her number against her sweat-laden halter top. So much for her mother’s sound advice to lay low. Howie trained his eyes on her, acknowledged the bid, and worked it up. From the rapid sweep of his head, she guessed that three or four others were placing bids.
“One hundred. We have a cool crisp bill.” Howie kept going, and Gretchen felt the sting of impending defeat.
One of the bidders dropped out and Gretchen held up her number again.
Another bidder dropped out.
Yes. Gretchen slapped an internal high-five at the dwindling competition.
The Ginny dolls whispered her name and she did the math in her head. Twelve dolls. She could sell them at the doll show for at least fifty each. That would be a total of six hundred dollars.
She still had some leeway.
The current bid shot past two hundred.
But some of the dolls needed work. Her mind flicked through the supplies in the repair workshop. She was sure she had extra Ginny doll parts. Arms and legs, even some original dresses, a wig or two.
“We have two eighty.”
Gretchen signaled.
“Three hundred.” Howie’s red face beamed in anticipation of his growing commission. “Do I have three fifty?” His eyes darted behind Gretchen, his eyebrows one big question mark.
Silence. Howie waited a millisecond, then shrugged.
“Sold,” he shouted, pointing at Gretchen.
Brett, who was standing behind Howie holding the next box, managed to give her a thumbs-up.
She felt like she’d won a million-dollar lottery.
Howie didn’t miss a beat, intent on pounding through the remaining items as quickly as possible. Gretchen worked her way out of the crowd and stood at the back. She’d spent all her money on twelve dolls but she couldn’t help grinning. They were worth it.
Had she paid too much? Her mother’s request included at least six or seven different dolls. Even if she hadn’t forgotten the list, she wouldn’t be able to bid on any others.
After Gretchen paid for the dolls, Brett had her box ready at the side of the truck. He slapped her shoulder. “Good job.”
Gretchen tuned out Howie’s theatrical voice when he presented another round of Chiggy’s badly painted dolls to the crowd. She sat down on a white plastic lawn chair and placed the box beside her. Her registration number and the word “Ginny” were scrawled across the top in black magic marker, the handwriting almost illegible.
The photographer strolled her way, camera strapped at his side, and his hand stretched out to her. Gretchen accepted the business card and glanced at the name. Peter Finch.
“I’m putting together a collection of doll photographs and selling them on eBay,” he said. “Photo gallery, you know. A hundred and fifty pictures for thirty bucks. A steal.”
“You’re including photos of Chiggy’s handmade dolls?” Gretchen was incredulous.
“Check it out,” he said, moving off, offering his card down the line.
Gretchen tucked the business card in her white cotton purse embroidered with black poodles and red bows, a gift from Aunt Nina.
She bent over the box and removed the cover.
A heap of poorly produced Kewpie dolls grinned impishly up at her astonished face.
Just great.
The boxes had been mixed up. The stooped man with the bushy eyebrows who won the Kewpies must be walking around right now with her Ginnys.
Grabbing the box, she hurried back to the truck and scanned the crowd.
Then she heard tires squeal and a car horn blare. Someone screamed. Gretchen, along with everyone else in Chiggy Kent’s yard, rushed toward the street.
“Back up. Quick.” A man’s voice sounded panicked.
Gretchen scooted between two parked cars, still holding the box of Kewpies.
She saw a woman get out of a Ford Explorer that had stopped in the middle of the street. “I didn’t see him,” she said to the people gathering around. “He flew right out between the cars. I didn’t even have time to brake.”
Several people crouched in front of the SUV.
Gretchen gasped and almost dropped the fragile Kewpie dolls.
Howie’s assistant, Brett Wesley, lay crumpled in the road.
2
The ambulance pulled away slowly, without the need for wailing sirens and flashing lights. The police finished questioning possible witnesses and released the remaining auction attendees. People stood in small groups, talking quietly. Cars began to pull away. Everyone would drive with extra care for the rest of the day.
The auction came to an abrupt close. Howie Howard had lost his business partner and close friend and was incapable of continuing. No one seemed interested in dolls anymore. Gretchen watched Howie get into a blue pickup truck, his face the color of Arizona adobe. She guessed he would follow Brett’s body to the morgue.
She felt a wave of nausea each time she thought of Brett lying dead in the street. How quickly life can be snuffed out by a misstep between parked cars. An image of the car’s tire slamming across Brett’s torso forced its way into her thoughts and she tried to block it from her mind.
One of the registration workers slapped a sign on the side of the flatbed trailer: All remaining handmade dolls would sell for ten dollars each. Help yourself. Pay at the register.
The notice reminded Gretchen that she still carried the wrong box of dolls. She looked around for the stooped man but didn’t see him.
A chunky woman with brassy blond curls sat at the registration table. Gretchen approached. “I know this isn’t really important considering what just happened,” she said. “But I have the wrong box of dolls.”
“Nothing I can do about it, sweetheart.” A single sob escaped from the woman but she quickly composed herself.
“I think I know who I need to contact,” Gretchen said. “Can you check the records and tell me who bought a box of Kewpie dolls?”
“I suppose.” She scanned the registration sheet. “That would be Gretchen Birch.”
“Well, I’m Gretchen Birch and I bought Ginny dolls, not Kewpies. Can you tell me who bought the box of Ginny dolls?”
“Name’s Duanne Wilson. Here’s the address. You’d better write that down now.”
Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.
“Shame about Brett. I can’t hardly believe it,” the woman said, tears in her eyes. “He was a good guy.”
Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people’s sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she’d be a basket case for the rest of the day. “Thanks for the information,” she said, in a hurry to get away.
Most of the cars in front of Chiggy’s house had cleared out. Gretchen didn’t see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had driven into Brett. That poor driver. How awful. She stowed the box of Kewpie dolls in the trunk of her car and eased away.
Gretchen fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen Brett step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer. Of course, everyone’s attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry? Shouldn’t he have been working beside the auctioneer?
Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dolls was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.
After asking for directions twice—two months in Phoenix and she still couldn’t find her way around—she turned onto Forty-third Street and searched the apartment buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again.
No number matched the one she’d been given.
Gretchen frowned in annoyance.
Maybe she had written it down wrong? No. She remembered double-checking the numbers with the teary blonde.
She pulled to the curb in front of the only apartment complex within several blocks. This had to be where the man lived. She pulled open the first set of doors, entered, and tried the second set. Locked.
She scanned the names on the mail slots. No Duanne Wilson.
She waited, hoping someone would come along and open the door. Maybe a manager’s office inside would give her the correct apartment number.
No one came.
Standing on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the street. What now? She had three hundred dollars invested in those dolls.
Then she noticed the sign. Gretchen dug her cell phone from her purse, and dialed the number on the sign that announced a vacancy in the building.
After a few holds and redirections, Gretchen had her answer and she didn’t like it.
No such person. No such place.
Duanne Wilson had vanished along with her Ginny dolls.
DEB BAKER spends as much time as possible in Phoenix, Arizona, the setting for her Dolls To Die For Mysteries featuring Gretchen Birch, and in the Michigan Upper Peninsula, home of her Gertie Johnson Yooper Mysteries.
She lives in North Lake, Wisconsin, with her husband, their two teenagers, two border collies, and two wayward cats.
Visit Deb’s website at www.debbakerbooks.com.