by Deb Baker
Tutu lowered her body close to the ground and ran full out down the street without a single glance back, like an escaped convict with the irresistible taste of freedom in her mouth.
Gretchen stood in the doorway with her mouth open in shock. Recovering somewhat, she slammed the door before Nimrod had the chance to join in the escape. Running barefoot into the street, she shouted Tutu’s name. The spoiled schnoodle was nowhere in sight.
Gretchen had managed to lose Nina’s dog mere moments after beginning her dog-sitting assignment.
She had a decision to make. Follow the demented dog immediately in bare feet, wearing Nina’s pink and lime green robe, or quickly change into her own clothes and pull on her sandals. Tutu already had a wide lead, and Gretchen’s only hope of catching up with her would be if the roving rascal encountered a distraction. A cute boy dog would do the trick.
Gretchen gasped. What if Tutu was in heat?
An image of Nina’s reaction to the loss of her prized pet trotted through Gretchen’s head, replaced quickly by an image of Tutu giving birth to schnoodle mutts.
She took off running.
The desert morning heat was already oppressive. The pavement under her feet felt hot and sticky. A bird perching on an overhead electrical wire panted through its small open beak, and the sound of sprinklers laboring to water the lush tropical yards filled the air.
And sun, sun, blazing sun everywhere.
“Wait up,” she heard someone call out behind her. She whirled to see Matt Albright loping toward her, wearing running shoes, cargo shorts, and a yellow T shirt. He looked fresh and scrubbed, and he wore that dazzling, yet deceptive smile.
Gretchen turned back to the task at hand and continued running, squinting against the sun’s intense rays and wishing for a good pair of sunglasses more than a pair of shoes.
“I heard you were an avid runner, but your commitment astounds me,” he said, catching up. “Me? I would have changed out of the robe and probably worn shoes.”
“There are vast differences between the two of us, Albright” Gretchen ignored the pain in her tender soles. “For example, if it was my investigation, I’d be out questioning Martha’s acquaintances, and I’d be compiling a list of suspects.”
“My henchmen take care of that,” he said, jogging easily. “Can I get a picture of this?”
“Of what?” Gretchen peered between houses as they ran side by side. If she had shoes on, she could leave him in her desert dust.
“A picture of you jogging in your cute robe.”
“Go away,” Gretchen said, huffing slightly.
Matt stopped running and fell behind. “If you step on a scorpion, you’ll be back at the hospital,” he called after her. “I spent enough time waiting around there for you yesterday.”
Gretchen slowed and stopped, staring at the ground with growing panic. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Scorpion stings were excruciatingly painful, according to reports by several Arizonians who had been stung and lived to tell about it. Their venom wasn’t deadly, but death seemed preferable to the pain they inflicted.
“They have clear bodies and that makes them hard to see.” He stood with both hands on his hips. “Anyway, that isn’t what you’re looking for? What’s up?”
“Tutu escaped.”
“The yappy mutt?” he said. “I thought she seemed in a rush when she blasted out of the yard.” Matt looked down the block. “But are you sure you want to find her?”
“Tempting suggestion, but I have to. Nina would kill me.”
“I’ll help then. I wouldn’t want to be partially responsible for your demise.”
After a brief consultation on the best search tactics, they returned to the house, Gretchen walking gingerly, alert to the threat of stinging monsters. Matt walked another half block to get his car. He waited outside while Gretchen changed into the same clothes she had worn yesterday: green capris, a white tee, and sandals.
They cruised slowly down the street in Matt’s unmarked police car. Gretchen decided to make the most of this opportunity to pump the cop for information, forgetting momentarily that she could count her future health by mere minutes if she didn’t find Tutu.
“Who tipped you off about the doll in my mother’s workshop?” she said.
“What makes you think someone tipped me off?”
“Why do you answer ever question with another question?”
“Do I?”
Gretchen sighed heavily and continued to scan for Tutu. She rolled down the window and called Tutu’s name. The more Gretchen thought about the police search at her mother’s house, the more certain she became that the police had known not only what they were looking for, but also where they were looking for it. “Did it ever occur to you,” she said, “that your tipster might have planted the evidence?”
“Vivid imagination,” Matt said. “You must be some sort of artistic type. What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing at the moment. I’m unemployed. I have another question for you.”
“Of course.”
“Who claimed Martha’s body?”
Matt stopped the car and studied her, his brows furrowed. Eventually he said, “I guess telling you won’t hurt the case. Her body and personal effects haven’t been released yet, but Joseph Reiner is making arrangements.”
Gretchen was surprised. “The same Joseph Reiner I met at Nina’s house yesterday?”
Matt nodded. “He’s Martha’s nephew.”
“Why didn’t he mention that?”
“I didn’t know myself until late last night when he called me. He seemed embarrassed by the family connection. That explained all the nervous twitching I observed at the meeting.”
In Gretchen’s mind, that didn’t explain anything. It only led to more questions.
“Okay,” Matt said. “I shared information with you. What do you have for me?”
“Nothing yet,” Gretchen said, thinking of the photocopy in Nacho’s notebook and the note on the back in her mother’s handwriting. I have the doll. Hide the trunk.
