Bury Me With Barbie Read online

  Lynne spoke up from her corner, distressed that her mother was showing her cousin so much attention.

  “I’ve been busy trying to identify the gene responsible for various neurogenetic disorders like paroxysmal chorea, myokymia, and spastic paraparesis. Our research—”

  Stuart let go of his wife’s hand and faced his daughter squarely. “That’s nice, Lynne, but we haven’t seen your cousins in a few years, and we’re trying to catch up.”

  Darby lit a second cigarette from his first and smiled uncomfortably, touching the top of his head self-consciously and wishing he had his Lakers cap on.

  “You heard from Mom?” he asked.

  Liz smiled at her nephew. “We spoke last week. She was thrilled to hear you were coming to the party.”

  Lynne was ready to share again. “Your mom’s in France,” she said to Darby and P.J. “My mom’s right here.”

  P.J. attempted to sound cheerful. “Yes, and aren’t you lucky? All you have to do is get in the car, and you’re here in less than an hour.”

  P.J. stole a quick glance at Darby. Had something happened to their cousin’s mind? She had to be brilliant to be doing genetic research, but she was so socially awkward, she was an embarrassment.

  Lynne wasn’t finished. “They have different dads,” she told her parents. “Sierra’s dad is Steve and Darby’s dad is Dirk. Aunt Angela is married to Dirk the jerk. No one knows where Steve is, but he’s probably dead. Only don’t call Sierra by her right name. Call her by her wrong name, P.J., because she always used to wear pajamas, even on Saturdays when the sun was shining.”

  No one said a word for one distressing moment. Then Liz bit her lip, got up, and left the room.

  Another beat, and Stuart was up, heading out of the living room after her.

  Darby looked at P.J., who was staring at their cousin. How could she be a research savant, yet be so unaware of what she was doing and saying?

  When he couldn’t catch his half-sister’s eye, Darby looked at Lynne too.

  The room buzzed with absolute silence.

  Lynne had her back to the front picture window, and dust motes floated around her head in the filtered brightness like corpses of fireflies.

  Across the street, a man walked a black Newfoundland and a woman pushed a baby stroller.

  Lynne yanked up the sleeve of her peach eyelet blouse and rubbed the inside of her left arm. A series of small, horizontal, healed cuts started near her wrist and ticked their way up her forearm.

  The man with the Newfoundland disappeared from view and the woman with the stroller began crossing the street.

  Finally, Lynne looked up at her cousins and gave them a ghoulish smile.

  “I didn’t take my meds today.”

  35

  Caresse took her jacket off and smiled at Ann, who was on the phone.

  She stared at her own phone, willing Todd to call her. It was all up to him. She had given him her direct line. Maybe he’d call, maybe he wouldn’t. All she knew was that if she stopped waiting, he would call sooner than he would if he sensed she was pining away.

  After entering a handful of engagements and wedding announcements into the system, Ann was finally off the phone.

  “That was a long call. What’s up?” Caresse asked.

  “Let me ask you something,” she said.

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “If an armed robber entered your home around nine and you had already fallen asleep for the night, and you’re married, right?”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “Your husband sees the guy enter, but he doesn’t wake you up, right? He slips out the back and runs over to the neighbor’s house to call the police. Do you keep sleeping?”

  “The question is, what’s wrong with the husband, not waking his wife up and getting her out of there?”

  “He can’t. The bedroom is upstairs, and he and the robber are both downstairs. The guy thinks he should just get out of there and notify someone. So would you just keep sleeping?”

  “Sure, if the robber was quiet.”

  “Well, the wife wears earplugs when she sleeps, but I’m sorry, I just think I would have known something and woken up.”

  Ann elaborated that a pizzeria in Paso Robles had been robbed and the suspect decided to enter the home to hide from the police, who had been called to the scene.

  “How far from the pizza joint did they live?”

  “About a block. County SWAT and the Paso police showed up and tried to get him to surrender.”

  “Well, I’ll bet she woke up by the time SWAT was on the scene. Did he take the lady hostage?”

