The Dollmaker (12 page)

Sliding open the nightstand drawer, she pulled out the pistol that Dave had given her years ago after she’d been mugged on Canal Street. She’d never liked having a gun in the house, especially after Ruby came along, and she’d always meant to get rid of the thing. But now there it was, loaded and ready, a comforting weight in her hand as she disengaged the safety.

Rising, Claire walked quietly to the door and drew it open. Lightning flashed in the window behind her and a clap of thunder caused her to jump as she slipped into the corridor. She walked down the hall to the spare bedroom and opened the door a crack.

Her mother lay on her back, one arm flung over her face, and Claire could hear her soft snores. Closing the door, she turned and crept toward the stairs, holding the gun in her right hand, barrel pointed upward, as she pressed herself against the wall. Her heart hammered in her chest as she waited at the top of the stairs for an adrenaline rush that would give her enough courage to go downstairs and explore.

It never came. Claire counted to ten, then reached for the banister and slowly descended, certain with every step that someone would jump out of the darkness and grab her.

By the time she reached the bottom, her hand shook so hard she could barely grip the weapon. She couldn’t allow fear to make her careless. If she didn’t get her nerves under control, the gun would be more of a danger to her than to an intruder. He could easily overpower her, take the weapon away from her and use it on her and her mother.

As quietly as she could, Claire began to search the house. The living room was clear, as was the kitchen, dining room and hall closet. That left the small, glassed-in space off the living room that Claire had recently turned into a sunroom. The French doors were closed, but Claire could see into the room through the panels of leaded glass.

As she pulled back one of the doors, a wet draft blew in from an open window. The breeze caught the curtain and dragged it across a nearby table, drawing Claire’s gaze to a shattered vase on the tile floor.

“Claire?”

The light came on in the room behind her and she whirled. “Mama? I thought you were asleep!”

“I was, but the storm woke me up.” Lucille padded across the room. “Why are you prowling around in the dark with a gun?” She sounded more curious than upset.

“It’s nothing. I heard something and came down to investigate. I think the wind must have knocked over a vase.” Claire felt a bit foolish as she dropped the gun to her side. “You were in here smoking earlier. Did you leave the window open?”

Lucille rubbed her arm as she stared at the shattered vase. “I guess I must have. Damn, if I’m not getting forgetful in my old age…”

“No harm done. I’ll clean up the glass in the morning.”

Claire went over to close the window, and stood listening to the rain run off the roof and gutters, and splash against the front porch as she stared into the soggy darkness. A car was parked down the street, and as lightning flared, she saw a man behind the wheel. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but for a moment it seemed that he was sitting there watching her house.

“Claire, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mama.”

She closed the window and locked it, then turned to follow her mother out of the room.

A moment later, she was back, staring at the table by the window. A picture of Ruby was missing.

The Dollmaker hugged the picture frame to his chest as he listened to the rain drum against the roof of his car. The windows had fogged in the humidity and the interior became as dark as a closet. A familiar fear crept over him and he quickly rolled down the glass, letting the cool rain splash away his panic as he watched the house.

The lights were off, and he wondered if she’d gone back to bed. He was tempted to get out of the car and go find out, but she’d be alert now and he didn’t want to create a situation that might force his hand. It was too soon for her to see him.

In a flash of lightning, he peered lovingly at the photograph. He shouldn’t have taken it. She would miss it sooner or later, but it was so much like the one he’d lost, he hadn’t been able to resist. And when he’d found the open window and crawled through, that photograph was the first thing he saw.

As if it was meant to be.

Even so, he never should have come back here. Not so soon. Someone was bound to remember a strange vehicle in the neighborhood. But that one glimpse of her as she’d stood silhouetted in the window made the risk worthwhile. For a moment, he could have sworn their gazes locked in the rainy darkness, and his heart had raced with excitement. He wondered if she felt it, too. That timeless bond that had drawn him back here almost against his will.

Ever since he’d seen her peering through the window in the collectibles shop earlier that day, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. When he first heard her knock on the door, he’d tried to ignore her, hoping that she would go away and leave him to search for the photograph he’d left behind. But instead she nearly caught him when she came through the back way. He hadn’t expected that. He’d barely had time to hide in the shadows before she stepped through the door.

At first he couldn’t understand why fate had brought her to the shop at such an inopportune moment. But as he watched her move about the crowded space, peering into one display case after another, his apprehension faded and he became mesmerized by her gentle grace.

