The Dollmaker. Amanda Stevens

      Her hand flew to her chest. “What do you mean?”

      “The doll was recently stolen from my private collection.”

      Mignon’s heart sank. She’d known something was fishy about the doll when the other man couldn’t produce the certificate of authenticity. She should have listened to her gut, because her greed and carelessness had brought this strange man to her shop. And now Mignon’s instincts were warning her again. But she wouldn’t let him see her fear. She somehow knew that would be a mistake.

      Her voice sharpened. “You can prove ownership? You have the certificate of authenticity or a receipt of some kind?”

      “I have something better than that.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a photograph of a child who bore a striking resemblance to the doll.

      Mignon’s eyes fastened on the picture. For a moment she couldn’t tear her gaze away, and her uneasiness faded. “What a beautiful child. Your daughter?”

      “A childhood friend.” His lips curled grotesquely, in a smile that made Mignon’s skin crawl. And his eyes…they were so…empty. They didn’t even look real.

      “I’m sorry,” she said, and was annoyed when she heard her voice tremble. “If the doll really does belong to you, then perhaps this is a matter for the police….”

      She trailed off when he whirled and headed for the door. He’d forgotten his picture, but Mignon didn’t call him back. She slipped the photograph into her pocket and kept silent, glad to be rid of him.

      But instead of leaving, he locked the door, drew the shade over the window and slowly turned back to face her.

      He was still smiling.

      Mignon backed away from him, but when she saw what he held in his hand, she spun and tried to run. He was so much younger and so much quicker, however. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to him. She started to whimper.

      “Stop it! Stop that racket this instant, do you hear me?”

      Mignon nodded and swallowed a sob. “Don’t hurt me. Take the doll and whatever else you want, but please don’t hurt me.”

      “Hush, now,” he crooned as one hand feathered over her hair. “It’s okay.”

      His voice turned so soothing and liquid that for a moment Mignon wondered if he would let her go. Maybe he wouldn’t hurt her, after all. Maybe she would still be able to give little Piper her gifts.

      The needle sank into her neck, and almost immediately, her knees buckled.

      Slipping from his arms, she fell to the floor.

      She didn’t make a sound because she couldn’t. She lay with her eyes open, watching him move about the shop.

      He found packing materials and a box in the storeroom, and when he came back, he was surprised to see that she’d managed to crawl over to the counter. She had a strong constitution for someone her age. She’d even pulled off the telephone, but she hadn’t mustered enough muscle coordination to punch in a number. He could hear the drone of the dial tone as he peered down at her.

      Kicking away the phone, he squatted beside her. Spittle ran out the side of her mouth as her eyes pleaded for mercy. He smiled and patted her head, then got back up to finish his tasks.

      Lifting the doll from the window, he wrapped her in several layers of plastic, placed her carefully in the box and sealed the flaps with packing tape. And all the while, he sang softly as he worked. “‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….’”

      Once he had the doll protected, he came back over and stood looking down at the old woman. Ignoring the terror that gleamed in her pale eyes, he grabbed her ankles and dragged her to the back of the shop.

      Five

      From the window in her hospital room, Claire watched the flashes of lightning as the storm rolled in from the Gulf. Her door had been left ajar and hospital noises drifted in, but she tuned out the sounds. If she closed her eyes and concentrated hard enough she could hear the rain.

      She imagined the patter of it through the palm fronds and banana trees in the courtyard behind her house. She could smell the musty scent of wet dirt and ancient brick, and she pictured herself standing beneath the eave of the house, her palms turned up to the sky.

      When she was a child she used to catch rainwater in a fruit jar. Her mother could never understand her fascination, but to Claire there had always been something soothing about the rain that fell in New Orleans. Something spiritual about the way the trees would begin to whisper in the sweltering heat and the sky would darken suddenly, as if a curtain had dropped over the landscape. And then the rain would come.

      “You’re gonna get wet, Mama,” Ruby would later tell her.

      “I don’t mind. Come out here with me. Take my hand, that’s a girl. Now hold your face up like this and close your eyes. What do you feel?”

      “It tickles.”

      “Feels good, too, though, doesn’t it?”

      “I like the rain, Mama.”

      “I like it, too, baby.”

      Claire turned from the window, letting the memory of her daughter drift away as she stared up at the ceiling. Ruby had vanished seven years ago without a trace. And now a doll that looked exactly liked her had turned up in a shop window in the French Quarter. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The resemblance was too striking. Someone who knew Ruby, or at least had seen her, had sculpted that doll. There was no other possible explanation for such an uncanny likeness. The artist had captured perfectly the shape of Ruby’s face, her expression, even the precocious half smile that had been the child’s very essence.

      Claire’s eyes filled with tears as she thought about the implication of the doll’s existence. After all this time, was it possible that she might find out what had happened to her daughter?

      She was afraid to let even a tiny glimmer of hope back into her heart. She’d been disappointed so many times in the past. What if it was just a coincidence? If she’d learned anything in the last seven years, it was to take things one step at a time. The first thing she had to do was get out of the hospital.

      Feeling helpless and trapped by her injuries, she brushed away frustrated tears. She had a concussion and a gash on her left hand that had required twelve stitches. After the doctor patched her up in the emergency room, he’d used tweezers to pick out the bits of glass and gravel that were embedded in her palms and the backs of her arms. Then he’d sent her to X-ray, and afterward she’d been transferred to a room on the second floor, where she was supposed to spend a quiet night.

      But people had been drifting in and out of her room all evening. Doctors, nurses, her family. She found it impossible to rest, especially once the painkiller started to wear off. Every bone in her body ached, and she knew the cut on her hand was going to give her problems in the studio. She wouldn’t be able to work the glass properly, which meant that until she healed, she would have fewer pieces on display in the gallery. The loss of income would be a blow to her already dwindling bank account, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Her immediate concern had little to do with her physical discomfort or her financial problems.

      She didn’t want to stay in the hospital until morning. She wanted to go back to the Quarter, back to that shop. But every time she tried to leave, she’d been discouraged by one of the nurses who came in periodically to check on her, or by Charlotte, who’d barely left her side since the accident happened. The extent of her injuries couldn’t be determined until all her test results came back, they insisted.

      And then her mother had burst into the room, and Claire’s remaining energy had been expended trying to calm her down. Lucille meant well, but she could be both physically and emotionally exhausting under the best of circumstances. Claire had been relieved when Charlotte finally dragged her off for