Gretchen felt a confusing mix of anger and fear for her mother. What in the world had her mother gotten herself into? Sitting in the car next to Matt, she realized she was clenching her fists. She forced herself to relax.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye, and Tutu appeared from the side of a house, her tongue hanging out so far it almost scraped the ground.
“There she is,” Matt said. “We’ve got her.”
__________
“How was I supposed to know she couldn’t be trusted outside alone?”
“The back yard is fenced for a reason,” Nina said, alternating between sending Gretchen piercing glares and rubbing her face in the schnoodle fur. “Poor baby, lost alone in the big world.”
“How’s Wobbles?” Gretchen asked.
“Obviously he enjoyed more care and attention than Tutu.”
Gretchen stuffed her purse with the contents of Nacho’s notebook, slipping the picture of the French fashion doll into her wallet.
“I can’t bear sitting around doing nothing,” Gretchen said. “I’m taking your car for a few hours. You start calling everyone my mother knows, including relatives you might not like.”
She realized the chances of proving her mother’s innocence were evaporating with every piece of new evidence. Instead of uncovering information that would lead to a new suspect, she was cementing the case against her mother. She could see the headlines now: Daughter Leads Police to Proof That Mother is Killer.
At the moment, unsubstantiated evidence pointed to a conspiracy between Caroline and Nacho to steal the French fashion doll from someone. Why else would they discuss hiding the doll and the trunk?
“We have to find out who owns the doll,” Gretchen said.
“How are we going to do that?”
“We’ll find Nacho and make him tell us. He’s the link. And we are going to pay a visit to Martha’s nephew and ask him why he’s creeping around the d
oll club and concealing a family relationship.”
“Who? Who?” Nina said, sounding exactly like an owl. “Who is Martha’s nephew? I think I missed something.”
“Joseph Reiner.”
“No,” Nina said in disbelief. “Martha was his aunt? He never said a word.” She plunked the car keys into Gretchen’s outstretched hand. “I should come along to protect you,” she said in a small voice.
“I won’t be gone long. Start making phone calls.”
__________
Caroline stood in the incessant rain staring at Rudolph Timms’ condominium complex, a small figure lost in the early morning mass of humanity swarming around her. She clutched the case containing her laptop close to her body. It was her last hope.
She had spent the night in the train station, acutely aware of the indigents attempting to blend with legitimate travelers, seeking dry benches to pass the night. She had become one of them, her remaining dollars slipping through her fingers as her body demanded nourishment. Soon, out of desperation, she would take a chance and use a credit card.
Her Phoenix source had apprised her of the latest developments, so she knew a warrant had been issued for her arrest. A wanted woman. Also wanted by a more dangerous force than the local authorities.
She turned off Michigan Avenue and sought cover under the canopy of the entrance to a hotel. Glancing back once more toward the opulent Timms’ home, she realized there wasn’t anything more she could do in the center of downtown Chicago. She had to keep moving.
Dead, the voice had whispered. You are next unless you give me what I want.
Caroline understood the message perfectly.
She was dead either way.
Chapter 12
Gretchen sped along Lincoln Avenue toward downtown Phoenix, feeling released from the claustrophobia she always experienced when she spent too much time around other people. The only personal space she’d managed to find in the past three days was on a rocky mountain in arid summer heat where risking death by bugs or reptiles seemed more desirable than one more minute with Nina and her cast of loony fuzz balls.
In honor of the moment, she purchased lunch at a convenience store - a large bag of potato chips and a sugar-laden soda - and vowed to eat until the chips were history. The challenge was eating, drinking, and driving with only one good arm, but she smiled smugly at her ability to adapt to adverse conditions. She popped another chip into her mouth.
As long as her cell phone didn’t ring or Detective Albright didn’t appear in her rearview mirror, she could handle this level of multitasking. So far, there was no sign of the dogged detective who seemed to have no social life. When did the guy take a day off?
Gretchen chomped chips and admired the scenery. Luxury homes dotted the hillside along Lincoln like embedded jewels, and palm trees lined the boulevards. The weatherman reported the current pollen count.
Phoenix reminded Gretchen of the setting for a fantasy novel or science fiction movie. It even smelled foreign and exotic. As she descended from the hills into the base of the city’s valley, a brown cloud of pollution rose to greet her, the consequence of building a city’s hub in a protected basin. Strong rain or high winds would clean up the air, but Gretchen doubted that it rained much in July.
She maneuvered into a parking space near the Phoenix Rescue Mission and, after studying the outside of the building, she walked inside and approached a wizened woman behind a desk.
“Everybody gone. Eight o’clock,” she replied in broken English. “Back to street. Find work or go church or what.”
“Thank you,” Gretchen said, noticing a sign at the desk reminded all guests to vacate the premises by eight in the morning.
Gretchen had missed him, thanks partly to pesky run-away Tutu. Reluctantly she admitted her own share of blame. She should have set an alarm.
She attempted to describe Nacho to the woman, but based on the confused expression on her face, the woman simply didn’t understand what Gretchen was trying to convey. Nacho’s name and an animated description of the knob on his head drew a blank, uncomprehending stare.
