by Deb Baker
"I need his phone number," she said.
"I'm afraid I can't give that out."
"Can you get a message to him?" she asked.
"Certainly."
"I have important information involving a case he's working. He has to call me immediately."
"We'll see that he receives the message," the dispatcher said, dispassionately taking her cell phone number. Gretchen wondered if he really would be informed and, if so, when. She couldn't wait much longer.
She dressed in somber clothes-black pants and a beige top with decorative black buttons-and ran a brush through her hair. Brace yourself, she thought, this is only the beginning. Ronny Beam's funeral was also upcoming, and she knew the next few days would be as sorrowful as the last. Even though she hadn't known either of the victims well, Brett and Ronny meant more to her than mere statistics and canned obituaries in the Phoenix newspaper.
Nimrod and Wobbles followed her into the kitchen. As always, she was amazed that their internal clocks were so accurate, telling them exactly when dinner should be ready. She fed them and nibbled at leftovers in the refrigerator. The invitation hadn't mentioned food. She scooped up Nimrod, locked the door, and drove toward McDowell Road, scanning the traffic around her for signs of the green truck. She hadn't realized how many Arizonians drove pickup trucks until now. On this moonless Phoenix night, every truck seemed dark and potentially dangerous. The Sky Harbor Airport lights grew brighter as she continued. She wound her way to the far west side of the airport and began to check the street signs, searching for McDowell Road.
A plane came in directly overhead, wheels visible in preparation for landing, and it reminded Gretchen that the Boston Kewpie Club would be returning home in the morning. She hadn't spent much time at all with them. If not for the memorial service, she would be at the party at the Phoenician this minute, sipping expensive red wine and nibbling French cheeses.
Maybe she could swing by on her way home if it wasn't too late.
Right now, as she turned onto McDowell and realized how dark and desolate the area was, she longed for Aunt Nina and the spectacular lights of the elegant Phoenician Resort. What was she thinking to come over here by herself?
She flipped on an overhead light and checked the address on the invitation. The 1500 block.
"We just passed Fourteenth Street," she informed Nimrod. "So it has to be in the next block." The teacup poodle wagged his tail.
She crawled along McDowell looking for the address, then turned the car around and slowly edged back along the other side.
She stopped the Echo and looked at the address on the invitation again.
That was the house where the memorial service should be starting, a one-story with a swamp cooler on the roof. But something was wrong.
No lights illuminated the interior of the house, no cars were parked in front, no mourners congregated inside waiting to hear comforting words to ease their grief. The house was totally dark.
She looked at the invitation for the third time. It was the kind you could buy in any store that carried greeting cards. The details of the memorial service had been handwritten. She'd automatically assumed that Howie Howard had organized the event because the handwriting was distinctly male. No graceful loops or careful lettering to denote a feminine hand.
Gretchen double-checked to make sure the doors of the Echo were locked and pulled quickly away from the darkened house, circling the block one last time. The house with the swamp cooler on the roof remained dark. The more she thought about it, the more unlikely it became that the service would be here, next to the airport, and that no one else from the Phoenix Dollers Club had been invited. Absolutely no one that she knew would be in attendance.
Not only that, it had coincided with the Boston Kewpie members' farewell party, so she wouldn't have Nina or April or any of the other club members to attend with her. Convenient for someone who might want to get her alone. Hadn't she seen this exact scenario in enough thrillers? Hadn't she laughed cynically at the hapless victims and their incredible lack of forethought?
"Gee," she said, talking to Nimrod again. "Wouldn't you think we'd stay out of dark alleys when a killer is on the prowl?" His ears twitched as he listened. Gretchen drove toward the bright lights of the airport.
She asked herself again, Why?
That had been the three-letter word of the day, of the week.
Why, why, why had she received a bogus invitation?
Maybe because someone wanted to lure her away from her home by inviting her to an event she would feel compelled to attend. Gretchen Birch's whereabouts could be guaranteed for Monday night at eight o'clock. So much for varying her routine to throw off the bad guys.
Several blocks ahead, the street she was on would end abruptly, the overpass into the airport directly in front of her. Bright lights and safety. Looking into the sky, she could see planes lining up awaiting clearance to land. But the invitation had arrived several days ago. If this was premeditated, the sender knew even then what he wanted her to do and where he wanted her to be. He also could have known that the Boston visitors would be having a party and that her friends and family were not likely to attend the memorial service with her. They would opt for the opulence of the Phoenician over a service they hadn't been invited to.
Gretchen felt manipulated and angry with herself for blindly following the predictable path she'd been so artfully steered along. Was he at her house right now? Waiting for her?
No-not for her. If she was the target, he could have waited for her on this lonely street. Gretchen stared into the few parked cars scattered along McDowell and was relieved to find them empty. He must have wanted her house vacant tonight when Lilly Beth's prying eyes wouldn't be able to see him. He would have parked the truck down the road and crept in under cover of night. Would he wear his police uniform?
Probably.
He'd want to fall back on his image of authority if any of the neighbors became suspicious.
