Goodbye Dolly - By Deb Baker Page 0,33

if I handled it myself so I can get my Ginny dolls back. I was hoping to sell them today at the show. Besides, you have more important things . . ."

Gretchen let the sentence dangle awkwardly. More important things to do. Like planning a funeral and burying a friend.

"Suit yourself," Howie said. "What's the name of the guy you're looking for?"

"Duanne Wilson."

"Let me get the registration list." After a short pause, Howie came back on the phone and read off the address.

"That's exactly how I wrote it down," Gretchen said, disappointed. "The address doesn't exist."

"Then I can't help you," Howie said.

"Did he pay with a check? If he did, his address might be written on the check. I'm sure it was just copied down wrong."

Gretchen heard pages rustling on the other end of the line.

"You're fresh out of luck today. He paid cash."

Gretchen sighed heavily. She was at a dead end in her quest to recover the dolls.

"I have an idea," Howie said. "Maybe he lives on Fortythird Avenue, not Forty-third Street. Someone could have written down street instead of avenue."

"There's a difference?"

"You bet, little lady. A big one. Aren't you from around here?"

"I moved to Phoenix a few months ago. I'm still learning my way around," Gretchen said, perking up. Howie chuckled. "We have numbered streets all the way down to Central Avenue, and then they turn into avenues. What you need to do is drive along Camelback Road and keep going. It's a long way."

"Thanks," Gretchen said. "You've saved my career."

She'd check it out after the show.

"Mailman," April called out. Gretchen looked up and saw Eric Huntington of the Boston Kewpie Club heading her way with a brown-wrapped package between both his beefy hands.

The package was small and square, exactly the size of the one delivered yesterday.

Eric stopped in front of Gretchen's table and smiled at Nina, who said, "I can already tell, you're much friendlier than yesterday's mailman."

"This package is a special Sunday delivery addressed to the doll repairer," he said.

Gretchen stared at the package. "Do I have to accept delivery?" she asked.

"Afraid so," Eric replied. "The label is very specific." He set the package down on the table and ran his finger along the address. "See. 'The Doll Repairer' in capital letters. That can only mean you, since you're the only one here."

"Mail doesn't run on Sunday," Nina pointed out, stuffing Sophie in her travel purse and slinging it across her shoulder. She plopped Nimrod down on Gretchen's lap.

"It is an enigma," Eric said. "Someone shoved the package under the club's table, of all places, then ran off. Rather scruffy character, probably earned a few coins to deliver it. I'm surprised someone didn't stop him at the entrance."

His eyes followed Nina. "Where are you off to?"

"I need a cup of coffee," she said. "I've only had one jolt so far this morning, and I need another."

"I could use one myself," Eric said. "Mind if I join you?"

Gretchen watched them walk away, Tutu in the lead, straining against her leash, and Sophie checking out the show's action from Nina's purse.

Nimrod settled into Gretchen's lap, and she bent down to rummage through her tools for the perfect doll hook to slice through the strong packaging tape.

She scanned the front for information. No return address. No postal stamp. Yet she recognized the same handwriting as the last package: large, loopy letters. If this was someone's idea of a joke, the timing couldn't be worse.

"Aren't you going to open it?" April peered at her from the next table, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. A purple muumuu covered her enormous body like a pair of drapes.

"I don't know."

"Want me to do it?"

"No, I need some fresh air first. Can you watch my table?"

"Sure. Without Nina's dog act, business is light. I'll sit at your table. But don't stay out there too long. This heat will suck every bit of moisture out of your body."

Gretchen opened Nimrod's white poodle purse. His tiny tail beat madly in anticipation of a ride.

The tail thing.

If the dog isn't smart, the tail wags the dog. Gretchen and Nimrod strolled through the hall, taking the show in for the first time. Yesterday's lunch break and a visit to the Boston Club's table had both followed the shortest, quickest routes.

Doll dealers nodded and greeted her, although most didn't know her well. Two months wasn't much time to establish contacts with the entire doll community. They accepted her because of her mother. Caroline