Dolled Up for Murder Page 2

  “I sure do.” Alice turned to assess the dolls lined up on Sasha’s desk. Sasha, my chief appraiser, was about to begin the complex appraisal. “Those are Selma’s dolls, too, right?” Alice asked, pointing at the far end of Sasha’s desk where a rugged-looking, decked-out-for-jungle-combat male doll leaned against Sasha’s monitor next to a dramatically carved and boldly painted cottonwood doll with a fierce expression. “What are they?”

  “According to Selma’s inventory, this one is a second-round prototype of G.I. Joe.”

  “Which I suspect is less valuable than a prototype from the first round.”

  “Much. Assuming it is what I think it is, instead of being worth a quarter of a million dollars, which is what an original prototype would sell for, it’s worth about five thousand.”

  She whistled softly. “That’s quite a difference. Isn’t it amazing that collectors are willing to pay that much for a doll?”

  “Dolls have proven to be a solid investment over the years. By the way, as an aside, G.I. Joe has never been called a doll. G.I. Joe is an action figure.” I smiled. “When this fellow was made, he wasn’t even called G.I. Joe. Three prototypes were created: Rocky the Marine, Skip the Sailor, and Ace the Pilot.”

  Alice smiled, too, a small one. “He looks like a Rocky. How about that other one? What is it?”

  “It’s called a kachina. It’s native to the Hopi.” The doll’s face was hand-carved with an open mouth and bug eyes. It appeared to be half mythical beast and half bovine. Horns and feathers shot out from its head like rays of sun. Green serpentine swaths were painted across the nose and cheeks. The chest was dark red. The doll had presence, conveying drama and a sense of danger. “The dolls were created to represent and honor ancestors. The elders used them to teach younger generations about their ancestors’ spirits and to solicit their blessings.”

  “It looks like you’ll be expanding my horizons, Josie. Up ’til now, I’ve limited my collection to European dolls.”

  “Nothing says you have to buy the entire lot. I’ll let you cherry-pick.”

  “Thanks, Josie! That’s sweet of you, but I want the whole kit and caboodle. Who knows which ones my granddaughter will fall in love with. For all I know, it might be that kachina. Just because I prefer traditional dolls, traditional, that is, to me, doesn’t mean she will.” She sighed, maybe thinking of her granddaughter. “How much is it worth, do you think?”

  “Not so much. It’s about a hundred years old, but only kachinas that are three hundred years old, or older, have significant value. Kachinas from the seventeenth century in fine condition go for nearly three hundred thousand dollars. I expect that this one will sell for around a thousand.”

  “The differential is astonishing.”

  “Supply and demand.”

  She kept her eyes on the dolls. “Poor Selma,” she said. “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No. I just met her daughters this week for the first time.”

  She nodded. “That’s how I knew to contact you. I asked about buying the collection directly from them. They told me they sold you the dolls. Smart girls, I told them. Josie’s the best. I’m just as glad, to tell you the truth. I hate doing business with heirs.”

  “It can be challenging … all that emotion. Jamie and Lorna seem to be having a tough time deciding what to keep and what to sell, and who can blame them? Clearing out a house is difficult enough under any circumstances. It’s extra hard when your mom’s only been dead a week and everywhere you look you see memories.”

  “Especially when she dies so suddenly. Drunk drivers … they make me so mad I could spit.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed. “It’s got to be extra challenging for them so far from their own homes. They need to get everything settled this week so they can get back to Houston.”

  Alice shook her head. “It’s a terrible situation no matter how you cut it. So the girls called you in and now they’re having a hard time deciding what to sell. I bet Lorna’s the holdup, isn’t she? She’s a weeping-willow sentimentalist. Jamie’s no waffler, that’s for sure.”

  I laughed. “In your job, I guess you have to be able to read people in nothing flat, right?” I said, using the trick my dad had taught me back when I was in junior high school and found myself scrunched between a gossipy rock named Cheryl and a tattletaling hard place named Lynn. Never gossip, he warned me. When in doubt, talk about process, not content.

  “In less than nothing flat,” she said. “So what did they decide?”