And then she’d turned in such a way that a shaft of light from the window fell across her face. He saw her eyes clearly for the first time, and the shock had been so great, he’d taken a step toward her without thinking. The beaded curtain stirred between them and he knew that she could sense his presence.

Somehow he’d managed to get out of the shop without being seen, and he’d waited for her in the courtyard. When she walked over to pick up the orchid, she was so near he could have reached through the rungs of the iron fence to touch her. His heart had beaten hard and swift against his chest as his eyes filled with tears, because by then he’d understood.

He told himself to go home, go to work, do whatever he had to do to get his mind off her. But instead he’d followed her home, and as he pulled to the curb a few blocks down from her driveway, he’d experienced an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Because he knew her house. Her street. He’d been there before.

But the other time he’d come for the child.

He ran his thumb across the glass that covered the photograph, stroking the delicate features that were as familiar to him as his own. He could still see that afternoon unfold as if it were yesterday. That sweet, lovely child racing toward him on a shiny new bicycle. A cloud of golden curls streaming behind her. And those turquoise eyes…

Eyes the exact shade of Maddy’s…

And his mother’s…

His heart had raced with excitement that day, too, as he got out of the car and called the child’s name.

She brought the bicycle to a halt as her eyes squinted in the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m a friend of your grandmother’s.”

“You know Maw-Maw?”

“Her name is Lucille, right? She sent you a present. Would you like to see it?”

The child’s face was very expressive, and he could see her natural curiosity warring with her common sense and the warnings she’d surely received all her short life.

He smiled. The child could hardly contain herself. She had a natural exuberance and a mischievous glint in her eyes that he found utterly captivating. He was so enchanted that he could have watched her for hours. But that would have to come later.

She bent to scratch a mosquito bite at the back of her knee. “My birthday was yesterday. Maw-Maw already gave me a present.”

“I bet she made you that pretty dress you’re wearing, didn’t she?”

Her eyes turned suspicious. “How did you know?”

“Because I know lots of interesting things about you, Ruby. Don’t you want to see your other present?”

She hesitated, glancing behind her down the street. Then her gaze came slowly back to his. “Show it to me from there.”

He nodded and opened the back door of his car, lifting the doll with curly blond hair and turquoise eyes from a white box. She resembled the little girl on the bike, but she wasn’t an exact match. Not yet.

“Do you like dolls, Ruby?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I like Maw-Maw’s dolls. She has thousands and thousands. Maybe even more. Sometimes she makes her own dolls.”

“Yes, I know. She and I took some classes together. But even your grandmother doesn’t have a doll like this one.” He straightened and turned so that the child could see what he held in his hands.

She was instantly charmed. “She looks like me!”

“That’s because I made her from a photograph your grandmother gave me. She’s not quite finished, though.” He held the doll out to her. “Do you like her?”

The child nodded, her smile as dazzling as the sunlight.

“Come take a closer look then.”

She was still torn with indecision. She turned again to search the street behind her. “I have to go home and ask Mama first.”

“Why not take the doll with you? I bet your mother would love to see her. Here, let me help you….”

It happened so quickly that no one on the quiet street saw or heard anything. They never did. Not even in this day and age when people told themselves they were on guard for such things. But he was very good at what he did. And the little girls who came to his attention all had one thing in common.

They loved dolls. Almost as much as he did.

The memory drifted away and his eyes misted as he watched the house through the rain. His mother had once loved dolls, too. He wondered if she still did.

T
he lawn sprinklers along St. Charles Avenue were already twitching as Claire drove in to work early the next morning. Live oaks stood like brooding sentinels at the edge of the street, their dense, spreading limbs a cool green ceiling overhead. Orange and red hibiscus lined cobblestone walkways, while climbing roses spilled over cast-iron gates, and brick walls encased magnolia trees, ginger and thick clumps of oleander.

The summer gardens were in full bloom, and the ravages from Katrina that lingered in other parts of the city were nearly invisible here. One had to be a native or an expert to notice the diminished tree canopy or the scars from severed limbs left by the chainsaws.

Claire and her mother and sister had evacuated to a cousin’s house in Shreveport before the flood, and when the first reports of the compromised levees came over the news, they’d listened in horror and disbelief to the accounts of whitecaps on Canal Street. Lucille had kept wringing her hands and saying over and over that it couldn’t be that bad. It just couldn’t.

