Dolly Departed - By Deb Baker Page 0,72

daughter Melany appeared in the doorway. "I'm going now," she said, staring at her mother, seemingly unaware that she had company. Britt hurried over and gave her a hug. Melany stiffened. She didn't move to return the embrace.

Britt's fingers fluttered to her French twist, nervously feeling for renegade locks.

Again, Gretchen noticed the contrast in the two women. Melany went for the no-makeup, rumpled look, almost in direct opposition to her mother's organized, proper appearance. Was she acting out? Was it a passive-aggressive stance?

Once Melany was gone, Britt moved her guests to another table. "These are some of my work in progress. I go through six stages of painting and firing. See these? The initial firing makes the porcelain pink, but not a fleshcolored pink like I want. I keep adding colors. They become richer and more natural looking with every firing."

"What if I make a mistake?" April asked.

"Then you use paint thinner to start over." Britt's voice had become tutorial. "Over here I'm cutting out eye sockets, and over here I've just cut out the crown of this doll's head."

"And you made earring holes," April exclaimed, beside herself with joy. So much for a working crime partner. One of Charlie's Angels had gone to heaven.

While Britt preened under the rays of April's worship, Gretchen studied Britt's doll-making tools. Gretchen didn't feel the same warmth for the doll maker as April did. What if Britt and Bernard were accomplices?

Gretchen felt a twinge of conscience for being meanspirited. While Bernard had stolen from her, and she had a good reason to distrust him, Britt hadn't done anything remotely suspicious. She'd try harder to like her, after she got a good look at Britt's kitchen. She'd make more of an effort. That was, if the wallpaper didn't match. Some of Britt's tools were familiar to Gretchen: stringing clamps, body paint to give a doll body's an antique look, hooks, and pliers. The studio was also well-stocked with supplies different from Gretchen's: modeling clays and a variety of molds.

When Gretchen needed to replace a part, she had to find an original from the same time period. Too bad she couldn't just whip up a copy in Britt's kiln. Her serious antique collectors would know instantly that she had cheated.

"That's an incising tool," Britt said, appearing next to her. "It's used to mark the creator's name on the doll. We have to be very careful that a reproduction isn't mistaken for an original."

Gretchen held up a scalpel. Nina, she suddenly noticed, was missing from the room. The bathroom door was open, so she wasn't in there. Her stealthy aunt had vanished into the interior of the house.

"I have all different sizes in the drawer below it," Britt said.

Taking that as permission, Gretchen opened the drawer. It was filled with scalpels and syringes. She reminded herself that Britt was a doll maker and that scalpels and syringes were important tools of her trade. She opened the next drawer. More knives. "Quite a collection." She held up a knife. The handle bore the steel image of a feather.

"That's a Native American feather knife. It belonged to my grandfather."

Gretchen used the contents of the drawers as a distraction to cover for Nina. "What do you use this one for?"

Where was Nina?

Finally she caught a flash of pink behind Britt. Nina's jeweled fingers reached in and closed a drawer.

"We should be going," Nina said.

"Thank you for stopping by." Britt said, showing them out a back door. "April, I'll call you as soon as I have enough students signed up for a class. And Nina, call me."

"Well?" Gretchen said when they were in the car. "Was it the kitchen?"

"Same general colors as the room box wallpaper, but the border isn't teapots, its grapes."

"Good work, partner," Gretchen said. "Another elimination."

"Check that Maize kid's house," April advised. "I'm sure he did it."

"The drug house is next on our list of kitchen stops,"

Nina said.

"Ryan Maize didn't kill his mother," Gretchen insisted.

"He's the most obvious suspect," April said from the front seat. "He was stoned out of his mind on drugs, he's violent--I saw him hit you--he threw a Mali-something cocktail and almost blew us up."

Gretchen scooted to the middle of the backseat and leaned forward. "If you had evidence that your son had killed your sister, would you make a room box and accuse him at an unveiling with a room filled with complete strangers? What kind of mother would expose her child that way?"

April humphed. "What kind of kid would kill his