The Dollmaker (18 page)

He started to turn away, but the woman grabbed his hand. Lifting it to her face, she rubbed his knuckles against her wrinkled cheek. “You’re a good son.”

“I’m glad you think so. Would you like me to help you to your room now?”

“No, I’d better sit out here and wait for the bus to come. I don’t want to miss it. I’m going to see my husband today. He’s stationed at Fort Bragg. It’ll be my first time out of Louisiana.”

“Enjoy your trip,” he said with a little bow, and he heard her giggle like a schoolgirl as he turned and continued down the corridor to his father’s room. A nurse was just coming out and she brightened when she saw him.

“Hello Dr. Cypher. You’re early today.”

“I have some things to do later on, but I didn’t want to miss a visit with my father. I know he looks forward to our time together.”

“If only everyone’s family was as thoughtful as you,” she said with a weary smile.

He cocked his head and studied the young woman. She was probably only thirty or so, but her careworn expression and slouching posture made her seem much older, as did a missing tooth when she smiled. She was a hard worker, though, and he did not envy her the dreary job.

Feeling suddenly charitable, he lingered for a little talk. “What’s the matter? You don’t seem yourself today.”

She sighed. “My boyfriend’s gone AWOL on me again, and I can’t help worrying he may be in some real trouble this time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Desiree Choate gave a halfhearted smile as she shrugged. “Mama says it’s a blessing in disguise. She ain’t never had much use for Travis, even though I tell her over and over he has a good heart. He’s just a little shiftless, is all.”

“Not Travis McSwain?”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Yeah, that’s him. Do you know him?”

“I’ve seen him around. He used to do odd jobs around the house for my aunt from time to time. Her name is Savannah Sweete. He may have mentioned her. She makes dolls.”

Desiree’s gaze darted away, but not before he’d seen a spark of fear in her eyes.

So she knows. She’s seen the doll.

He gave her a pitying smile. “Where do you think Travis has gone off to?”

“God only knows. He’ll probably turn up one of these days, tail tucked between his legs like always. But just between me and you…I’ve been having me some real bad dreams lately. I can’t help thinking maybe it’s because something bad has happened to him.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“A few days, I guess. He drove into New Orleans the other evening and I ain’t seen him since.”

“Have you gone to the police?”

“The police? Oh, Lord no. Travis would kill me if I sicced the law on his tail.”

“Why? Has he done something wrong?”

“No, he just don’t like cops much,” she said quickly, as if realizing she might have given away too much. “It’s been nice talking to you, doc, but I better get back to work.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Travis. If anything had happened to him, don’t you think you would have heard something by now?”

“I guess so. Maybe he’s just laid up drunk somewhere. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I’m sure you’ll be hearing something very soon. In the meantime, perhaps this will help cheer you up.”

She glanced down at the orchid he held out to her, and her eyes widened. “Oh, it’s beautiful, but I couldn’t take it. You brought it for your daddy.”

“He won’t mind. Please, I insist.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” She lifted the delicate blossom to her nose. “Is this one of your orchids? What kind is it?”

“A cymbidium.”

“Is it rare?”

“Oh, yes, extremely,” he said, although it wasn’t, of course. But the silly twit wouldn’t know the difference.

Desiree glanced at the closed door to his father’s room. “It’s probably a good thing you came early today. He seems a mite restless this morning. Maybe your visit will help calm him down.”

Matthew smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He opened the door and walked through. The old man lay on his back, eyes to the ceiling, hands motionless on either side of him. His lips were parted and a stream of drool had run out one corner of his mouth and dried on his cheek.

The room stank. It always did. No matter how many times the staff came in to change and bathe the old man, he somehow managed to soil himself before their every visit. It might have been annoying if it wasn’t so pathetic.

The curtained partition that separated the two beds had been slid back, and Matthew nodded to his father’s roommate. Mr. Campbell was another stroke patient, paralyzed on both sides with an almost complete loss of speech. He was slightly elevated in bed, and his faded eyes watched with wary detachment as Matthew approached.

“Hello, Mr. Campbell. How are you today?”

He blinked rapidly, but Matthew didn’t have a clue what that meant, so he shrugged and walked over to his father’s bedside.

