Gretchen gave up the computer search to tackle the work her mother had left on her workbench. Caroline was organized to a fault, unlike Gretchen, who tended toward extreme clutter. When they began working together, that had been their biggest problem-how to accommodate their different working styles. The only solution had been two workstations and her mother’s strict orders for Gretchen to stay away from her space.

Gretchen picked up one of the dolls that she planned to repair and read the note next to it. It was a Chatty Cathy, and her mother had managed to make the doll speak again but hadn’t had time to repair the pencil-post bed that came with it or to stitch up rips in the pajamas it wore.

Gretchen’s job was easy. Her mother had done the hard part, making the silent doll talk.

The Chatty Cathy had side-glancing eyes, dark freckles, and buckteeth. Gretchen tugged the pull string and the doll spoke. “I love you,” it said. She lifted the doll’s pajama top and examined its back. There was the mark-copyright date of 1960 and the name of the doll, Chatty Cathy.

Running a finger over the raised mark reminded her of words written in the color of blood on the tombstone.

The dead woman hadn’t been small, around Gretchen’s own height of five eight and with a normal weight, not thin, not heavy. How much bigger and stronger than Allison would her attacker have had to be? For sure, a man would have the force necessary, although a woman might have done the horrible deed with a heavy weapon and the advantage of surprise.

While preparing the materials she needed to repair Chatty Cathy’s accessories, Gretchen’s eyes swept past the metal head. They would have to tell Matt about it, give it up to the investigation.

Dolls should be about love, and cherishing the things that were important. Not cold-blooded murder.

To reaffirm that, Gretchen pulled on the string.

“I love you,” Chatty Cathy said.

23

“April, you’re a natural people person,” Gretchen said, amazed at the progress on the stage. She sat beside her friend, watching the rehearsal. “You could find a position in management or in human resources. The curtain for Ding Dong Dead is going to go up as planned. Last week I didn’t think it was possible. I’d almost given up hope.”

“Did you really have doubts?” Her friend had her feet propped up on the director’s table, her lap piled with pink fabric. April was sewing and directing at the same time.

“Doubts? Yes.” Gretchen laughed. “When I was in charge? You bet.”

“Any more news about the skeleton in the museum?” April said quietly, so as not to disturb the actors. “That sounds like a good name for a movie, doesn’t it? The Skeleton in the Museum.”

“More like Horror in the Closet.” Gretchen told her what they had discovered-about the orb that Nina insisted was a ghostly spirit, about what Matt had said concerning the time required to identify the remains, and that Flora Swilling had disappeared almost thirty years ago.

April whistled at that last piece of news. “I bet she was murdered and stuffed in the closet. No wonder her ghost is haunting the place. Nina thought the most important thing was to reunite the doll with its owner, and she was close. She didn’t even know about the missing human head when she said that.”

The stage became noticeably quiet as the cast members dropped lines and listened to them instead. “Did they find the skeleton’s skull?” Bonnie said. Standing next to the six-foot Barbie, she looked like a mustached dwarf.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Gretchen said. Bonnie would be on the phone at the first opportunity, pumping her son for information, which was perfectly fine with Gretchen. “If you hear anything, let us know.”

Bonnie wouldn’t ever keep good gossip to herself. “I will,” she said.

“We have the metal doll head at home,” Gretchen said, going on to relate the events that led up to finding the head inside Caroline’s shopping bag.

“Caroline had it all this time and didn’t realize it?” Julie said.

“She’s been preoccupied with her work and the accident,” April said. “Can we see it?”

“I should turn it over to the police,” Gretchen said. “In case it’s important.”

“It’s time,” April called, putting down thread and needle and swinging her feet off the desk. “Let’s try it from the top with all the bells and whistles.”

Jerome walked past and acknowledged Gretchen with a stiff nod. He adjusted a light along the stage, realigning its angle. Then he flipped off the overhead lights from a switch by the entrance, casting the room into total blackness.

“Lights, camera, action,” April called. The stage lights popped on, and the mystery play began with the ringing of a doorbell.

For almost an hour, Gretchen sat transfixed, laughing at the antics of the characters. Her mother should write more plays. This one was going to be a hit. Caroline’s script was perfect for the luncheon-a campy, funny mystery with a surprise twist at the end.

When the women on stage got to the part where they were considering what to do with philandering Craig’s body, she saw a stab of light, and Mr. B., the owner of the building, took a seat behind them. Again, she thought of his generosity. They should do something special for him.

When the rehearsal was over, Gretchen noticed that she’d missed several calls on her cell phone, all from her mother. She hadn’t heard the rings over the sounds coming from the stage. So many calls from the same person suggested urgency. She promptly called back.

“I’m at This Great Coffee Place,” Caroline said. “You need to hurry over here. Don’t bring anyone with you.”

“Are you all right?”

“Just come. Now.”

The coffee shop was crowded with after-lunch coffee drinkers getting their last shot of afternoon caffeine. Caroline sat at a table near the door next to a man wearing dark sunglasses and an Arizona Cardinals ball cap pulled low over his forehead.

“Get a coffee,” Caroline said. “Then join us.”

While Gretchen waited in line, greeting some of the regulars, she kept glancing at the guy sitting at the table. He had both hands cupped around his coffee as though he was cold and was trying to keep warm. He glanced nervously toward the door every few seconds. Caroline kept up a steady stream of conversation while he listened. Several times, Caroline rubbed her neck, an indication that it still bothered her. Gretchen wondered if she’d made a doctor’s appointment.

Gretchen’s turn came. She ordered a latte. Coffee in hand, she went to the table and sat down.

“I’d like to introduce you,” her mother said in a hushed tone, “to Andy Thomasia.”

The man watched her face carefully as though he expected a negative reaction from her. Gretchen masked her surprise at meeting the dead woman’s husband. “Hi,” was all she could manage.

“Relax, Andy.” Caroline covered his cupped hands with her own. “She’s not going to do anything to hurt you. You can trust her.” Then to Gretchen she said, “Right before my car accident I was rushing home to meet a very demanding customer who refused to wait his turn to see me. I found out a little while ago who that customer really was.”

“I couldn’t give my real name,” he said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me.”

“Never, Andy.”

“When you didn’t show up, I thought you had blown me off.”

Gretchen noticed that her mother hadn’t removed her hands. They still cupped his. He hadn’t moved either.

“Where’s Nina?” Gretchen hadn’t seen her aunt’s car outside. “Weren’t you with her?”

“Andy followed us to the caterer’s and approached me before we went inside. Nina offered to handle the menu selections to give us time to catch up.”

“I’m in serious trouble,” he said. “And I’m asking your mother for help. No, I’m begging for help.”