  Ann was laughing. “I don’t even think the robber knew she was upstairs!”

  She logged on to her computer and started typing furiously. Now that Ann was in story mode, Caresse knew there would be no breaking through. From out of left field, Todd crept into her mind again. She wanted to ask Ann about him to see if she could find out more. Ann knew Todd and might have a clue what was up, and Caresse was all for filling in the blanks at this point. Sighing, she decided to tackle the pile of community releases stacked in one of her trays. The fliers and notices would be turned into tiny blurbs regarding upcoming events that required no special fanfare. Factual and dry, the notices were easy to write. It took no special effort to cull the “who, what, where, and when” out of them.

  SAN LUIS OBISPO – Two new courses are being offered at Unity Christ Church, the first on the “Metaphysical Interpretation of the Old Testament” and the second on “Earthquakes and Godquakes: Making the Shifts On All Levels.”

  The metaphysical class will be held at the church from 10:30 a.m. to noon and again from 7 to 9 p.m. each Wednesday for six weeks beginning March 5 and ending—

  Caresse caught movement in her peripheral vision, so she stopped typing and looked up. Rhea and Nibbles from Culture, Lifestyles, and Entertainment approached her desk with purpose written on their faces. They had obviously had a before-work fashion conference, because they wore complementary pieces from the same Liz Claiborne mix-and-match coordinate set. Rhea was garbed in a pastel blue and pink plaid jacket with a baby blue dress and Nibbles wore the same plaid in skirt form with a baby blue shell and cardigan.

  “You guys still shopping together?” Caresse wondered.

  “That’s not why we’re here,” Nibbles announced.

  “You’re coming to The Graduate Sunday evening,” Rhea informed her, as though she already knew Caresse was sans plans.

  Caresse glanced over at Ann to see if she was catching all this, but she was locked in a world where only County SWAT could get an alleged robber to surrender.

  “I’m going to The Graduate Sunday evening?” It was always best to repeat what they said so they stayed on-topic.

  “It’s for Jenna’s going away party, and you’re invited,” Nibbles sniffed, as if she would have preferred otherwise. Obviously, something was at play that put Caresse in the game.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, waiting for the other pump to drop.

  “We’ve set you up on one more date for your Personal Ads Valentine’s Edition story,” Rhea said, rolling out the title with emphasis on each word.

  They had to know that if she had a date Sunday, she would have to scramble to turn the story in and have it proofed by Tuesday.

  “You’ve set me up on one more date?”

  Rhea and Nibbles exchanged glances like Caresse was stupid.

  “That’s what Rhea said,” Nibbles affirmed.

  “His name is Nick and he’s a friend of Bree’s,” Rhea said. “He’s a stockbroker. Got wads of cash. You’ll like him.”

  “If he’s so great, why don’t one of you hook up with him?”

  “Oh, we’ve got dates, honey,” Rhea laughed.

  “So be there at eight,” Nibbles said.

  “Wait. If you’re setting me up, this has nothing to do with answering personal ads.”

  The women glanced at each other.

  Rhea was
disdainful. “You can always pretend you met through the ads. You can pretend, can’t you?”

  “I’ll bet she pretends all the time,” Nibbles said in a stage whisper.

  The brats ran away from her desk, satisfied that they had ruined her day. She glanced over at Ann, who was still lost in conversation. It was time to log on to the Best Barbie Board to see what was up.

  It was a good thing she did.

  The Barbie killer had taken another victim—BBB member Zivia Uzamba from Las Vegas.

  36

  It was the weekend of February ninth, and P.J. was basking in the fact that her husband, Heath, was away on business. Tucked high up in the hills of Burbank, their home overlooked a city where entertainment industry professionals sped around in their BMWs, made deals, and went to various studios for tapings and recording sessions.

  P.J. had married into money because she was pretty enough, smart enough, and thin enough. She’d met her husband in a bar when she was only twenty-two and he was forty-four. The age difference didn’t matter a whit. What mattered was that she now had a five-million-dollar home, the means to publish a monthly magazine and manage a staff, and total freedom from the time she got up in the morning until she went to bed at night.

