a missing child?”
Claire glanced at Dave and he nodded, indicating she should explain. “This may sound strange, but a few days ago, I saw a doll in a French Quarter shop that looked exactly like our little girl. She was kidnapped seven years ago.”
“Oh, my dear.” Savannah’s hand went to the pearls around her neck. “I don’t know what to say. What a terrible ordeal you’ve lived through all these years.”
Claire’s throat knotted at the woman’s compassion. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“And then to see your child’s face on a doll. The shock must have been devastating.”
“Yes, it was.”
“You believe the doll you saw was one of mine?”
“I’m almost certain of it.”
“But surely you don’t think I had anything to do with your daughter’s kidnapping.”
“We don’t think you had anything to do with her disappearance,” Dave said. “But we think the person who took her may have commissioned you to make a doll in her likeness. The kidnapper may have even brought Ruby to see you.”
“Oh, I sincerely doubt that. I always work from photographs. And seven years ago, I was already confined to this chair. I rarely saw callers apart from my nephew. If anyone had brought a child to see me, I’m sure I would have remembered.”
“If you only use photographs, how do you manage to get the details of your subjects so perfectly?” Claire asked. “I’m told that the doll I saw had a tiny birthmark on her left arm, exactly where our daughter had a birthmark. I don’t think it would have even shown up in a photograph.”
“My clients are required to fill out a questionnaire before I’ll even touch the clay. I ask them to describe things like birthmarks, freckles and even scars.”
Claire opened her purse and removed a picture of Ruby. She passed it to Savannah. “Do you recognize her?”
“Oh, my. Would you look at that precious face.” Savannah glanced up, her eyes soft. “What a perfectly beautiful little girl.”
Claire leaned forward. “Have you ever seen her before? Or a photograph of her?”
Savannah Sweete studied the picture a moment longer before handing it back to Claire. “I’m sorry. Over the years, I must have received hundreds of photographs, and at my age, I can’t possibly remember them all.”
“My mother is a collector,” Claire said. “She took one of your classes several years ago in New Orleans. She said that some of your students were fairly adept at copying your style. Were any of them good enough to make a doll that could have been mistaken for one of yours?”
“Most of the people who signed up for my classes were dabblers. Bored housewives or retirees looking for a new hobby. Once in a blue moon someone truly talented came along. To answer your question, I suppose it’s possible. If I could see the doll, I would be able to tell you definitively if it’s one of mine. I have a certain technique I use that, so far as I know, has never been duplicated by any other doll maker. I won’t bore you with the details, but it’s all in the making of the mold. The method I’ve perfected is what makes my dolls appear so lifelike.”
“What do you do with the questionnaires once the doll is finished?” Dave asked.
“I have a file for each project. Everything goes into a folder.”
“Including the photographs?”
“Unless the client requests they be returned.”
“Where do you keep your files?”
“My nephew helps me out with the paperwork. I used to keep everything in the attic, but he was afraid all those boxes might catch fire and I would be trapped in the house. So he rented a storage place in town and keeps everything there.”
“Would it be possible for us to go through some of those files?” Dave asked.
“I’m sure that could be arranged, but I would need to speak to Matthew about it first. We’re very close. He lived with me for a while as a child, and he’s still very protective of me. If he thought you were trying to somehow implicate me in a kidnapping, I’m afraid he wouldn’t be very cooperative. So I think it’s best if I smooth the way. Besides, I don’t even have a key to the place. And I should probably warn you that without a name or a date, you’ll be searching for a needle in a haystack.”
“It’s still worth a try,” Claire said.
Savannah nodded. “I can see how important this is to you, so I’ll speak to my nephew as soon as possible. I don’t know if the sheriff told you or not, but Matthew is the town doctor. He’s cut back on his office hours, though, so he may even have time to go through some of the boxes himself.”
Claire stood. “We’ll appreciate anything you can do. Thank you so much for agreeing to see us this morning.”
“Oh, my dear, there’s no need to thank me. As I mentioned, I rarely receive visitors, but when I heard a missing child was involved…what else could I do?”
She followed them into the foyer. “I do hope you find out something soon. And I must say, you’ve aroused my curiosity about that doll.”
Dave handed her his card. “As soon as you hear from your nephew, please give me a call at that number so we can set up a time to meet.”
Claire scribbled her home number on the back of one of the gallery’s cards and gave it to Savannah, as well. “In case you can’t get in touch with one of us right away, you can leave a message and we’ll call you back.”
The woman took both cards and rolled to the door to see them out.
At the bottom of the steps, Clare glanced back. Savannah Sweete was still in the doorway and lifted her hand to wave goodbye. She stared after them for a long time, then closed the door.
A little while later, Dave stood on his porch steps as Claire drove away. The car disappeared around a bend, the sound of the engine faded through the trees, but he remained motionless as the dust settled on the dirt road. Then he turned and went inside the house, fixed a glass of soda over ice and carried it into his office.
He hadn’t talked to Titus since the night before, and now he was anxious to find out how news of Clive Nettle’s arrest was hitting the police department. He picked up the phone, then set it back down when he heard a car pull up in his driveway.
Thinking it might be Claire returning for some reason, he got up and went out to the porch. But the rusted- out Camaro parked beneath the oak tree wasn’t her car, and the scrawny woman who climbed out was most definitely not Claire. She strode across the yard, cigarette dangling from her mouth and flip-flops slapping against her feet.
She wore jeans and a blue tank top that dipped low over a sunken chest. Her skin was deeply tanned and she wore no makeup on a face that was too hard, too thin and too grim. Her hair was straight and dirty blond, and she wore it parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears.
Dave opened the screen door and stepped out. “Can I help you?”
She took the cigarette out of her mouth and Dave noticed she was missing a tooth. “Are you Dave Creasy?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Who are you?”
She flicked ashes into the dirt. “My name’s Desiree Choate. Are you the guy that’s been asking around about a doll?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“My cousin owns the gas station in Tiber. He said you came by the other day and left your card. That’s how I knew where to find you.”
“What can I do for you, Ms. Choate?”
“Desiree.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face. She was probably no more than thirty, but she had the haggard demeanor and defeated eyes of a woman who had never caught a decent break. Dave had known women like her all his life. “It said on your card that you’re a private investigator.”
“That’s right.”
“The way I heard it, you’re trying to locate a doll that looks like a missing kid.” She paused, her gaze meeting his. “Do you look for people, too?”
