Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,41

Sunday crowd of diners and sipping black coffee. After a pause, she opened her laptop again. How many times had she logged on? How many times had she keyed in the online auction Web address and watched the green computer light flicker as it completed her search?

Her fingers flew on the keyboard. “Antique dolls.” Click.

She scanned the listings for a familiar doll without success.

Caroline wanted to slam her fist into the table next to her laptop.

Sell something, she screamed silently. Sell something, you miserable animal!

13

Patience is the doll collector’s most valuable quality. All serious collectors dream of owning one special doll. Chasing the dream can be exhilarating. That doll, once found, will represent the culmination of a lifetime of marvelous memories, remarkable dolls, and wonderful friendships. With that in mind, remember that one must not let emotions overrule common sense. Take time to smell the flowers, as the saying goes. Or, in the case of collectors, take time to enjoy the quest.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

“April’s back,” Nina said while fondling the doll costumes. “Well, not exactly back. She never left.”

“What?” Gretchen said.

“She had valley fever. It was awful, April said. A fever, aches and pains, a bad cough. She’s recovering at home and ignored her phone calls until she felt better.”

Valley fever. A lung infection, Gretchen remembered, caused by an airborne fungus. Not uncommon in the Phoenix area.

“She was out four-wheeling,” Nina explained. “And got caught in a dust storm.”

Gretchen tried to picture enormous April on an all-terrain vehicle.

“She should have worn a mask,” Nina finished.

“Somehow,” Gretchen said, “I never thought of April as the rugged, outdoors type.”

“I hope she didn’t give it to Tutu.”

“I don’t think valley fever is contagious, Aunt Nina.”

“You can’t be too careful.”

Gretchen and Nina sat at the workbench in Caroline’s repair shop, admiring the doll trunk. Wobbles, exhibiting newfound confidence around Tutu and Nimrod, perched lazily on a shelf overhead and cleaned his face with his paws. The dogs had learned to tread lightly around him ever since he had won his first boxing match with a well-placed left claw to Tutu’s inquisitive nose.

“Wobbles has a superiority complex,” Nina observed.

Gretchen tried in vain to concentrate on the doll trunk and her missing mother. Nina whirled through a room like one of those dust storms April claimed she four-wheeled into, and the animals weren’t helping matters. The yapping and clicking of toenails on the tiled floor irritated Gretchen’s already strained nerves.

A cool shower would put everything back into perspective.

Leaving Nina to fend for herself, Gretchen stood in the shower under the lukewarm water while holding her broken wrist out of the stream. It was more of a trick than she thought it would be. She raised it higher and attempted to wash her hair with one hand.

Drying it proved impossible. She draped a towel over her head and struggled into white capris and a short red halter top, intending to ask Nina for help with her hair. But when she returned to the workshop, Nina sat crying at the table.

“I can see Caroline’s aura in my mind’s eye,” Nina said through sobs.

Gretchen, well-versed in Nina’s alleged ability to see energy fields in the form of colors emanating from objects, sighed heavily. According to Nina, all matter has auras, including Boston mosquitoes, Phoenix cockroaches, and Tutu poop. However, Nina hadn’t figured out what all the colors meant or how to interpret them.

Much like her dreams.

“I didn’t know you could see auras in your mind’s eye,” Gretchen said.

Nina sniffed. “I didn’t either until now.”

“And?” Gretchen was reluctant to ask but knew it was inevitable. “What did you see?”

The question sent Nina off into another bout of hysteria.

Gretchen ran the towel through her wet hair and waited. She made a mental note to buy a pair of aura glasses as soon as possible. The woman in the New Age shop had assured her that anyone could see auras with the proper glasses.

Nina sniffed. “Her aura is black. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think it means your mother killed Martha. And I can’t bear it.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Intrigue, conspiracy, death,” Nina said in a stage whisper. “The writing is on the wall.”

“The writing isn’t on the wall,” Gretchen said. “It’s on a piece of paper. In Martha’s cold hand. In Nacho’s notebook. I have to admit, it looks bad. But looks are deceiving. You know that.”

Gretchen leaned over and gave her aunt a strong hug. “We have to fight, Aunt Nina. We can’t give