"I heard something coming from the other side of the door," her mother said, staring at the closed door. "It woke me."

"Is it Flora?" Gretchen whispered. "Or someone else?"

"Let's find out."

They leapt to their feet, palming the only protection they had: pepper spray. Gretchen tiptoed over, opened the door without making a sound, peeked out of the bedroom, and heard the tinkling of chimes again, the same sound that had calmed her earlier.

Her mother stayed beside her. They approached the staircase, moving silently on bare feet. The sound had started inside the room then moved into the hall. What was it?

Gretchen heard a creak below. In the dim light from the moon, she could make out the shape of someone climbing the stairs. The chimes had stopped. No one else was in the hallway with them. They waited for the person coming up the steps.

Whoever was on the stairs paused as though listening. Gretchen held her breath, taking a second to glance behind her at Caroline. The quiet, stealthy sound coming from the steps was different from the one that had alerted her mother.

Below them, the person continued up.

Gretchen had more immediate concerns than tinkling bells. Clouds pa.s.sed in the sky, obscuring the moonlight and making the intruder on the steps invisible. She got ready to strike, torn with indecision.

What if the person was a friend?

But why would a friend sneak up on them?

You snuck up, she thought to herself.

Her mother touched her with a light hand. They stared at each other. Gretchen was sure they were having the same thoughts, both hesitating to harm the wrong person.

"Who's there?" Caroline said softly. "Identify yourself."

Nothing. The clouds shifted and Gretchen could see movement, still coming up at them, faster now that they'd announced their presence. A friend would have spoken up, rea.s.sured them.

They were facing an enemy.

The women nodded at each other. They released their sprays at the same time, blasting two thin directional streams. Gretchen heard a male voice, a groan. He fell to his knees three steps from the top of the landing.

Gretchen took two steps down and crouched briefly by the man, spray at the ready.

"It's Jerome," she yelled, sliding past him, almost losing her footing in her haste to get away.

"Who's Jerome?" Caroline said as they banged down the steps and ran out the door.

"The play's new light technician. He's been working with us." They stopped outside, breathing heavily. "We have to go back in."

"You're crazy," Caroline said.

"Otherwise he'll get away. We don't want that."

Caroline didn't look so sure.

Gretchen tugged on her arm. "Come on. We'll tie him up and then call the cops."

"I hate it when you're right."

"Me, too. But we don't have a choice. He'll recover and get away if we give him a chance. He has to be stopped."

"I agree. But what was that sound we heard? We didn't meet anyone when we went down the hall. What if there are two of them inside?"

"He's alone," Gretchen said. "The ghost must have alerted us."

Now she was sounding like Nina, who would have said that was the only explanation.

Caroline stared at her for a second.

"I'll deny ever saying that," Gretchen said.

"Let's get this over with," her mother said.

Jerome sat on the same step, cupping his hands over his eyes. Gretchen gave him another blast for good measure while Caroline ran to get the toolbox filled with doll repair supplies from behind the counter.

"He has a knife," Gretchen said, spotting the weapon. It was open, and close enough for him to reach it if he could see. She pushed it away with her foot, careful to avoid the blade. "A switchblade."

He moaned before reaching out to grab her ankle. She backed up. "Stay still, unless you want more of the same."

"You're making a big mistake," he said, beginning to cough.

"You aren't in any position to make threats."

Caroline came back with strips of leather, remnants left over from repairing a doll's kid-leather body. "I hate to waste it on him," she said ruefully.

Jerome tried to protest, but his eyes were clamped shut and he was overcome with uncontrollable coughing.

"I think I saw this man at the accident scene," Caroline said. "I remember the gray overalls. He was talking to a group of homeless people."

"More evidence against him."

"At least I think it's the same man." Caroline handed a piece of leather to Gretchen.

Within minutes they had Jerome trussed up like a turkey ready for the oven.

"Catching bad guys," Gretchen said, standing back and admiring their work, "is kind of fun."

40.

Gretchen stood next to the World of Dolls Museum sign. She glanced curiously at the old house's windows while her mother called to report the captured stalker.

Was he a murderer? Had he killed Allison Thomasia?

Gretchen shuddered at the thought. He had inserted himself into their group. He could have struck at any moment. Any of them might have been his next victim.

Jerome, if that was even his real name, wasn't going anyplace at the moment other than jail. Houdini wouldn't be able to get out of the knots they'd tied. Their repair expertise was paying off in more ways than one.

She wondered how long the effects of the pepper spray would last. Thirty minutes to an hour at least. Gretchen was amazed at how well it had worked, dropping him almost instantly.

