Through prescription sunglasses Man Deer scanned the ground for the sheen of old metal that might indicate the presence of unexploded ordnance. The park had been used as a weapons training area during World War II, then neglected by the military for a half century. Now a fifty-three-hundred-acre regional park only eight miles from bustling downtown San Diego, the wild gorges rising from the San Diego River still held the threat of explosives manufactured to stop Hitler's Reich. Seeing nothing suspicious, he eased his muscular six-foot-two-inch frame to the ground and thought about death. About the dead.
In nature, he acknowledged, death demanded nothing beyond itself. The mule deer had undoubtedly been ill, injured, or old, and quickly killed, probably by coyotes. The presence of the deer's pelt in the bobcat's waste indicated that the cat had not been the first to feed on the carcass. The first predators invariably claimed the protein-rich liver and other internal organs, leaving the rest for latecomers. The deer had simply taken its place in the food chain without prolonged suffering or unnecessary trauma.
But human death was another matter entirely. Human death required honor and ritual and devices for the protection of the living from its unknowable realities. Realities which might transgress the boundary between living and dead if not controlled. Daniel Man Deer knew all about that from a shattering moment in his past. Nodding slightly, he sighed and accepted the fact that it might be happening again. He wasn't sure, but he had a feeling about what had wakened Mary last night. What had made her scream in terror and then cling to him in the dark.
It occurred to Daniel Man Deer that this crisis might be the reason for the changes that had come over him in the last two years. His early retirement at fifty-eight from a long and lucrative career in the mortgage industry. Reclaiming the old Kumeyaay spelling of his surname even though Mary thought it was ridiculous and refused to change her name from the anglicized "Mandeer" to the Indian "Man Deer." Maybe this crisis had necessitated his dogged research into the Indian life which had belonged to his grandfather, Jeremiah Man Deer, a San Diego dockworker who'd unloaded freighters for fifteen dollars a week until he was beaten to death by a gang of drunken young midshipmen in Navy whites.
Dan had never known his grandfather, but he did now. Beneath the forest-green polo shirt of the Mission Trails Regional Park volunteer, he wore a chipped stone on a leather cord. A stone from the river gorge below him where his ancestors had lived for over ten thousand years before the arrival of the Spanish. In his heart he felt he knew these vanished ones, and he would honor them by protecting the wild things still roaming with their spirits on the land. In exchange, they would show him the way to protect Mary from the unhappy spirit that might be reaching toward her from the land of the dead. They would help him. And he would be ready.
In a gray silence falling over the canyon he recognized the coming rain and smiled. Like the hundred-and-fifty-million-year-old Santiago peaks towering over the river gorge, he belonged there. A little rain couldn't change that.
Chapter 5
Pewter-colored clouds had gathered in cottony towers as Bo folded herself into Madge Aldenhoven's car in front of Mercy Hospital. Backlit by the sun through ragged patches of blue, the clouds seemed gilded. Bo would not have been surprised if Renaissance angels playing herald trumpets had appeared between them. The image was another reminder that she hadn't sent a single Christmas card.
"What's the status of Estrella's condition?" Madge asked with characteristic precision.
"Braxton Hicks contractions, not the real thing, so my godchild isn't likely to make a debut today," Bo answered. "But there's a problem with Es's blood pressure. Her doctor wants her to stay in the hospital until some tests are in. Then she wants her to stay home until the baby's born. I'm afraid she went ballistic when we told her what happened today, the gunshots and all. Doctors can be so overbearing—"
"Estrella's doctor is quite right in advising her to stay home," Madge interrupted, tight-lipped. "This work is dangerous. I don't think you understand how dangerous it can be."
A large raindrop hit Madge's windshield, creating a shape in the surface dust that reminded Bo of a blood platelet. The supervisor's voice was tremulous with emotion. Anger, Bo thought. Or fear.
"What happened today was a fluke." She shrugged, running both hands through her graying auburn curls. 'Too many men running around with guns. People get shot in shopping centers, parks, their own cars stopped at traffic lights. What I can't figure is how you knew Es would run into trouble, how you knew to send me out with her. Let's face it, two investigators on one case is a bit irregular."
