Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,26

with no official markings. “How about this? You keep me informed, and I’ll do the same.”

“Aren’t you going to threaten me with jail if I withhold information? I am, as you recall, the main suspect’s daughter.”

Matt smiled. “You watch too many cop shows. This isn’t a movie. Besides—”

She interrupted him. “I know. Our mothers are friends.”

Gretchen sat on a stool in the workshop and imagined her mother bent over a broken doll, in the process of restoring it to its original splendor. A healer. Her mother’s lifework brought renewal, not destruction.

From one of the repair bins marked as sale dolls, she selected a grime-coated wax doll with a damaged nose. Once the doll was cleaned and repaired, her mother would take it to a doll show along with boxes of other dolls collected for that purpose.

Sitting in the shop, she felt closer to her mother.

Using light pressure, she began to clean the doll with cold cream, carefully spreading it around the eyes and ears with a Q-tip.

Gretchen smiled to herself. When she was learning the business, her mother had set her up at a table laden with paraffin wax and candles and supplies, and instructed her to experiment. Carve it, she’d said, mold it into shapes, and color it with crayons. Then melt some in a pot and create something entirely new.

It was one of her most memorable adult play days, and when she had finished, she possessed a working knowledge of wax dolls and their care.

This particular doll’s nose had worn away. Gretchen reached for a hair dryer hanging from a peg over the bench, turned it on, and blew the hot air on the area until the wax surrounding the worn nose became malleable. Carefully and patiently, she pushed the wax toward the end of the nose until she had created a new one.

She held the doll up and examined her work.

Caroline approached the luxury condominium without a concrete plan of action. Turning off Michigan Avenue, she found the condo units she sought. Complete with indoor parking and spectacular lake views. A uniformed doorman stood at attention inside the glass doors, a buffer between the building’s self-proclaimed elite and the commoners from the street below.

Caroline tucked silver strands of hair under her baseball cap. She brushed her hands across her shorts and top, smoothing out wrinkles caused by sleeping in her clothes. Her right hand clutched her laptop. She knew she would never get past the guard.

She entered a series of numbers on her cell phone, and the same woman picked up on the first ring.

“Please,” she said, trying to keep the sound of desperation out of her voice. “I realize that Mr. Timms is away, but if I could only see the doll for a minute. That’s all I need.” It was the truth. One of the first truths in this scheme of deception and lies.

Caroline leaned against the side of the high-rise building and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, the security guard had repositioned, moving closer and eyeing her with distrust.

“Mr. Timms called early this morning,” the woman said. “I told him you had arrived. His private plane will land within the hour. His trip was successful, allowing him to return earlier than expected. Call again in a few hours.”

“Thank you.” Caroline disconnected as large raindrops splattered on the walk around her. Thank you. Thank you. She trembled in anticipation. A few hours of waiting would feel like several long, agonizing days. She could hear every lost minute ticking away in her mind.

Rain pelted her, and she ran to the other side of the street, protecting her laptop and cursing Chicago’s unpredictable weather: damp, humid, dreary.

With any luck she would be out of this city by nightfall.

8

The key to repairing an antique doll head is to make the repair as inconspicuous as possible. The porcelain must be simulated, and the colors must be exact. Quality fillers and sealers are applied, and colors are perfectly matched. Detecting such work is difficult when expertly done. A dishonest dealer might represent a repaired doll as mint and sell it for much more than it is worth. A beginning collector is wise to seek an appraisal before purchasing an expensive doll.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Nina sat at the kitchen table, her hands covering her face in horror while Gretchen broke the news. Tutu and Nimrod, temporarily forgotten by their caregiver, ran roughshod over the house. Gretchen heard a warning hiss from the bedroom followed by a yelp,