by Inger Wolf
She smiled again. "But he's popular. There have been no tax increases or sales tax in town. Not that that's any different from most places…"
THE WOMAN'S house in Talkeetna looked something like a dollhouse itself. Its most attractive feature was a large Japanese garden; they'd seen signs about it since entering town. When Thereza Mendell opened the door, Trokic was afraid they'd wasted their time driving up there. She was a thin woman in her mid-nineties, with wild gray hair that a barrette couldn't tame. If she'd been making dollhouses all these years, this was going to be complicated. He took a deep breath and tried to think positively. She might actually know something.
Angie introduced them, and they were led into a small living room with a lit fireplace. The furniture was heavy and upholstered, a small, green bird was perched in a big cage on the round table. The room smelled of baked goods and old carpeting. Large plate glass windows faced the Japanese garden with its small bushes, bridges over water, dams, and stone dikes. Most of it was covered with ice and snow.
"I have a feeling there's a wonderful garden under the snow," Angie said, nodding toward the window. "Do you do the gardening yourself?"
"Not anymore. My nephew does the hard work. I'm just the architect, you could say. It's not easy to keep a garden growing around here. But there's a warm spot underneath us that keeps the ground from freezing in the winter. It's very unusual, but it's why I can get plants to grow here that other people can't."
She looked worried. "But why are you here? Has something happened to someone? In my family?"
Trokic gave a brief explanation.
"Oh, so that's it," she said, her voice relieved, though she was frowning. "It's so horrible, what happened to that volcano expert. I saw him on TV not long ago, back when we thought Redoubt was going to erupt again. He looked so alive, he seemed like such a friendly man. And that poor girl who hasn't been found yet. But I still don't understand why you're here. Not really."
"The situation is," Trokic said, "a wooden dollhouse was found at the crime scene, and one of our people believes it's exactly like one he's seen that you built."
Mrs. Mendell looked at both of them in amazement, and she adjusted her green-framed glasses. "One of my dollhouses? At a crime scene? That's horrifying. It must have been a present for Mr. Vad. I'm sure I would remember if he had been here. I'm good at faces."
At least that's good to hear, Trokic thought. "We're certain that the killer brought it with him. That it's not Asger Vad's dollhouse."
"My goodness, that's horrible. I don't at all remember any monstrous person like that ever coming here. My customers are always families, or someone buying one for a family. Or a tourist."
"How many have you made?"
"Oh, I usually make two a year. It's just something I started doing when I retired, so I've only been making them a little over twenty years now."
Long enough. Angie and Trokic glanced at each other. "So, you've made forty or fifty?" Angie said. She held back a sigh at the prospect of having to run down so many buyers.
"Something like that. But they're different. The wood I use, for example, and how they're built and so on. It makes each one of them unique. It's a fascination with me; I've brought wood home from California and Canada and used it. I paint some of them white, others I varnish, and so on. My methods have evolved over the years."
Angie opened her bag and handed the woman a photo. "This is the one we're talking about."
"This exact one here? Oh, yes, I recognize it. I used oak a friend of mine sent from California. I only made four of them before the wood ran out. That was about ten years ago, let me see…"
She tilted her head, and Angie and Trokic held their breath.
"One of them I sold to an English woman, in fact. Ten years ago would be about right. She was traveling around in the area, hiking around Denali, and I know she had it sent to Birmingham because we talked about how much the shipping would cost."
"I think we can eliminate her," Angie said. "What about the other three?"
"Well, there was a lady from Anchorage. Trina Beck."
Angie looked up from her notepad. "That's the one we know about, one of our officer's aunts has it. That leaves two."
"I sold the last two on the same day, in fact. The first one to a man from Anchorage, I believe. He was in his thirties. He drove by one day and walked around in the garden. Then he looked at my dollhouses and decided to buy one."
Trokic felt the tension in the warm room growing. "Do you remember his name?"
She squinted. "It was something beginning with H-A. Hanley maybe. Hanson. I'm not sure. But he was a carpenter. I remember that because we talked about different types of wood, and also it was printed on the side of his van. He very much liked the California oak."
Angie pulled her notepad out again. "What did he look like?"
"He was a handsome man. I believe it's permitted to say that at my age. Tall, blond messy hair. A small scar under one of his eyes. His ears stuck out a bit. Oh, and he had a colored tattoo on his left forearm. I noticed it sticking out from his sleeve. It might've been a little dragon, I'm not sure."
Angie flashed a smile. "You have a good memory."
"I told you, I'm good at faces. Names, not so much. That's the way I've always been. You can't blame everything on age."
"What color was his van?" Angie said.
"I believe it was blue."
Trokic jotted all the information down too.
"If he's from Anchorage, I think we can track him down," Angie said. "So, what about the last dollhouse?"
"I sold that one to a mother; she wanted to give it to her daughter, who was with her. The mother's name started with a D, and I don't recall the daughter's name. But she was wild about this brand, Hello Kitty. I don't know exactly where they were from. She talked about Anchorage, but my impression was they were traveling around up here, that they came from some other state. It might've been her accent."
