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Gretchen whirled to look at her, but Daisy seemed
oblivious, preoccupied with shoulder presses.
Change stations now.
Nina bumped into Gretchen, who hadn t moved. Pay
attention. You re supposed to move.
Gretchen saw all eyes on her, all waiting for a response
to the news about Steve.
What could she say?
To change the subject, Gretchen said, Anyone else go-
ing to Brett Wesley s memorial service?
Goodbye, Dolly 187
When is it? April asked.
Tomorrow night.
Haven t heard a thing about it.
Me, either.
I wasn t invited, Rita said.
Maybe, Nina said, the service is for those who were
at the auction that day?
April nodded agreement. Someone put the invites to-
gether from the registration list.
Gretchen sincerely hoped that all the bidders were in-
vited. Maybe the memorial organizers had Duanne Wil-
son s correct address. Maybe he would show up. She had a
few questions for him. For that matter, she had a few ques-
tions for Howie Howard. She crossed him off her mental
to-do list for today. Tomorrow night at the memorial would
be soon enough.
Peter Finch, the photographer, lived in South Phoenix, ac-
cording to the address on the business card he d given her at
the auction. With South Mountain as a backdrop, Gretchen
drove down Fifty-first Street and turned onto Southern Av-
enue. She gazed at the dilapidated apartment building on
her left, slowed, and pulled to the curb.
She made her way along the sidewalk leading to the
building, stepping over and around an assortment of toddler
trikes. A drape in the closest apartment moved slightly, and
Gretchen saw fingers in the shadows grasping the heavy
material.
Where was Nina when she really needed her? Probably
having her hair done again, or her nails repaired, or Tutu s
nails polished.
Her niece s life might be in jeopardy, and Nina was off
primping.
What had she been thinking to call the number on Peter
Finch s card and agree to meet at his apartment? He could
188 Deb Baker
be Jack the Ripper incarnate for all she knew. Gun toting
was legal in Phoenix as long as the weapon wasn t con-
cealed.
Instead of a gun she had Nimrod, although that didn t
make her feel any safer.
Gretchen rang one of six buzzers on the outside of the
building, the one labeled P.F. She saw Peter s bony, un-
shaved face peek out at her from a door pane. Then he un-
locked the door and ushered her into his apartment.
Gretchen sized up the room. Sagging couch, weathered
wood breakfast table, small refrigerator, no stove, hot plate
on the counter. No obvious sign of weaponry, no piano
wire coiled on the table. Aside from the ratty furniture, he
owned a sleek forty-two-inch flat-screen television and one
of the fanciest computer and printer combinations Gretchen
had ever seen.
What his space lacked in basic luxuries, he made up for
in electronic gadgetry.
A bachelor, for sure.
Gretchen looked around for signs of a woman s touch.
Not a thing.
Over here, Peter said, leading her to the computer. I
shoot digital all the time. It s so easy. I ll show them to you
on the monitor, if that s okay.
Sure. Gretchen moved closer.
Nimrod s tiny face poked out of his poodle purse, and
he seemed inquisitive rather than threatened. Possibly a
good sign.
Is that a real dog?
Nimrod s ears perked up as though he knew he was the
center of attention.
Never saw a dog in a purse before.
I hadn t either until my aunt started training them.
What did you have in mind? Just dolls from that auc-
tion?
Because Peter Finch had snapped pictures of dolls lying
Goodbye, Dolly 189
on the flatbed truck, she had used that fact to set up this
appointment. A ruse.
She wasn t interested in doll pictures, unless . . .
Did you take any pictures of Ginny dolls?
Refresh my memory, he said. What does one look
like?
Gretchen described the doll and the box the best she
could.
I didn t shoot anything already packed in boxes. He
started up the computer, and Gretchen heard the motor
kicking in. His fingers flew on the keyboard, and photo-
graphs began popping up on the screen. Grab a seat, he
said, motioning to a chair next to him.
She sat down next to him with Nimrod still in her shoul-
der bag, and for the first time wished he was larger and
more intimidating. A German shepherd or pit bull would
be good.
To be honest, she said, I m not really interested in
the doll pictures.
Peter pushed back in the chair. Well, what then? All I
take is pictures of dolls.
Yes, well, I was hoping you took a few pictures later
when Brett was struck by the car. People pictures, maybe
of the accident scene. You said on the phone that you were
still at the auction when it happened.
Awful, what happened. Unbelievable.
Don t you have some pictures of the accident?
Gretchen asked again. Any at all would help.
I know what you re thinking. I m supposed to be a pro-
fessional, and a professional would have taken pictures.
But, frankly, I was so stunned I completely forgot. Brett
was a friend. I still keep seeing it happening all over again
in my head.
I understand, Gretchen said softly. The image of Brett
crumpled in the street like one of her broken dolls flicked
through her thoughts often, too.
190 Deb Baker
As far as the boxed dolls, I didn t take pictures because
Chiggy was firm about that.
So you were there on Wednesday, too, the day before
the auction?
I was. She said no pictures of the stuff in the boxes in
the corner of her bedroom. The boxes were supposed to be
taken out to the retirement community when she moved.
That s why I was surprised to see one of them on the auc-
tion block.
Gretchen sat up straighter. Are you sure?
Sure, I m sure. She told me not to touch them, and I saw
her boxing up those Ginnys you re talking about. Brett must
not have been paying attention, because I heard somebody
behind the flatbed the day of the auction giving him a hard
time about it. Sounded like someone might of slapped him,
and I heard a man say, You better get it back right now.
Peter shook his head. Brett must have been so shook
up, he ran right out in the street without looking.
Did you tell the police that?
Oh, yes, an officer came by after the accident, and I
told him just what I told you.
The photographer clicked on an icon, and one of
Chiggy s dolls appeared on the screen. Gretchen wasn t
past the wincing stage every time she saw one of Chiggy s
poorly made copies.
See all the stuff in the background, Peter said. I
haven t had time to play with the photographs, fading out
all that extra stuff. These aren t scheduled to hit the Inter-
net for a few more weeks. I like to play with light and color
for a while first.
Gretchen studied the photographs as Peter scrolled
through them. Not the best quality, she thought. And he
hadn t been careful with his backdrops. Gretchen could see
other dolls from the flatbed behind the posed doll. He con-
tinued clicking until pictures of the crowd appeared.
I thought you said you didn t take pictures of the acci-
Goodbye, Dolly 191
dent, Gretchen said, recognizing other bidders from that
day s auction.
I didn t.
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