But some of the dolls needed work. Her mind flicked through the supplies in the repair workshop. She was sure she had extra Ginny doll parts. Arms and legs, even some original dresses, a wig or two.
Someone behind her was still bidding, but Gretchen didn't dare turn around. Next time she would take a position in the back of the crowd so she could watch the action.
'We have two eighty.'
Gretchen signaled.
'Three hundred.' Howie's red face beamed in anticipation of his growing commission. 'Do I have three fifty?'
His eyes darted behind Gretchen, his eyebrows one big question mark.
Silence.
Howie waited a millisecond, then shrugged.
'Sold,' Howie shouted, pointing at Gretchen.
Brett, standing behind Howie holding the next box, managed to give her a thumbs-up.
She felt like she'd won a million-dollar lottery. Howie didn't miss a beat, intent on pounding through the remaining items as quickly as possible. Gretchen worked her way out of the crowd and stood at the back. She'd spent all her money on twelve dolls, but she couldn't help grinning. They were worth it. Had she paid too much? Her mother's request included at least six or seven different dolls. Even if she hadn't forgotten the list, she wouldn't be able to bid on any others. After Gretchen paid for the dolls, Brett had her box ready at the side of the truck. He slapped her shoulder.
'Good job.'
Gretchen tuned out Howie's theatrical voice when he presented another round of Chiggy's badly painted dolls to the crowd. She sat down on a white plastic lawn chair and placed the box beside her. Her registration number and the word
The photographer strolled her way, camera strapped at his side, and his hand stretched out to her. Gretchen accepted the business card and glanced at the name. Peter Finch.
'I'm putting together a collection of doll photographs and selling them on eBay,' he said. 'Photo gallery, you know. A hundred and fifty pictures for thirty bucks. A steal.'
'You're including photos of Chiggy's handmade dolls?'
Gretchen was incredulous.
'Check it out,' he said, moving off, offering his card down the line.
Gretchen tucked the business card in her white cotton purse embroidered with black poodles and red bows, a gift from Aunt Nina.
She bent over the box and opened the cover.
A heap of poorly produced Kewpie dolls grinned impishly up at her astonished face.
The boxes had been mixed up. The stooped man with the bushy eyebrows who won the Kewpies must be walking around right now with her Ginnys.
Grabbing the box, she hurried back to the truck and scanned the crowd.
Then she heard tires squeal and a car horn blare. Someone screamed. Gretchen, along with everyone else in Chiggy Kent's yard, rushed toward the street.
'Back up. Quick.' A man's voice sounded panicked. Gretchen scooted between two parked cars, still holding the box of Kewpies.
She saw a woman get out of a Ford Explorer that had stopped in the middle of the street. 'I didn't see him,' she said to the people gathering around. 'He flew right out between the cars. I didn't even have time to brake.'
Several people crouched in front of the SUV.
Gretchen gasped and almost dropped the fragile Kewpie dolls.
Howie's assistant, Brett Wesley, lay crumpled in the road.
2
The ambulance pulled away slowly, without the need for wailing sirens and flashing lights. The police finished questioning possible witnesses and released the remaining auction attendees. People stood in small groups, talking quietly. Cars began to pull away. Everyone would drive with extra care for the rest of the day.
The auction came to an abrupt close. Howie Howard had lost his business partner and close friend and was incapable of continuing. No one seemed interested in dolls anymore. Gretchen watched Howie get into a blue pickup truck, his face the color of Arizona adobe. She guessed he would follow Brett's body to the morgue.
She felt a wave of nausea each time she thought of Brett lying dead in the street. How quickly life can be snuffed out by a misstep between parked cars. An image of the car's tire slamming across Brett's torso forced its way into her thoughts, and she tried to block it from her mind. One of the registration workers slapped a sign on the side of the flatbed trailer. All remaining handmade dolls would sell for ten dollars each. Help yourself. Pay at the register. The notice reminded Gretchen that she still carried the wrong box of dolls. She looked around for the stooped man but didn't see him.
A chunky woman with brassy blonde curls sat at the registration table. Gretchen approached. 'I know this isn't really important, considering what just happened,' she said. 'But I have the wrong box of dolls.'
'Nothing I can do about it, sweetheart.' A single sob escaped from the woman, but she quickly composed herself.
'I think I know who I need to contact,' Gretchen said.
'Can you check the records and tell me who bought a box of Kewpie dolls?'
'I suppose.' The woman scanned the registration sheet.
'That would be Gretchen Birch.'
'Well, I'm Gretchen Birch, but I bought Ginny dolls, not Kewpies. Can you tell me who the list says bought the box of Ginny dolls?'
'Name's Duanne Wilson. Lives on Fortythird Street. You'd better write that down now.'
Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.
'Shame about Brett. I can't hardly believe it,' the woman said, tears in her eyes. 'He was a good man.'
Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people's sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she'd be a basket case for the rest of the day. 'Thanks for the information,' she said, in a hurry to get away. Most of the cars in front of Chiggy's house had cleared out. Gretchen didn't see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had hit Brett.
Though she'd only met him once before, Brett had been kind. He had smiled and given her a thumbs-up. She fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen him step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer, but of course, everyone's attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry?
Shouldn't he have been working beside the auctioneer?
Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dollars was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.
As she drove along Lincoln Drive, Gretchen glanced up at Camelback Mountain, Phoenix's monolithic landmark. The mountain dominated Sun Valley, and Gretchen felt comfort in its solid presence.
The boulevards exploded with colorful plantings, and red bougainvillea covered privacy walls, but Gretchen hardly noticed as she made her way toward what she hoped was Fortythird Street. Two months in Phoenix, and she still couldn't find her way around.
After asking for directions twice, she turned onto the street and searched the buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again. No number matched the one she'd been given.