Weeks later, when they were finally allowed back into the city, they’d found the magnitude of the destruction overwhelming. Entire neighborhoods destroyed. Streets piled high with debris, flooded cars and uprooted trees. Doors on almost every house marked with a spray-painted X, a date, the search unit and the number of casualties found inside the building.

Claire’s family had been luckier than most. Her old Uptown house and her mother’s home in Faubourg Marigny had been virtually untouched by wind or water, and Charlotte’s loft in the Warehouse District had suffered only broken windowpanes and minor roof damage. Despite the lack of utilities and city services, they’d moved back home as soon as possible, determined to help with the cleanup and get on with their lives. But the devastation wreaked by the storm would live on long after the physical evidence had been swept away. Decades later, when people sat out on their porches watching dusk settle over the city, the memories would still come creeping back, Claire imagined, and a soft breeze from the Gulf would always bring with it a renewed sense of foreboding.

But she didn’t want to think of the past this morning, not of the storm and not of her own personal tragedy. She was anxious to get to the studio early and put in some time at her bench before the gallery opened at ten. Work had always been her salvation, and now she looked forward to having her mind occupied by something other than the doll. At least until Mignon Bujold returned on Tuesday.

And then what? Claire wondered uneasily. What would come of finding that doll? The discovery might lead to nothing, but it wasn’t in her to give up. She’d waited too many years for even one small clue, and now she had two. The doll…and the missing photograph of Ruby.

After going back up to bed last night, Claire had lain awake for a long time, listening to the storm move off to the west as she tried to convince herself that she’d put the photograph away and forgotten it. She even got up and searched through her picture drawer, but it wasn’t there.

Claire had no idea when or why the photo of Ruby had vanished, but she had the strangest feeling it was somehow connected to the doll. And the notion that someone might still be obsessed with her daughter after all these years sent an icy chill up her spine.

Saturdays were always busy in the gallery, and Claire spent most of the day on her feet. During lulls between customers, she stayed busy packing shipments, and late that afternoon she conducted a large tour of the hot studio, where the tourists were able to watch Ansel Ready, a master craftsman who had been blowing glass for more than forty years, go through the process step-by-step.

Afterward, when Claire led the group back into the gallery, she mingled with the out-of-towners, chit-chatting about the studio, the artists and about individual pieces that had aroused someone’s curiosity. She rang up their purchases, and as the last of the tour slowly filed back out into the street, she hoped to finally have a moment to catch her breath.

But long after everyone else had cleared out, a woman in a flowing skirt and dangly earrings lingered in the showroom, her gaze fixed on a display case that featured some of Claire’s pieces. Claire had noticed the woman earlier on the tour, deciding something about her demeanor had seemed a bit odd. Instead of interacting with anyone in the noisy, enthusiastic group, she’d hovered at the back, isolating herself as if she didn’t quite belong.

However, she’d seemed intensely focused on the tour. Every time Claire looked up, the woman’s gaze was on her. Claire had never had anyone hang on to her every word the way this woman seemed to, and after a while, the undivided attention became a little unsettling.

Claire pretended to work at the register, but her gaze kept straying to the woman. She wore a thick matte foundation on her face, and her eyes were rimmed in black kohl. But even through the heavy makeup, Claire found the woman’s features strangely arresting.

She looked up, caught Claire staring and smiled.

Claire shivered and suddenly she knew why the woman’s appearance was so striking. Her colorless face was reminiscent of a mannequin’s or a doll’s. Beautiful to look at, but not quite real. She had no emotion in her eyes, no expression in her features. And when she smiled, only her lips moved.

Taking one of Claire’s pieces from the display shelf, she approached the counter. “I’ve decided I can’t live without this,” she said. Her fingers around the rippled bowl were long and tapered, and she didn’t wear any rings.

As much as Claire needed the money, she had a funny feeling about the purchase, as if the woman had chosen the piece not for its beauty but because of its creator. But Claire didn’t know why that would be. Her name was not on the bowl, so this stranger couldn’t know it was one of her creations.

She watched as Claire carefully wrapped the fragile glass in layers of old newspaper. “I can’t help noticing the bandage on your hand,” the woman said. “Do you need some help?”

“Thanks, but I can manage.”

The woman’s eyes held a curious glint. “I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to stare, but…do I know you?”

