Goodbye Dolly - By Deb Baker Page 0,3

down now."

Gretchen dug in her purse for a pen and paper and copied the name and address.

"Shame about Brett. I can't hardly believe it," the woman said, tears in her eyes. "He was a good man."

Gretchen nodded, close to crying herself. Other people's sorrows always set her off. If she caved in now, she'd be a basket case for the rest of the day. "Thanks for the information," she said, in a hurry to get away. Most of the cars in front of Chiggy's house had cleared out. Gretchen didn't see the Ford Explorer or the woman who had hit Brett. That poor driver. How awful. She stowed the box of Kewpie dolls in the trunk of her car and eased away.

Though she'd only met him once before, Brett had been kind. He had smiled and given her a thumbs-up. She fought back tears and considered the accident. Apparently no one had seen him step in front of the car. Amazing, considering the number of people mobbing the trailer, but of course, everyone's attention had been riveted on Howie and the auction. The driver of the SUV had insisted that Brett literally flew into the street. Why had he been in such a hurry?

Shouldn't he have been working beside the auctioneer?

Brett had probably been the one who mixed up the boxes. Gretchen sighed heavily. At the moment, the last thing she cared about was the doll mix-up. But three hundred dollars was a lot of money. She had to correct the mistake.

As she drove along Lincoln Drive, Gretchen glanced up at Camelback Mountain, Phoenix's monolithic landmark. The mountain dominated Sun Valley, and Gretchen felt comfort in its solid presence.

The boulevards exploded with colorful plantings, and red bougainvillea covered privacy walls, but Gretchen hardly noticed as she made her way toward what she hoped was Forty-third Street. Two months in Phoenix, and she still couldn't find her way around.

After asking for directions twice, she turned onto the street and searched the buildings for the number she had written down. She drove around the block and tried again. No number matched the one she'd been given.

Gretchen frowned in annoyance.

Had she written it down wrong? Not an improbability after the tragic accident. But no. She remembered doublechecking the numbers with the teary blonde. She pulled to the curb in front of the only apartment complex within several blocks. This had to be where the man lived. She pulled open the first set of doors, entered, and tried the second set. Locked.

She scanned the names on the mail slots. No Duanne Wilson.

She waited, hoping someone would come along and open the door. Maybe a manager's office inside would give her the correct apartment number.

No one came.

Standing on the sidewalk, she looked up and down the street. What now? She had three hundred dollars invested in those dolls.

Then she noticed a sign announcing a vacancy in the building. Gretchen dug her cell phone from her purse and dialed the number.

After a few holds and redirections, she had her answer, and she didn't like it.

No such person. No such place.

Duanne Wilson had vanished along with her Ginny dolls.

* 3 *

"Brett came sprinting past like he was training for one of those triathlons," she says, looking up from her seat behind the registration table, studying the man and wishing she'd brushed her hair and powdered her nose. Some women can cry their hearts out and still look good.

Not her.

She runs fingers from both sweaty hands under her blonde curls, hoping to give them more bounce. She must look a fright, all puffy and red-eyed. Everybody had gone home after the accident except her, or so she thought. Just a few more things to pack up if she can find the energy.

She still sat in the same position at the registration table, numb all over except for the tears running down her face. But then this man appeared out of nowhere, and she tried to straighten herself up.

"I was working the registration desk. Howie was off in the corner of the truck working his usual magic on the crowd. Right over there."

She points and imagines going back in time to that precise moment when Brett ran past her. If she had it to do over, she'd stop him somehow and change his future. Maybe give him one of those long, passionate kisses she remembers so well.

Her lower lip quivers.

"Don't forget to write that all down now," she says.

"Anyway, he tripped over his own feet he was in such