Death by Devil's Breath (21 page)

“Avoiding me is that important to him?” She tried for a laugh but it didn’t fool me; I heard the way her voice clogged with emotion. “Can he really be that mean? That’s not . . . that’s not the Jack I remember.”

“He isn’t mean.” I stepped closer to her. “There’s something you need to know, Bernadette. Jack . . .” I coughed away the sudden tightness in my throat. “Jack is missing.”

She threw back her head and swaggered nearer. “Oh yeah, and I should believe that from the world’s biggest liar!”

“I was. I was a liar,” I admitted. “But give me a break, that was a long time ago, and I was just a kid, and besides, I had my reasons.”

“Like you hated me.”

“Like I hated the thought of losing Jack.” Unconsciously, I’d mirrored her stance, my fingers hooked in the waistband of my khakis, my shoulders back. “I finally figured it out, Bernadette. It didn’t matter who it was, you or some other woman. I would have done the same thing. I couldn’t take the chance of losing Jack.”

“But now you say . . .” We were still twenty feet from each other, but she swallowed so hard, I saw her throat jump. “You’re telling me that he’s not here? That he’s gone?”

“He hasn’t been with the Showdown since back in Abilene. So I guess you wasted your time being in the Devil’s Breath contest. That is why you did it, isn’t it? That is why you used one of Jack’s old recipes. You thought for sure he’d be here, that he’d see you. That he’d realize you were still in love with him. You need to understand that’s not going to happen.”

She looked as stricken as if she’d been shot. “Missing?” The word escaped her lips on the end of a moan. “You don’t think he’s—”

I refused to let her say it. “I thought maybe you could tell me. I thought maybe you knew—”

“No.” Bernadette shook her head back and forth, faster and faster. “You can’t believe I’d ever have anything to do with something like that! I love Jack. I always have. And I haven’t . . .” She swallowed her tears. “I haven’t seen him in years. And now you’re telling me . . .” By this time, she was breathing hard. Her voice rose, a soft, high keening that echoed through Deadeye like the cry of a banshee. “Missing?” When she looked at me, Bernadette’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Maybe if you would have let him be happy with me, he’d still be here.”

It was my turn to clutch my chest. A second later, I knew there was only one way to handle both my pain and Bernadette’s. I raced forward and pulled her into a hug.

Dang. I wish there weren’t so many people standing around watching. I’d hate for word to get out that I actually have a heart.

CHAPTER 14

I didn’t care if Sylvia liked it or not (and believe me, Sylvia did not like it), after that scene with Bernadette I needed to get out of Deadeye, and fast.

Desperate to clear my head and avoid the looks I was getting from the crowds who’d watched my close encounter of the uncomfortable kind with Bernadette, I darted outside and regretted it instantly. Hot. It gets hot in Las Vegas. And that Saturday afternoon it was sizzling enough to melt the soles of my sneakers to the pavement. Unwilling to go back into Creosote Cal’s, where people were still pointing at me and whispering about how wonderful it was that I’d consoled Bernadette over her broken heart, I started off across the street. There was another hotel over there and a sign outside flashing out the news that the IADL & C was having its annual meeting there. I had no idea who or what the IADL & C was; I only knew that, with any luck, no one there would recognize me. And the AC would be cranked up, too.

When I stepped into the lobby and a wave of cool air washed over me, I breathed a sigh of relief.

That sigh stuck in my throat when I realized I was surrounded.

Dolls.

There were dolls everywhere. Armies of them were displayed in glass-fronted cases around the lobby. Posters of them hung on the walls. There was a doll bigger than me (and dressed as a bride . . . eesh!) standing near the hotel registration desk and another doll (this one a giant pseudo-Barbie in a pink bikini) near the entrance to the ballroom, where a sign welcomed conventioneers and visitors alike to the International Association of Doll Lovers & Collectors annual meeting. Personally, I would have much preferred a stop at the bar for a chilly one, but remember that cute little doll in Reverend Love’s office? And now this? Never let it be said that I don’t know a sign when I see it. Even if I don’t always know what the heck it means.

