you’re peladophobic,” Gretchen said between bites. “Is that true?”
Matt laughed. “Are you asking me if I have an unnatural fear of bald people or are you asking me if I have pediophobia?”
“The fear-of-dolls one.”
“Pediophobia.” Matt poured more syrup over his waffles and handed the bottle to Gretchen. “It’s weird, but I’ve always had a problem. I’m surprised you spotted it, since I go out of my way to hide behind daring bravado.” He thumped his chest. “You know, the big bad cop that’s afraid of a little doll doesn’t exactly improve my image. My mother tried to break me of it when I was young with no luck. Facing my fear, in this case, didn’t work.”
“Maybe she made it worse,” Gretchen said, thinking of bewigged, gossipy Bonnie forcing dolls on her son.
“Maybe,” he agreed pleasantly, not particularly concerned with resolving his issues or delving into the reasons. “But the symptoms mimic those of the flu—nausea and sweating—and I avoid those feelings whenever possible. I couldn’t believe it when I was assigned to this case.”
“Speaking of the case,” Gretchen said, her waffle-filled fork midair. “Any progress?”
“That’s why I came to see you,” he said. “We have a suspect in custody.”
Gretchen sharply lowered the fork, and it clattered to her plate. “My mother?” she said, not sure what answer she wanted to hear. She had little doubt that her mother was alive and well, but her physical presence would be confirmation, an erasure of that tiny bit of lingering doubt, unspoken and consciously ignored, yet there all the same. Gretchen craved living proof. On the other hand, she couldn’t bear the thought of her mother behind bars, caged like a dangerous mountain lion.
Matt shook his head. “No, not your mother. Theodore Brummer turned himself in late last night. He confessed.”
“I never heard of him.”
“Well, he said he did it.”
“He confessed to Martha Williams’s murder?” Gretchen sighed with relief, noting the assertion in Matt’s expression. It was over. Her mother could come home, and she could return to Boston and the life she had made for herself there. She tried not to think of the recent negative qualities of that life. She could put it back together again, find a job, salvage her long-term relationship. She would consider it a new beginning, a starting point for the next phase of her life.
“Yes, he could only communicate in Spanish, no English at all. He says he did it.”
“Did he say why he killed her?”
“Apparently they knew each other from the Rescue Mission. He says he was drunk, she had a bottle of whisky and wouldn’t share. A physical fight ensued, and he pushed her.”
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed, and her brows furrowed. Killed for a bottle of whisky? Something felt wrong about that. The homeless lost their lives occasionally, and sometimes they did lose it over a bottle of booze.
But Camelback Mountain was miles from the area the city’s destitute frequented. Why chase her all the way up a mountain and then push her off?
A disturbing thought struck her, and she knew the answer before she asked the question. She sensed what Nina would have called her special inherited talent, a certain unspecified intuition. Goose bumps dotted her arms as she braced herself to cross paths once again with a duplicitous transient.
“What does this Theodore Brummer look like?” she asked suspiciously.
“Scruffy, smelly. Usually the homeless are nondescript and tend to blend in, but this guy has a large lump on his head that distinguishes him from the rest, some kind of growth.” Matt cupped his hand on the side of his head.
Gretchen stared at him.
She was right.
Nacho.
“What about the witnesses?” she managed to ask. “The ones who saw my mother on the mountain when Martha died?”
“If you’re asking if their sighting is credible, it is. She’s still wanted as an accomplice based on their accounting. She was on the mountain, and she’s guilty of something. Maybe not murder, but certainly she withheld information and obstructed the pursuit of justice. I’m not buying his motive. He didn’t kill Martha Williams over alcohol. And there’s still the possibility that your mother conspired with Brummer.”
Gretchen pushed her plate away, having suddenly lost her appetite.
“I suspected him all along,” Nina said. “Doesn’t surprise me at all.”
They drove toward Scottsdale Memorial Hospital through typically heavy traffic on their way to visit Daisy. Nina’s menagerie—Tutu, Nimrod, and the volatile Enrico—rode in the backseat, and Gretchen again felt gratitude for her cat and his independent character. His only requirements were a constant source