Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,64

trust a woman whose gums show when she smiles,” Gretchen said to Nina as they zipped through traffic on the way back to her mother’s house. “Who said that?”

“You just did.”

“No, I’ve heard that expression someplace before.”

“Interesting about your friend, Matt. Don’t you think?”

“That he’s going through a divorce?”

“He’s available,” Nina said, honking at a passing car that strayed into her lane. “Never ignore opportunity.”

“That,” Gretchen said, emphatically, “is the last thing on my mind.”

“Good. At least it’s on the list.”

“I can’t help but think that she’s hidden the French fashion doll right here in the house,” Gretchen said over loud, aggressive snarls. Enrico, the Chihuahua, raised his upper lip and growled at Gretchen. “He’s going to attack me.”

“Chihuahuas,” Nina said in an instructional voice, “are as old as the Mayan civilization. We’ve actually discovered their images carved in stone in the Mexican jungle. The Mayans believed Chihuahuas guided the dead through the underworld.”

“This particular one doesn’t have guide dog written all over him. He should come with a vicious attack dog warning.”

“Chihuahuas don’t like strangers. They don’t like other people or other dogs, but they bond with one or two people and are devoted for life.”

Enrico continued to snarl at Gretchen.

“Give him a treat,” Nina advised, handing Gretchen a liver snap.

“I’m not going near him. And look at Tutu and Nimrod. They’re terrified.”

Both dogs had backed into a corner, watching the action from a safe distance. Wobbles, on the other hand, strutted past the purse hanging from the doorknob without acknowledging the rabid beast within its confines. He stopped at Gretchen’s feet and gazed at the liver snap. Gretchen bent down and handed it over.

“They take a little getting used to,” Nina admitted. “Although Chihuahua owners just love them to death. And speaking of death. They can live for twenty years.”

“Isn’t that nice. Can we get back to my mother and where she may have hidden the doll? According to the note we found written on the back of Nacho’s French fashion doll picture, my mother has the doll.”

“We’ve been over this before,” Nina said. “The police searched the house. Wouldn’t they have found the doll if Caroline had it here?”

Gretchen frowned, and the movement caused burning pain to shoot through her face. What a mess. Broken wrist, second-degree burns on her face and feet. Or was it third-degree? Second, third, or fourth, who cared? All Gretchen knew was that it really hurt.

“They did a poor job of searching. They didn’t seem concerned about anything other than the parian doll and the inventory list.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Follow me.” Gretchen opened the doors to the patio. She walked past the swimming pool into the living area of the cabana. It was exactly as she remembered it. Large, welcoming fireplace, cozy sitting area, wide bed with a locally made Indian blanket spread across it, more blankets draped on the walls, pottery scattered in nooks and crannies. An Arcosanti bell hanging from the outside eave chimed in the breeze.

She pointed to a stack of boxes pushed against the wall. Unless company arrived, the cabana served as a storage area rather than a guest room, housing the dolls her mother sold at shows.

“Let’s start here,” Gretchen said. “The police didn’t even come out to the cabana. Maybe she hid the doll with her other dolls.”

“Seems too obvious.” Nina squatted and pried a box open.

“I agree, but we have to start somewhere. I have a copy of the list itemizing all of Martha’s collection. Let’s see if any of the dolls in these boxes matches any on the list. Keep your eyes out for the French fashion doll. And unwrap them gently; they’re fragile.”

Gretchen opened a box and carefully unwrapped each doll: closed mouth, open mouth, mohair wigs. Dolls dressed in sailing outfits, gingham jumper dresses, drop-waist dresses in pink polka dot and cotton sateen, marked dolls, sleepy eyes, molded teeth.

“Look at this one,” Nina said, holding up a blonde-headed doll dressed in a knit suit with sapphire glass beads. “And this.” She picked up a dark-haired doll dressed in a sarong.

“She told me about these,” Gretchen said. “They’re Mary Hoyer dolls she found at an auction. This one is Dorothy Lamour, and that one . . .” she gestured at the doll Nina held. “. . . is Marilyn Monroe. There should be a Katharine Hep-burn and a Lana Turner somewhere in the box.”

“Here they are,” Nina giggled. “They’re cute, too.”

A sharp bark sounded from the house.

“I better check on the pooches,” Nina