Curious to find out, I strolled into the ballroom, where conventioneers mixed, mingled, and swarmed a few dozen vendor booths devoted to dolls, doll clothes, books about dolls, calendars that featured dolls, and even pieces and parts of dolls. I passed a booth where doll eyes stared at me from jars and plastic and porcelain doll arms and legs hung like so many sides of beef in a butcher shop. Bad enough, and even worse when I saw the display of doll wigs. Real human hair? They use real human hair to make the higher-priced doll wigs? If I wasn’t already completely creeped out, believe me, that would have put me over the edge.

The good news is that—grossed out—I spun the other way, and when I did, I saw that the booth directly across from the pieces/parts store was manned by a guy who looked awfully familiar.

George Jarret, the guy I’d seen first lurking around, then sneaking into, Dickie’s dressing room!

More curious than ever, I strolled over in his direction and checked out the sign suspended above his table:
Jarret Collectibles, Dolls of Distinction.

Obviously, dolls weren’t the only things in his inventory. A section of his table was draped in black, and in the center of it was a framed photograph. It was surrounded by piles of the same photograph of none other than the late, great (hey, that’s what the sign that leaned against the framed picture said) Dickie Dunkin.

So I was right about Jarret’s felonious ways! I saw him walk out of the dressing room with the pictures of Dickie, and now he was selling them for fifteen dollars each. Fifteen dollars for a picture of a guy in a plaid sport coat!

I guess my expression registered my disgust, because Jarret stepped right over, his eyes eager.

“Collector’s item,” he said, pointing to the photo. “And since the pictures are autographed, sure to gain in value year after year. A real investment. You know Dickie Dunkin was murdered just a couple days ago.”

“I know you took these photos out of his dressing room.”

Jarret’s face paled. “You can’t possibly—” Before he could say too much, he swallowed his protest and shuffled from foot to foot. “That’s preposterous.”

“Just joshing!” I gave him a wide smile. “How could I possibly know anything like that? And why would I possibly care?” To prove it, I inched down the table and away from the pictures of Dickie, looking over Jarret’s merchandise as I went. It included new dolls still in their boxes, plastic baby dolls, and some of those eerie porcelain dolls that are meant to look realistic and instead look like something straight out of a horror movie writer’s warped imagination.

Still, in the name of my investigation, I would have pretended I was interested, but I never had the chance. Something at the end of the table caught my eye, and before I even realized I was moving, I’d zoomed over there for a better look.

It was a single doll inside a tall glass display case, and I took one close look and caught my breath.

She was about a foot high and entirely made of fabric, from her skinny stuffed arms and legs to her big round head. This doll had yellow strips of felt for hair, and she was dressed in a white dress dotted with pink and blue flowers.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Jarret mistook the expression on my face for interested-in-doll instead of the interested-in-what-looked-awfully-familiar it really was. The scent of a sale hanging in the air, he rubbed his hands together and closed in on me and the doll. “You have good taste. And you’re knowledgeable. You know exactly what she is, don’t you? Then you also know she’s one of a kind.”

I thought about my visit to the Love Chapel and the doll I’d seen in Reverend Love’s office. “But I’ve seen another. Not exactly the same, but similar.”

“Really?” Jarret’s dark eyes lit up. I swear, if there wasn’t a display table between us, he would have pounced. “Where?”

“Maybe in a book.” I must have been a pretty good liar, because his expression fell. “That must have been it. A book about doll collecting.”

“Well, I can see how the picture attracted your attention,” he said. He raised a hand toward the glass display case, not quite touching it, but caressing the air around it. “These dolls . . . they’re the Holy Grail of doll collecting.”

“These dolls? But you said this was the only one.”

