By the time she’d righted herself, Mignon Bujold’s greeting had played, and a woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Mother? It’s Lily. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, but there’s no answer at the house, and as usual, your cell phone is turned off. The girls are anxious to see you and I’m getting a little concerned, so please call me as soon as you get my messages.” The voice paused, then added with a hint of urgency, “I hope everything is okay.”
The worried tone of the caller triggered Claire’s growing trepidation, and the inexplicable chill she’d felt standing outside the back door came back stronger than ever. Her every instinct told her to get out of the shop as quickly as possible.
The smell grew stronger as she walked back into the workroom, and in spite of her nerves, she paused to glance around. The odor was coming from the garbage can. She was sure of it. The owner had probably forgotten to take out the trash before she left on Thursday. That’s all it was. Just the trash. Or perhaps something in the refrigerator had gone bad….
As Claire’s gaze swept over the old fridge, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Something blue was caught in the door. It looked like a swatch of fabric, so small that Claire probably wouldn’t have detected it now if she hadn’t been searching for the source of the bad smell.
As she focused on the fabric, gooseflesh prickled along her arms and she caught her breath, not daring to move as comprehension dawned in a flash of horror. Her mouth went dry with fear. Cold sweat misted her forehead as dread tightened in her chest. She told herself to turn and leave, go outside into the fresh air and call Alex. She didn’t relish a conversation with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, but he was still a cop, and when she told him what she’d seen, what she feared, he would have to come and check out the shop for himself.
But Claire couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from that blue fabric, and it almost seemed as if she’d been hypnotized into doing something she wouldn’t ordinarily do.
She found herself in front of the refrigerator, but couldn’t remember walking across the room. And when her hand lifted, it was as if she were watching someone else, an impetuous stranger, reach for the handle and pull open the door. She tried to close her eyes because she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see….
The body fell with a hard thud to the floor.
Claire screamed and stumbled back, nausea so thick in her throat she bent double, gagging. Drawing in desperate gulps of air, she lifted her gaze, then shuddered violently when she saw the woman’s eyes. The dead, milky stare was focused on Claire, mesmerizing her with an icy penetration, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away. She felt weak and sick, violated by the smell of death, her own fear and those glazed, sightless eyes.
A dozen thoughts rushed through her head. She had to call 911. She had to reach Alex. She had to get out of there before she fainted dead away.
Still, she couldn’t move. She stood for what seemed an eternity, stunned and trembling, paralyzed by the kind of horror she’d known only in her nightmares.
The refrigerator had slowed decomposition and the woman’s pale features were still clearly discernible. She was older, sixty perhaps, petite and slim with short, white hair. A pair of glasses dangled from a chain around her neck, the lenses frosted over, and Claire saw the flash of a sapphire-and-diamond ring on her right hand. It was Mignon Bujold. Claire was certain of it.
After a moment, when she could get her fingers to work, she took out her cell phone and called Alex’s number. She tried to stay calm, but the words tumbled out in a horrified rush the moment she heard his voice.
“Claire, calm down and tell me what happened. Are you all right?”
“I’m okay. I’m…at the collectibles shop in the Quarter. Mignon Bujold is dead. It looks like…oh, God, Alex, she’s been murdered.”
She heard the sharp intake of his breath. “Claire, listen to me. Don’t touch anything, just get the hell out of there. Go next door or down the street and wait for me. Claire? Are you listening to me?”
“Yes…”
But her gaze had gone back to the body. The last moment of Mignon Bujold’s life was trapped in those frozen eyes, and a terrible thought came to Claire. What if the poor woman had been alive when she’d been imprisoned inside the refrigerator?
What if she’d been alive…and she knew no one was coming to let her out?
Claire sat in a restaurant across the street, staring at the array of emergency vehicles that had assembled outside the collectibles shop. She counted four patrol cars, their lights still flashing in the sunlight, along with an ambulance, a van from the Orleans Parish coroner’s office, and oddly enough, two wreckers.
The sidewalks were clogged with patrolmen, paramedics and the usual assortment of curious onlookers. Claire could see some of the officers talking to neighboring shopkeepers, and every minute or so they would pause to jot something down on their clipboards or lift their static-filled radios.
Alex came out of the shop once, said something to one of the officers, then went back inside. He and Claire had spoken briefly when he first arrived, and then he’d sent her across the street to wait while the forensics investigator finished sweeping the crime scene.
Claire had ordered a Coke, and it sat in front of her untouched, ice melting, condensation streaming down the glass onto the table.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Mignon Bujold. The notion that she’d been trapped in the refrigerator on Friday, still alive, when Claire was inside the shop, haunted her. She couldn’t help wondering if the killer had committed the crime only moments before she arrived. If she’d noticed that telltale fabric caught in the refrigerator door then—if it had, in fact, been there at that time—would she have been able to save Mignon Bujold’s life?
Now the woman was dead, and something told Claire that the murder was somehow connected to the doll. The register and safe hadn’t been tampered with, and Mignon had still been wearing a valuable ring when Claire found her. If she’d been the victim of a random robbery, surely the assailant would have taken the jewelry. The only thing that appeared to be missing from the shop was the doll.
Claire told herself it was too early to jump to any conclusions. She needed to wait and hear what the police found inside the shop. But as much as she wanted to stay calm and rational, her mind raced and she couldn’t stop shaking. She knew it would be a very long time before she would forget Mignon Bujold’s sightless eyes staring up at her.
“Are you Claire?”
She turned with a start. A dark-haired woman in a trim black suit had approached the table, and Claire gave a brief nod.
The woman was slim and petite, but the high heels she wore gave her the illusion of height, and her demeanor, along with the designer bag she carried, spoke of a young sophisticated professional on her way up. She reminded Claire of Charlotte.
Her gaze was cool and detached as she stared down at Claire. “One of the detectives told me I could find you here. My name is Lily Devereaux. I’m Mignon Bujold’s daughter.”
Claire started to rise, but the woman said quickly, “No, please. I don’t mean to disturb you, but could we talk for a moment?”
“Of course.”
She sat down across from Claire, and when the waitress appeared, ordered hot tea in spite of the sweltering heat outside. As they waited for her drink, Claire realized that her initial assessment of the woman had been wrong. What she’d mistaken for cool detachment was, in fact, a valiant effort on Lily Devereaux’s part to hang on to her shattered composure. Her face was nearly colorless, and when she had the tea in front of her, she wrapped her hands around the cup, clinging to the warmth as if it were the only thing that would get her through this.
Her eyes desperately sought Claire’s across the table as a lone tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it away with her napkin.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “This must be such a terrible shock for you.”
She nodded, sniffed and seemed to collect herself then. “They told me you were the one who found her.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I don’t mean for this to sound accusatory, but…who are you? I don’t remember Mother ever mentioning you. Were you a friend of hers?”
“No. I was a potential customer. I saw a doll in her shop window one day last week and I came back to ask
