He smiled. “Most of the time, yeah.”
She exhaled smoke into the light that spangled down through the oak trees. “You’re trying to find a doll. I’m trying to track down my old man. Maybe we can help each other out.”
“You know something about the doll I’m looking for?”
“I’ve seen it. But that’s all I’m saying until you agree to help me.”
“Maybe you’d better come inside then.” Dave opened the screen door and moved back so that she could step up on the porch. She followed him into the house and he motioned toward the office. “Go in and take a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
She looked hot and thirsty, but she shook her head. The cigarette still smoldered between her fingers, and she looked around for a place to put it out. Dave shoved an ashtray in front of her. She ground out the butt, then tried to wave away the smoke with her hand. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.” He sat down behind the desk. “Where did you see the doll and how do you know it’s the one I’m looking for?”
“I’ll tell you everything just as soon as I’m satisfied you’ll help me out with Travis.”
“Who’s Travis?”
“The guy I live with.”
“Is he missing?”
“I don’t know if he’s missing or just laid up drunk somewhere. That’s what I need you to find out for me.”
Dave nodded. “All right. I’ll do what I can. I’ll need to ask you some questions, but first you tell me what you know about the doll.”
“Like I said before, I think I’ve seen the one you’re looking for. Curly blond hair. Blue eyes. Looks damn near like a real kid.”
“Where did you see it?”
“One night last week. I worked a double shift at the nursing home, and when I got off, Travis kept asking me if I knew anything about dolls, the kind people collect and pay a lot of money for. I told him the only doll I ever owned was an old Barbie that my mama bought for me at a yard sale one time. So Travis gets on the Internet and starts looking up some stuff. People don’t give him much credit, but he’s pretty smart that way. Anyway, he copies down all these names and addresses of shops in New Orleans where he thinks he can sell this doll.”
“Did he say where he got the doll?”
“No, but knowing Travis the way I do, I’m pretty sure
“What did he do with the doll after he showed it to you?”
“He shoved it under the bed, and you know what? After a while, I got to thinking that I could hear that damn thing’s heartbeat, that’s how bad it creeped me out. I can’t explain it except that it was just so real-looking. After a while, it started getting to Travis, too. Kind of took the wind out of his sails that night, if you know what I mean. By the time he left for New Orleans the next day, we were both jumpy as all get-out.”
“Did he tell you where he sold it?”
“No, that’s just it. It’s been more than a week since he left, and I haven’t seen him since. He lays out every once in a while, but not like this. He’s never stayed gone this long before. I’m starting to worry that something might really have happened to him this time.”
“Have you reported him missing to the authorities?”
“I didn’t think that was such a hot idea, him being in possession of stolen property and all. That’s why I came here to see you.”
“What’s his full name and what kind of car does he drive?”
“Travis Lee McSwain and he drives an old white T-bird that my daddy let him have.”
“Do you know the year and license plate number?”
“No, but I can get it for you.”
“I’ll need a recent photo as well.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “You think you’ll be able to find him?”
“I’ve got a buddy who’s a cop in New Orleans. I’ll have him run the plates, see if the car has been impounded or involved in an accident. He can check the hospitals, too.” And the morgue, Dave thought.
She nodded. “Since you’re going to all this trouble for me, maybe I’ve got something more that will help you out.” She opened her purse, removed a snapshot and slid it across the desk to Dave. “This was pinned to the doll’s dress. Sounds a little strange, but one of the little girls in the picture looks a lot like that doll. Is that the kid you’re looking for?”
Dave’s heart stopped for a split second as he picked up the photograph. But he saw almost at once that none of the children in the picture was his daughter. Six little girls were seated at a table, and the one at the end bore a striking resemblance to Ruby. Same hair, same features.
“There’s some writing on the back,” Desiree informed him. “It’s a date and a Baton Rouge address. I guess that’s where the picture was taken.”
As Dave studied the photograph, gooseflesh rose on his nape. What were the odds of another child looking that much like his daughter? It could happen, he guessed. Everyone was supposed to have a twin somewhere. The little girl in the photo looked to be about seven, the same age as Ruby when she’d disappeared. But if the date on the back was accurate, the picture was nearly thirty years old. It had been taken more than two decades before Ruby had even been born.
Was it possible the doll Claire saw in the shop window had been made to resemble this child rather than Ruby?
A thought came to Dave suddenly, and the hand holding the photograph started to tremble. What if his daughter had been kidnapped because of her resemblance to the little girl in the picture? What if someone had been trying to replace a child that had been lost twenty-some years before Ruby had even been conceived?
Twenty-Eight
Late that afternoon, Dave drove into Baton Rouge and located the address on the back of the photograph that Desiree Choate had given him. The house was only a few blocks from Louisiana State University, in an historical neighborhood that reminded him of the Garden District in New Orleans. A live oak canopy covered the streets, and the homes were a mix of colonial, Victorian and Greek Revival, most with tall chimneys and wraparound galleries.
He pulled to the curb in front of a stately redbrick colonial with dark green shutters and tall, white columns in the front. It was cool and shady beneath the trees, and he sat for a moment, enjoying the breeze through his open window. When he got out of the truck, he saw a woman in a straw hat next door, down on her knees weeding a flower bed. She looked up when she heard his door slam, gazed at him curiously for a moment, then went back to her work.
Dave stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. A wrought-iron gate was set in the garden wall, and he could see orange and yellow hibiscus blazing through the pikes.
The trim on the house looked freshly painted and the lawn was cut and watered. As he contemplated going up to knock on the door, the woman in the straw hat came to the edge of her yard and hollered over to him.
“If you’re looking for the new owners, they haven’t moved in yet.”
Dave turned and walked over to join her. She was in her late fifties or early sixties, slim and handsome in bright orange capris and a white cotton blouse tied at the waist. Her cheeks were red from the heat, but she still managed to have the fresh, crisp look of a woman who came from a world of good breeding, good manners and good connections. She’d been weeding her own flower beds, not because she had to, but because she liked to, Dave surmised.
“I’m not looking for the new owners,” he said, taking out his identification and P.I. license. “My name is Dave Creasy. I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to locate a family who used to live here.”
