The Dollmaker

“What about Claire?”

“Claire doesn’t give a damn what I do.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

The question obviously hit a nerve that was still raw and exposed. Alex winced as he turned back to the window. “No, I’m not going to tell her. Are you?”

Charlotte clutched the sheet to her breasts, the lingering passion she’d felt earlier dissolving now in the tawdry light of the morning after. “I don’t want her to know. I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt because of something we did in a weak moment.”

“You need to lighten up.” His voice was becoming irritated, but Charlotte didn’t think he was so much annoyed with her as he was with his own conscience. “It’s over between Claire and me. It has been for a long time. I was just too stubborn to admit it. I kept clinging to the way I wanted things to be instead of facing how it really was.”

“Because you loved her,” Charlotte said softly. “You still do. That’s plain to anyone.”

“Maybe I do, but I’m damned if I know why.”

“Because she’s Claire.”

“Right.” His eyes were suddenly cold and remote as he stared out at the traffic. “She’s Claire. The woman I let walk all over me for the past six years.”

Charlotte flinched. “Don’t talk about her that way. You don’t know what she’s been through.”

He gave a bitter laugh as his eyes cut sideways at her. “I don’t know what she’s been through? That’s a joke, right? Because I’m the one who used to wake her up from the nightmares, remember? I’m the one who was right there beside her when she went through the house looking for Ruby. I’m the one who held her for hours when she couldn’t stop shaking. So don’t tell me I don’t understand what she went through, okay? I was with her every step of the way. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“I’m sorry.” Charlotte put a hand on his arm. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. You know as well as I do what a terrible time she’s had. I’m just defensive when it comes to my sister.”

He shook off her hand and walked back over to the mirror to adjust his tie. His movements were jerky with anger. “We’re all defensive when it comes to Claire. But you and Lucille aren’t doing her any favors by feeding into this latest obsession of hers.”

“You mean the doll?”

“I mean the doll, I mean that kid she saw in the park, I mean everything. She’s got to find a way to let this thing go or it’ll eat her alive.”

Maybe it already has. Because when she remembered her sister the way she once was, Charlotte realized all too painfully that the Claire she knew now was nothing but a shell. She’d never been outgoing like Charlotte, or as openly demonstrative as Lucille, but she’d adored her daughter, loved her more than life itself. And there was a time when she’d been quietly, ecstatically happy. With Dave.

Charlotte supposed if she searched her memory banks hard enough she might be able to remember why Claire had fallen so hard for Dave Creasy. He’d once been handsome enough, before the booze destroyed his looks. Charming, too, and maybe even a little cocky when he’d first made detective. But he’d never had Alex’s sophistication or ambition. He’d never been the kind of man Charlotte would ever envision for herself, but he and Claire had once been good together. Then Ruby had disappeared and Dave had gone off the deep end. But even before that, he’d done some things to her sister that Charlotte would never be able to forgive.

In light of her current situation, she realized her attitude was probably hypocritical, and she thought there might be some truth in the old saying that everyone had the propensity to become what they hated the most. She’d despised Dave for his moral failings, and now here she was, standing naked in her brother-in-law’s bedroom.

Alex picked up his keys and wallet and stuffed them in his pockets. “I have to get to the station. There’s juice in the refrigerator and plenty of clean towels in the bathroom. Stay as long as you want. Just lock up when you leave.”

He started for the door, then turned back and walked over to where she still stood at the window. He bent to kiss her forehead, the affectionate peck of a friend—or worse, of a brother—before he straightened and ran his knuckles down the side of her face.

“Don’t beat yourself up over what happened, okay? Claire never has to know.”

But I know.

And Charlotte wondered if, years later, she would look back at some point and be able to recall that this moment was the beginning of her own moral decline.

She turned and stared into the blinding sunlight until she heard the front door close behind Alex. She was still standing at the window a few moments later when the phone on the nightstand rang, and she heard the message machine in the living room pick up. Alex’s recorded greeting came on, and then a moment later, the caller said impatiently, “You’re a hard man to reach these days. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re trying to avoid me.”

Something in the voice, a hint of familiarity, caused Charlotte to turn away from the window and walk across the bedroom. She stood listening unabashedly to the message as she tried to put a face to the caller’s voice.

“I’ll make this real short and sweet. Dave Creasy is back in town and he’s been sniffing around the Losier case. A guy like that could really fuck up an investigation, so I suggest we pay him a little visit. The sooner the better, if you get my drift.”

Claire stood in front of the shop window and tried to convince herself that the doll had only been put away for the night. The collectibles featured in such stores were usually quite valuable, and the owner might have felt it would be too risky to leave such a costly piece so prominently displayed overnight.

The other possibility, of course, was that the doll had already been sold, but that was a bridge Claire would cross when she had to. In the meantime she could do nothing but wait until the shop opened. The hours posted on the sign that hung in the door were Ten to Six, Tuesday through Saturday. Since it wasn’t quite nine yet, she had over an hour to kill.

Claire’s first instinct was to remain in front of the shop until someone arrived to open the door, but her stomach was still queasy and she felt weak-kneed and shaky. If she remained on her feet much longer, she might pass out and find herself right back in the hospital.

Keeping to the shady side of the street, she walked over to St. Louis Cathedral to wait. The sanctuary was quiet and cool, the glare of the hot summer sun muted by the small windows.

Someone had left a pink rose on the pew where she sat, and absently she picked up the stem and held the petals to her nose. The fragrance made her think of the dream she’d had last night, and the shattered face of the doll.

Shuddering, Claire glanced around. Coming on the heels of that nightmare, the quiet of the cathedral was a little too unnerving, and after a few minutes, she got up, placed the rose on the bench and left.

Outside, she used her cell phone to call her mother and let her know that she’d already left the hospital. Lucille wasn’t thrilled by the news, and when they finally hung up, Claire knew she hadn’t heard the last of it. But a scolding from her mother was the least of her worries. She wasn’t scheduled to work in the gallery until the following day, but she’d been counting on spending several hours in the studio. Now that would have to wait until her hand healed.

As she walked past the hotels and bed and breakfasts along St. Peters, Claire couldn’t stop worrying about what she would do if the doll had been sold or if the owner refused to give her the information she needed. What recourse would she have, since no one, including Charlotte, seemed inclined to believe that the doll looked like Ruby? Maybe if she showed the shopkeeper a picture of her daughter, the woman would be moved enough to help Claire.

And what if the doll was still there? What if in the bright light of day, she didn’t look like Ruby? Would Claire then be forced to concede that Alex was right? That her refusal to let go of the past was slowly driving her crazy?

By her watch, it was straight up ten when she arrived back at the shop, but the Closed sign was still in the window, and when she tried the door, it was locked.

Shielding her eyes with her hands, Claire tried to peer through the crack at the edge of the blind, but the interior of the shop was so dim and the sun outside so bright that she couldn’t see anything.