As she left the Rescue Mission, she chastised herself for never learning Spanish.
Central Avenue seemed oddly familiar after she’d spent several hours driving it the day before. Gretchen glanced at her broken wrist, the only thing she had to show for yesterday’s efforts. That and Nacho’s notebook, stowed safely in her purse. She had been mistaken to think he would call, that she could force him to respond.
As always, driving helped clear Gretchen’s mind, and she sorted out the connections among those involved in Martha’s life. Nothing made sense.
Her mother obviously knew Martha better than Nina thought, based on the parian doll and the inventory list found in her workshop. The picture in Nacho’s notebook connected him to Caroline as well.
Joseph Reiner had failed to let the doll club know of his relationship with Martha, quite an omission considering she had just died.
And April, who openly disliked Martha, had abruptly left town after appraising articles found with the dead woman’s body. Gretchen wondered what that was all about.
She drove around the block and headed back down Central Avenue without a plan. Morning traffic clogged the street, giving her time to continue with her mental exercise and attempt to understand what was happening.
Her mother had hidden a parian doll in her workshop that had once belonged to Martha and she had also hidden a French fashion doll that, according to the inventory list, had never belong to Martha. Yet Martha had a picture of the same doll with her when she died.
The note found with Martha implied that Caroline had killed her. But would Martha have had enough time to write out a message to the police?
The message sprawled by Caroline on the back of the photocopy of the picture of the French fashion doll and trunk upset Gretchen the most. She could think of multiple reasons for her mother’s disappearance and for the note found in Martha’s hand. But the picture she found last night in Nacho’s notebook wasn’t ambiguous. It stated the facts boldly.
Caroline w as hiding a doll, and not just any doll, but a doll worth a lot of money, and it didn’t belong to her.
The parian found in the police search hadn’t belonged to Caroline.
The French fashion doll--whereabouts unknown--didn’t belong to Caroline, either.
If she didn’t know her mother as well as she did, she might agree with the authority’s decision to issue an arrest warrant.
Gretchen glanced at the two pink bracelets on her wrist. She would never lose faith in her mother. There had to be another explanation, and she would find it.
As soon as Gretchen turned onto First Avenue she spotted Nacho pushing a shopping cart. He saw the car at the same time and looked desperately around for an escape route.
Gretchen slid the Impala along the curb and slammed on the brakes. She jumped out, sure that she had Nacho trapped this time. If he took off, he’d have to abandon the cart, which he gripped possessively.
“That’s Daisy’s cart,” Gretchen said to him as she approached, noting a few familiar items under Nacho’s black garbage bag, which sat on the top of the heap. She lifted a corner of the bag. Nacho slapped her hand away.
“Hey,” she said. “Keep your hands off me.”
She smelled unwashed body odor and sour alcohol.
“Yo no entiendo inglés,” he said. “Tú debes irte.”
“I know you can understand me,” Gretchen said. “You spoke perfect English when you threatened me at the restaurant.”
Nacho glared at her and kept his hands firmly locked on the cart. He tried to move past her, but Gretchen ran to the front of the cart and pushed back.
A crowd of people walked by, and several turned to look.
“Leave the poor guy alone,” someone shouted.
Gretchen scanned them with a weak smile but stood firm.
“You are going to answer a few questions first,” she demanded. “Where
is my mother?”
“Yo te dije antes que te fueras. Tú solo eres un problema.”
Gretchen stared at him. Somehow she had to force him to speak English. “Police,” she said, bluffing. “I will call the police.”
That did the trick. Nacho’s eyes widened in fear. “No police,” he said. “That would be foolish.”
“I need some answers from you.”
“You stole something from me. I want it back first.”
“Wait here.” Gretchen went to the car, keeping a watchful eye on Nacho, and returned with the notebook. She handed it to him, and he wedged it into the plastic bag.
“You should be more afraid,” he said. “Aren’t you scared?”
Heavy traffic streamed by them, music blared from open windows, and the ground shook from amplified bass settings. Sunday strollers ambled by. At the moment, Gretchen felt reasonably protected from a violent assault.
“What would you do to me? Would you kill me like you killed Martha?”
Nacho’s response was quick but wary. “Martha was my friend. You’re talking nonsense.”
“Tell me about the French fashion doll and the trunk.”
“You’re snooping where you aren’t welcome.”
Gretchen was angry. “My mother is missing, and she is accused of killing your supposed friend. I plan on snooping into your life until you give me answers. Now tell me what I want to know.”
Nacho’s eyes flicked briefly to the shopping cart before answering. “I know nothing about any doll.”
Gretchen leaned her body into the cart, one hand resting on top of the plastic bag. Nacho’s eyes shifted nervously from the cart to Gretchen.
“Where is Daisy?” Gretchen said evenly. “This is her cart.”
“Daisy asked me to watch it for her,” Nacho said, finally answering a question. “She had business.”
“What’s inside the cart, Nacho?”
His knuckles were white. Sweat slid down the side of his face.
Hide the trunk, Caroline had written. Where would a homeless man hide a large doll trunk? Certainly not on the street or in the Rescue Mission. Finding a safe hiding place would be a complex task for a man without a home.