“Hello, Father.” He bent to kiss the man’s forehead. The skin beneath his lips was dry like parchment and stretched so tightly across brittle bones that his face resembled a skull. The old man was awake and conscious. His mouth moved slightly, as if he was trying to say something. Or perhaps he merely wanted to close it.

“Desiree tells me you had a restless night. I’m so sorry. I should have come sooner.” He bent and lowered his voice. “Because that just won’t do, Father. We can’t have you causing trouble, now can we?”

He pulled a syringe from his pocket and held it up to the light. The old man’s mouth moved frantically now as his eyes darted back and forth. He knew what was coming.

Smiling, Matthew placed his lips close to the old man’s ear. “Tell me something, Father. How does it feel to be trapped inside that body?”

His father responded with a pathetic moan that didn’t even sound human.

Matthew straightened. “Where do you want your injection today? In the thigh, underneath the arm, between the toes? So many possibilities…”

Taking a few steps toward the end of the bed, he pulled up the blanket and sheet, exposing legs that resembled brittle blue branches. Matthew uncapped the syringe, and as he jabbed the needle into his father’s thigh, he glanced across the room.

The old man in the other bed lay watching him, and slowly Matthew brought his finger up to his lips.

“Shush. Don’t tell.”

A
storm came up suddenly in the small hours of Tuesday morning, and Claire lay awake for a long time, listening to the rumble of thunder and the occasional car splashing by on the road in front of her house. As the lightning intensified, she got up to glance out the window, and for a moment she thought she saw someone standing across the street in the rain. But the harder she stared, the more convinced she became that what she saw was only a shadow.

She watched the rain for a while, then went back to bed, but when she finally fell asleep, her rest was fitful. She kept waking up abruptly, certain that she’d heard something in the house, only to realize that it was a branch scraping against the side of the house or rain dripping from the eaves.

She even got back up to check all the doors and windows downstairs, but she saw and heard nothing out of the ordinary. Ever since she’d discovered Ruby’s picture missing, Claire worried that someone had come into her house that night. Someone had deliberately removed the photograph from the table in the sunroom, but why? Who would still want a picture of her missing daughter after all this time?

The only answer she could come up with was almost too chilling to contemplate. Ruby’s kidnapper had never been caught. What if he had come back, after seven years, for some twisted reason that only he could comprehend?

She went back to bed yet again and watched the shifting patterns on the ceiling as the storm finally broke, just before dawn. The clouds moved inland and the light outside her window turned a misty violet. Claire rolled to her side and watched the sun come up. Only then did she close her eyes and sleep peacefully, until the alarm awakened her a few hours later.

By the time she headed into the Quarter, the sun was bright and the sky overhead a clear blue dome. The humidity was high after the rainstorm, and the stifling heat was like being wrapped in a wool blanket. The sidewalk artists along Pirates Alley had already opened their striped umbrellas, and the ones who were not busy sketching waved fans back and forth in front of their glistening faces.

No matter the weather, Claire loved coming to the Quarter. She’d grown up a few blocks away, in a little shotgun-style cottage in Faubourg Marigny, and the old Creole buildings with their worn facades and overhanging balconies were as familiar to her as her own backyard. Alex used to warn her about the dopers and street thugs that hung out in the area. He always said the place was a felony waiting to happen.

Claire supposed he was right. The Quarter had its share of problems, but there were other areas of the city that had much higher crime rates, and, in truth, the underlying danger had always been a part of the Quarter’s appeal.

She didn’t linger today, though, to enjoy the party-like atmosphere in the square. She wanted to be at the collectibles shop by the time the door opened at ten.

The neighboring shopkeeper had told Alex on Friday that Mignon Bujold would be back from her trip today, and Claire assumed that meant she would open at her regular time. Since Claire wasn’t due at the gallery until one, she didn’t have to rush. She could do a little window-shopping just to give the owner plenty of time to arrive at the store and open up.

But the longer Claire delayed, the more apprehensive she became. Now that a few days had gone by since she’d first seen the doll, she’d begun to second-guess herself, and had started to wonder if Charlotte might be right. The mere fact that the doll had curly blond hair and a pink ruffled dress could have been more than enough for Claire’s imagination to supply the rest of her daughter’s features. After all, she’d done it before. She’d been convinced dozens of times over the past seven years that she’d spotted Ruby on a playground or dashing through a crowded mall. What if this time was no different than the others?