  Her white cockapoo, Chao, sat at her feet as she studied her face in the upstairs bathroom vanity. The round bulbs bordering the mirror’s frame cast a golden glow around her face and shoulders. Peering closer, she noticed a zit on her forehead and frowned. She didn’t get it. Makeup caused zits, and she was quick to remove hers when she returned from the anniversary party. She bent down and searched the cabinet for her economy-size jar of Noxema. Taking a towel, she tossed her head forward and wrapped her hair in it. Then she thrust her head back to finish creating her terrycloth turban. The lid came off the dark blue jar easily, and she readily dug into the pungent goop with her fingers. She smeared patches of it across her forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin. It stung, but she waited it out, sitting on the toilet seat while her pores opened up.

  The smell of Noxema reminded her of Christmas pine, but she didn’t want to think about the past holiday season. Heath had been gone most of December, handling matters regarding his food packaging business, making it home only on Christmas Day to give her what she’d told him she wanted—a series of Silkstone Barbies for her lighted display cabinets downstairs. She’d also received something she could have cared less about—another diamond ring, this one commemorating ten years together.

  She had never had a memorable Christmas growing up, and she hated those who had—the kids who got every toy on their list, the girls who got all the Barbies they could ever play with without begging, whining, or cajoling their parents. She thought about her cousin Lynne and the conversation she’d had with Darby on the way home from Venice.

  “You’re always saying you can do whatever you put your mind to,” he’d said quietly, after she’d parked her car in front of his apartment. “But did you ever consider that maybe you go after doll collections because you can’t have Lynne’s inheritance? Kind of like eating, but never feeling full because of something else? Or eating to push down feelings that are too painful?”

  “No,” she said. “In the case of your stupid food metaphor, if you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have issues with what I eat. I kill the women I choose to kill for their dolls. I kill the bitches because they’ve been rude, and I hate them. I enjoy going in and taking what I like.”

  Darby’s last words had stung. “And you call Lynne a brat.”

  The Noxema mask began to harden on P.J.’s face.

  “I’m taking my childhood back,” she said aloud, in a moment of clarity. “I get to redo it my way, and no one can stop me.”

  P.J. knew happiness meant having options, and she simply hadn’t had any in her entire life before she met Heath. Then, when he finally arrived, she asked for the moon and he reached up, grabbed it for her, pulled it down and hung it in their backyard amidst the spans of Japanese party lanterns. What was missing? Nothing.

  Those of you who think you have control over your lives, what you collect, what you do every day, have a lesson to learn, and it’s coming from me, she thought.

  She would continue to steal their best Barbie doll treasures and then take the ultimate valuable: their lives. Only then would she be better than they were. She would have the best doll collection in the world, and she wouldn’t have any competition. She would be the Barbie doll goddess, the queen, the expert, and the one who not only knew it all but had it all.

  “Just like Barbie doll,” P.J. told Chao, heading out of the vanity.

  She swept down her staircase to her magazine office on the south side of the house. Heath would be coming home on Monday for a week of rest and relaxation. She had just enough time for a weekend doll spree, but she had to find a victim who lived close enough that she could get there and back in less than forty-eight hours.

  P.J.’s Barbie International offices consisted of four rooms, the best of which was a converted sun porch filled with lounge chairs and potted plants. It was here that staff meetings were held at the start of each new week. It was here that P.J. reviewed the upcoming issue on a large table in the center of the room. It was here that P.J. felt relaxed and strong, gazing at framed shots of the magazine’s cover art lining the perimeter of the room, starting at the doorway and running from left to right. When one row was complete, another tier began.

  She took the high stool near the large table and studied the layouts for the eighty-page issue due to ship in two weeks. The March issue consisted of P.J.’s monthly editorial on all that was happening in the world of Barbie doll; a feature on pink-dressed boxed dolls, an identification guide to the many different shades of Barbie doll’s closed-toed pumps; an article on Bild Lilli doll, Barbie’s predecessor; a review on a book about Barbie doll structures and furniture; a guide to hair colors for Twist ’N Turn Barbie doll; a look at Barbie doll bidding on eBay; and a feature on Barbie doll’s vinyl cases by Caresse Redd.

