Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,37
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 every 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, and 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 backyard is fenced for a reason,” Nina said, alternating between sending Gretchen piercing glares and rubbing her face in the schnoodle’s 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. She could see the headlines now: “Daughter Leads Police to Prove 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 doll club and concealing his identity.”
“Who? Who?” Nina said, sounding exactly like a great horned 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’s 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 Amtrak train station, acutely aware of the indigents attempting to blend with legitimate travelers, seeking dry