What was inside the house that he wanted, if not her? The only thing she could think of were the Kewpie dolls that had been sent through the mail. They, along with the messages she had found inside, were in the workshop in plain view. Gretchen picked up her cell phone to call the police again, wondering why Matt hadn't returned her call yet. She would ask the dispatcher to send a squad to meet her at her home. Gretchen tromped on the accelerator and, with one eye on the road as she steered, she searched through her recently called numbers for the right one. At the stop sign, she signaled to turn left and hit the Send key on her cell phone.
As soon as she turned the corner, another vehicle came up rapidly behind her. It must have been parked close to the intersection and had started up when she passed by. The car was following close behind her, too close. Her cell phone flew from her hand at the first impact. If she hadn't grabbed Nimrod to protect him, she would have had both hands on the steering wheel and might have stayed on the road. Instead, when the second blow struck the driver's side of the car somewhere close behind the front seat, the Echo careened into a shallow ditch that separated the street from the airport on-ramp. It happened so quickly that she didn't see the vehicle until it appeared in front of her after striking her the second time. Now it forced her car away from the street and toward the fence.
A green truck.
She slammed on the brakes and came to a stop, with the pickup truck wedging her next to a concrete pylon. Before she could throw the car into reverse and make a run for it, she saw the blur of a uniform.
And a gun.
And a familiar face.
40
Duanne Wilson of the bushy eyebrows and gleeful bidding tried to wrench the car door open. The jolliness was gone.
"Unlock the door," he snarled, the barrel of the gun up against the glass.
Gretchen had never looked into a gun barrel before, and if she survived tonight, she hoped it would be the last time. She'd never thought of herself as a particularly brave person, and she wasn't out to win
any medals right now. Brave and smart weren't the same things.
You could be brave and foolish and dead.
Not having a lot of options to choose from, she chose to go with cowardly, alive, and still foolish.
Gretchen unlocked the door while scanning the seat and floor for the cell phone that had flown out of her hand. No such luck.
"Moonlighting as a Phoenix Police officer?" she said as he opened the door. The badge on his uniform seemed to mock her. The Phoenix bird adorned it. The mythical bird that could never die. "Halloween is still a few weeks away,"
she said.
What a card she was.
"Move over. NOW." The threat in his voice was enough to make her spring across to the passenger seat and wedge Nimrod into her purse.
Gretchen gulped air through an obstruction in her throat the size of a Gila monster.
Maybe he didn't kill women. That would be good news for her. He'd take what he came for and leave. Gretchen didn't believe that for a minute.
Duanne took the wheel. The car lurched backward and sprang from the ditch.
"Finally, I've got you," he said, slamming the gears into drive. "Captured."
Captured? Like a flag?
It's strange what goes through your head when you're paralyzed with fear, Gretchen thought.
"Where are we going? To the farewell party?"
"Not even close."
Gretchen slid her hand closer to the door. Next light, and she'd make her escape. She'd take her chances that Duanne wasn't a sharpshooter. She'd risk a bullet in her back. As if reading her mind, he said, "Try it, and I'll make a point of eliminating every single thing you value, starting with that ragged, floppy mutt and ending with your devoted aunt."
He'd established enough motivation to keep her inside the car.
Gretchen felt Nimrod shudder inside her purse, and she reached in and gave him a reassuring pat.
The airport lights dimmed behind them as they sped toward Camelback Mountain. Gretchen's cell phone rang from someplace on the floor, and she automatically stooped to retrieve it from under the seat.
"Get up," Duanne screamed, digging the gun into her side. "Sit up. NOW!"
She eased back into the seat, careful not to startle him, and listened as the phone rang several more times before stopping.
Was it Matt finally calling her back? Like every other man in her life, he offered too little, too late. This seemed to be a recurring theme.
She glanced down between her feet but didn't see the phone.
Help as close as the floor mat yet as far away as the stars.
A few minutes later, they pulled into her carport. Duanne turned off the car and, waving the gun, motioned her out.
Tied to a leg of the doll workbench, Gretchen contemplated life. It was extraordinarily complex, with unexpected plot twists. Her situation at the moment was a perfect example. She strained to lift the bench to free her hands, even though she knew it was built into the wall. She couldn't feel so much as a millimeter of movement.
She had managed to slip the cell phone into her pocket, a feat she was proud of at first, but what good was it doing her now?
With her hands behind her back, she couldn't reach her pocket, let alone bring the phone to her ear. And with her legs bound together with her own doll restringing elastic, she wasn't going anywhere soon.
She could hear Duanne ripping through the house, pulling out drawers and overturning furniture. Wobbles, true to form, was nowhere in sight. Nimrod, wisely sensing random chaos within his domain, remained inside her purse. It lay next to a bin filled with dolls' underpants.
Once Duanne left the room, Nimrod boldly ran over to Gretchen, crawling over her bound body hunched on the floor.
"Hide," she commanded him after a moment of intense puppy love. He rushed back across the room and burrowed inside the purse.
More banging, and Duanne came around the corner and entered the workshop.
"Where is it?" he said, enraged, his face the same color as the red clay from the darkening mountain framed in the window.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The box. Where is it?"
