Little Girl Gone (An Afton Tangler Thriller #1)(2)

Susan handed the doll back to Marjorie and pulled an iPhone from her handbag. She thumbed to her favorite picture. “Here she is. Elizabeth Ann.”

“Ahh . . . precious,” Marjorie said. She gazed at the snapshot, her mind clicking into overdrive. “But clearly not a newborn anymore. She’s probably already growing and changing and wriggling with independence.”

A shadow flicked across Susan’s face. An emotion that Marjorie instantly picked up on. It said: But what if I could recapture that special moment? What if I could have a doll that always looked as precious and wonderful as my own daughter did when she was just a day or two old? What if I could preserve forever that incredible moment in time?

“Molly,” Susan said, “do you ever do special orders?”

“Oh, sure,” Marjorie replied, working to maintain a casual tone. “Lots of times I do that.”

Susan flipped to another photo of Elizabeth Ann, one where she couldn’t have been more than two days old. “Can you work from a photo?”

Marjorie peered at the screen and nodded. “Such a little angel. She’s your first?”

Susan nodded.

“You and your husband must be filled with joy.”

“We are,” Susan said, obviously more than a little intrigued by Marjorie’s hand-wrought reborns. “Are these babies . . . your reborns as you call them . . . are they expensive?”

“Depends on how lifelike you want to get,” Marjorie said. “With Tiffany Lynn, I used wefts of unprocessed European hair and inserted magnets inside her mouth so she could simulate using a pacifier.”

Susan gazed at the reborn, her face telegraphing the fact that she’d already made up her mind. “I’d love to have one. Of course, I’d have to talk it over with my husband first.”

Marjorie smiled knowingly. Caught up in the flush of new baby excitement, the average husband could be talked into just about any kind of push present. “You think your husband would approve?” she asked.

“Oh, absolutely,” Susan said. “Besides . . .” She smiled, almost to herself. “I have ways of convincing him.”

Marjorie nodded. She hadn’t known a man, really known a man, for almost twenty years. Her ex-husband, may his stultifying soul roast on the coal-encrusted back burners of hell, had pretty much soured her on the notion of men. Bill Sorenson, or Billy as the ex had preferred to be called by his friends down at Riney’s Bar, had been the poster child for dumb-ass behavior. Billy had never seen a 7-Eleven he didn’t want to rob, which was probably why Billy had been in and out of jail so often, he’d been on a first-name basis with the booking officers. Probably, they could have just installed a damn revolving door for Billy.

As far as Marjorie was concerned, the only redeeming thing Billy had ever done was pound away at her one besotted night and given her Ronnie. Now, nineteen years later, Ronnie had grown into a fairly decent young man. He kept things ticking around the old farm and, under her watchful supervision, kept his partying to a tolerable level; a few beers at the local strip clubs, maybe a couple of joints on weekends.

And wonder of wonders, the more Ronnie matured, the better looking the kid got. Friendly smile, curly brown hair, good in the height department, and fairly well built. And if a girl didn’t ask too damn many snoopy questions, and failed to notice there wasn’t substantive gray matter behind those distant blue eyes, then Ronnie was in business. They were in business.

Taking great care, Marjorie laid the Tiffany Lynn doll back down in its basket, then reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pad and pencil. “Tell you what,” she said, a thoughtful note creeping into her voice. “Why don’t you jot down your name and phone number? Once I get back home and unpacked from this doll show, I’ll give you a jingle. It doesn’t cost anything for an estimate, right?”

“That would be wonderful,” Susan said as she scribbled out her information. She handed it over to Marjorie, but seemed unwilling to pull her eyes away from Tiffany Lynn.

Marjorie’s crooked grin stretched across her face like a leering jack-o’-lantern. She was already thinking ahead. Had to find Ronnie and get the boy moving. After all, there was work to be done.

A few minutes later, Marjorie found Ronnie lounging at the food court. He was sucking down an Orange Julius and trying to make time with the slutty teenage girl behind the counter. She cast a baleful glance at her son and crooked a finger.

Ronnie saw her watching him, gave a resentful look, and sauntered over. “What?”

Marjorie jerked her chin. “That one. Follow her.” She pointed to the back of Susan’s blond head as she drifted toward the exit. “Find out where she lives, then get your ass back here. I’ll get this shit packed up.”

Ronnie stared at her for a long moment, his faded blue eyes taking on a crazy gleam.

“Will you move it!” Marjorie put some real venom into her voice to finally get Ronnie moving. Then she went back to her doll display and got busy. Wrapping her dolls in tissue paper, she hummed as she worked. She decided that things often had a funny way of working out. She didn’t think it was going to happen today. And then, praise the Lord, Susan Darden had come strolling along like an entitled little princess. Almost like she’d been dropped into her lap by the hand of God. And wasn’t that something?