“Easy,” said Hardwick. “Leave the car here, walk to your meeting. No problem.”
“No problem—unless we’re being photographed from one of those programmed drones you just mentioned. You know how many thousands of those things are in operation these days?”
“Jeez!” said Madeleine. “Are you saying something up there in the sky is watching us?”
“I’m saying we should act as though it might be.”
Hardwick’s acid-reflux expression returned. “Meaning what?”
“Nothing complicated. We just need to keep our actions as far out of sight as possible.”
After a pensive silence Madeleine spoke up. “Didn’t the hotel we passed have one of those big overhang things out in front, like the lodge? I’m pretty sure I saw one.”
Gurney nodded slowly. “I think you’re right. And it might solve our problem.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, FOLLOWING A HASTILY DEVISED PLAN, THE GTO was parked in the guest lot next to the hotel, and the Outback was parked in a sheltered spot under the front portico. The Outback’s position there had been secured, and the valet parking attendant warded off, with a display of Hardwick’s PI credentials, a serious-sounding explanation of the need to conduct an emergency vehicle inspection, and an assurance that it would take hardly any time at all.
The plan, such as it was, was that Hardwick would jack up the Outback and undertake an assessment of the planted devices, out of sight of any aerial surveillance, while Gurney would proceed on foot, through the hotel and out a rear entrance, to Tabitha’s Dollhouse.
Madeleine entered the lobby with Gurney. They located the hotel gift shop, where he bought an overpriced souvenir sweatshirt and baseball hat. Back in the sitting area of the lobby, he put on the sweatshirt and hat and left his own jacket with Madeleine.
“I should be back within the hour. Stay within sight of the front door in case Jack needs you.”
She responded with a tense nod, holding his jacket against her body.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, a bit too heartily. “I think this Angela Castro meeting will finally get us on the right track.” He hugged her, then headed across the lobby into a corridor marked with a red “Exit” sign.
The corridor led to a glass door. He passed through it and emerged onto a paving-stone path that curved around a bed of ornamental grasses, drooping and drained of color. The path led to a wider one along the shore of the lake, which he discovered roughly paralleled Woodpecker Road and provided an intermittent view of its shops and restaurants.
Maintaining a steady jog, he passed a few isolated dog walkers bundled up against the raw gusts coming off the lake. Within a few minutes he caught sight of a building he recognized from its photo on the Internet. Tabitha’s Dollhouse looked even stranger now in its mundane surroundings than it had in the soft-focus fantasy of its website.
He walked across a park-like space adjoining the path, and on across Woodpecker Road. He took out his phone, activated the “Record Audio” function, and slipped the phone into the pocket of his sweatshirt. The entrance to the Dollhouse parking lot was through an ornamented archway that bore the legend he recalled from the website: “Home of Fabulous, Lovable, Collectible Dolls.” There were four cars in the parking lot. One, Gurney noted, had dealer plates with a New York City prefix. The door to the Dollhouse itself was bracketed by two waist-high garden gnomes.
When he opened the door he was greeted by a sweet aroma that reminded him of the rectangles of bubblegum he hadn’t seen or smelled since grammar school. Scores of little doll faces stared at him from a pastel nursery world of soft pinks, blues, and yellows.
A young woman standing behind a central display case was smiling at him with a glazed cordiality. “Welcome to Tabitha’s. How can I help you?”
Gurney glanced around at the profusion of dolls on counters, on shelves, in glass cases—all shapes and sizes and styles of dolls, from cherubic infants to weird creatures that might inhabit fairy tales. Or nightmares.
“The stairs to the second floor?” he asked.
She regarded him with increased interest. “Are you here to see Ms. Castro?”
Having a secretive mindset about the meeting, he was surprised to hear her name.
“Yes, I am.”
“She’s with Tabitha.” Her lowered voice suggested that this was in some way special. “I’ll show you the way.” She led Gurney through a maze of doll displays to a staircase with a pink banister. “You can go right up, sir.”
The second floor was much like the first—except that the dolls here were more uniform in appearance, and many were arranged together in social tableaus. Not far from the top of the stairs there was a small sitting area with a bright yellow table and two glossy white chairs. One chair was occupied by a pale, waif-like young woman with a large, overly perfect, blond hairdo. Gurney was struck by its incompatibility with the shy, narrow face it framed—as well as its remarkable similarity to the blond hairdo of a doll in a locked glass cabinet in the corner.
Standing on the other side of the table was a woman different in almost every way from the seated waif. Her large body was draped in a generously pleated maroon maxi dress, embroidered at the neck. Her fingers were covered with shiny rings. Her face was brightly, almost theatrically, made up. And all of this was topped, literally and figuratively, by her hairdo. The seated waif’s was eye-catching, but hers was jaw-dropping. An upswept surge of black and silver-streaked waves collided at dramatic angles, bringing to mind a turbulent Turner seascape. This was a woman, thought Gurney, who was fond of making entrances.
She turned toward him with a sweeping gesture of her heavily ringed hand.
“Mr. Gurney, I presume?”
“Yes. And you are . . .?”
“Tabitha.” She made it sound like an incantation. “I was just about to bring Ms. Castro a nice glass of springwater. May I get you something as well? Herbal tea, perhaps?”
“Nothing. Thank you.”
“If you change your mind, if you need anything at all, if you have any questions, just tap on the bell.” She pointed at a little dome-shaped device in the middle of the table. “It’s pure silver. It makes the purest ding you ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
With a swirl of silky fabric and a waft of flowery perfume, she swept past him down the pink-banistered stairs.
Gurney turned his attention to the young woman at the table.
“Angela?”
She responded with a tiny nod.
“May I sit down?”
“Sure.”
“First of all, I want to thank you for allowing me to talk to you.”
She responded with a wide-eyed stare. “I didn’t know what else to do. The letter the other detective left at my brother’s house was really scary. What you said on the phone was scary.”
“We’re just trying to be honest about a situation we need to find out more about.”
“Okay.”
He looked around at the doll displays. “This is an unusual place you picked for us to get together.”
Her mouth opened in alarm. “I thought you said on the phone that a store would be a good idea.”
“It is a good idea.” He smiled and tried to sound reassuring. “I just meant that I’ve never been in a store like this before.”
“Oh, no. Of course not. It’s totally unique.”
“Tabitha seems very . . . accommodating.”
Angela nodded—at first enthusiastically, then with something that looked like embarrassment. She leaned toward Gurney and spoke in an anxious whisper. “She thinks we’re going to buy another Barbie.”
“Another Barbie?”
“When Stevie and I stayed here, he bought me a Barbie.” She smiled with a childish sweetness. “The special one I always wanted.”