Page 52 of The Dollmaker

Her face paled. “I never met her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But you have an idea who might have done the work?”

“No. I really don’t. But I can ask around. This guy has an obsession with dolls?”

“I believe so.” He handed her a business card. “Please call me if you hear of any helpful information.”

“Sure.” She studied the card a beat. “How does the work done on her face relate to her death?”

He had already tossed her a couple of morsels of information, but no more. “Can’t say. Keep in touch. Thanks.”

Sharp and Vargas arrived at Diane Richardson’s Monument Avenue house just after two. The historic redbrick town house had been built circa 1912 and had floor-to-ceiling front windows as well as a wide front porch stretching the length of the house. A large planter on the porch was filled with dried and withered marigolds.

Vargas touched a brittle blossom. “My plants look like this, though I’ll bet she didn’t forget to water hers.”

“How long does it take for a plant like this to die?” Sharp asked.

“Under a covered porch like this in mild weather? A couple of weeks.”

Sharp nodded. “Did you speak to Diane Richardson’s parents?”

“I did as soon as the doctor identified her. They’re shattered. They couldn’t talk and asked that I come back. They’re expecting me this afternoon.”

“I’ll come with you,” Sharp said.

“Sure.”

Sharp studied the building’s brick exterior and looked inside the brass mail slot centered in the front door. “There are no signs of forced entry on the lock. A month’s worth of mail is scattered on the floor inside. No newspapers.”

“Not too many people get the newspaper delivered anymore.”

Sharp checked his watch. “When is the leasing agent going to be here?”

“Any second.”

The sound of high heels clicking on the sidewalk had them both turning to find a neatly dressed woman in a dark A-line skirt, white blouse, and red heels. Her blond hair was twisted into a knot, and gold hoop earrings dangled. Keys jangled in her hand as she hurried up the brick front steps.

“You must be with the police,” she said. Expensive perfume wafted as she brushed bangs from her eyes.

“I’m Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police, and this is Agent Vargas. We’re here to see Diane Richardson’s place.”

“I’m Gina Heath, the property manager.” She thumbed through a ring of keys. “I understand you have a search warrant.”

Sharp reached in his notebook and pulled it out. “Would you like to read it?”

“Yes. I need to justify your entry just in case I have an issue with Ms.Richardson or her family.”

“Ms.Richardson is dead,” Vargas said.

Frowning, the woman scanned the paper. “My maintenance man said her mother called him a couple of hours ago and wanted to get into the apartment. He said she sounded upset.”

Ms.Heath found the right key and handed the search warrant back to Sharp. “What happened?”

“Can’t say right now,” Sharp said.

Her gaze held his for a beat, and then she shoved the key in the lock. It didn’t work. After a couple more tries, she discovered the right key and the dead bolt clicked open. “Sorry, I haven’t been on this property in the three years since Ms.Richardson rented it. She is—was—a model tenant.”

Ms.Heath pushed open the door and knelt to carefully collect the mail, piling the envelopes into a neat stack and setting them on a small entryway table. She clicked on the light.

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