"I didn't know," Madge said, carefully steering the car onto the old Cabrillo Highway which transected the heart of San Diego from north to south. "I was simply worried about Estrella's vulnerability. She should have taken a leave of absence months ago."
"Umm," Bo replied neutrally as they drove beneath the ornate Laurel Street Bridge in Balboa Park. During the holidays the bridge was strung with amber fights, creating a dreamlike atmosphere Bo associated with Venice, even though she'd never seen Venice. The glowing bridge reminded her again that time for shopping was diminishing by the minute. As yet she had no gift for Andy, nothing for Estrella and Henry or Eva Broussard, her shrink. No thoughtful little tokens for co-workers or the neighbor who cared for Molly every day.
"The truth is," she sighed dramatically over the swoosh-thump of Madge's windshield wipers, "I'm feeling a little shaky myself, now that the excitement's over. Maybe it would be best if I took the afternoon off, got away from things for a few hours."
"Of course," Madge agreed without adding the usual lecture on professional commitment. "I'll close Estrella's case and transfer the Malcolm girl over to foster care. Perhaps you should call your psychiatrist, too. I'm sure a violent experience like this can be, er, can present difficulties for someone with your, um, problem."
Wow, Madge, well put! Any more delicacy and even I wouldn't have known what you were talking about.
"That's thoughtful of you, Madge," Bo said sweetly. "But you know, I just don't feel comfortable closing the Malcolm case until I've at least had a chance to talk with the foster parents. The girl was pretty decompensated last night; they put her in restraints. In the event that this case goes back to juvenile court for a placement change or something in the future, the record isn't going to look very good if it doesn't show a thorough investigation of the situation."
Against the black steering wheel Madge's knuckles showed bone.
"I assume by 'decompensated' you mean hysterical," she said.
"'Hysteria' actually means 'wandering womb,'" Bo grinned, sinking into her coat collar. "Until recently the male medical establishment was sure that moodiness in women was caused by unmoored uteruses floating around like empty potato-chip bags in a park pond. Now they're embarrassed and don't use the term much. And 'decompensated' means psychiatrically fragile, having trouble assessing reality. Janny Malcolm was frightened of something, thrashing around, at times not able to assess quite where she was or what was going on. But I don't think—"
"What was she frightened of?" Madge interrupted, the planes of her face oddly prominent beneath pale, papery skin.
"It's hard to say," Bo hedged instinctively. "That's why I want to talk to the foster parents. You know how the press has been lately, claiming CPS just transfers kids around in the system without really checking on them. I think we should cover our tail on this one."
"In case the girl has a problem which will require a more secure environment, more professional care," Madge said, completing some thought of her own. "I agree, but have that file on my desk before the end of the day tomorrow. It will be Friday. I don't want the case to remain open over the weekend, beyond the forty-eight-hour investigatory period. Any longer than that and it automatically goes back to court. Let's avoid that."
"Roger," Bo answered, feigning interest in two ragged men searching in the rain for recyclable trash in the ice plant bordering the freeway off-ramp. "Do
you have any idea how long Janny's been in foster care? I haven't looked at the file yet, but it's pretty thin. Is she new?"
Madge floored the accelerator and made the left turn off Genesee Avenue onto Linda Vista Road as the yellow traffic light arrow turned red. In the rainswept gloom Bo was sure she saw tears swimming in the supervisor's violet eyes.
"The name sounds familiar," Madge said tersely. "But I don't know the details."
Bo had been lied to by child molesters, drug addicts, and sadists in the course of her job with Child Protective Services. And she'd known each time. She could pinpoint a lie at the moment it was spoken. When Estrella had asked how she did it, how she knew, Bo had only been able to explain it in her own terms.
"This is going to sound crazy," she'd told Estrella, "but it's this feeling. A feeling that smells blue. It's like a flash of blue that I feel behind my nose."
This one, she thought, had been a sort of aquamarine. But why was Madge lying about Janny Malcolm?
