April looked around as though they might be overheard.
"That's not all I'm afraid of, but don't tell Nina. Promise?"
"Promise." Gretchen felt childish.
"Ventriloquists scare me to death, too. And sometimes in the dark, I'm afraid that something is lurking under my bed."
"I used to think something scary was under my bed,"
Gretchen said, remembering how afraid she was, almost paralyzed with fear. But that was when she was a kid. She headed for the back room to search for boxes to separate and temporarily store the pieces, once they determined where each of them went. Gretchen rummaged through several small boxes, removing their contents and stacking the items neatly on a shelving unit. When she came back into the shop, she spotted something behind the storage room door.
She bent down and picked up a tiny pistol.
6
Britt Gleeland stands across the street and watches the women through the shop window. She remains motionless, arms crossed.
Almost five o'clock, and the sun slowly edges over the desert horizon, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. By six it will be dark.
Her daughter, Melany, comes out of a trading post, carrying a shopping bag, a gift for a friend. Twenty years old and talking about abandoning the family business and finding a new life someplace else. Out of the blue with no warning signs at all. Hasn't Britt groomed her daughter to take over for her in a few years? Perhaps it isn't the most profitable business, creating exquisite miniature dolls, but it has its own rewards. Britt works her own hours, in her nightgown if she wants to. She's her own boss, answering to nobody. And, most importantly, she has the respect of the local
miniature
community.
Apparently these perks aren't enough for her daughter. Let her go out in the world and slop burgers for minimum wage. That will cure her of her wanderlust. But what about this "person" she's moving out east with?
Britt knows exactly who the man is, and she doesn't like him one bit. Melany is going to "live in sin," as Britt's mother would have said in shock if she were still alive. Whatever you call the arrangement, it's still shacking up. Young people and their relationships. Who can figure them out? "Going out" they call it. Going out used to mean going on a date. Not anymore. Now it means something much more serious. What does she know?
More importantly, what will Britt tell her acquaintances?
"My daughter's attending an Ivy League school out east"?
Yale, maybe? Yes, that could work. Britt could make it sound like a wonderful opportunity. And who is she to hold her daughter back? After all, there is the scholarship.
Ooh. That's good.
"One more stop." Melany scowls as though she's angry and disappears into a bookstore.
Another twenty minutes of waiting, for sure. The girl loves books.
Britt fidgets with her French twist and fluffs her bangs. Who will do the miniature faux flower arrangements if her daughter moves away? Britt feels the crevice widening between them, the enormous, cavernous divide. And the fear that she won't cope well with aloneness.
If only Charlie were here. What will she do without Charlie
and
Melany?
She sees someone come out of the doll shop and approach a car parked at the curb. It's the same woman who barged into the shop when she was collecting her dolls. Gretchen something. She had been spying on Britt, she was sure of it, questioning her loyalty and her right to be in Charlie's shop. The nerve!
What's she up to now?
The nosy woman has a wire hanger in her hand that she is bending to change its shape. After a furtive look back at Mini Maize, she tries to stick it in the top of the car's closed passenger window.
Breaking into someone's car? Not likely in the middle of the day right outside the shop.
No. That must be dear Gretchen's own car, and she is locked out of it. Britt smiles smugly to herself while she watches Gretchen move to the driver's window and twist and pry with the wire hanger.
No luck. The snoop tries again, both sides, determined. After the second try, she goes back inside. Harder than it looks, isn't it?
Britt cringes at the thought of strangers in the shop, rifling through Charlie's things, her things. The work she has put into her miniature dolls! She's a professional artisan, not some hack. Twenty years in this business, and she is the best there is. Sculpting all her tiny creations, no kits or premade molds for her. Firing them in her very own kiln. Then wigging and dressing the darlings to be exact replicas of anything your little heart desires. Charlie, for example, wanting those tiny dolls, each with specific requirements regarding sex, size, and age. And for what? That was the question Britt kept asking her friend. And Charlie just smiling. "You'll see."
