Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,59

first one since she arrived in Phoenix. Once she started, she couldn’t stop. She laughed until tears streamed down her face.

“It’s so easy to train a puppy,” Nina said wistfully. “I wish I had taught Tutu that trick before she grew up. The old adage is true. Teaching old dogs new tricks isn’t easy.”

“Let me guess,” Gretchen said, wiping her eyes. “You’re teaching Nimrod to hide so you can take him into stores where he wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Exactly. And he loves it. He burrows down and takes a catnap. Or rather a puppy nap.”

Nina hung Nimrod and purse on the doorknob and sat down on the side of the bed. “Nimrod’s family has had an unexpected delay, and they won’t be home today. Nimrod needs a place to stay for a few days, a temporary home.”

Gretchen stopped laughing. “He seems perfectly happy staying with you.”

“We’ve had a great time.”

“But?”

“But I have another client coming,” Nina said. “I love Nimrod. He took to a purse with the same instinct he takes to water. But I can’t possibly train another puppy with so many other dogs around. The distraction would be counterproductive.”

“Can’t you reschedule your next client?” Gretchen felt a case of can’t-say-no-itis coming on.

“That wouldn’t be very professional.”

Gretchen glanced at Nimrod. His ears quivered. “Okay, but only for a few days.” She lifted his purse from the doorknob and slung him over her shoulder. “Let’s see what’s inside the bag Nacho gave me. Maybe it holds all the answers to Martha’s death.”

“You’re a dreamer,” Nina said.

“Nothing of value at all,” Nina said, slapping her hands together and rubbing them as though shedding dirt and grime, a look of distaste on her face. The clothes spread out on the table reeked of cigarette smoke. “This is it? All she owned? And we actually toyed with the idea that she still had her dolls?”

Gretchen studied the paltry collection. Aside from a few pieces of clothing, the bag contained a toothbrush, a near-empty tube of toothpaste, and a stick of roll-on deodorant. Not much to show for a well-worn life, for years of collecting personal effects.

“Let’s throw the whole mess in the trash,” Nina said.

“No, this belongs to Joseph now. He can decide whether to dispose of it or not.” Gretchen picked up the stick of deodorant and idly lifted the cover. Something made of metal fell and clinked on the floor. She bent down and picked it up.

“A key,” she said.

Gretchen handed it to Nina. “Is it a safe-deposit key?” she asked.

“Doesn’t seem to be. It isn’t a car key, either.” Nina turned it over and shrugged. “House key maybe.”

“Let’s see if it fits one of these doors.”

They tried the key in the front and back door locks. It didn’t fit.

“That’s a relief,” Nina said. “We don’t need additional evidence pointing to Caroline.”

Gretchen couldn’t agree more.

The Chinese food arrived, and they ate in silence. Afterwards, Nina gathered her wet clothes together and kissed Nimrod good-bye. “I left Nimrod’s food on the counter.” She ducked out quickly, leaving a considerable amount of baggage behind in one small, wiggly package.

Gretchen sat and stared at the key for a long time.

Then, with Nimrod at her heels, she went into her mother’s workshop and sat at the worktable. Equipment hung haphazardly from hooks on the wall: clamps, scissors, elastic in different weights for stringing, and a curling iron the size of a pinky finger for creating ringlets on her mother’s favorites, the Shirley Temple dolls.

Next to the workbench, a library of collector’s books, price lists, and identification guides. Guides for hard plastic dolls, vinyl dolls, every conceivable specialty doll—American Characters, Mattel, Nancy Ann Storybook dolls.

Gretchen removed a volume devoted to Sweet Sue dolls and idly paged through it, noting the pages were worn from research.

Sighing heavily, she checked to make sure the doll trunk was still safely stowed in its hiding place on the lower shelf of one of the cabinets. She removed the cloth and peered at the trunk, then stood up.

The bin where the police found the hidden parian doll and inventory list was still ajar. The two assigned officers had come directly into the workshop and searched it meticulously. A superficial, indifferent search of the rest of the house. There was no question in Gretchen’s mind that someone had given them information. But who? Nacho? He seemed the likeliest.

What was the point of alerting the police? To shift suspicion away from the real killer? An old doll list and a doll of disputable ownership