Dolled Up for Murder - By Deb Baker Page 0,97
resist? Do I hear ten?” The words melded together, strung without the briefest pause, and Gretchen smiled at his singular ability to sell certifiable junk.
A man beside her lifted a doll from a heap and made space on the flatbed to prop it up. He smoothed the doll’s bright blue gown and rearranged the curls framing her face, then stepped back and snapped a picture. Gretchen watched him move along the truck from doll to doll as he repeated the process again and again.
The camera, a Leica digital, looked expensive—too expensive, considering his gaunt, unshaven face and the faded T-shirt stretched over his protruding stomach.
The sun beat down on Gretchen.
She glanced around for a shady spot in which to stand. The last day of September was hot and dry, and Gretchen needed respite from the intensity of the Phoenix sun. One lone palm tree cast a pencil-thin shadow across Chiggy’s now-barren yard, not nearly enough for protection.
Where did I put it? Gretchen dug through her purse for the list of dolls her mother had wanted her to bid on. She must have left it at home. Now what? She didn’t have time to search for it. No choice but to wing it.
She hoped Howie wouldn’t auction off all six hundred of these handmade copies before moving on to the real reason she stood there suffering from the heat. Chiggy’s private collection. The real dolls.
Gretchen recognized several serious collectors in the crowd and a few impatient doll dealers looking for bargains. She edged closer to Howie.
“Change of pace,” he shouted, as though reading Gretchen’s mind. “We can’t sell everything one at a time or we’ll be here through Sunday. Let’s dig out something new. What we got, Brett?” He turned and accepted a cardboard box from his assistant. “Box of Kewpie dolls.” He held one aloft. “Cute little things. Whole bunch made by the same talented doll artist, Chiggy Kent.” Howie held up a three-inch Kewpie. “Who wants to start . . . ?” And he was off and running.
Gretchen was fascinated by the speed with which Howie flew through the bidding process. She had sorted through the Kewpie dolls before the auction and noticed that almost all were bad reproductions. Gretchen saw imperfections in the molded bodies, amateurishly shaped topknots and tufts of babyish hair.
Someone was actually bidding on this mess?
“Sold for thirty dollars.” Howie’s voice slammed through the group, and Gretchen craned her neck to see the successful bidder.
Him again. He slapped his knee in delight. She’d watched the shriveled old man bid several times. Who could miss his stooped shoulders, full head of white hair, and Groucho Marx eyebrows? He waved his registration number with gleeful abandon.
Howie’s assistant, Brett, continued to bring items to the auction block. A collection of paper dolls, then an Aston Drake Little Red Riding Hood.
Gretchen tried to imagine the list her mother had composed. No paper dolls. She was sure of it. Or was she?
Why do I have to be so forgetful and disorganized?
Brett continued lugging boxes out of the garage.
“. . . Ginny dolls.”
Gretchen snapped back to the call of the auctioneer. Ginnys were on the list. Here goes. Her body felt clambaked, and her hair, hard to manage on a good day, frizzed out from her damp scalp.
Someone pushed past her, another bidder positioning for the same round. Gretchen’s palms felt sweaty and she grasped her number firmly, waiting for the opening volley. Calm down. This is like a horse race. You don’t have to start out in the lead to win. She remembered her mother’s coaching. Don’t look desperate. Lay low. Wait for the right moment.
Gretchen gulped and felt the thrill of competition. Right this minute she wanted that collection of Ginny dolls more than anything in the world. Was this how it always felt? What a rush of adrenaline! No wonder her mother always covered the auctions and left her to handle repairs.
The dolls that Gretchen lusted after were eight-inch Vogue vintage dolls from the late forties and early fifties, all in their original boxes. They came with a variety of costumes—hats, dresses, purses, and snap-shoes.
Howie’s voice sliced the sun-scorched air. “This is it,” he said, his words coming fast. “The finest of the fine . . .”
Gretchen’s heart sank into her stomach and settled next to the grapefruit-sized nervous lump. Why did he have to call special attention to the dolls she was interested in?
Her eyes never left him as his voice rang out.
“Who’ll give me fifty?”
Gretchen raised