Trokic gave Angie a disappointed look. A dollhouse they couldn't account for.
"But she kept talking about how happy her daughter would be with the dollhouse."
Trokic nodded. He was putting his money on the carpenter, at least for now. "And you're sure these are the right dollhouses we're talking about? It's very, very important."
"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure. It's California oak, as I said. It's very hard and difficult to work with. And they were the only ones with white roofs. But they turned out beautifully."
"They definitely did," Angie said with a friendly smile. "Do you make other things too? Dolls, for instance?"
The gray-haired woman shook her head. "No, no dolls. That's not really me. I'm only interested in working with wood. I've made a few other things, a few churches, farmhouses, that type of thing. People can put whatever they like in what I make."
"And you don't sell dolls other people have made?" Trokic asked.
"No, I don't, no."
"Okay, I think we've covered everything," Angie said. "If you happen to think of anything else, please call us. This is a very serious case, and every tiny detail can be important. These dollhouses might be the most important part of our investigation."
Mrs. Mendell looked puzzled. "I understand. I hope you catch him very soon."
She frowned and looked out the window at her garden. "There he is again."
"Who?" Angie said.
"Mayor Stubbs. He always shits over in my beds." She sighed. "Even in all the snow, he'll dig down. But what can I say? He's the boss of this town."
IT WAS four-thirty when they got back to the car. Immediately, Trokic turned around and looked for the blue car that might have been following them, but there was no one there. Angie grabbed her phone and called Sergeant Smith.
"We need to speak to all the carpenters in Anchorage whose last names begin with H-A. He bought a dollhouse like ours."
She listened a moment. "Good. We're still checking the people who knew Asger. You'll have a report this evening. We'll come
in early tomorrow morning and get organized."
She stuck the phone back in her bag.
"What do we do now?" Trokic asked.
"There's a briefing tomorrow. Then we check out the Volcano Observatory and try to find a woman who bought a dollhouse made of California oak. Which might be the most impossible thing I've ever tried to do."
Chapter Twenty-Two
TROKIC WAS EXHAUSTED when he got back to the hotel. He bought a bottle of red wine in The Slippery Salmon and took it back up to the room. He kicked his shoes off in a corner and collapsed on the bed with a paper cup full of wine. He should call Andersen, but that would have to wait. Why risk having his head crammed full of trivialities about the department's budget and other stuff he would have to decide about? Then he thought of Christiane. He realized he wasn't feeling nearly enough. Why go on when she wanted children and he didn't? Giving her up had hurt, but maybe they had done each other a favor in the long run.
Angie's image popped up in his head. Her almond eyes had lost a bit of their reservation. He liked the way she slid her hand down her long, black braid and laughed in a free, unselfconscious way. There was something vulnerable underneath her toughness. Where did it come from? He had the feeling she was hiding something, that she didn't let people in easily. He liked her. He liked her a lot.
He pushed the image of his new partner out of his head and poured another cup of wine. The remote was on the table, and after zapping around, he found a local news program about Asger's murder.
He gave a start when the newscaster summed up the details of the case. They showed photos of Asger and Marie, of the house in Talkeetna. He was shocked that they somehow had found out about the dollhouse. Detective Angie Johnson was named—how the hell did they know that? The fact that this could endanger the elderly lady, as well as Angie, chilled him. Had the reporter followed them? The blue car? Or had someone at the station opened their big mouth? This type of information could spread like wildfire, because it was interesting that the dollhouse had been on the table, symbolizing something that everyone could now speculate about.
"The police had no comment on what the placement of the dollhouse at the crime scene might mean for the investigation."
Of course, they didn't, Trokic thought. What did these reporters expect?
"The police are using every available resource to find Marie Vad," the newscaster continued, looking seriously into the camera. "She was last seen building a snowman in front of the family's house on the evening before the killings, but as of now, it's unknown whether she was home that night. The police have searched a large section of the surrounding area by air, as well as lake cabins and surrounding areas. Persons with any information about this case are being urged to contact the Anchorage Police Department at—"
Trokic's phone rang. He stared at the display—Karsten Andersen. Damn! He sighed heavily; he had no desire whatsoever to talk to his boss, who might as well have been on another planet. Trokic's biological clock demanded sleep.
"What's the situation?" Andersen asked from halfway across the world. "I read something about a dollhouse on the net. What the hell is that all about? Did the media find out?"
Trokic gave him a quick update.
"Okay then. It so happens I got an anonymous call from one of Asger's old colleagues. A man. He'd heard that Asger had been killed, and he called just to say that Asger most likely asked for it. And when I asked what he meant by that, he mumbled something about sharp elbows and laughed and hung up. The nerve of that guy."
"Sounds strange to me," Trokic said. "What do you think he meant?"
"Who knows? Asger must have stepped on his toes somehow. But Asger was ambitious, some people might have felt he was a little bit too much."
"Can we track that former colleague down?"
