The Dollmaker's Daughters (Bo Bradley Mysteries, Book Five) (8 page)

"Of course," she smiled supportively, trying not to recall the several times Madge had urged the Department of Social Services to free Bo Bradley from its employ. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Hurrying into the building, Bo grabbed Janny Malcolm's case file from her desk and ignored the pink phone memos stacked beside it. They were inevitably a snare from which responsibility would permit no escape. Best not to look at them.

Fifteen minutes later she was safely inside the ritziest department store in Fashion Valley, the central San Diego shopping mall closest to her office, admiring Christmas decorations so tasteful they barely condescended to be red and green. More like deep maroon coupled with a color that looked like moonlight on a lodgepole pine. Bo inhaled deeply and prepared to enjoy herself.

For Madge, the other workers in her unit, and the clerical staff she bought apples on painted sticks, covered in Belgian chocolate and crushed hazelnuts, wrapped in red cellophane and tied with little gingham napkins. Next she selected a washable wool couch throw in a MacAl
l
ister tartan she hoped wouldn't show Molly's red dachshund hairs, for the little dog's elderly caretaker. Estrella and Henry, she decided, would soon need reminders of the romance that had brought a noisy and demanding newcomer into their home. Embroidered silk sheets in a creamy ecru against which Estrella's dark hair and skin tones would show to advantage. Grinning impishly, she handed the clerk her credit card. Es would never
buy anything this extravagant for her own home. It was perfect.

"I'm sorry, but there seems to be a problem with your card," the clerk said cheerfully. "Would you mind waiting while I check on it?"

"Um, it may be maxed out," Bo said, chagrined. She'd just mailed in a sizable payment against her balance, but the transaction probably hadn't been processed yet. The previous two purchases had pushed her available credit to its unimpressive limit. "I'll just write a check."

Time for Plan B, Bradley. Let's fa
ce it, that last little man
icky spending spree involving the custom-upholstered recliner wiped you out. SAY NO TO SHOPPING!

A month ago she'd gone with Estrella and Henry to a furniture store to help them pick out a comfortable rocker for the anticipated cuddling and three
a.m
. feedings. But their selection had fit Bo so perfectly, its reclining back and lumbar support felt so good, that she'd ordered one for herself. And she'd been mesmerized by the selection of custom fabric selections displayed for her by a salesman in, she remembered, a bolo tie. The chair's delivery had caused a row with Andy, who regarded it as evidence that she would never move in with him rather than what it was—a typically manicky overindulgence. Now it was near Christmas and she had no extra money for gifts. The chair clearly represented everything about her that needed work, she thought, but so what? It was the most comfortable piece of furniture she'd ever owned, and she loved it
.

"A check will be fine," the clerk said, "as long as it's from a local bank and you can show a California driver's license."

"Do you know the capital of Montana?" Bo countered, showing her CPS ID instead of he
r driver's license just to rattl
e the woman.

"Helena. And thank you so much, Ms. Bradley. Merry Christmas."

Clerks in ritzy department stores, she realized, could not be rattled.

The sky was already clearing as she strolled past a towering tree of poinsettias in the center of the outdoor mall. A haggard mother in a belted trench coat was trying to photograph the tree as a little girl pulled on the hem of the coat.

"I want to see the dolls," the child whined, pointing to a specialty shop Bo hadn't noticed
before. "Puh-lease. You said..
."

The shop's facade recalled elegant, old-fashioned stores in which Dickens might have shopped. A paned window with fake frost. Coachlights beside the door. Polished brass doorknob and kickplate. From hidden speakers the strains of "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" could be heard, played by a brass choir. Enchanted, Bo wandered closer to admire the window display where animated elves moved about in a miniature workshop. Sharing the window with the elves was a profusion of dolls.

Bo identified Raggedy Ann and Andy, Howdy Doody, the cast of Little Women, and the Pillsbury Doughboy before her attention was captured by a splendid baby doll in a white basket tucked under a twinkling Christmas tree. Made of bisque porcelain, the doll's detailing was remarkable. And its pug nose oddly familiar. Bo shouldered her way into the crowded shop with a sudden sense of foreboding.

"The baby doll in the window," she said when a harried clerk approached, "the one in the basket. Is this some kind of special doll? It's so beautifully made."

"That's Johanna," the clerk replied as if the name explained everything. "A collectible. Would you like to see her?"

"Yes," Bo said, feeling dizzy.

She hadn't played with dolls even as a child because they'd scared her. Something about their stillness had made her feel uncomfortable, as if they masked another dimension that existed only when she turned her back. Now she felt the glassy stares of a thousand eyes as the baby doll was placed in her hands.

"She's one of a numbered edition," the clerk went on. "Only two thousand are made for Christmas each year and then the mold is broken. You can see the edition number stamped on the back of the neck. Why don't you let me put your packages behind the counter so you can look at her closely. But be careful. We only get one each year, and she's quite valuable."

"How valuable?" Bo asked as her bulky packages were whisked to safety.

"Five hundred and ninety-five dollars, excluding tax."

Bo whistled softl
y and tightened her grip on the doll's torso, soft beneath a smocked white pinafore over pink pantaloons. On the doll's feet were lace-edged white socks and pink satin booties. In the wispy dark hair was a pink satin ribbon.