  “To sell a collection of cobalt glassware that had been packed away in the attic forever and some old wooden tools, you know, planes and levels and the like. The tools belonged to their grandfather who dabbled in carpentry, and just as with the glassware, they feel no emotional connection to them. An old collection of teapots, too, nothing rare.”

  “I know those teapots. They’re ugly, if you ask me. I never understood why Selma liked them. That’s why they make chocolate and vanilla ice cream, right? Who knows why any of us like anything in particular. One of the mysteries of life.” She shrugged. “And the girls sold you the dolls?”

  “Most of them,” I repeated, nodding. “There are some they’re holding back, sentimental favorites, they said, like your Hilda.”

  “Good for them. What do you think, Josie? Shall I give you a check now?”

  “Let’s wait until we know how much we’re talking about before we do anything,” I said, wanting to avoid agreeing to a deal that might soon be voided by a court.

  “Sounds reasonable,” she said.

  Eric, my facilities manager, stepped into the office from the warehouse. In his midtwenties, he still looked and carried himself like a teenager; he was tall and gangly and reed thin. Eric had worked for me since I opened Prescott’s Antiques and Auctions seven years earlier, part-time while he was still in high school, then full-time as soon as he graduated. He was conscientious and dedicated, sometimes too much so, treating even the most routine or mundane task as if it were his top priority.

  “I just unloaded those rocking horses,” Eric told me, after saying hello to Alice, referring to a set of three I’d just bought from some empty nesters looking to downsize. “I’ll head to the Farmingtons’ now.”

  “Great. Bring plenty of newsprint for the glassware and tools, and wrap each doll in flannel, okay?”

  “And I’ll cushion everything in peanuts.”

  “Eric!” Gretchen called as he turned to go. “I wanted to let you know that Hank loved Grace’s catnip heart.”

  He flashed an awkward smile. “I’ll tell Grace.”

  Gretchen giggled as Eric, obviously embarrassed, slipped away.

  “What’s that about?” Alice asked.

  “Grace is Eric’s girlfriend,” Gretchen explained. “Hank is our cat. Grace made Hank a big, heart-shaped, burlap toy, filled with catnip. With a feather.” She laughed. “Eric is a complete dog person, or he used to be.” She turned to me. “You should have seen him tossing the heart to Hank this morning and chattering away as if Hank and he were old friends.”

  “Eric?” I asked in mock amazement.

  “I know!” Gretchen said. “It must be Grace’s influence.”

  “Combined with Hank’s charm,” I agreed. I turned to Alice. “Hank’s a lover-boy, a real sweetheart.”

  “Nice—but can we veer back to the central issue?” Alice asked. “My radar is beeping. Did I hear Eric say he was going for more of the Farmington dolls?”

  I smiled. “Yup! I only had enough packing material to bring back the teapots and eleven dolls this morning. Eric will get the rest now, along with the other collections I bought—the glassware and tools.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Josie. Glassware … teapots … tools … you seem to know everything about everything.”

  I laughed. “Hardly! I just know the questions to ask and have secret weapons in the form of Sasha and Fred, my appraisers.”

  “Modest as ever.” She turned to Gretchen. “Your
big day is close, I hear.”

  “Three weeks, five days, and three hours—but who’s counting!”

  Alice calculated for two seconds. “That’s June fifteenth, around six thirty. I love June weddings!”

  “Me, too,” Gretchen said, giggling. “It’s going to be fabulous—homey and intimate—about fifty people in my fiancé’s folks’ backyard up in Maine.”

  “They toyed with eloping to Hawaii,” I remarked, “and robbing all of us who love them the opportunity to witness their marriage.”

  “A thousand years ago, I eloped,” Alice said. “Not to a beach, cry shame, just to City Hall. Back then, girls who got pregnant got married pronto.” She shook her head as if she were shaking off a bad memory. “I don’t recommend it, but it’s probably better than those pretentious megaweddings, all staged pomp and no personality. Better to be with people you love, and no one else. Fifty people sounds about right.”

  The chimes sounded as Sasha stepped inside.

