Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,25
inner strength.
Strength. That was something she and her mother knew about. A malignant tumor like Caroline had encountered inspired courage and resolve in the face of adversity.
She twirled her mother’s pink bracelet.
“First, we have the note Martha managed to write before she died. That’s damaging. We have the first evidence of a motive. Money. That doll from your mother’s workshop was worth three thousand dollars. The entire list could be worth a half million dollars or more.”
“The entire collection of dolls on the list, perhaps,” Gretchen agreed. “You’re forgetting that they no longer belonged to Martha when she died. For all we know, the collection was broken up and the dolls sold as individual pieces. One three thousand dollar doll is hardly a motive for murder.”
“That remains to be seen.” He studied Gretchen. “Your mother also had means. Martha died on that mountain.” He pointed up to the peak. “Practically in Caroline Birch’s backyard. And where is she when we want to question her? She’s disappeared.”
“Circumstantial evidence, Detective.” Gretchen followed his gaze upward. The red rocks glowed in the sunlight. “I can’t believe you got a warrant on those grounds.”
He held up his hand, and with his other hand ticked off each point. “She had means—it happened on her home turf.” He tapped a finger. “She had a motive—valuable dolls.” Tap. “And she’s missing—no alibi.” Tap.
“She’ll explain everything when she comes home,” Gretchen insisted.
“We have witnesses,” he said, dropping his hands to the table and spreading his fingers wide. “A man and a woman were hiking together on the mountain at the time it happened.”
Gretchen felt light-headed. “They saw it? They saw my mother murder Martha Williams?” Her voice climbed several octaves.
He shook his head. “They didn’t see Martha fall. But they saw your mother fleeing. She came from the exact spot where Martha Williams was pushed.”
“Martha Williams committed suicide,” Gretchen said weakly.
“I’m afraid not. Martha Williams was murdered.”
Gretchen stared at the mountain blankly. There had to be a logical explanation. All the strength she had summoned threatened to seep away. Two witnesses saw her mother on the mountain when Martha died. She could no longer dismiss his theory as pure speculation. Something awful occurred on Camelback Mountain, and her mother was there at the time. What explanation would she give for running away? Did innocent people run?
“We have an APB out on her car,” he continued. “I’m sorry.”
Gretchen’s gaze met his, and she almost believed that he truly was sorry.
“You have to tell me where she is. She has to come in and clear this up.” He leaned closer. “Where is she?”
“I’m afraid I really don’t know.”
Maybe, Gretchen thought, it’s time to pool our resources and work with the police. To a degree. She considered sharing the discovery of the doll shawl and photograph with him, but that might only give the police more reason to suspect her mother. It wouldn’t help find her, and it wouldn’t help exonerate her. The bag Gretchen found must remain her secret until she understood its significance. Until she located the French fashion doll and the trunk, the shawl would stay hidden with Nina.
“She left without telling anyone where she was going. That’s why I came to Phoenix. Nina’s worried about her.”
“You wouldn’t withhold information to protect her, would you?”
Gretchen shook her head. “Believe me, I want to find her more than you do. Tell me who appraised the doll you found in the workshop?” April Lehman knew about the doll shawl, and Gretchen hoped she hadn’t shared her knowledge with the police.
“An appraiser over in Glendale. April Lehman wasn’t available. Seems she left town for a few days.”
The detective drained his glass of iced tea and stood. Gretchen slipped on a pair of flip-flops and walked with him through the backyard gate and around the side of the house. The home’s landscaping matched the wildness of the Sonoran Desert and Camelback Mountain: spiked cacti, red-hued boulders, and spindly, whiplike ocotillos that were leafless in dry July but exploded with red blossoms in April.
A chameleon darted across the walkway in front of them.
“Someone threatened me last night,” she said, and related the encounter and the words spoken by the homeless man: “Get out while you still can.”
“And you think he has something to do with the Williams murder.”
Murder. Gretchen cringed at the word.
“Yes,” she said. “I think he knows something important. My plan is to find him.”
“Well, my plan is to find Caroline Birch.” Matt stopped at his car, a nondescript blue Chevrolet