“No,” he said. “But I want to. It’s amazing.” He handed the copy back to Gretchen and rubbed his goatee with two fingers. “Why do you ask?”

“You know my mother is missing. And you have to know that the police suspect her in Martha’s death.” Gretchen watched Joseph carefully. He seemed unnaturally nervous, as he had at the meeting at Nina’s house.

Joseph nodded. “I’m not passing judgment on Caroline. She’s innocent until proven guilty as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. This doll might have something to do with her disappearance, or it might not. I think the picture is worth showing around in case someone recognizes it.”

“Sorry I can’t help you.”

“Maybe you still can,” Gretchen said. “It’s my understanding that Martha was your aunt. Am I correct?”

“Who told you that?” Joseph spoke a little too loudly, a little too defensively.

“Was she your aunt?”

Joseph rubbed his face with his hands as though he were rubbing away a bad dream. “Embarrassing to admit, but yes, she was my aunt. I’m related to that pathetic, homeless drunk. Or was. We weren’t close, and I didn’t mention it to the club members because I had no desire to share my ancestry with them.”

“She apparently didn’t go out of her way to cultivate alliances,” Gretchen said.

Joseph nodded. “She led a self-absorbed life, at least after the alcohol took control. The ability to look beyond her personal self-interests drowned in a pool of stale booze, a common symptom of alcoholism.”

Gretchen remembered what Nina had said about Joseph’s own problems with alcohol and his resolve to beat the disease.

“Did she have any family other than you?”

“A sister in Florida, but they hadn’t spoken for years. She’s in a nursing home in the final stages of Alzheimer’s. She wouldn’t understand that Martha is dead or that she even had a sister.”

“How about friends?”

Joseph laughed bitterly. “Aunt Martha didn’t have any real friends left. I suppose you could count those down-and-out characters she roamed the streets with as friends.”

Gretchen heard Nina’s cell phone from somewhere in the shop playing the Star Wars theme. “Hello,” she heard Nina say.

“Martha had an expensive collection of dolls at one time,” Gretchen said to Joseph. “Can you tell me what happened to it?”

“I’ve had this shop for seventeen years,” Joseph said. “She bought her first doll from me, at a discount, of course. After that, she became very secretive about what she purchased and where she bought it. She hid the dolls around her house, worrying constantly that someone would steal them. She became distrustful of everyone. What’s the point of having a collection if you can’t have fun with it?”

“Then?” Gretchen said, encouraging him to continue. She heard Nina’s voice drifting from across the room.

“I offered to take the collection on consignment when I found out she faced bankruptcy, but she refused. She had a pernicious personality. Her fingers were caustic, destroying everything she touched. And she never let go. I don’t know what happened to her collection. I have to assume that she acted with her typical irrational behavior, and the collection is lost forever.”

“You hesitated before answering. You don’t believe it, do you?”

Joseph shrugged. “She cared about those dolls in a way she never cared about any living person. She would have died for them before she’d let anyone take them.”

Maybe she did die for them.

“Last I saw her, she was hopelessly lost in one of many bouts of what I called schizophrenic paranoia. She showed up here at the shop. Someone was always out to get her. Nations plotted to overthrow her. This time the secret agent stalking her was someone she called ‘the Inspector.’ I assumed she meant the state of Arizona was finally going to force her into a rehab program. Too bad they didn’t move a little quicker.”

Nina came around the corner, her face as white as unpainted china.

“What’s wrong?” Gretchen asked, afraid to hear the answer.

“They found your mother’s car,” Nina said, her voice thick and shaky, “in northern Scottsdale.”

“And?”

Gretchen watched Nina’s mouth slowly form the words. “The car left the road and ran into a drainage ditch. It must have rolled several times, because it landed upside down.”

Gretchen’s hands flew to her mouth. “No,” she said in disbelief. “Is she…?”

“Caroline’s in critical condition at Scottsdale Memorial. She’s in surgery right now.”

15

While Gretchen drove to the hospital, Nina dialed several phone numbers before reaching someone who could help. Larry Gerney agreed to meet them in the visitor’s parking lot and arrived at the same time they did. Hurrying, they transferred Tutu and Nimrod to Larry’s car. Gretchen handed over the key to her mother’s house. “It’s much closer for you than driving them all the way to Nina’s,” she said. “Leave the dogs there.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Larry said and pulled away as they ran into the hospital.

Nina’s ability to think in a linear path under duress amazed Gretchen. By the time they arrived at the hospital, Nina had notified most of the Birch family members across the country, arranged for pet care with Larry, and had even left a message for Steve to return her call. Gretchen, on the other hand, had driven in silence, almost paralyzed by fear and shock.

Now she wanted to stand up and scream at everyone-at the dispassionate receptionist attending the waiting room desk, at the nurses strolling through in their impenetrable groups, quietly murmuring among themselves and consulting clipboards. She wanted to scream at Nina for her endless chatter.

This couldn’t be happening. She stared out a hospital window at pavement and parked cars and at nothing at all. Nina forced her to take a cup of coffee, but her one good arm felt too weak to lift it to her lips. Instead of drinking the coffee, she clutched it like a lifeline.

Hospital sounds whirled around her. An overhead paging system called for Dr. Kay. Mechanical noises created by massive generators churned, and carts creaked down harshly lighted halls that smelled faintly of chemicals and sanitizers.

Someone walked by and stopped. Gretchen turned her head.

“She suffered a subdural hematoma,” a woman in scrubs said. “A severe head injury. She’s in surgery now to relieve the pressure and control the bleeding. We won’t know anything for several hours.”

“Did anyone speak to her?” Nina asked.

“She was unconscious when she arrived.”

“Is the bleeding in her brain?” Nina said while Gretchen remained speechless.

“No,” the woman explained. “It’s the area external to the brain, below the inner layer of the dura.”

Nina nodded and gripped Gretchen’s fingers below her cast.

“Thank you,” Gretchen murmured and the woman walked through doors clearly labeled No Admittance.

In novels, the heroine never cries, Gretchen thought, watching Nina dab her eyes with a balled-up tissue. Gretchen looked away, wondering who the heroine could be in this real-life drama. She didn’t know why, but the sight of other people crying always brought tears to her own eyes.

Two uniformed police, stationed at the end of the hall, stood guard. Because of Caroline’s arrest warrant status, they would remain at the hospital until she awoke and was able to be questioned.