"The wig's synthetic," the clerk explained. "The less expensive collectibles use the synthetic hair."

"
Less
expensive?"

"Oh, some of the European collectibles range into the thousands, use human hair individually set in wax, real baby teeth, all sorts of things. Doll collecting is as old as the human race, you know. There's always a market, especially for the really lifelike ones."

Turning the doll over, Bo tugged at the pinafore's ruffled collar and saw "293" stamped in the porcelain of its neck. In
an arc above the number were the words "Palm Valley, CA." Beneath the number were the initials "J.M." She could feel the doll's bright glass eyes looking at her shoes. It didn't particularly like her shoes.

"Thank you so much," Bo said breathlessly, her eyes roving the store for something less threatening than the object in her hands. At the end of an aisle she saw a display of Barbies, their identically vapid smiles strangely comforting. "Oh, there are the Barbies!"

"Of course you've heard of the Palm Valley Doll Works," the clerk mentioned as she placed Johanna back in her basket. "One of the oldest California factories."

Bo had scurried to the aisle display, which included a bearded Ken doll that could be shaved, as well as a convertible, doll house with pool, and beauty salon.

"Um, no," she said over her shoulder. "Hey, is this a Latina Barbie?"

"That's Barbie's friend, Theresa," the clerk explained. "And she is a Latina. Such a shame, isn't it, that these dolls are so popular when there's workmanship like this one from Palm Valley?"

Bo grabbed the dark-haired Theresa doll and quickly picked out horseback riding and nurse costumes from a selection including, she noted with distaste, cheerleader and exotic dancer outfits as well. A little girl whose neighbors shot holes in her life was going to get a new doll.

"I'll take these," she told the clerk. "Gift-wrapped, please."

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," the clerk said confidentially as she ran Bo's credit card without incident, "but Johanna may become very valuable if the dollmaker retires this year. He's quite elderly now, and this is his signature doll. This one may be the last."

Bo couldn't tell if the trembling in her shoulders was the result of relief at safely exceeding her credit limit or a foreboding that seemed to resonate from the clerk's words. A sense of old and terrible drama racing toward her like a train in a subterranean tunnel. The clerk was taking forever to wrap Bo's purchases in peppermint-striped paper.

"He still lives here, you know," the woman went on. "He has a studio in his home and designs the prototype there, although the dolls are made at the factory in Palm Valley. They buy the design from him."

The porcelain doll watched Bo from its basket on the counter, its legs bent at the knee in perfect imitation of a very young baby. Its upper lip, even though smiling, projected over the lower one, and its brows and lashes were painted with a feathery realism that made Bo's heart pound.

"Those initials, J.M.?" the clerk concluded as if she were party to an insider stock trade, "that's Jasper Malcolm, one of the last master dollmakers in this country. Not very many people know he's right here in San Diego."

Malcolm. Bo stared as a breeze from the opening door ruffled the doll's hair, creating the illusion of movement. It almost seemed as if the d
oll had nodded, and then abruptl
y returned
to its inanimate state. Abruptly beca
me nothing more than a
doll in a crowded and too brightl
y lit shop. The lights were giving Bo a headache.

It was always just a doll, Bradley. You're tired
.
Go home, take your meds, call your shrink. Don't think about the name Malcolm. Don't think about Janny's doll.
Just take your Barbie and run.

Safely inside her car, Bo turned the radio to a Country and Western station and sang "Desperado" at the top of her lungs
until she reached the littl
e duplex where there was now a hole in the living room wall.

"
Feliz Navidad
," she said to the grandmother, extending the brightly wrapped package and then leaving quickly.

There was nothing more she could do for that child, nothing more she could do for any of them. Like every child abuse worker, she knew better than to try. But Janny Malcolm's case was different. Janny Malcolm's case was unlike anything she'd seen before.

Heading west into the sun toward home, Bo decided to call Eva and then spend the rest of the afternoon making her own Christmas cards as an economy measure. It would be fun, she thought. If only she could get the image of an empty, waiting subway station out of her mind.

Chapter
6

At
home Bo gathered Molly from her caretaker and took
the littl
e dog for a walk along the beach. Then she curled comfortably around Molly atop her rumpled bed and drifted near sleep. The sound of canine teeth gnawing on a rawhide pret
zel was comforting
. The soft crunching provided a barrier against eerie dreams.

Two hours later she awoke refreshed and took stock of her life. It appeared to be working. As long as she could have stretches of time like this, time absolutely alone, her life would work. As long as she could take naps or stay up until three
a.m
. painting, as long as people weren't standing around expecting her to be polite or even to talk, as long as she didn't have to conform to any reality but her own, she could make it through anything. On the beige Formica kitchen counter her answering machine flashed the usual threat to her composure. Its tiny red light was blinking furiously, a record of the calls Bo hadn't heard because she'd turned the ringer and voice monitor off. Caref
ully folding a terrycloth dish-
towel into a thick square, she placed it over the blinking light
.
Then she took a carrot from the refrigerator and rummaged through her utility closet for art sup
plies. The card stock was a littl
e bent, but it would do. And
the carrot's shape was perfect.