Dolly Departed - By Deb Baker Page 0,50

in your work?"

"That's an odd question." Gretchen glanced at him quickly, but his face was in shadow.

"I'm a detective; it's my job to ask questions. Well? Did you find anything?"

"We found bloodstains painted in two of the boxes and discovered tiny weapons on the floor. We realized that one of the street signs was a replica of that of Lizzie Borden's home, where she was accused of axing her parents to death. And today we found mutilated dolls in a desk drawer."

Matt sipped his wine. "Macabre. But it only proves that Charlie had a few emotional issues."

"One unfinished room box appears to be a kitchen."

"So when you consider the miniature peanut butter jar."

Matt paused to sip his wine. "Things begin to add up."

"Yes."

He leaned forward, piercing her with his vivid eyes. She took a sip of wine and turned away, focusing on what she wanted to tell him. "I think Charlie planned to reveal her sister's killer when she unveiled the display. I believe the incomplete room box scene could be a replica of the killer's kitchen where the poisons were concocted.

That particular room box's walls were hastily wallpapered with a full-sized paper, not a miniature rendition, like it was assembled in a big hurry."

Matt's dark eyes locked onto hers again. He didn't look convinced.

Gretchen continued. "I think all five room boxes were ready for the showing. After poisoning Charlie, the killer must have tried to rip apart the fifth room box, then picked up the incriminating pieces."

"But overlooked the jar because it was under Charlie's body," Matt finished.

"Exactly. All we have to do is find the room with the same wallpaper, and we have the killer."

"Except the kitchen room box went up in flames."

Gretchen struggled to keep her mind on the case instead of the man seated next to her. His body was emitting some sort of sexual energy, and it was affecting her. She wondered if he felt it, too. Matt poured more wine for her. "The destroyed evidence presents a problem," he said, handing her the glass.

"Not as much of a problem as you might think," Gretchen answered, taking a small sip. "You see," she leaned closer, "I took a picture of the room box with--"

Matt slid his chair closer and leaned in as though he was having trouble hearing her. "--my phone," she croaked. That was really a sexy voice. He was still moving toward her. Slowly. Closer. Coming into her personal space. His lips met hers. Longingly.

Gretchen knocked over her wineglass.

"You did that on purpose." Matt whispered, his lips close to hers.

"I . . . really . . . didn't . . . mean," Gretchen stammered, sitting upright and realizing she'd spilled the wine into his lap. She reached for a beach towel on the back of a lounge, stood up, and leaned over to blot the front of his shorts. She stopped just in time.

You almost stuck your hand in his crotch. Geez. Gretchen blushed, grateful that the darkness concealed her discomfort. He laughed and took the towel from her hand. "I won't need a cold shower now," he said.

"I'm really, really sorry."

"Come here," he said, taking her arm and pulling her down. "Make it up to me."

"How?" But she knew the answer. Wasn't she a member of a well-established psychic family?

She pressed against him. Her lips found his.

* 21 *

Daisy, future Hollywood star and current member of the Red Hat Society, trudges along the edges of crumbling adobe walls, pushing her shopping cart filled with all her worldly possessions: sleeping bag, bits of food, knickknacks picked out of trash bins, clothes.

Graffiti and iron grates scar what's left of this onceflourishing side of the city. The streetlights flick on. From the shadows, she looks both ways before turning sharply and slipping down an alleyway. The smell of rotting garbage doesn't bother her a bit. Why should it? She's seen and smelled far worse things than decaying waste. Like that transient last month, new to the streets, beaten until every rib was shattered, blood seeping everywhere. She smelled fear while she watched him die. That smell is worse than a few whiffs of garbage . . . Well, she doesn't allow herself to think of things like that for too very long. It can drive you insane, thinking too much.

Once the talent scouts find her, she's out of Phoenix but fast.

Daisy misses Nacho, her lover and friend. Has he abandoned her for the San Francisco streets, or will he return to the desert? Her life