Part 10 (1/2)
Gretchen glanced sharply at her mother.
”I know,” Caroline said softly. ”I see it.”
”What?” April said, hurrying over.
”Flecks of blood on the sofa,” Gretchen said. ”Not too much. Just a little. And more on this painting. A spot or two.”
”It almost looks like an accident,” April said. ”Like Charlie spilled red paint.”
”What about the red paint on the edge of the axe and knife? Those weren't accidents.” Gretchen went through all the pieces on the card table, one by one.
”What in the world was Charlie thinking?” Caroline rubbed her eyes. ”This one is a Victorian household, That”-- she said, pointing at a different pile--”is a farmland setting with a church in the background. Little crab apple trees, a bale of hay, not much else.”
April held up two tiny steps. Decrepit, worn, a touch of blood on the first stepping-stone. ”From the backyard pile. Mini windows with small panes, some broken, a wooden door.”
Caroline gestured toward another group of items. ”This is also a bedroom, but from a later era and much more luxurious. An Oriental rug, mahogany bed and dresser, fanback chair. Look at the precious Martha Was.h.i.+ngton bedspread.”
”And the pile of unknowns.” Gretchen looked throughthe leftover pieces. Tiny sheets of old plywood, bits of paper, things that might not have anything to do with the room boxes.
”It sure would be fun to make my own miniatures sometime.” April picked up another item and wiped it with her cloth. ”I'd never be as accomplished as Britt, though. Few doll makers are. It's extremely detailed work. You need a lot of patience.”
”Was Sara's craftwork as good as Britt's?”
”At least as good, maybe better,” her mother answered.
”Where are are the dolls Britt made for the room boxes?” the dolls Britt made for the room boxes?”
Gretchen asked.
”We haven't gotten that far,” Caroline said. ”Now that we've cleaned up and organized the room furnis.h.i.+ngs, we'll place those where we think they go and move on to finding the dolls.”
April sucked soda through a straw. ”I'd like to give Gretchen an award,” she said, presenting Gretchen with a small wrapped box. ”I'm so proud of you. I thought you'd like a little memento of your accomplishments since coming to live in Phoenix.”
”But why?” Gretchen said. ”I haven't accomplished anything.”
”You will.”
”And that isn't true, Gretchen,” Caroline said, watching from the table. ”You're very talented.”
Gretchen opened the cover and peeked in to find a gold badge. It had a s.h.i.+ny gold finish and was shaped like the sun. The inscription read Best in the West.
”Let me pin it on you.” April scooped up the badge.
”Best in the West?” Gretchen asked, laughing. ”Best what?”
”Best restoration artist,” Caroline called out.
”But that's you.”
”There.” April finished pinning it on and stood back to admire it. ”You look great, real professional. The gold matches your hair. And I have one for Caroline, too.”
April handed another package to her mother.
Gretchen turned to check her reflection in the window and was startled to see a man peering in. He wore a dirty sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt, and a black do-rag covered his hair. A silver ring pierced his lower lip, and a tattoo like barbed wire wound around his right arm.
He stared at Gretchen.
April shrieked.
”That's Charlie's son, Ryan Maize,” Caroline said softly. He was young. About twenty. Wiry with dirty, ill-fitting jeans that dragged on the sidewalk. Black running shoes that had seen better days. Ryan's eyes s.h.i.+fted nervously to the badge pinned on Gretchen's chest. His eyes grew wide and frightened. When Gretchen moved closer to the window, he darted out of sight. Gretchen slammed out the door, breaking into a run.
”Wait,” she shouted. He disappeared around a busy corner. She raced behind him onto the sidewalk bordering Scottsdale Road. So this was Charlie's son. But why was he running away? Why did he look so frightened? Gretchen was used to jogging and hiking. Camelback Mountain and the desert air were perfect conditioning tools, and though she wanted to lose a few pounds, Gretchen considered herself aerobically fit. She'd been a runner her entire life. Ryan Maize, however, was younger and very quick, weaving among shoppers, never looking back. He shoved someone out of the way. Gretchen heard gasps and squeals from those on the sidewalk as she chased after him. She threaded through the crowd and leaped over a dropped shopping bag, running as fast as she could.
What was she doing? What was she going to do if she actually caught up to him? What if he had a gun or a knife?
She'd karate kick the weapon out of his fist. Sure, right. Brucaleen Lee.
Ryan pulled ahead. Gretchen was fast, but she wasn't fast enough. He was getting away.
Stop, she thought, let him go. let him go. No, she wouldn't give up. The loose soles of his shoes were his downfall. Gretchen saw him stumble. She picked up speed, giving it all she had. Did he know about his mother? That she was dead? No, she wouldn't give up. The loose soles of his shoes were his downfall. Gretchen saw him stumble. She picked up speed, giving it all she had. Did he know about his mother? That she was dead?
Gretchen was using all her energy to catch him. She didn't have the breath to speak. She reached out, and her fingertips almost touched his back.
He pulled away. And tripped again. This time she got a firm hold on the back of his s.h.i.+rt. She heard it rip.
* 12 *
Ryan Maize ducks down and tries to twist out of the woman's grasp. She has him by the back of his s.h.i.+rt, and she's incredibly strong, like the lioness of Babylon. He hears the cloth tear.
If he wasn't bingeing at the moment, she wouldn't be catching him.
Too much alcohol and crack cocaine in his past. Whatever he's on, he can't remember taking it. That worries him.
It isn't his fault that he's in a weakened condition. Everything goes wrong for him. People don't help him enough. Like his mother. If she hadn't refused to help him out, he'd be doing really good. Healthy, happy, and rich. All he needs is a little support from the people around him. He needs just one little break.
Life sucks, and then you die. That's his motto. He twists again, trying to break her grip. She's on him like the evil witch she is.
Shapes.h.i.+fters masquerading as cops. What's next?
He's coming down, slowly descending from an alternate reality.
She's a real cop. He'd seen the badge. That's what he gets for going back to the shop, for wanting one last look.