Andersen sighed. "No, it was a prepaid SIM card, we can't call it back. But the call was made from Århus, so maybe it really was someone who knew Asger pretty well. But it had to have been a long time ago. Asger hasn't taught in Århus since the last Ice Age. And he didn't teach for very long, either."
"Okay. Let me know right away if he calls again; it could be important."
"Of course," Andersen said. "How's the weather?"
"Cold. What did you expect?"
He snorted. "I've heard no one will live there unless they're in the military, or in the oil or fishing industry. Or on the run from another state. Maybe it's a psychopath who broke out of some American prison."
"I think the FBI is handling that part," Trokic said.
"You sound like one of the local cops now. Don't go getting a big head over there."
"You're the one who sent me here." Trokic yawned.
They hung up and Trokic stared out the window as he drank the rest of the wine. What if Asger Vad had other enemies besides his former colleague in Århus? Maybe he wasn't such a decent guy after all.
He picked his phone up and called Angie. He had to hear what she thought about the media coverage on the dollhouse. Maybe they should send someone out to patrol the area around the elderly lady for a few days. Just to be safe. But Angie didn't answer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ANGIE PARKED her car in front of her trailer. She sighed at the sight of it. Some of the others in the trailer court had spruced their places up with potted plants and small lawns, but she hadn't had time for anything like that. Last year, she'd had it painted a light yellow, an optimistic shade, but she still missed her apartment near downtown. Once in a while, she walked by a gray-green apartment complex on Sixth Avenue, close to the water, and dreamed about living there. Someday, she'd be able to afford it, and she'd look back on this part of her life as the time she'd learned her lesson. And she would never move again.
The trailer park was a small neighborhood; they helped each other with car repairs and babysitting and Christmas baking. There had been one shooting, and once she had tipped off a few officers about a meth lab in one of the trailers, but she got along with most of the others. There were abusers of every kind, fights, people in the most difficult period of their lives, but every month she watched her debt go down. Soon, it would be wiped out, and she could build her life up again. Start from scratch. She shivered at the thought of all the money she had lost back then.
Her trailer was on the edge of the park, and when she walked out in the morning, she could see straight into a small wooded area. Moose came by often, nearly peeking in through her window.
She was about to look for her trailer key in her bag, when she froze. There was something in the air. An odor that didn't belong. A whisper in the dead grass sticking out of the snow. Was it an animal? Her heart pounded faster; it could be anything.
She searched in panic for the key, but suddenly an arm grabbed her around the neck and dragged her through the snow. Her entire body went into shock, all her muscles tensed. She smelled him in the freezing air, a hint of sweat and leather from his coat. Her scream was muffled by his chokehold. A hand slipped in under her coat, over her sweater and breasts and to the side, where it grabbed her weapon. Everything was going too fast. Was it someone from the trailer park, gone amok while doing meth? Had someone found out she was a cop and wanted revenge? Several scenarios flew through her head, and she instantly realized that lots of people could be carrying a grudge against her and want her dead. And she was alone at the back of the trailer park. She tried to bite him, but her teeth sunk into his coat, nothing more. She tasted leather.
He threw her down on the ground, and the instant he let go of her, she screamed at the top of her lungs. He loomed over her now, his head covered by a hood. He gasped for air and grabbed an iron bar that lay in the snow beside him. Where did that come from? She had never seen any iron bars there. Had he brought it with him? She was seriously afraid now because that meant the attack was planned. He could bash her to pieces, beyond recognition. His first blow rammed into her arm, and again she screamed loudly. Couldn't anyone hear her? Or maybe they didn't want to hear her? She fum
bled around for something to defend herself with, but there was nothing except cold snow that ran through her fingers.
He swung at her again. She rolled to the side, the icy snow pressing against her eyes and nose, barely avoiding the iron bar. But, again, he swung, and this time he smashed her cheek. She tasted blood, and as she started to pass out, he hissed, "Keep your nose out of this, fly woman."
From far away she heard, "What the hell's going on here?"
Jason. Her twenty-something skinny neighbor, stoned on something or other most of the time, with a little too much money to be earning it honestly. A shadowy type of guy she'd only said a quick hello to a few times. Now his shrill voice was the best thing she'd heard in a long, long time. Her attacker ran off to the right behind her trailer, hopped over a low fence, and disappeared. Fly woman? Who was this man? Someone just visiting, on a bad trip? But then why the iron bar and the hood?
She moaned as her entire body trembled. Even before Jason leaned over her, she could smell him; he needed a bath. He looped his dirty hair behind his ear and looked at her, obviously worried.
"Angie! Are you okay?"
Blood streamed into her mouth, and she spat and shook her head. She felt around in the snow for her pistol, and was relieved when she found it.
"Fucking hell, man," he mumbled and fished his phone out of his pocket. Then he hesitated and stuck it back in. "Can you stand up? I'll take you to the hospital."
Angie was sure that he'd rather take her in himself than have an ambulance and police nearby. Which was okay, but she didn't want to ride in his old wreck. She couldn't see any other way to get there as soon as possible, though. The pain seared through her, but she held her hand up and pointed at her bag.
