“What about us?” Caroline said, sounding worn out. “We could go home.”

“That’s probably the last place that Matt will look for us,” Gretchen agreed. “Or we could stay with Daisy, mingle with the invisible people.”

“I’d rather not. I’m getting too old to sleep on hard ground without a pillow if I don’t have to.”

“And I need computer access if I’m going to track down some of the present-day Swillings. I just hope a few of Flora’s family members are still alive.”

They drove home without encountering any police protection officers. Gretchen drove into the garage rather than leaving her car in the carport. They left the lights off so the house would appear empty, and without another word, Gretchen went to her room and collapsed in bed.

The only thing she heard before morning was a soft and steady purring from Wobbles.

28

Five o’clock Saturday morning Gretchen poured a cup of coffee and made herself comfortable at the computer, expecting that the task would take a long time. The first item she found in her Internet search came quicker than expected. Rachel Berringer’s name was listed in the Arizona Republic obituaries. Two brief impersonal paragraphs to prove that Flora Swilling’s daughter had once existed.

Rachel had died in March of the current year.

Gretchen learned more from what was left out than what was said. There wasn’t a “survived by” list of close relatives. There wasn’t any hint of the cause of death as in many obituaries where the causes were made known through requests for special donations. The obit didn’t say anything about “in lieu of flowers.” Rachel had died at sixty-three, hadn’t taken on another last name through marriage, and had left no children. There was no mention of interment or visitation services.

That was it.

After an unsuccessful search for more information, Gretchen considered that avenue of inquiry a complete dead end. The obit didn’t even tell her where Rachel had lived or died. Just because the obituary ran in the largest paper in Phoenix didn’t mean Rachel Berringer had died in Arizona. She could have been a former resident. Gretchen wondered who had been responsible for placing the information in the newspaper.

The only detail of minor interest was that Rachel had died the week before that anonymous donor had offered the Phoenix Dollers the use of the Swilling family home. Had she been that donor? Or had ownership passed to another relative? And what about Richard? Was he their anonymous benefactor?

Gretchen would delve into Rachel Berringer’s past after all the intrigue and drama died down, after a killer was identified. The club should make some sort of dedication to the deceased woman and to others in her family who had made contributions to the collection. They should be immortalized within the museum.

Next, she searched for Richard Berringer, keying in various combinations of last names. She got over fifty thousand hits. This one was going to be more complex. Gretchen didn’t have a starting point for the brother, didn’t know anything significant to narrow the search criteria.

She refined the search to Phoenix and the surrounding area. Several hours later, she still wasn’t any closer to finding Richard Berringer.

He hadn’t been mentioned in Rachel’s obituary.

Who knows, she thought, maybe he’s dead, too.

29

Doll repair can be likened to surgical procedures performed by medical surgeons. The best doll doctors have an array of specialized instruments and are skilled in their use. Doll doctors must be adept at putting patients back together again. In a sense, they restore life.

– From World of Dolls by Caroline Birch

“What are you doing here?” attorney Dean McNalty asked, looking from one woman to the other. His eyes, distorted by the lenses of his Coke-bottle glasses, appeared overly large and reptilian. He sat behind a desk of worn, marred wood, surrounded by cheap vertical file cabinets. The carpet was faded and dirty. Gretchen wouldn’t have taken a seat in the old upholstered chair if someone had threatened her life.

“I’m surprised to find you in your office on Saturday,” Gretchen said.

Thrilled, really!

“What do you want?”

“We’d like to take a quick peek at a file.” Gretchen smiled sweetly.

“Confidential,” he grunted. “We’ve been through this already. I have a responsibility to my clients. I wouldn’t last long if I divulged personal information.”

Caroline walked around behind the desk. Attorney McNalty tried to watch both women at once, but the logistics weren’t working well for him. He wasn’t an owl.

“We thought you might say that,” Gretchen said. His eyes swung back to her. “But we have resources at our fingertips. We can convince you otherwise.”

“Get out of here,” he said, looking over his shoulder to see what Caroline was up to.

She casually displayed a surgical scalpel. “A tool of the trade,” she said. “I use it in my workshop for repairing dolls. My particular line of work requires a razor-sharp blade and a keen eye for using it.”

“What are you doing?” McNalty’s voice hit a high note. He started to rise from the desk. Gretchen stepped closer, displaying her own repair tool. The attorney sat back down with a thump.

Gretchen wondered about the direction of her moral compass. What were they doing?

“You have two choices,” she said to Dean, throwing aside her doubts. “You can tell us which one of these cabinets contains a certain file. We don’t have time to search through them to find it on our own. Deadlines, you know. Second choice, of course, is protect your client. Then we’ll have to carve the information out of you.”

McNalty’s eyes grew wider, if that was possible.

“And,” Caroline added, “we’re very, very good at slicing.”

“The file is in that one right there,” he said, pointing. “Second drawer down, filed under Swilling.”

“Stay where you are,” Gretchen warned him. She opened the drawer and quickly found the file.

“The Swilling home is owned by a trust,” Gretchen said to her mother, skimming through the paperwork. She glanced at McNalty. “You’re the trustee?”

“You’ll have to sort it out on your own,” he said. “I’m not helping you.”

“According to this, John Swilling established the trust upon his death. It can’t be sold by any of the beneficiaries.” Gretchen glared at the attorney. “This is going to take time for me to understand. Why don’t you make it easy?”

“That’s impossible.”

Caroline flashed her weapon. “We don’t have time for this. Explain the document.”

“Okay.” McNalty held up his hands. “Back off with that thing.” He adjusted his thick glasses. “You’re right. The house was placed in trust with the stipulation that it would remain in the family. Until her untimely death, Rachel Berringer was the beneficiary of the trust. Although she didn’t live in the house, she continued to show interest in its maintenance up until she died.”

“What about her brother?” Gretchen asked.

“We weren’t able to locate him in spite of our well-intentioned efforts. After a reasonable amount of time, he was declared dead in absentia.”

Gretchen tossed the file on his desk. “How could he just disappear?”

“It happens all the time,” McNalty said. “People want a new start, or they have a reason to want to avoid discovery. Perhaps Richard Berringer committed suicide or committed a crime under an assumed name. Mental illness might have caused him to vanish. Who knows?”

“Who is the current beneficiary of the trust?” Caroline asked.

“I hold ownership of the trust for the benefit of the trust’s beneficiaries,” the attorney said. “I located a distant relative who resided outside of the state. Before I could make contact, I discovered that the next in line was actually living right here in Phoenix.”