Well, she had.
Yes, she had.
Britt's eyes try to penetrate the window. If only she could hear what is being said in the shop, and if only she had a clearer view. What do they hope to accomplish by putting a silly display back together?
The one with the pretty gray hair is familiar, she's been around before. Her name is Caroline Birch, another of Charlie's friends. She must be Gretchen's mother. Her friendship with Charlie wasn't nearly as close as the relationship Britt had with Charlie. Britt feels such physical pain at her loss.
She thinks of Ryan Maize, Charlie's drug-addicted, pathetic excuse for a son. Ryan is somewhere in the city of Phoenix, panhandling with other homeless, empty-eyed derelicts. Poor Charlie. She had actually tried to help the ingrate. How many rehabilitation centers before she finally gave up? How much money down the drain?
Britt stares at Gretchen's car. What luck that she has a few sharp sculpting tools in her purse. She glances at the bookstore where Melany is roaming the shelves, delving into possible purchases. She'll be a while longer. Britt steps into the street, using the shadows for cover.
7
From the sidewalk in front of Mini Maize, Gretchen watched the Scottsdale squad car pull to the curb. After a long workday, the others had gone their separate ways. One went north, another south, finishing the day as they had started, as polar opposites.
Caroline had waited around until Gretchen shooed her off. Her mother had enough on her mind without dealing with Gretchen's problems as well.
They never suspected that she had managed to lock herself out of her car. At least it hadn't been running. She'd done that once, too.
It was a good thing she had a little extra puppy food in a plastic container in her purse, or Nimrod would be complaining loudly and insistently by now. Come to think of it, she had a little of everything in her purse. Except the proper tools to break into her car.
Gretchen could imagine her aunt's reaction if she knew about the lockout, especially with Nina in such a snit. She would have had to listen to a long lecture about the condition of her workshop, and her purse, and who knew what else. Officer Kline stepped out of the police vehicle with a long rod in his hand. "Not you again," he said, wryly. "Tomorrow, when I transfer out, the department will have to hire another full-time officer to deal with you."
He had a twinkle in his eye. What a ham.
"Rumor has it you're impersonating a traffic cop," she said with a smile.
"Never trust a Phoenix detective. He'll expose you every time."
"How did you know Matt told me?"
"Albright is like my Siamese twin. I can't get rid of him no matter what I do. We're attached at the brain."
"Ah, two with the mental capacity of one."
"Do you want help, or should I leave you standing on the curb?"
Gretchen moved aside.
He inserted the long metal tool through the top of the driver's side window. The lock popped open. "There you go," he said.
"Thank you so much. I'm embarrassed."
"Don't be. It happens all the time. It was your karma for the day. Couldn't be changed." He stepped back and took a good look at the car. "Look at that."
Gretchen followed his gaze. The tire was flat. He pushed on it. "Not much air left. You must have driven over something, a piece of glass or a nail."
Gretchen scanned the street for the Wife. It was exactly the kind of thing Kayla Albright was capable of. The woman had been stalking her since the moment Gretchen had met Matt. She'd been relatively harmless, until now. This was getting much more serious.
"Can you tell if my tire has been tampered with?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Hard to say. Maybe an auto mechanic would know."
"Now what?"
"Now you wait for the service truck, which I'm going to call for you."
"Can't you change it for me?"
"Puh-leeze," he said. "What you citizens expect."
Gretchen stared at the tire, then out at the street. She saw Matt Albright trot across Scottsdale Road midblock and step onto the curb, his dark hair wind-tossed, his face handsome and tanned but taut. Edgy.
Then he spotted her and smiled. "What's going on?" he said, approaching.
"Do you know how to change a tire?" Gretchen asked, pointing at the flat.
"Hey, Kline," Matt called out to the Scottsdale detective, who was digging in the squad's trunk. "I'll handle it from here."
