states bird book and a pair of binoculars. Traveling to Arizona in July was on a par with arriving in northern Michigan in January, but she planned on making the most of it.
The first call from Nina flashed into Gretchen’s mind. Martha, a casual acquaintance of her mother, had fallen from Camelback Mountain. Found by a group of hikers. Broken. Dead. A destitute alcoholic with the bad judgment to leave the trails and wander along the rock outcroppings.
What could you expect from a crazy, onetime doll collector who roamed the streets and lived inside a bottle? Certainly not a gentle passing.
Gretchen struggled to remember more, but she’d been too tired at the time to listen to the details. Nina sounded concerned about her mother, but Nina tended to overreact to everything.
Gretchen, loaded down with luggage and a drowsy, medicated Wobbles, entered a taxi. While the cabby expertly maneuvered through winding streets and roared toward Callahan Tunnel, which led to Logan Airport, Gretchen called Steve on her cell phone and explained the events of the last few hours.
She tried to keep her voice even, hiding the hurt she felt at his recent betrayal.
“We had dinner reservations for tonight,” Steve said when she finished, sounding groggy and confused.
The taxi flew into the tunnel, and reception on the cell phone began to break up.
Steve’s voice cracked. “This is sudden. And early. What time is it?”
“You don’t want to know,” Gretchen said, watching the tunnel walls, listening to the rapid clack-clack of the tires on the pavement. “I wanted to catch you before I boarded. It’s only for a few days. Nina’s concerned about my mother, but she’ll turn up soon. She might reappear before my plane even lands.”
“How is your mother connected with that woman’s death?”
“She’s not. Nina should be in theater. Mom’s off someplace, and Nina’s doing her sixth-sense routine. No two events can be coincidence according to her. The universe flows into and onto itself.”
“Your family is too weird,” Steve said.
Too weird for what?
Gretchen felt impatient with Steve, a gathering cloud of annoyance. Just nerves, she thought. And lack of sleep. She was about to lighten the moment by asking him what was so weird about a mother who restores dolls and an aunt who trains purse dogs, but the cell phone beeped and displayed the message Call Lost. She flipped it closed and tossed it into her purse just as the cab burst through the tunnel into the early morning sunlight.
Gretchen stood on the curb for a moment before entering the terminal, hoping to breathe the crisp Atlantic Ocean air. One last cleansing breath. But all she could smell was auto exhaust from the heavy traffic jamming the lanes leading to check-in. She considered calling Steve again but decided against it. Later, when she felt more rested, she’d call from Phoenix.
She knew she would sleep on the plane, catch up after last night’s lost battle of wills with Nina. She’d have to find a special therapy group when she returned to Boston for people like herself, people who couldn’t say no.
As the plane backed away from the gate, her thoughts turned to Steve. After seven years of dating, their relationship operated more by rote than by reckless abandon. Seven years without progress, without commitment. Gretchen brushed away feelings of rejection.
She thought Steve had been preoccupied with the law firm. He would make partner this year, and that involved a deep commitment to the firm, leaving little emotional energy for a commitment to her. She had tried to remain supportive in spite of a growing sense of resentment and unease.
Then an anonymous phone call had revealed the real cause of his distraction: another woman. It only happened one time, he explained when she confronted him. No, he didn’t know the woman’s name, he said. And it didn’t matter because it would never happen again. He loved Gretchen and would do anything to make it up to her, he said. Anything.
Gretchen felt a sharp pain in her chest every time she thought about it.
Well, others had made it through rough times; so could they.
A few days apart might do them some good.
Caroline Birch was in trouble. Every nerve ending shouted, Warning! Warning! The Phoenix airport terminal’s harsh lights and mechanical sounds felt surreal to her; intense, irrational, the day like a long, complex bad dream. She rushed now, holding her laptop close to her chest, frequently looking behind her, afraid she might be followed.
She knew that the note found in Martha’s hand could be her death sentence. What a foolish thing to overlook, considering the seriousness of the circumstances. If Martha had trusted her with more information, she would possess a name and know what her next move should be. But her enemy was cloaked in obscurity. Invisible and, therefore, deadly.
Instead of standing her ground, the author of World of Dolls was racing across the country chasing one, betting her life that the doll would give her the answers she needed. A risky gamble.
Whatever it took, she had to get her hands on that doll.
A disembodied voice announced final boarding, and Caroline broke into a run, gasping for air but reaching the gate in time. Not a runner. Usually. But running now. Boarding pass checked, gates closed, cell phone turned off, she sighed in relief as the plane rolled from the terminal and gained speed, lifting into the air.
When the seat belt sign blinked off, Caroline stumbled down the aisle to the rear of the plane and entered a lavatory, clutching her laptop, her lifeline. She splashed cold water on her face and pressed her wet hands softly against her tired eyes. A few wisps of hair had come free from her cap, hanging across her bent face. She straightened and dried her hands, then removed the baseball cap, releasing her shoulder-length silver hair. “Foxy hair,” her sister called it, her trademark. A distinguishing, telling feature, when Caroline needed more than anything to blend in. She ran her fingers roughly through her hair, coiled it on top of her head, replaced the cap, and returned to her seat.
2
Casual collectors collect dolls for sentimental reasons-they owned a certain kind of doll as a child, or they are adding to a collection that has been in the family for years. The serious collector enjoys the hunt, the taste of triumph, the sweet scent of success. Many serious collectors are dealers and are motivated by the monetary aspects rather than sentimentality.
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
The July heat scorched the desert landscape. Gretchen could feel its heavy grip weighing on her body. She could smell the dust. Nina had picked her up at baggage and now drove through Phoenix traffic, weaving in and out of lanes in her red vintage Chevy Impala. Wobbles was stowed in his carrier on the floor in the backseat, relatively calm thanks to the continuing effect of a tranquilizer. Nina’s dog, Tutu, was wrestling with Gretchen for the front seat while keeping one beady eye on the travel carrier.
“Tell me about Tutu,” Gretchen said.
“A rescue dog. I saw her picture on the Internet and couldn’t resist. She’s absolutely perfectly behaved. I can’t imagine what sort of person would abandon such a wonderful pet.”
Gretchen tried to pry herself free from Perfectly Behaved without success.
“How’s Steve?” Nina asked, ramming through gears like a NASCAR driver. “Has he proposed yet?”
Gretchen, unwilling to ponder Nina’s question, dug sunglasses out of her purse, quite a feat with the miniature schnoodle jumping on her lap. She locked eyes with the comical experiment in dog breed crossings. Schnauzer and poodle, minis at that. What would inventive breeders think of next? Pitt bulls and corgis could be called piggis or pit-tis or corbulls or…
Gretchen stomped on her imaginary brake as Nina raced up to a red light, slowing at the last moment.
“Well,” Nina insisted. “Has he popped the question?”
“We’ve discussed it,” Gretchen said evasively.
