auction lot listings. Then Theriault’s. She scanned every online doll auction house. The Internet sites had highly specialized bidding technology, some with audio and video of the live auctions, offering customers the ability to participate with the touch of a keystroke.
Caroline sank into the center of the lumpy motel bed and closed her eyes. An hour later she awoke, startled. A door slammed in the hall, and she could hear muffled voices in the next room through the paper-thin walls.
She struggled up, unaware of the time or the day. She bent over, stretching the taut muscles in the small of her back.
Caroline went back to work, the computer startup display glowing green.
An audible gasp. She rubbed her eyes and looked again.
“French Jumeau Bébé, 1910, paperweight eyes, holding a Steiff monkey.”
Caroline knew the inventory list by heart. She clicked on a tiny photograph, and the image opened up. Large and bold. Worth the long wait.
Another of Martha’s dolls.
20
Little French girls eventually tired of playing with miniature copies of their mothers. Instead they wanted to play with versions of themselves. The Bébé doll, created in the image of young girls, was born in the late eighteen hundreds. Emile Jumeau took credit as the original designer. While some may dispute his claim, no one can challenge the beauty of his dolls’ faces or the exquisite detail of the costumes they wore.
—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
Bonnie Albright worked part-time in the lingerie department at Saks Fifth Avenue. They found her in a back room, opening a box of bras. She had a box cutter in her hand and red lipstick smeared above her lip. Bonnie had been selected by Gretchen and Nina for several reasons; she was the club’s president, and she was the most indefatigable gossip of the bunch. She would help them with the leg-work. Or in this case, the lipwork.
“Here’s the list you asked for,” Bonnie said, opening a locker and removing a sheet of paper from her purse. “I’ve highlighted the active members. Now tell me what this is all about?”
A snarl filled the room, and one of Bonnie’s penciled eyebrows shot up. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Shhh,” Nina said into the purse. “That’s just Enrico. Ignore him.”
“I’d like to call each of the club members,” Gretchen explained, “and ask them about Martha and my mother. It’s been six days since Martha died and my mother disappeared, and we still don’t know what happened.”
“Matty’s working on it,” Bonnie said with exaggerated pride. “You don’t need to get involved. He’ll solve it.”
“I need to keep busy.”
“Should we tell her?” Nina said to Gretchen, and both of Bonnie’s penciled eyebrows quivered.
Gretchen nodded on cue.
“We found a bag of Martha’s belongings,” Nina said. “One of her friends gave it to us, and it has a few very interesting items inside.”
“What?” Bonnie said, wringing her hands in anticipation. “What?”
“I don’t think we should say until we know more,” Gretchen said. “It wouldn’t be right.”
Nina nodded. “We’ll keep the bag in Caroline’s workshop for now.”
“We should probably notify the police,” Gretchen said.
“Soon,” Nina agreed.
“Well, my, my,” Bonnie said, running her hand over her stiff hair. “Isn’t this a new wrinkle.”
Afterwards they strolled through the open-air mall.
“I bet she’s on the phone right this minute,” Nina said, handing her cell phone to Gretchen.
“I have to get another phone,” Gretchen said, dialing. “Hey, April, how are you?”
“Tired, achy, I think I need to rest more. This valley fever has me down in bed. I shouldn’t have worked out so soon.”
Gretchen repeated the same story she had told Bonnie, with the same response.
“Well, isn’t that something?” April said. “I’ll call around for you and see if any of the club members have any information. There weren’t any dolls in that bag, were there?”
“I really can’t say right now. Police orders.”
“Ahhhhh,” April said.
After several more calls, Nina nudged Gretchen. “Don’t look behind you, but we’ve picked up a tail.”
Gretchen stopped at a shop window beside a garden courtyard and slowly turned her head.
Their eyes met. Matt smiled, bright and warmly, wearing casual, Southwestern garb as usual. No hint in his attire of his real occupation. Tan. A certain scrappiness about his walk as he approached them.
“Are you always undercover?” Gretchen said.
“Usually,” he replied. “I’m coming from a visit with Daisy at the hospital, on my way to Saks to see my mother. I’m off-duty.” His eyes traveled over the purses, noting their contents, gazing at Gretchen. “There’s something new about you since I saw you last.” He ran