  As soon as she saw Alice, she said, “Sorry,” her voice barely audible, as if she’d intruded into a private conversation and expected to be chastised.

  “No problem,” I said, just for something to say.

  Sasha’s manner changed as abruptly as if a switch had been flipped the second she spotted the eleven dolls lined up on her desk. Place an antique in Sasha’s orbit and she was transformed from scared mouse into confident expert.

  “Wow!” Sasha said. “Are these from the Farmington collection? They’re gorgeous!”

  “Eric just left to get the rest.”

  “I’m buying them all from Prescott’s,” Alice said.

  “Which means that appraising them is your new top priority,” I told Sasha.

  “Okay,” Sasha said with a quick smile. She tucked a strand of lank hair behind her ear.

  “So where do you start?” Alice asked her.

  “By authenticating and valuing each doll.” Sasha picked up a character doll, another Bru. “She’s spectacular, isn’t she?”

  “Well, I look forward to calling them my own. Right now, though, I’ve got to mosey. I’m off to my lawyer’s office, no doubt to hear more bad news. Are you sure you don’t want some earnest money to guarantee that I get first dibs? I don’t want someone else to swoop in while I’m not looking.”

  I laughed. “You collectors! There’s no need.”

  “I insist,” she said. “I’ll sleep better if I leave a deposit. How about if we label it a refundable right of first refusal, so if there’s some problem with provenance or you discover one of the dolls had been owned by Queen Victoria, or something equally lofty, you’re not on the hook for any certain price, or even to sell it at all, and if I change my mind for whatever reason, I’m not committed to buy something I no longer want.”

  I thought about it for a few seconds. Until I knew which way the prosecutorial wind was blowing, I didn’t want to commit to selling her the dolls even with a we’ll-figure-it-out-later price, and this seemed to be a face-saving, nonconfrontational way to achieve that objective.

  “Done!” I said.

  She pulled a brown leather checkbook folder from her purse and sat at the round guest table to write out the check. I asked Gretchen to prepare a receipt. The second Gretchen’s eyes were fixed on her computer monitor, I turned to Cara, caught her attention, and winked.

  “I have an errand,” I said and winked again. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Cara, her blue eyes twinkling, winked back. She knew what I was up to—I wanted to find some Hawaiian-themed goodies for Gretchen’s surprise bridal shower. I had ten days, but I didn’t know how much trouble I was going to have finding what I had in mind, so I wanted to check out the local party store pronto.

  “Thanks,” Alice told Gretchen as she accepted the receipt, tucking it in her purse without even glancing at it. “Now I have bragging rights.”

  The wind chimes sounded. A tall green bean of a man with a mane of sandy brown hair and earnest brown eyes walked in. I knew him by sight; everyone did. He was Pennington Moreau, the intrepid adventurer, award-winning athlete, and on-air legal personality for Rocky Point’s TV station, WXFS. Penn, as he was known, was as well regarded for his record-setting, multimillion-dollar, long-distance balloon rides, iron man triathlon wins, and high-stakes poker games as he was for his illuminating commentary. Penn had a gift for translating complex legal issues into common English, using engaging examples and self-deprecating humor. He used his twice-weekly two-minute segments to explain things like the city’s responsibility to repair beach erosion after a brutal nor’easter (“Where people like me keep rebuilding, an example of hope trumping experience”); how a restaurant dishwasher had used his computer skills to set up shop selling fake IDs (“Using computer skills so sophisticated, it makes you wonder why he stayed washing dishes”); the government’s right to regulate gambling in private homes (“Like last month’s poker game where I lost my shirt”); and the long-term impact on building the new high school if voters turned down the proposed bond issue (“Ultimately, lower property values, even for those of us who keep adding real property by trucking in tons of sand to counteract the effects of beach erosion”). Although he had to be in his late forties, his loose-limbed gait, full head of hair, and unlined face made him appear younger.

  “What on earth are you doing here, Penn?” Alice asked, leaning in for a butterfly kiss.

  He kissed Alice’s cheek. “I’m looking for you, gorgeous! Got a sec?”

