They tiptoed in and searched the room without awakening Daisy. “She’s still recovering from the surgery,” Nina whispered. “I shouldn’t have kept her out as long as I did.”
Before they finished, Gretchen moved close enough to satisfy herself that Daisy was still breathing. She hadn’t moved since they started the search. Gretchen watched her chest rise softly.
After a thorough search of the last room in the house, they collapsed on the living room sofa with nothing to show for their efforts. The only consolation, Gretchen thought, is that Arizona homes don’t have basements or attics. Otherwise they’d be at it the rest of the day and all night with possibly the same discouraging news in the end.
Nothing. They had unearthed absolutely nothing.
Zip, nada, zilch, zero.
Nina pulled off her shoes and rubbed her feet. “I really thought I had it right this time.”
Gretchen scratched the part of her left hand protruding from the cast and assumed the intense itching inside the cast meant her wrist was healing. “Why are we bothering to look for it anyway? Nacho has confessed. My mother will come home eventually, and the police will drop the charges against her. It’s simple. There is no urgency anymore.”
“Ha,” Nina said, mockingly. “Your aura is still black. We have to continue what’s begun, and we have to understand it, or you’re in big trouble.”
“Okay, then,” Gretchen said to humor Nina. “Put on your shoes and follow me.”
The pool water glistened in the sun, reflecting patterns and images cast by the towering palms and exotic shrubbery. The only sound came from the hum of the air-conditioning unit as Gretchen padded along on her way to the cabana. The July sun sizzled on her skin, and she found herself struggling for breath in the hot, airless vacuum.
The water mesmerized Gretchen, reminding her of the recent trek through the flooded streets and the skill with which Nacho had concealed his home. She noted a chameleon lounging on the side of the adobe wall, its skin color fusing into its background, effectively hiding it from watchful predators.
She remembered again the Easter basket hunts of her youth. If Caroline had hidden a doll somewhere in her home, no one would be able to find it.
No one except her daughter, who had played this arcane game with enthusiasm and appreciation.
The silence and emptiness of the cabana weighed on Gretchen. One section of the room she’d been so fond of now resembled a storage unit, filled with her mother’s boxes of sale dolls. The room brought back memories of her past visits. She longed to return to one of those times, to pretend her mother was busy in her workshop, humming while restringing an old doll after giving it a renewing bath. She imagined her mother putting away the doll repairing tools and seeking out Gretchen, conversations filled with love and caring and companionship.
“We’ve already gone through the boxes,” Nina said, bringing Gretchen back to the moment. “It isn’t in any of them.”
“I know,” Gretchen said, scanning the room, her eyes sweeping over clay pottery and potted cacti. She bent and peered up the chimney, then pulled a small television set from a built-in shelf and checked behind it. She walked into the bathroom.
Nothing here except stationary bathroom fixtures and an overhead cabinet set above the sink. Two towels rolled up, stacked neatly inside the cabinet, entirely filled the space. Gretchen removed the towels and stared at the back of the cabinet. Her heart pounded, because she remembered everything about the cabana and she remembered the cabinet. Plenty of room inside, last time she visited, for a large stack of assorted towels, bath, hand, and face.
Her fingers pushed gently on the back of the cabinet, pressing and exploring, and she felt the wall give slightly. She pushed on a corner, and the backing moved.
Gretchen heard Nina gasp behind her as she forced her fingers under the false wall and pulled the backing toward her, exposing a compartment.
Like Nacho’s hidden home, the cabinet interior had been designed to deceive the casual observer, to dupe the unaware.
From behind the wall, Gretchen removed a package wrapped in fabric the size of the doll she sought, along with another parcel, smaller and denser.
Gretchen had found the French fashion doll.
The landing gear whined into place as the plane rapidly descended over the familiar desert landscape. Caroline braced herself and waited for the plane to touch down. Finding a flight home had been more difficult than she’d anticipated. The first flights she checked were filled to capacity. In July, she thought. Who flies willingly into Phoenix in July, where the day’s temperature, according to the pilot, hovered around one hundred and seventeen degrees?
Her plan was simple. A cab ride home, since she assumed her car had been properly disposed of. She would remove the hastily fashioned wall containing the French fashion doll and the accompanying pictures and inventory. Those items and the information stored on her computer were the only things she needed.
The Inspector had been caught unaware, and the end was near.
26
I hope I have managed to remove some of the mystery from the expansive world of doll collection. You can decide for yourself what level of participation you want to actively pursue. Many of you won’t start out with the ferocity and intense focus of the truly addicted collector. But mark my words; eventually you will become caught up in the pageantry and intrigue. With this book I have given you the tools you need, and so my job here is done. May your dolls bring you years of boundless joy.
The End
– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch
The picture hadn’t done her justice. A photograph, in Gretchen’s mind, was never able to re-create the splendor and beauty the photographer hoped to capture.
The doll’s delicate bisque features, unflawed in any way, shone with charm, her green cascading costume sumptuous and accurately portraying the dress fashion of her historical era. A circle and dot on the back of her neck established her Bru heritage. Gretchen marveled at the craftsmanship and at this rare opportunity to hold the doll in her hands.
Nina unwrapped the second package, and photographs spilled out onto the kitchen table.
Gretchen carefully laid the French fashion doll down on the sofa and picked up a sheet of paper. “Look,” she said. “Martha’s old inventory of dolls. And pictures of each.” She shuffled through the photographs, noting bisque dolls from various French and German makers, several fashion dolls, Bebes, character dolls, dolly-faced dolls, cloth dolls, wooden dolls. Gretchen was stunned by the number of quality dolls in the collection. Reading the inventory days ago didn’t have the same impact that viewing the pictures did.
She turned over a photograph. The doll’s written description, transposed from the inventory list, was scrawled across the back of the picture. Gretchen studied the date stamp on the back, the same as the date stamp on the back of the French fashion doll photograph. Picking up the inventory list, she scanned it, running her index finger along the entries. She stopped at a listing.
“Nina,” she said, breathlessly. “This inventory list is different from the one the police found in the workshop.”
“How do you know?” Nina asked. “What’s different?”
“Well, to begin with, the Bru French fashion doll is listed right here.” She dragged the paper across the table, careful to keep her finger placed next to the appropriate listing. “It wasn’t part of the other inventory. I remember commenting on that at the time. We thought Martha must have forgotten to update the list.”