He realized his error and cleared his throat. “Did I say
they
were a legend?” Jarret laughed. “Just a slip of the tongue. There were more of these wonderful dolls at one time. You probably saw photos of them in that doll collecting book you said you saw. Unfortunately, they’re long gone. If there were more of these dolls, this one wouldn’t be worth as much as it is.”

I glanced from him to the doll. “And this one’s worth . . .?”

“Seven-fifty,” he said.

It took a couple seconds for the number to sink into my brain. “Seven
hundred
and fifty dollars? For a rag doll?”

“Handmade,” Jarret said. “One of a kind.”

I remembered what Reverend Love had told me about the doll I saw in her office. “And this doll was made by a woman named Louise, right?”

Jarret got that smile on his face, the one I’d seen people sprout when they were about to lecture me about how they were right and—oh, as much as they hated to admit it, they couldn’t spare me from the painful truth—how I was very, very wrong.

“This is a Noreen Pennybaker doll.” He said this like it was supposed to mean something. Maybe it did in the world of doll collecting, but it didn’t mean squat to me.

It did, however, spark a memory.

I bent to peek up the doll’s dress, but because of the glass display case, it was impossible to get a good look. “Noreen Pennybaker?” I glanced up at Jarrett. “Should her name be inside the doll’s petticoat?”

“I assure you, it’s embroidered there. Along with the doll’s name, of course. That’s how we know Honey Bunch
here is authentic. If you’re a serious buyer . . .” He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. Obviously, if I was serious and had seven hundred and fifty dollars to burn, he’d whip out the doll and throw her skirts in the air to show me the embroidered signature. If not, then I wasn’t worth the effort.

Jarrett backed away from the display case. “Take my word for it, everything is just as it should be. Just as the story says it is. You
do
know the story?”

I gave him the smile that had once been known to charm men. Yeah, the one I didn’t bother with much these days because, let’s face it, none of the men I knew were worth the effort. “I bet anything you can tell it like nobody else can.”

It worked. Jarrett’s shoulders shot back. “Legend says there are others of these dolls. But this is the only one that’s ever been found anywhere,” he added quickly, just so I didn’t get the idea that the seven hundred and fifty dollars was the rip-off I’d already decided it was. “Each and every one of them was made by a woman named Noreen Pennybaker. Woman? I should say
artist
! Look at the sweet details.” He pointed. “The darling expression on Honey Bunch’s face. The cute little outfit. Those adorable spots of pink color on her cheeks. This doll has personality, and . . .” He leaned over the table toward me. “I have the little book, too. I don’t like to say it too loud because I wouldn’t want to start a stampede. But I do, I do have the book, the storybook Noreen Pennybaker wrote and illustrated to go along with each of the dolls she made.”

“Each of the dolls that have never been found except for this one.”

Jarrett nodded. “Pity. If I could only find the rest of them!”

“Wouldn’t that make this one worth less?”

“Ah, you are a sly buyer!” He waggled a finger at me. “Of course, if more dolls came on the market, Honey Bunch here would lose some of her value. But none of her charm! The trick is, there have been rumors about these dolls for thirty years or more. But this is the only one that’s ever come to market. If there were more, they’re gone now. And if someone ever discovered them . . .” His brown eyes lit up. “My goodness, what a collector would pay for all of them would be simply astounding.” Jarret seemed to remember himself and wiped the smile off his face. “Since that’s not ever going to happen, that makes Honey Bunch unique.”

Maybe not so much.

Rather than point this out, I stepped back and out of the way when a middle-aged woman raced to the table.

“I just heard the news!” As if she might have a heart attack, the woman pressed a hand to her ample chest. “You said you’d do it, George, and you were right. You got Honey Bunch! She’s . . .” She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “She’s exquisite. And the book? You have the book, too?”

Jarret assured her he did, and I didn’t wait around to hear any more. See, I’d just learned all I’d needed to learn, not from George Jarret, but from his customer.