Early Sunday morning and they had vindicated Allison's husband, Andy. He could come out of hiding. Gretchen was sure he'd be thrilled about that. Living with the homeless for a few days must have been quite the experience, and not one he'd be likely to want to repeat.

The early morning traffic was light since most of the downtown establishments wouldn't open until later. Gretchen glanced at her watch. Five a.m. She wished she could greet the dawn properly. If she was at the top of Camelback Mountain, she would be able to see the reddish orange glow of the sun rising from the east. In front of the museum, surrounded by buildings, the earth remained dark, except for the artificial illumination of the city's streetlights.

"The police are on their way," Caroline said, slipping her phone in a pocket, where it promptly rang again. "I shouldn't answer it," she said, digging it out and reading the information on the screen. "It's low on power."

"Who's calling?" Gretchen asked.

"I don't recognize the number."

"Better answer it."

Caroline looked tired as she clicked the Talk b.u.t.ton. "It's Julie," she said to Gretchen after listening for a moment. "She's been doing research of her own and says that she has important information."

After another few minutes, Caroline said, "Can't you tell me on the phone?" Gretchen could hear the frustration in her voice. "We're at the museum and a little busy at the moment. We caught someone breaking in . . . We have the kill . . . All right, yes, fine."

Caroline disconnected. "Julie sounds excited and wants to meet right now. I tried to explain that we have the man who killed Allison, but she cut me off."

"She wants to meet at five in the morning? She must have worked all night. She won't come here?"

"No. She refuses to come to the Swilling house, especially with police on the way. I don't blame her."

"I'd like to run away myself," Gretchen said. "This isn't going to be pleasant."

"She says she thinks she knows who killed Allison Thomasia. She found concrete evidence against someone and wants to compare it to what we've learned. If we decide that it's important and if we agree with her, then she will come forward." Caroline looked both ways down the street. "The police should arrive momentarily. We have to stay until our statements have been recorded. She wants to meet at the banquet hall. She's on her way there and says she'll wait as long as it takes."

Gretchen heard sirens in the distance. She wasn't ready to face Matt. "I'll meet Julie. You take care of Jerome or Richard or whatever his name is, and I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You're just ducking out so you don't have to explain to your boyfriend why you tied up another man in the middle of the night." Even exhausted, her mother had enough energy to lighten the situation.

"He'd understand." Sure, yeah, right. Sure, yeah, right.

"I'm sure he would."

"Sarcasm will get you nowhere. Besides, with any luck, Matt's off duty tonight."

"You're overly optimistic. Want to bet that he shows up?"

"No bet."

"Call me when you find out what's going on with Julie."

"I don't have a phone. You made me leave it in the car."

"Take mine. I don't need it. And be careful."

"There isn't anything to be afraid of anymore," Gretchen said. "We have the killer. Hopefully Julie will have more evidence to use against him. It's over."

"Be careful anyway."

Gretchen took the cell phone and hurried down the street.

41.

Terry lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. It's his day off. He should sleep the morning away and spend the rest of the afternoon reading the Sunday paper and watching old movies, but he does his best problem solving through the night. This one has been no exception. He's wide awake when his cell phone rings.

"We have a break in the case," Matt Albright says from the other end. "Evidence recovered by the ME, found at the trauma site around Allison Thomasia's head wound. Minute traces of anthropomorphized rock." His friend is speaking in choppy sentences. He's excited.

"What's that?" Terry asks. Matt is relaying the medical examiner's fancy words. She'll never learn to bring her information down to human level.

"It's residue from a rock indigenous to Israel. Now I have a pretty good idea what killed Allison Thomasia. It was the same weapon that probably killed Flora Berringer, too. A geologist's hammer."

A geologist's hammer. Or a rock pick, to be exact. When Terry was a kid, he had a brief fascination with rocks. He knows about this particular tool. The square hitting end is used to break open rock samples, to look for fossils inside. The other end of the tool, used on hard rock, is shaped like a pick for maximum striking pressure.

Matt keeps talking. "A heavy hammer like that could crush a skull without much force behind it. In the case of our killer? Lots of force was exerted, much more than required."

"Signifying uncontrolled rage," Terry says.

"Who knows what goes on inside the mind of a killer?"

Matt is like an efficient machine, narrowing down the playing field. They are eliminating suspects as quickly as possible, moving others to the top of the list.

"It should be easy from here on in," Terry says, knowing it won't be.

"Right. All we have to do is find a geologist with a motive, the rock pick that was used to kill two women, and a few missing men."

"Easy," Terry says.

"Right," Matt agrees.

42.