had threatened her life.
“I’m surprised to find you in your office on Saturday,” Gretchen said.
Thrilled, really!
“What do you want?”
“We’d like to take a quick peek at a file.” Gretchen smiled sweetly.
“Confidential,” he grunted. “We’ve been through this already. I have a responsibility to my clients. I wouldn’t last long if I divulged personal information.”
Caroline walked around behind the desk. Attorney McNalty tried to watch both women at once, but the logistics weren’t working well for him. He wasn’t an owl.
“We thought you might say that,” Gretchen said. His eyes swung back to her. “But we have resources at our fingertips. We can convince you otherwise.”
“Get out of here,” he said, looking over his shoulder to see what Caroline was up to.
She casually displayed a surgical scalpel. “A tool of the trade,” she said. “I use it in my workshop for repairing dolls. My particular line of work requires a razor-sharp blade and a keen eye for using it.”
“What are you doing?” McNalty’s voice hit a high note. He started to rise from the desk. Gretchen stepped closer, displaying her own repair tool. The attorney sat back down with a thump.
Gretchen wondered about the direction of her moral compass. What were they doing?
“You have two choices,” she said to Dean, throwing aside her doubts. “You can tell us which one of these cabinets contains a certain file. We don’t have time to search through them to find it on our own. Deadlines, you know. Second choice, of course, is protect your client. Then we’ll have to carve the information out of you.”
McNalty’s eyes grew wider, if that was possible.
“And,” Caroline added, “we’re very, very good at slicing.”
“The file is in that one right there,” he said, pointing. “Second drawer down, filed under Swilling.”
“Stay where you are,” Gretchen warned him. She opened the drawer and quickly found the file.
“The Swilling home is owned by a trust,” Gretchen said to her mother, skimming through the paperwork. She glanced at McNalty. “You’re the trustee?”
“You’ll have to sort it out on your own,” he said. “I’m not helping you.”
“According to this, John Swilling established the trust upon his death. It can’t be sold by any of the beneficiaries.” Gretchen glared at the attorney. “This is going to take time for me to understand. Why don’t you make it easy?”
“That’s impossible.”
Caroline flashed her weapon. “We don’t have time for this. Explain the document.”
“Okay.” McNalty held up his hands. “Back off with that thing.” He adjusted his thick glasses. “You’re right. The house was placed in trust with the stipulation that it would remain in the family. Until her untimely death, Rachel Berringer was the beneficiary of the trust. Although she didn’t live in the house, she continued to show interest in its maintenance up until she died.”
“What about her brother?” Gretchen asked.
“We weren’t able to locate him in spite of our well-intentioned efforts. After a reasonable amount of time, he was declared dead in absentia.”
Gretchen tossed the file on his desk. “How could he just disappear?”
“It happens all the time,” McNalty said. “People want a new start, or they have a reason to want to avoid discovery. Perhaps Richard Berringer committed suicide or committed a crime under an assumed name. Mental illness might have caused him to vanish. Who knows?”
“Who is the current beneficiary of the trust?” Caroline asked.
“I hold ownership of the trust for the benefit of the trust’s beneficiaries,” the attorney said. “I located a distant relative who resided outside of the state. Before I could make contact, I discovered that the next in line was actually living right here in Phoenix.”
Gretchen paged through the document while McNalty was speaking. “Trudy Fernwich.”
“Yes.”
“Where does she live? How can we reach her?”
“That is your problem.”
No address was listed on the document. “Let’s go,” she said to her mother, dropping the file on his desk.
Within minutes, they were out the door and on their way.
“Will he call the police?” Caroline asked.
“I don’t think so,” Gretchen said, hoping she was right. “All he lost was a little professional dignity. And it’s his word against ours.”
They had come for information, and they left wi
th what they came for. Neither was sure what to do with it.
They knew the name of the distant cousin who was the newest beneficiary of the trust that owned the Spanish Revival house that the club was converting into a museum.
But they had never heard of her.
30
Nacho has heard the man’s sob story and isn’t at all moved by it. They’d spent the night inside a shed, down a dead-end alley. He isn’t about to show a stranger into the home he’s created under the viaduct. He built it himself out of plastic and duct tape. Gray to match the girders. Only his real friends know about his place, and he’s keeping it that way.
He’s not dumb.
This Andy has money in his pocket but doesn’t have a bit of street smarts, waving the roll of bills around like he wants somebody to take it away from him. If Nacho hangs with this guy too long, he’ll worry about his own future health.
What he’ll do for his friends. And Caroline is one of the best.
Andy bought him a nice bottle, a token of his gratitude, and that counts for a lot. You don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Nacho’s getting married to the love of his life and has promised Daisy that he will dry out. Soon. He’ll do it soon. She’s promised to help him beat his demons, and he’ll do anything for her. Right now though, he’s drunk on gold-label whiskey. Johnnie Walker. Eighteen-year-old blended to be exact. He knows his liquor.
Andy’s a talker, which suits Nacho. He’s observing instead of participating, which is his style. Sit back, stay alert, absorb. All night, he tipped back, wetting his lips, savoring the amber liquid, watching it swirl like the gold it’s named after.
Otherwise he would have been bored out of his skull, having to listen to how this guy’s wife had left him and he’d been trying to get her back. How they came to Phoenix thinking the trip away from LA would be good for them, and how it wasn’t.
How she had told him right before she was killed that it wasn’t going to work after all.