But it
was
different. Claire had had more than a passing glimpse of the doll. The streets in the Quarter were narrow, and even when she’d stood on the corner across from the shop, her view of the display window had been unobstructed. She’d seen the doll clearly from that vantage, and she’d had an even better look as she crossed the street. The doll looked like Ruby. There was no getting away from that fact. Someone had sculpted a doll in the likeness of her missing daughter, and Claire wouldn’t be able to rest until she found out why.

By the time she arrived at the shop, it was after ten, and to her disappointment, the Closed sign remained in the window, the shade was drawn and the door still locked tight.

She pressed her face to the glass and tried to peer around the edge of the shade. But this time, she detected no movement at all inside the shop, nor did she have the impression that anyone was about. To the contrary, the interior looked dark and deserted, and she drew back in frustration.

Claire had looked up the number for the shop in the directory a few days ago in order to leave a message, and now, as she stood in the doorway, she pulled out her cell phone and placed a call. She could hear the phone through the glass, and after several rings, an answering machine picked up. Once again she left her name and number, and asked that someone get in touch with her as soon as possible. Then she hung up and stood watching the midmorning traffic on the street.

The only thing she could do now was check the rear entrance. If the back door was locked, she would at least know that someone had been there since she and Alex left on Friday. If it was still open, then in all likelihood the owner hadn’t yet returned from her trip.

The alley was shady and a few degrees cooler than the street, but the courtyard at the back blazed with sunlight. The pavers beneath Claire’s feet were still damp and slippery from the night’s rain. As she walked down the alley, the street noises faded and the only sounds she noticed were the distant trickle of a fountain and the steady click of her heels against the worn bricks.

The closer she got to the back door, the more nervous she became. She’d never laid eyes on Mignon Bujold, knew nothing about the woman’s habits. There was no reason in the world that she should be concerned about a stranger, but Claire had a bad feeling that something was wrong.

She reminded herself that Alex had gone through the shop on Friday morning and found nothing. The register hadn’t been tampered with, nor had there been any sign of a break-in or struggle, nothing to indicate that the owner had left the shop by any means other than of her own volition.

The shopkeeper next door hadn’t even been alarmed by the unsecured premises, and there was no reason for Claire to be, either. But when the knob turned in her hand, her pulse quickened.

She glanced down the alley to the sunny street. A group of tourists strolled along in the lazy heat, but no one glanced in her direction. The gate to the courtyard was closed and nothing stirred from behind the iron fence except a mockingbird flitting through the branches of a mimosa tree. Claire was all alone in the alley.

Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. Nothing at all.

But her palms were suddenly clammy and her heart started to pound in trepidation. As she pushed open the door, the chilly gloom seeped out into the alley. Claire stood shivering on the threshold, still hesitant to enter as her gaze darted about the dim space.

Everything inside was just as she remembered it. Shelves stuffed with boxes and packing materials. The worktable strewn with doll parts. The kitchenette. The beaded curtain that swayed in the breeze from the vents.

It was still cold inside the building, and she wondered if the air conditioner had been running all weekend.

She took a step inside, then paused again as her hand went to her nose. She hadn’t noticed a smell when she was there before, but now something unpleasant permeated the frigid air. She only caught a whiff of it now and then, and she wondered if it might be food that had been left in the trash can for days.

When she walked through the beaded curtain into the shop, the scent faded and she was able to ignore it. She’d looked through all the display cabinets on Friday, but today, without Alex to interrupt her, she conducted a more thorough search. As she knelt to examine the shelves beneath the counter, the phone beside the register rang. The jarring sound startled her so badly, she almost toppled over, and had to grab the edge of the counter to catch herself. But the structure wasn’t stable, and when it shifted, she lost her balance and crashed to the floor.

By the time she’d righted herself, Mignon Bujold’s greeting had played, and a woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Mother? It’s Lily. I’ve been trying to reach you all morning, but there’s no answer at the house, and as usual, your cell phone is turned off. The girls are anxious to see you and I’m getting a little concerned, so please call me as soon as you get my messages.” The voice paused, then added with a hint of urgency, “I hope everything is okay.”

The worried tone of the caller triggered Claire’s growing trepidation, and the inexplicable chill she’d felt standing outside the back door came back stronger than ever. Her every instinct told her to get out of the shop as quickly as possible.

