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going investigation?
Ongoing? Did you say ongoing?
Police business. My mouth is sealed. Now tell me who
your source is.
I promised I wouldn t tell.
Matt rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Oh, please. How
about if I promise not to tell anyone else? Would that
help?
Only if you cross your heart.
You believe that Brett was a murder victim. He folded
his arms across his chest. Here s your chance to prove it.
Even though you re going to laugh, somehow I m in-
volved in all this, she said. I didn t imagine the scorpion
at the doll show, and I didn t imagine the black Jetta. They
were real.
What black Jetta?
The one that s been following me. The first time it
Goodbye, Dolly 145
pulled up next to my car and a woman threatened me. She
said I would pay.
Did you get a good look at her?
Gretchen shook her head. It was dark, and she had pri-
vacy windows.
You said the first time. What happened the second
time?
The same car followed me tonight.
Are you sure?
Pretty sure.
For a moment Matt looked thoughtful. Then his profes-
sional mask descended, and he gave her an inscrutable
look. Tell me the rest.
So she tried. She told him what Daisy and Nacho had
told her. About the man who shoved Brett into the street s
traffic, about the blue truck, and about Howie leaving the
auction in a blue truck.
You know how rumors start and spread, Matt said.
Still . . . He looked thoughtful. I need the name of the
witness who allegedly saw Brett being pushed.
I don t exactly have a name.
What do you have exactly?
A description.
Okay, let s start with that.
The man who saw Brett pushed into the street was sit-
ting on the curb.
What was he doing on the curb?
Gretchen paused. You aren t going to think he s credi-
ble.
Try me.
He s homeless.
Matt smacked his head with an open palm. Jeez,
Gretchen, that isn t what I wanted to hear. You know indi-
gents are the worst possible witnesses? First of all, he
probably won t even talk to a cop. If he does talk to me,
he ll change his story. And a jury. . . well, I m sorry if you
146 Deb Baker
don t want to hear this, but they won t believe him. Next I
suppose you re going to tell me he was drunk. Gretchen,
wait, where are you going?
Gretchen marched off and joined a group of collectors
standing by the makeshift bar. She saw several women en-
circle the handsome detective as he tried to follow her.
Matt Albright was infuriating. Bullheaded, self-
absorbed, cynical, narrow-minded.
She had almost shared the cryptic Kewpie doll mes-
sages with him. Imagine his response if he d heard about
Wag, the Dog.
From now on, she d manage just fine without his help.
" 22 "
Daisy pushes her shopping cart filled with all her earthly
possessions and turns toward the viaduct where Nacho
usually sleeps. It s dark now, and so she hurries.
Another fruitless day on the hot streets waiting for a tal-
ent scout to pick her out of the crowd. Even her new getup,
purple flowered sundress and feathered wide-brimmed red
hat, like those Red Hat Society ladies wear, hasn t attracted
any Hollywood-style attention.
And the cart! She doesn t need any more weight to push
around, what with her back about to break, but tell that to a
man. Work, work, work, while they sit around drinking cheap
whiskey and telling outrageous lies to each other, leaving her
alone to guard the treasures in her cart.
She struggles along, the beams of light from the over-
head streetlights casting a false sense of safety. But she
isn t fooled. More than ever before, she needs Nacho s pro-
tection through the long, moonless night ahead.
Poor Albert Thoreau had been beaten up pretty badly,
she s heard. Both eyes swollen and punched black, nose
flat and repositioned to the left of center, lips puffed, he
laid motionless in the alleyway surrounded by fellow out-
casts. Only the sound of irregular and ragged breathing
proved that he had not departed for hobo heaven.
Lucky he isn t dead, they say.
And if he has told, she will be next.
Has he?
Cops! Don t trust them, someone in the group had
148 Deb Baker
said, disgust apparent in the wad of spit aimed at the
ground. Here s your proof. What did Thoreau ever do to
anybody?
Daisy has her suspicions about Thoreau s current condi-
tion. She hasn t lasted this long on the wild streets of
Phoenix without her innate sense of imminent danger.
The darkness of the viaduct s underbelly looms before
her. Cars roar overhead even at this late hour. The shopping
cart s wheels squeal as they jerk forward, and Daisy makes
a mental note to find a little oil tomorrow and lubricate
them.
She squints into the gloom as a form materializes from
behind one of the viaduct s steel girders, striding toward
her, arms swinging lazily, an unlit flashlight clutched in a
muscular hand.
Good evening, Daisy says, fighting the fear. What
brings you all the way down here?
" 23
"
Gretchen rose before dawn, fed Nimrod and Wobbles,
donned hiking attire, and headed briskly toward Camel-
back Mountain. Early morning was the only time of day to
climb the mountain in relative peace.
Gretchen prided herself on her ability to tackle the most
strenuous trails, so she struck out boldly for the extreme tip
of Summit Trail. A quarter mile in, she passed a steep
northeast-facing cliff and spotted creosote and brittle bushes
clinging to the side. Only a few flowers came into bloom in
October, but she did see scattered desert lavenders and yel-
low blossoms on a sweet bush.
A Harris antelope squirrel scurried across the trail, its tail
long and bushy, a white stripe along its flank. It stopped at a
safe distance and scolded Gretchen as she marched upward.
Monday morning. Back to work for millions of Phoenix
residents. Soon, downtown traffic would be in gridlock,
and sidewalks would crowd with bustling workers clutch-
ing coffee cups and newspapers.
Except for Brett and Ronny. Ronny had written his last
inflammatory news article, and Brett had worked his final
auction. What secret did they stumble upon?
The groomed trail ended abruptly, and the only way up
now was over rough rock. Gretchen dug into the red rocks
with hands and feet, her mind on the two men. The place to
start would be where their paths had converged.
How did their deaths link to a murder in Boston? Percy
O Connor s unsolved murder must be connected in some
150 Deb Baker
way. She thought of the resplendent group of Kewpie doll
collectors visiting from Boston. Helen Huntington and her
son, Eric. Margaret Turner and Milt Wood.
And Steve. Hapless pursuer of unrequited love? Or im-
pulsive killer?
Gretchen stopped abruptly as she was about to grab a
handhold on a large rock ahead of her. She heard the omi-
nous rattle before she saw the snake. A rattlesnake. She
froze and eyed the tiny newborn, its single rattle threaten-
ing her from two feet away. Gretchen knew better than to
underestimate it because of its small size.
In autumn, rattlesnakes congregated in crevices. She
had read about them when she first arrived in Phoenix, ed-
ucating herself about all the poisonous critters in the
American Southwest. Gila monsters, tarantulas, black wid-
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