Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,78

last time, then break for a few hours’ rest. She needed sleep desperately, her thoughts too loosely connected and ineffective without it. She watched as the auction screen lit up, and her eyes grew wide with urgency. The Buy It Now icon flashed across her screen, the signal that the seller was ready to end the bidding at a certain set price. Usually this option wasn’t available after the bidding began, and Caroline hadn’t expected it.

The price shown under the listing for the Jumeau Bébé caused Caroline to pause momentarily. Twenty-two thousand dollars, a princely amount.

Her fingers flew on the keyboard, intent on beating another bidder to the treasure, hoping they had been caught off-guard also. All she needed was a lead of a few seconds. Faster fingers.

She hit Enter and sat back.

Something must have frightened the seller, too much attention on the site perhaps, or an unforeseen problem in waiting out the remaining four hours. She sensed a change in plans, a quiet desperation.

She punched in her e-mail address and smiled weakly.

“Congratulations!” appeared on the screen.

23

Doll clothing is big business. With a sewing machine and expert sewing skills, a doll repairer can mend cloth bodies and reattach arms. She also can make reproductions of original costumes, remembering the ethical value of honesty when representing such work. Knowledge of period costumes is invaluable in determining originality, which gains importance with the age of the doll. Collectors remember clothing. Who can resist a perfectly fashioned two-piece satin jacket dress, a vintage white organdy, a pink cotton dress with pleated bottom, or a boy doll with red cummerbund and brass studs? The clothing, some say, makes the doll.

—From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

Gretchen rolled out of bed early Wednesday morning after a restless night’s sleep and painfully pulled on a pair of socks over her burnt feet and tied up the laces on her hiking boots. Glancing in the mirror, she noticed that her facial coloring remained a crispy, flaky red, and she dabbed on more healing lotion.

Nimrod, ready for high-energy puppy action, bolted his breakfast, while Wobbles savored his meal one morsel at a time. After eating, Wobbles nimbly sprang to the floor, and Nimrod proceeded to run in circles around him in a vain attempt to entice him into a game of chase. Wobbles looked on with disdain, his eyelids hooded and watchful. Eventually, he sauntered over to the protective height of the washing machine.

Gretchen drank coffee and ate what remained of last night’s Chinese meal, wistfully remembering the enormous all-American breakfasts of her past. As she approached thirty, she’d been forced to change her eating habits to reflect her slower metabolism and the accompanying ease with which she gained unwanted weight. No more breakfasts of eggs, bacon, toast, and fried potatoes for her. Ruby red grapefruits and plain yogurt from now on.

She had jealously observed that Arizona women were fit, trim, and golden tan, and she hoped to model her unemployed self after them rather than eat her way through mounds of seven-layer self-pity.

She also noticed that she had more commitment to self-control and strength in the mornings than later in the day, when most of her determination faded.

A hardy hike up the mountain before the sun began to scorch the earth would solve the metabolism problem, at least temporarily. Last night’s storm had moved toward the coast, and the arid desert heat had already begun to absorb the large quantities of fallen rain. In the next short, sunny hours, all evidence of flooding would evaporate, and the land would appear parched again.

On the day Gretchen arrived in Phoenix, the local news had recounted the rescue of a dehydrated, heat-stricken hiker. Gretchen planned a cautious, safe climb to protect herself from embarrassing media coverage. Water bottle, hat, and an early ascent were essential.

As an afterthought, she grabbed a pair of binoculars in case she spotted a new bird to add to her growing life list of bird sightings.

Taking the footpath to the trailhead, she veered to the left onto Summit Trail and began the rugged one-point-two-mile uphill climb, periodically stopping to rest and to glance at the summit, almost three thousand feet above sea level, according to a sign below. A Harris antelope squirrel darted along the rocks, tail curled across his back, and disappeared into a tangle of mesquite.

Halfway up, Gretchen paused at the hand railing and listened to the high-pitched trill of a rock wren. She felt rejuvenated by the fresh air and the open expanse