The smell grew stronger as she walked back into the workroom, and in spite of her nerves, she paused to glance around. The odor was coming from the garbage can. She was sure of it. The owner had probably forgotten to take out the trash before she left on Thursday. That’s all it was. Just the trash. Or perhaps something in the refrigerator had gone bad….

As Claire’s gaze swept over the old fridge, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before. Something blue was caught in the door. It looked like a swatch of fabric, so small that Claire probably wouldn’t have detected it now if she hadn’t been searching for the source of the bad smell.

As she focused on the fabric, gooseflesh prickled along her arms and she caught her breath, not daring to move as comprehension dawned in a flash of horror. Her mouth went dry with fear. Cold sweat misted her forehead as dread tightened in her chest. She told herself to turn and leave, go outside into the fresh air and call Alex. She didn’t relish a conversation with her soon-to-be-ex-husband, but he was still a cop, and when she told him what she’d seen, what she feared, he would have to come and check out the shop for himself.

But Claire couldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from that blue fabric, and it almost seemed as if she’d been hypnotized into doing something she wouldn’t ordinarily do.

She found herself in front of the refrigerator, but couldn’t remember walking across the room. And when her hand lifted, it was as if she were watching someone else, an impetuous stranger, reach for the handle and pull open the door. She tried to close her eyes because she didn’t want to know, didn’t want to see….

The body fell with a hard thud to the floor.

Claire screamed and stumbled back, nausea so thick in her throat she bent double, gagging. Drawing in desperate gulps of air, she lifted her gaze, then shuddered violently when she saw the woman’s eyes. The dead, milky stare was focused on Claire, mesmerizing her with an icy penetration, and for a moment, she couldn’t look away. She felt weak and sick, violated by the smell of death, her own fear and those glazed, sightless eyes.

A dozen thoughts rushed through her head. She had to call 911. She had to reach Alex. She had to get out of there before she fainted dead away.

Still, she couldn’t move. She stood for what seemed an eternity, stunned and trembling, paralyzed by the kind of horror she’d known only in her nightmares.

The refrigerator had slowed decomposition and the woman’s pale features were still clearly discernible. She was older, sixty perhaps, petite and slim with short, white hair. A pair of glasses dangled from a chain around her neck, the lenses frosted over, and Claire saw the flash of a sapphire-and-diamond ring on her right hand. It was Mignon Bujold. Claire was certain of it.

After a moment, when she could get her fingers to work, she took out her cell phone and called Alex’s number. She tried to stay calm, but the words tumbled out in a horrified rush the moment she heard his voice.

“Claire, calm down and tell me what happened. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay. I’m…at the collectibles shop in the Quarter. Mignon Bujold is dead. It looks like…oh, God, Alex, she’s been murdered.”

She heard the sharp intake of his breath. “Claire, listen to me. Don’t touch anything, just get the hell out of there. Go next door or down the street and wait for me. Claire? Are you listening to me?”

“Yes…”

But her gaze had gone back to the body. The last moment of Mignon Bujold’s life was trapped in those frozen eyes, and a terrible thought came to Claire. What if the poor woman had been alive when she’d been imprisoned inside the refrigerator?

What if she’d been alive…and she knew no one was coming to let her out?

Claire sat in a restaurant across the street, staring at the array of emergency vehicles that had assembled outside the collectibles shop. She counted four patrol cars, their lights still flashing in the sunlight, along with an ambulance, a van from the Orleans Parish coroner’s office, and oddly enough, two wreckers.

The sidewalks were clogged with patrolmen, paramedics and the usual assortment of curious onlookers. Claire could see some of the officers talking to neighboring shopkeepers, and every minute or so they would pause to jot something down on their clipboards or lift their static-filled radios.

Alex came out of the shop once, said something to one of the officers, then went back inside. He and Claire had spoken briefly when he first arrived, and then he’d sent her across the street to wait while the forensics investigator finished sweeping the crime scene.

Claire had ordered a Coke, and it sat in front of her untouched, ice melting, condensation streaming down the glass onto the table.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Mignon Bujold. The notion that she’d been trapped in the refrigerator on Friday, still alive, when Claire was inside the shop, haunted her. She couldn’t help wondering if the killer had committed the crime only moments before she arrived. If she’d noticed that telltale fabric caught in the refrigerator door then—if it had, in fact, been there at that time—would she have been able to save Mignon Bujold’s life?