  “For you? Of course. Anytime.” Alice pointed to the dolls on Sasha’s desk. “Look what I just bought! Twenty-three beauties.”

  “Nice! Are they rare?”

  “Rare enough,” she said proudly.

  “I like your style, Alice. Always have.”

  She smiled. “Do you know Josie?” she asked him, and when he said he hadn’t had the pleasure, she introduced us.

  “I enjoy your reports,” I told him.

  “Thanks,” he said, grinning broadly. “Can I steal Alice for a sec?”

  “We’re done anyway,” she said. She waved around the office. “’Bye, all!”

  Penn held the door for her, and she followed him out into the warm afternoon. Glancing at the thermometer fastened to the outside of the big window overlooking the parking lot, I saw it was seventy-five degrees, a glorious May day. I watched them walk to the center of the lot and stop. Penn said something, opening his arms and flipping his palms up—I have no choice, the gesture communicated. Alice shook her head, no, no. He spoke again, grasping her upper arms and shaking her a little, then dropping his hands and waiting for her reply. She looked away, toward the stone wall across the road, then smoothed her hair, though not one strand was out of place. She inhaled so deeply I could see her chest move. She pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin as she said something, pride stiffening her spine, it seemed. She reached a hand out to touch his arm, an appeal. He shook his head, brushed her arm aside, and strode off to his car, a cream-colored vintage Jaguar. She stood and watched. Poor Alice, I thought.

  I said good-bye to everyone in the office and stepped outside. Penn was just pulling out of the lot, turning right, east, toward the church, toward the ocean. Alice watched him until his car was out of sight, then turned to face me. We stood, the silence lingering awkwardly between us. A muscle twitched in her neck. I guessed Penn had been the bearer of more bad news. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to talk about it, at least not with a relative stranger like me.

  “Bye-bye,” I said aiming for a light tone. “I’ll let you know when the appraisal’s done.” I turned away and hurried toward the last row of the parking lot, where I’d parked.

  “Penn didn’t want to blindside me,” she said in a brittle monotone.

  I stopped and looked at her. Her eyes burned into mine. Earlier she’d sounded philosophical. Now she sounded angry.

  “He said he came to tell me in person because we’re friends. Ha. Some friend. His segment tonight will explain wha
t my impending indictment for fraud means to the alleged victims, and whether they have any recourse against me personally. They’re giving him double time. Four whole minutes.”

  “Oh, Alice,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t you agree it was thoughtful of him to come?” she asked sarcastically. “He didn’t want to tell me on the phone, but he wanted me to know. So considerate! He even went to the trouble of tracking me down. Not so much trouble, of course. All he had to do was call my office. My assistant told him where he could find me. Still, he didn’t have to do it. Penn’s a peach, all right. A real peach. Damn him. Damn his eyes.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do to stop him?”

  “No. He said he has a source at the attorney general’s office. Apparently I’m about to be arrest—.” She broke off as a crack reverberated nearby. “What was that?”

  I recognized the sound. Gunfire. Someone was shooting at us.

  “It’s a gun!” I shouted as I dropped to the ground. “Get down, Alice!”

  Another loud, sharp clap shattered the quiet. Then another. Think, I told myself. Where are the shots coming from? I knew that sound traveled and reverberated and bounced off solid objects, making it hard to trace under the best of circumstances and probably impossible now, but concentrating on finding the shooter was all I could do to try to save us. I peered into the closest slice of forest and saw only pines and brambles and forsythia bushes swaying in the light breeze. More shots were fired. I scooted to the front of my car and looked across the street, past the stone wall, into the dense growth that stretched from the road to the interstate almost a mile to the north. No glint of silver or unexpected movement caught my eye. I crawled around my car until the dirt path that led to the church came into view. Nothing. I looked back at Alice. She hadn’t moved. She looked half shocked and half confused, as if she simply couldn’t process what was happening.

  “Get down!” I yelled again, patting the air for emphasis.

  She didn’t move. She wasn’t looking at me, and I wasn’t certain she heard me. It was as if she were a million miles away, frozen in some private memory.