Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)
Gerry Schmitt
1
MARJORIE Sorenson turned hard, flat, snake eyes on the young woman in the fox fur parka who strolled toward her in the Skylark Shopping Mall. And instantly pegged her: rich bitch.
This blond woman who walked so casually, who cast her eyes about the doll show booths with a certain air of entitlement, had long, flaxen hair like you saw in TV ads; a fancy purse with a bunch of initials littered across the fabric; and ripe, round hips that swayed enticingly.
Marjorie, on the other hand, had stringy, dishwater hair; coarse, pockmarked skin; and a stomach that hung down in a limp, bloated pouch. Once, when she was listening to an early morning radio show, she’d heard the DJs howling and making jokes about women who had gunts. Tuba sound effects had accompanied their hoots and nasty comments. Marjorie had stabbed murderously at the radio dial with the paring knife she held in her soapy hand and made it a point never to listen to that station again.
A delighted smile had spread across the blond woman’s face now, as Marjorie continued to track her. The woman had just passed an enormous pink-and-white candy-striped banner that proclaimed DOLL SHOW TODAY, and found herself wandering through a maze of tables and booths that displayed the most intriguing array of dolls. Ballerinas, fairy dolls, Cabbage Patch, Barbies, Strawberry Shortcake, small porcelain collectibles in diminutive costumes, even antique dolls.
And one perfect little doll in Marjorie’s booth that literally took the woman’s breath away.
Life-size, with fine blond hair, plump cheeks, and cupid-shaped lips, it had the perfect look, coloring, and complexion of a newborn. And just like a newborn, this doll was nestled in a white wicker basket with a pink floral blanket tucked around her.
Marjorie watched the woman as she continued to gaze at the baby doll with complete and utter fascination. Then she slipped her glasses on and stood up, a genial, practiced smile suddenly softening her coarse features.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Marjorie cooed, her voice struggling to convey a breathy excitement.
“She looks so real, it’s positively eerie,” the blond woman marveled. “As if she could wake up at any moment and start cooing.”
Marjorie broadened her smile, revealing crooked teeth and pale pink gums. “Her name is Tiffany Lynn and she’s a reborn.”
“So precious,” the woman murmured as Marjorie edged closer. “And you called her . . . what was that?”
“A reborn,” Marjorie said. She reached down and snugged the blanket closer to the doll’s tiny round chin.
The blond woman giggled nervously. “That’s what I thought you said.”
Marjorie smiled kindly, as though she’d already explained the reborn concept several times today. “I’m Molly Miller,” she said, extending a hand.
“Susan Darden,” the woman said, shaking hands with her. “Nice to meet you.”
Gathering up the doll with all the care you’d accord a real live baby, Marjorie gently passed it to Susan.
“Reborns are a customized form of doll making,” Marjorie said. “Reborn artists start with a commercial doll, often from Berenguer Babies or Secrist Dolls, and then do a complete transformation. For example, this doll was stripped of all factory paint, as well as hair and eyes. Then she was repainted with ten coats of paint, human hair was micro-inserted, and a tiny electronic device was implanted in her chest to mimic a heartbeat.”
Susan’s eyes widened. “She really has been remade.”
“Reborn,” Marjorie said. “Airbrushed both inside and out to capture the subtle coloring of a newborn.” Her index finger indicated the doll’s closed eyes. “This little sweetheart’s eyelashes are genuine fox hair that was dyed and hand-inserted.”
“I take it you’re the artist?” Susan asked.
Marjorie nodded, allowing herself a modest smile.
Susan gazed tenderly at the little doll that lay in her arms and her heart lurched. The doll, Tiffany Lynn the woman had called her, had been weighted in such a way that it possessed the heft and feel of a real baby. Her eyes were closed and her tiny lashes brushed delicately against chubby cheeks. Susan could see that the baby’s skin color had been fastidiously done, replicating the slight bluish-pink tint of a newborn.
“A reborn,” Susan said, obviously in awe of the painstaking skill that had gone into creating this doll. “This is amazing craftsmanship. She really does look like she’s only two or three days old.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie said. She gestured at the yellow-striped shopping bag from Ciao Baby that dangled from Susan’s arm. “I’m guessing you might have a new baby yourself?” She’d noted the woman’s slightly swollen breasts and still-rounded tummy, which peeked out from between her coat’s lapels. Pegged her instantly as a new mommy.
Susan nodded as one hand moved absently down to touch her stomach. “I have a baby girl. She’ll be three months old tomorrow.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” Marjorie asked. She knew that almost all new mothers carried pictures of their offspring. On their cell phones or in a brag book. Babies always took center stage in a new mother’s life, so this photo log was probably the only bright spot once they became lost in a fog of 3:00 A.M. feedings and a swirl of postpartum emotions.