"It's in the trunk of the Echo." She should have told him where the Kewpies were stashed earlier, but she'd been frozen with fear.
Duanne smiled, a cruel tilt to his lips.
"If that idiot auction creep hadn't pulled a fast one," he said, "none of this would have happened."
Gretchen tried to stretch out a cramped leg but only made her position on the floor more uncomfortable. "You mean Brett?"
Without answering, he stomped away, and she heard the door leading to the carport close. Then it opened again, and he reappeared with the box of broken Kewpies in his arms. He dumped the contents on the floor and kicked shards at Gretchen, stomping on the larger pieces. Bits of porcelain flew in the air, and a powdery silt fell over Gretchen's legs.
"Wrong box, silly girl." He clenched both fists.
"It's the only box I have."
"You're as obstinate as Florence. She wouldn't help me, either." He continued to slam through rooms, and Gretchen shifted her body and stretched her fingers toward her pocket. She felt fabric with her fingertips and continued to stretch, straining as far as she could.
She felt the edge of the cell phone and adjusted her body again. Picking at the pocket and shifting her shoulders and legs, she finally managed to palm it. The easy task was over. She flipped it open. Stage two, keying in a number without being able to see the phone, was under way when she heard Duanne's footsteps. She jerked into her former position, the phone behind her back.
Duanne had a cardboard box in his arms and a sneer on his face.
"Bingo," he said, gently placing it on the floor and squatting over it. "Let's see what we have here. If my calculations are correct, my quest is over."
He held up a Ginny doll, and Gretchen's mouth dropped open in surprise.
"Where… did… you find that box?" she stammered.
"You think you're so cute," he said. "Still playing dumb. But you're smart. Smart enough to hide it in all that junk, and the smell in that room…"
Daisy.
Daisy had the box of Ginny dolls all along in the spare room she occasionally called home?
Gretchen remembered the day that Nina had arrived with Daisy and the contents of her shopping cart. She and April had been preoccupied in the doll repair room and hadn't noticed. Daisy must have carried in the box of Ginnys right in front of an oblivious Nina.
"I didn't know the Ginnys were here."
Duanne shrugged. "It doesn't matter anymore. I have them now." His face darkened. "It was that derelict sitting on the curb. He made off with them when I wasn't looking."
Duanne began to empty the box, throwing the dolls onto the floor.
Gretchen cringed at his harsh handling of them and was glad that each came in its own small box. Hopefully the damage would be minimal.
She must be a certified nutcase or a full-fledged rabid doll collector to be thinking of doll preservation at a time like this.
He dug down to the bottom of the cardboard box and extracted a small white rectangular box, quite different from the others.
Gretchen intuitively knew what was inside.
Duanne rubbed the white box lovingly between his hands.
"This whole thing has been a series of missteps," he said. "One mistake after another. But this…" He held up the box. "This is what it was all about."
He opened the box and removed a Blunderboo Kewpie doll. The genuine article, Gretchen noticed. Not one of Chiggy's reproductions, but a fine example of Rosie O'Neill's early work.
Blunderboo, always the clumsy, tumbling, laughing Kewpie.
Duanne rummaged through the doll tools on the workbench, almost stepping on Gretchen in his rush. She heard the doll break open.
The room was silent while Duanne looked over his treasure. Then Gretchen's cell phone rang.
She stabbed at the key pad, blin
dly searching for the one that would connect the call. The ringing stopped when Duanne kicked her hands.
The pain was excruciating, and she struggled not to cry out as the phone skidded across the room and hit the wall. Gretchen let out a frustrated gasp and closed her fingers together, ignoring the throbbing.
"You stupid…" Duanne backed away from the table and glared at her. The top of Blunderboo's head was missing, and, by the tender way he held the doll, Gretchen knew he had found what he was looking for.
"Diamonds?" she asked. "Did you find diamonds?"
He held up a large, sparkling stone. "The finest there is. My cousin Percy would be alive today if he had shared with me. Instead, he was greedy. Too greedy for his own good."
"You killed Percy, and then you killed Brett and Ronny?"
"Couldn't be helped, now could it?" He fondled the diamond and returned it to the Kewpie. "People are exceedingly stupid."
"You make it sound like they deserved to die." Gretchen stared at Duanne, searching for any sign of compassion, but finding cold, lifeless eyes staring back at her instead.
"If Chiggy had given the Kewpie up… but no, the sentimental fool insisted it was the last gift she'd ever receive from her brother. She even tried to trick me with those ridiculous Kewpie reproductions. But I knew what she really had."
"Ronny Beam was writing a story," Gretchen said, all the time working her fingers through the nylon that bound her hands. Her captor was insane.
"Ronny Beam was a parasite. Too bad his newest fantasy was a little too close to the truth."
Nimrod chose that moment to forget his "hide" command, and he bolted out of the purse and ran to Gretchen. No, no, no, she wanted to scream.
Duanne's face registered cunning. "Ah, the mutt with multiple lives. I had forgotten all about you. Did you like the scorpion?"