“I don’t think so,” Claire said. “Although I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life. I suppose it’s possible our paths have crossed.”

“That must be it.”

The woman paid for the piece in cash, and as she waited for her change, she gave Claire a hesitant smile. “I think I know why you look so familiar. It’s your eyes. They’re turquoise, yes? A very unusual color, but I once knew someone with eyes the exact same shade.”

Claire murmured a response as the woman put away her change. Then she picked up the package from the counter and left the gallery.

Even after she was gone, Claire remained uneasy. She went over to the window to watch until the woman was out of sight, telling herself all the while that she was just tired and on edge. The past few days had been trying. The doll, the accident and the missing picture of Ruby. Any one of those incidents would have been unnerving, but to have all three occur at once was overwhelming.

Claire thought again of her grandmother, who’d always claimed that bad things came in threes. Charlotte would say that Claire was letting her imagination get the better of her. And maybe she was. But ever since she’d spotted the doll in the shop window, she couldn’t shake the notion that a door to the past had been opened.

A door that might lead her someplace she had no wish to go.

At a little after five, Claire locked the front door to the gallery, then closed out the register and secured the day’s receipts in the vault. After tidying up the showroom and display shelves, she walked back through the studio. The other glassblowers had already gone home, but Ansel Ready was still busy at his bench, and Claire stopped to watch him for a moment as he separated a striated bronze jar from a punty rod attached to the bottom of the glass.

“You always make that look so easy,” she said.

“When you’ve been doing it as long as I have, it should be easy.” He was a small, pleasant-looking man with a ruddy complexion and long, straight hair pulled back in a ponytail. Sweat glistened on his brow as he carefully dropped the jar onto the insulated knock-off table and then set the punty rod aside. Pulling on Kevlar gloves, he placed the piece inside the annealer, an electric oven that would keep the glass from cooling too quickly. After a few hours, the control system would slowly decrease the temperature to keep the object from shattering.

Sealing the oven door, he came back over to his bench and removed the gloves. “What’s on your mind, Claire?”

“Does something have to be on my mind for me to appreciate your work?”

He put away the jacks he’d been using to open up the lip of the jar. “You’ve been here, what? Almost seven years now, isn’t it? Even since you took your first class from me. I think I know you pretty well. And don’t forget I raised four daughters. I can tell when a woman is troubled about something.”

“I’m not really troubled,” Claire said. “I just wondered if you happened to notice someone in the tour group this afternoon. She was blond, thin, had on one of those long, flowy skirts.”

“Kept to the back of the crowd?”

Claire nodded. “Did she seem at all familiar to you, Ansel?”

“If it’s the same woman I’m thinking of, it was hard to tell what she looked like through all that makeup. I thought she had a mask on at first. Why?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it, but I have a feeling that I know her from somewhere. Or maybe that she knows me somehow. Does that make sense?”

“A lot of people come into the gallery. Maybe she’s been in before.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

Ansel grew all fatherly, his brow puckering in concern. “Did she say something to upset you?”

“No. It wasn’t anything that she said or did. It wasn’t even the way she looked. There was just something kind of strange about her.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. This is New Orleans. Strange is normal for us.” He nodded toward Claire’s bandaged palm. “You just worry about taking care of that hand. It’s mighty lonely back here without you at your bench.”

“You still have Esther,” Claire teased, referring to one of the other glassblowers, who had been trying to get Ansel’s attention for years. Despite Ansel’s dogged indifference, Esther Stark was not a woman who discouraged easily.

He merely grunted as he started to clean up around his workbench. Claire said good-night and left through the back entrance. The afternoon was warm and balmy, and at five-thirty, hours of daylight remained. She fished in her purse for her car keys, and as she glanced up, she saw a man standing in the narrow alley that ran between two neighboring buildings. She couldn’t see him clearly, and experience told her that he was probably one of the city’s homeless, but he seemed familiar somehow.

Claire had always felt relatively safe in the American District, but she’d lived in New Orleans all her life and knew enough not to let down her guard, no matter the area. As she hurried toward her car, she kept her eyes on the man in the alley. He didn’t try to approach her, but stood back in the shadows so that she couldn’t see his face.

Claire had the uneasy feeling that he was watching her, and as she opened the door and slid behind the wheel, she glanced back to keep an eye on him. But he’d already disappeared.