  Darby had checked P.J.’s subscription database and determined why the surname Krieger had sounded familiar when she’d met the man on the Greyhound. In Redd’s earliest articles, she used her maiden name as a middle name. The byline Caresse Krieger Redd from P.J.’s back issues had stuck in her mind and Darby, as usual, was able to help his half-sister make the connection.

  So I probably met Caresse’s brother, P.J. mused, glancing through the six-page spread covering Nancy Roth’s vinyl treasures.

  P.J. walked over to her locked filing cabinet and took off the necklace she wore at home, which included a tiny key to access her drawers of paperwork.

  She’d had a run-in with Nancy Roth, aka NANCY_PANTS, about a year before when she had PayPaled her for a Swing-A-Ling Tutti Round Train Case and had not received it. She had filed for her money back from PayPal, but Nancy had countered by providing a delivery confirmation receipt, reassuring them that the package had been delivered. What P.J. had received in the mail was a box with old, scrapped pieces of cardboard, newspaper, and Styrofoam peanuts. The case, which was small and would have weighed less than six ounces, was accounted for in weight by random packing materials.

  P.J. reached for a folder in the bottom drawer, where she kept files on everyone she hated. She found the one marked ROTH, NANCY. Inside, there were notes covering the PayPal dispute, as well as private emails and board postings printed out to keep on hand.

  PJ-RULEZ: No, I just suppose you listed it on eBay for shits and giggles, and when I won it, you had seller’s remorse and changed your mind about parting with it. I don’t know what it means when you “sell” something and send someone an empty box instead, but I call it theft.

  NANCY_PANTS: You’re a liar, P.J. Ask anyone else here on the board if I’ve ever sent them an empty box. As if!

  Several Best Barbie Board members had leapt to Nancy’s defense. P.J.’s protests were steamrolled, doubted and dismissed.

  P.J. let her full anger rise. What did she want th
at Nancy had? Well, she was partial to her smaller vinyl pieces—the train cases, the wallets, the pencil cases, and the smallest doll cases for Tutti and Todd and their friends. Tutti and Todd were pretty much neglected as Barbie’s siblings, having enjoyed only the shortest of runs in America from the mid-’60s to the early ’70s, but P.J. knew Nancy had branched out from gathering only vinyl to include the actual dolls in her collection.

  There was something to be said about moving smaller vinyl pieces and dolls, too.

  It certainly shouldn’t prove as cumbersome as the Vegas haul, she thought.

  P.J. walked over to the layout table and looked at Caresse’s article again. There were at least two-dozen pictures included in the feature, and one showed a black patent 1962 Mattel wallet. There were graphics of a blond bubble cut dressed in Enchanted Evening on the right, a sweep of stardust across the center, and then another blond bubble wearing a red version of Friday Night Date on the left.

  Want that.

  Another photo of a wallet, this one in light blue vinyl, showed graphics of a blond bubble’s face on the left and a body shot of a brunette bubble wearing Dinner at Eight on the right.

  Want that.

  There were photos of Ponytail pencil cases, including one in black vinyl with 1961 graphics. A blond bubble cut dressed in pink and a pink ponytail wearing turquoise were positioned alongside the words “Barbie Pencil Case,” with graphics of a pencil and a pad of paper in the center. A fabulous blond ponytail profile sketch covered the right-hand side.

  Want that.

  Next came photos of the small Tutti play cases. P.J. particularly liked the ones that had transparent windows so you could see the dolls when they were packed away. There was an orange one covered with daisies, a pink one with beach graphics, a rose one with winter and summer scenes, and a yellow one with Tutti and her gal pal Chris on the front.

  Want them.

  P.J. backed away from the layout table and started to pace the room. Caresse had written that Nancy lived in Walnut Creek, California.