Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,16

for the night and still have enough for a cab and a meal tomorrow. Three credit cards, all useless to her, but invaluable to a pursuer if she was foolish enough to charge anything.

This wouldn’t be the first time she’d slept in an airport terminal. Once, on a Midwestern flight, a blizzard had shut down flights and stranded her overnight.

Caroline bought a Chicago-style hot dog from a kiosk and devoured it while she searched for a quiet, unused gate to spend the night.

At precisely ten o’clock her cell phone played Pachelbel’s Canon, and she answered after checking the caller ID. Calls from her sister and her daughter had gone unanswered all day, but she took this one.

Caroline listened, and what she heard caused her to reel. She felt weak with shock. It couldn’t be possible. What was her daughter doing in Phoenix? Was it a calculated trick to lure her back? No. She sensed Nina’s hand in this turn of events, and she mentally chastised herself for failing to anticipate her sister’s response to her disappearance. Caroline’s lack of foresight would get someone else killed if she wasn’t more careful.

“Get her out of there,” she said into the phone. “Whatever it takes, get her out of the way before something happens to her.”

The doll was more important now than ever. Tomorrow she would find it, even if she had to resort to drastic measures.

5

What makes one doll more valuable than another? Top prices are paid for swivel-head dolls created between the 1860s and the early 1900s by famous dollmakers such as Bru, Jumeau, and Kestner. Collectors look for European dolls with swivel heads made from an unglazed porcelain called bisque. Add a kid-leather body and original wardrobe, and the value climbs significantly.

Closed-mouth dolls are worth twice as much as open-mouthed dolls.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

The man standing at her mother’s front door wore khaki cargo shorts and a “Running Strong for American Indian Youth” T-shirt. Poking her head through the partially open door and hiding behind it in cotton boxer shorts and a skimpy camisole, she did a quick mental check of her appearance: no makeup, hair in its usual early morning tangle, sleep lines probably creasing her face. Perfect. Great start to the day.

Gretchen had to squint in the radiant light shining from his smile. She shaded her eyes with her hand and caught a whiff of Chrome cologne, one of her favorites.

“Yes?” Gretchen produced a weak smile.

He flipped a badge and held it close to her face. Her tentative smile faded.

“Detective Albright,” he said. “I’m looking for Caroline Birch.”

“You’re Bonnie Albright’s son. Matt.”

He flashed another dazzling smile. “And you must be Gretchen Birch from Boston.”

“News travels fast.” Gretchen raked her fingers through her unruly hair. “Did my watch stop?”

“No, it’s six.”

“Six o’clock on Saturday morning?”

“Correct.”

Gretchen edged further behind the door. “Seems a little early for official business. My mother isn’t home right now.”

“I’ve heard that news, too,” he said. “I was hoping it was a rumor.”

“You aren’t what I expected.” Gretchen imagined his mother. Bonnie of the red flip hairdo and uneven penciled eyebrows. The man looming on the other side of the door had dark wavy hair and a body builder’s biceps. He must take after his father.

“What did you expect? Bald and beastly?”

“Where’s your uniform?”

“I’m undercover.” His eyes slid past her head. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t think so.” She wedged a bare foot against the door. “Do you have a search warrant?”

He grinned. “Do you have something to hide?”

His smile was disarmingly charming, but Gretchen felt sure that he was acting. She had an overwhelming urge to protect her mother. The role reversal seemed awkward and unnatural. Her mother had always been her shield against potential danger.

“Look,” he continued, sliding his badge into his wallet. “I’m investigating a death, and your mother’s name came up. This is all very routine. If she didn’t do anything wrong, you have nothing to hide.”

Gretchen hated logic, especially from a cop. “Who said I have anything to hide?”

“You did.”

“I did not.” See how a cop will twist your words until you don’t recognize them anymore, Gretchen thought, glancing past his shoulder and watching a neighbor walk her dog past the house. Six A.M. Didn’t these people sleep in on Saturdays? She lowered her eyes and met his gaze. Neither one of them flinched or looked away.

“If you know where she is, you should tell me,” he said. “I’m trying to help. She’s one of my mother’s friends.”

Gretchen