"You don't know what you're getting yourself into."
"She's that bad, huh?"
"You know it." The Scottsdale detective hopped into the police vehicle and drove off.
Matt leaned up against her car and crossed his arms. The tension she had seen on his face when he crossed the street was gone. He smiled at her.
"I hate to spoil your day," Gretchen said. "But your wife punctured my tire."
His smile slid sideways. "Are you sure?"
"Not exactly. I mean, I didn't see her do it, but who else would do something so vicious?"
"You're awfully suspicious, considering she hasn't done anything to you up until now."
"Stalking me doesn't count?"
"She followed you a few times, I threatened to lock her up, she said she wouldn't bother you again."
"I can see the warning was effective," Gretchen said, pointing again at the tire.
"You probably drove over a nail." He bent over the tire to examine it. "I tell you what. I'll change it for you. Do you have a spare?"
Gretchen nodded, opening the trunk.
"And I'll buy a new one to replace the flat. How's that?"
"You're agreeable tonight."
"I hate to admit it, but it looks like someone
did
slash your tire. See here." He ran his fingers along the tire. Gretchen bent down. Sure enough, there was a long slit in the rubber.
"We can't be sure Kayla did it." A sparkly smile as he stood up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. He was only a few inches taller than Gretchen's five eight. Just the way she liked a man. "But I'll buy you dinner, too," he said, "as compensation." He reached to give Nimrod a pat on the head. "We'll drop Nimrod at your house first."
"He still knows his 'hide' command." The detective was standing way too close.
"Is that a yes?" Matt moved to the trunk and pulled out the spare tire.
"It's a maybe. I'm worried about the rest of my property. I wouldn't want my house to burn down while we were dining unaware."
"I thought you had nerves of steel. What happened?
Don't you like a little excitement in your life?"
"You'll have to assume responsibility for her actions."
"I always have. Is that a yes?"
"Um. ." Gretchen grinned. "Entice me some more."
She watched him jack up the back of the car, muscles rippling, not an ounce of fat anywhere.
"I have information about Charlie. I'd like your take on it."
He knew just how to reel her in. She pretended to waver.
"Okay," she said, ignoring the sensible, barely audible little voice that was trying to remind her that he was still married, and his wife was certifiably nuts.
"What are you looking for?" Matt said, after watching her dig through her purse.
"My sunglasses. I don't remember where I left them."
"They're on your head."
Gretchen lifted a hand to the top of her head. Sure enough, there they were. She pulled the glasses down over her eyes, then realized the sun had almost set. Matt Albright could really rattle her cage.
"Okay," Gretchen said, over after-dinner coffee beside her swimming pool. "I've waited long enough."
Caroline walked past the patio door and peeked out, giving Gretchen a thumbs-up. Gretchen pretended not to notice.
"I didn't want to spoil dinner by talking shop," Matt said.
"Understandable. I've already promised to keep anything you say confidential, so tell me."
"I'm telling you for a specific reason. You absolutely must keep it to yourself. No one needs to know how she was murdered until after we've had time to investigate. I won't go into gory autopsy details. The results were clear, though. Charlie Maize was poisoned."
Gretchen blinked. "Poisoned?"
"We almost missed it."
"A poison showed up during the autopsy?"
"Almost didn't. Nicotine leaves the body quickly. The report might have been inconclusive, except for the suspicions of the doctor at the scene. According to the ME, we got lucky."
"I don't understand."
"Like I said, giving you graphic details isn't necessary."
Matt leaned back in the patio chair, crossed his ankle over his knee, and gazed out at Camelback Mountain.
"I'm tougher than you think," Gretchen said.
Yeah, right. This from the woman who faints at the sight of an insect.
Matt's gaze shifted from the mountain to her. "The poison was in her coffee. We analyzed the dregs from a cup in her shop. Charlie's fingerprints were all over it, and the coffee was loaded with nicotine."