"I appreciate your coming over to Mercy to get me," she said politely as Madge swerved into the CPS parking lot
"I do the best I can," Madge answered with a tremolo of emotion Bo sensed had nothing to do with Mercy Hospital, Estrella, herself, or anything else in the immediate frame of reference.
"Of course," she smiled supportively, trying not to recall the several times Madge had urged the Department of Social Services to free Bo Bradley from its employ. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Hurrying into the building, Bo grabbed Janny Malcolm's case file from her desk and ignored the pink phone memos stacked beside it. They were inevitably a snare from which responsibility would permit no escape. Best not to look at them.
Fifteen minutes later she was safely inside the ritziest department store in Fashion Valley, the central San Diego shopping mall closest to her office, admiring Christmas decorations so tasteful they barely condescended to be red and green. More like deep maroon coupled with a color that looked like moonlight on a lodgepole pine. Bo inhaled deeply and prepared to enjoy herself.
For Madge, the other workers in her unit, and the clerical staff she bought apples on painted sticks, covered in Belgian chocolate and crushed hazelnuts, wrapped in red cellophane and tied with little gingham napkins. Next she selected a washable wool couch throw in a MacAllister tartan she hoped wouldn't show Molly's red dachshund hairs, for the little dog's elderly caretaker. Estrella and Henry, she decided, would soon need reminders of the romance that had brought a noisy and demanding newcomer into their home. Embroidered silk sheets in a creamy ecru against which Estrella's dark hair and skin tones would show to advantage. Grinning impishly, she handed the clerk her credit card. Es would never buy anything this extravagant for her own home. It was perfect.
"I'm sorry, but there seems to be a problem with your card," the clerk said cheerfully. "Would you mind waiting while I check on it?"
"Um, it may be maxed out," Bo said, chagrined. She'd just mailed in a sizable payment against her balance, but the transaction probably hadn't been processed yet. The previous two purchases had pushed her available credit to its unimpressive limit. "I'll just write a check."
Time for Plan B, Bradley. Let's face it, that last little manicky spending spree involving the custom-upholstered recliner wiped you out. SAY NO TO SHOPPING!
A month ago she'd gone with Estrella and Henry to a furniture store to help them pick out a comfortable rocker for the anticipated cuddling and three a.m. feedings. But their selection had fit Bo so perfectly, its reclining back and lumbar support felt so good, that she'd ordered one for herself. And she'd been mesmerized by the selection of custom fabric selections displayed for her by a salesman in, she remembered, a bolo tie. The chair's delivery had caused a row with Andy, who regarded it as evidence that she would never move in with him rather than what it was—a typically manicky overindulgence. Now it was near Christmas and she had no extra money for gifts. The chair clearly represented everything about her that needed work, she thought, but so what? It was the most comfortable piece of furniture she'd ever owned, and she loved it.
"A check will be fine," the clerk said, "as long as it's from a local bank and you can show a California driver's license."
"Do you know the capital of Montana?" Bo countered, showing her CPS ID instead of her driver's license just to rattle the woman.
"Helena. And thank you so much, Ms. Bradley. Merry Christmas."
Clerks in ritzy department stores, she realized, could not be rattled.
The sky was already clearing as she strolled past a towering tree of poinsettias in the center of the outdoor mall. A haggard mother in a belted trench coat was trying to photograph the tree as a little girl pulled on the hem of the coat.
"I want to see the dolls," the child whined, pointing to a specialty shop Bo hadn't noticed before. "Puh-lease. You said..."
The shop's facade recalled elegant, old-fashioned stores in which Dickens might have shopped. A paned window with fake frost. Coachlights beside the door. Polished brass doorknob and kickplate. From hidden speakers the strains of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" could be heard, played by a brass choir. Enchanted, Bo wandered closer to admire the window display where animated elves moved about in a miniature workshop. Sharing the window with the elves was a profusion of dolls.
Bo identified Raggedy Ann and Andy, Howdy Doody, the cast of Little Women, and the Pillsbury Doughboy before her attention was captured by a splendid baby doll in a white basket tucked under a twinkling Christmas tree. Made of bisque porcelain, the doll's detailing was remarkable. And its pug nose oddly familiar. Bo shouldered her way into the crowded shop with a sudden sense of foreboding.
"The baby doll in the window," she said when a harried clerk approached, "the one in the basket. Is this some kind of special doll? It's so beautifully made."
"That's Johanna," the clerk replied as if the name explained everything. "A collectible. Would you like to see her?"
"Yes," Bo said, feeling dizzy.
She hadn't played with dolls even as a child because they'd scared her. Something about their stillness had made her feel uncomfortable, as if they masked another dimension that existed only when she turned her back. Now she felt the glassy stares of a thousand eyes as the baby doll was placed in her hands.
"She's one of a numbered edition," the clerk went on. "Only two thousand are made for Christmas each year and then the mold is broken. You can see the edition number stamped on the back of the neck. Why don't you let me put your packages behind the counter so you can look at her closely. But be careful. We only get one each year, and she's quite valuable."
"How valuable?" Bo asked as her bulky packages were whisked to safety.
"Five hundred and ninety-five dollars, excluding tax."
Bo whistled softly and tightened her grip on the doll's torso, soft beneath a smocked white pinafore over pink pantaloons. On the doll's feet were lace-edged white socks and pink satin booties. In the wispy dark hair was a pink satin ribbon.
"The wig's synthetic," the clerk explained. "The less expensive collectibles use the synthetic hair."
"Less expensive?"
"Oh, some of the European collectibles range into the thousands, use human hair individually set in wax, real baby teeth, all sorts of things. Doll collecting is as old as the human race, you know. There's always a market, especially for the really lifelike ones."
Turning the doll over, Bo tugged at the pinafore's ruffled collar and saw "293" stamped in the porcelain of its neck. In an arc above the number were the words "Palm Valley, CA." Beneath the number were the initials "J.M." She could feel the doll's bright glass eyes looking at her shoes. It didn't particularly like her shoes.
"Thank you so much," Bo said breathlessly, her eyes roving the store for something less threatening than the object in her hands. At the end of an aisle she saw a display of Barbies, their identically vapid smiles strangely comforting. "Oh, there are the Barbies!"
"Of course you've heard of the Palm Valley Doll W
orks," the clerk mentioned as she placed Johanna back in her basket. "One of the oldest California factories."
Bo had scurried to the aisle display, which included a bearded Ken doll that could be shaved, as well as a convertible, doll house with pool, and beauty salon.
"Um, no," she said over her shoulder. "Hey, is this a Latina Barbie?"
"That's Barbie's friend, Theresa," the clerk explained. "And she is a Latina. Such a shame, isn't it, that these dolls are so popular when there's workmanship like this one from Palm Valley?"
Bo grabbed the dark-haired Theresa doll and quickly picked out horseback riding and nurse costumes from a selection including, she noted with distaste, cheerleader and exotic dancer outfits as well. A little girl whose neighbors shot holes in her life was going to get a new doll.
"I'll take these," she told the clerk. "Gift-wrapped, please."
"I probably shouldn't tell you this," the clerk said confidentially as she ran Bo's credit card without incident, "but Johanna may become very valuable if the dollmaker retires this year. He's quite elderly now, and this is his signature doll. This one may be the last."
Bo couldn't tell if the trembling in her shoulders was the result of relief at safely exceeding her credit limit or a foreboding that seemed to resonate from the clerk's words. A sense of old and terrible drama racing toward her like a train in a subterranean tunnel. The clerk was taking forever to wrap Bo's purchases in peppermint-striped paper.
"He still lives here, you know," the woman went on. "He has a studio in his home and designs the prototype there, although the dolls are made at the factory in Palm Valley. They buy the design from him."
The porcelain doll watched Bo from its basket on the counter, its legs bent at the knee in perfect imitation of a very young baby. Its upper lip, even though smiling, projected over the lower one, and its brows and lashes were painted with a feathery realism that made Bo's heart pound.
"Those initials, J.M.?" the clerk concluded as if she were party to an insider stock trade, "that's Jasper Malcolm, one of the last master dollmakers in this country. Not very many people know he's right here in San Diego."
The Dollmaker's Daughters (Bo Bradley Mysteries, Book Five) Page 5
