Bury Me With Barbie Read online

  Smoke drifted in her direction and she relished it. She still missed smoking, despite having given up Marlboro Lights cold turkey three long years ago. She caught her reflection in a window on the building. Standing in profile, she admired her model-like frame. Her long blond hair was tucked beneath a print Armani silk scarf, clipped in place at both sides and knotted at the nape of her neck. Her stylish sunglasses, handbag, and Manolo heels were the perfect accessories. Barbie had nothing on her. And here she was in Tucson. P.J. had read about the city and knew she was too early for the Tucson Gem and Mineral Show, which would be held in February along with the Tucson Rodeo. She debated visiting the Art Deco Fox Theatre downtown, Reid Park Zoo midtown, or Saguaro National Park in the east. She wanted to head north to check out the boutiques, galleries, and restaurants, but Darby had warned her about being noticed around town, so she abandoned the idea of buying something eclectic and pricey at one of the shops.

  A cab pulled up to the curb. She nodded her head, and the squat, balding cabbie jumped out. He picked up her suitcase and empty duffel and threw them in the trunk. She got in the back seat of the cab and told him she needed to go to the Ramada on East Tanque Verde.

  “Nice place,” he said, with a thick accent she couldn’t identify. “You bring a swimsuit?”

  P.J. studied his ebony eyes in the rear view mirror and read his name off the I.D. tacked to the driver side visor. “Sorry, Avi. It’s still a little too cold. I’ll wait for summer.”

  “They got a hot tub,” Avi said. “Nice and bubbly.”

  “I’m good.” Her tone was curt.

  He took her cue, opting for the most direct route, and twenty minutes later made a quick spin around the circular entrance to the hotel, jumping out of the cab to pop the trunk without hesitation.

  Before P.J. could open the back door on the right-hand side, Avi quickly opened it for her, gave a slight bow, and took her hand as she got out.

  Somewhat flustered but flattered nonetheless, P.J. waited while he got her suitcase and the empty duffel, to which he gave a momentary second glance. She tipped him five dollars on top of the fare, and he walked her to the large-windowed front lobby. The floors were white linoleum with a high shine, and her heels clicked on her way over to the registration desk. She turned her head to give the cabbie a nod good-bye. He was still sitting out front, waiting, but when she acknowledged him, he broke out in a large grin, started the cab, and drove away.

  Checking in was uneventful. She headed up to her room, which looked the courtyard pool. As she sat on the mosaic-print bedspread, a heavy feeling descended on her. She tried to pinpoint the cause, but couldn’t. Was Tucson, despite its pleasant warmth, just one of those cities at odds with her energy?

  She found the remote and turned on the Sanyo TV anchored to the dresser. A quick flip through the basic channels guided her to a world news recap.

  P.J. sighed, stripped off her dress, kicked off her heels, and threw her suitcase on the bed. Both locks popped with a clack and she lifted the soft lid, digging for her blue-and-white print bikini. Yes, she had brought her swimsuit. No, it was none of the cabbie’s business. Slipping into the slinky little flower-patterned suit, she admired her body in the mirror. Then she grabbed two Ramada towels, her sunglasses, and her card key, and headed down to the pool area.

  The center courtyard was vacant that Sunday as she stepped into the bubbly hot tub that foamed as though soap had been added. The heat melted her tension as she sank into the churning water up to her chin. She felt as though she could rest in the water forever without getting dizzy from the heat. Looking up at the cloudless blue sky, she felt every last worry dissolve. Tonight was the night. She would head over to Hailey’s house, a straight shot up North Sabino Canyon Road to East Ocotillo Drive. While Hailey’s parents were out for their weekly night of bridge from 8:00 to 10:00 p.m.—or thereabouts, as Hailey had shared on the message boards—P.J. would take a sharp tool from Hailey’s father’s garage workshop (where he kept tools from his former days as a shoemaker, another fact shared by Hailey) and bash in Hailey’s skull.

  7

  As they peeled out of the parking lot in his orange Dodge Ram truck, Caresse could see Bree, Rhea, and Nibbles standing at the wide picture window, watching. Seth, who had more important things on his mind, had excused her to go “on assignment.” The “assignment’s” name was Todd—he was ring-free, he played bass in Skip’s garage band, and he was a close friend of Ann’s husband.

  They drove along a hilly stretch of highway that wound through the countryside like a high note by Celine. Comfortably quiet the entire ride, they soaked up each other’s vibes.

  While Caresse was still marveling over her spontaneity and the possibility that a dating story might not be the worst thing in the world to have to write after all, Todd pulled into a rustic-looking bar and grill straight from some bad-ass Western. She surmised the place to be one of Todd’s regular haunts, judging by the people who waved at him when they entered. As soon as he picked a booth with cushioned seats and a checkered tablecloth, a perky waitress appeared, order pad in hand.

  Todd raised an eyebrow at Caresse. “Ribs and fries okay?”

  “Mmm,” she said.

  Pheromones did the two-step on the sawdust-covered floor.

  She looked down and was glad she had worn one of her favorite dresses to work that day—a navy knit with bright red flowers splashed across it—and that she had taken the extra time with her makeup and unruly, dark hair. She couldn’t guess which spirit guide had prompted her to look her best on a day when she expected to see no one but the news crew and shoppers at Ralphs.

  “You guys look good together,” the waitress noted.

  Todd and Caresse laughed appreciatively.

  “Thanks, Manda,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Manda left the table and Todd focused his full attention on Caresse.

  “So if you’re the Barbie expert Ann says you are, then I want to hear all about it.”

  He was flirting, showing his interest by broaching a topic she’d warm to. She played with the straw in her ice water and grinned.

  “Why Barbie and not Ken? What’s up with him not being very popular?” he asked.

  “Ken’s included in there, but you know, it’s Barbie and her friends and family, so—”

  “Sympathize with me. I’m the youngest of three boys. No girls in my family, so I didn’t really grow up with Barbie other than the commercials. She has a family?” As a conversationalist, Todd was trying to make her feel at home on his turf.

  “She does.”

  “Who are the other members of her family?”

  “Okay, well, she has a little sister, Skipper, and their sister Stacie came out about twelve years ago. Then they’ve got another sister, Kelly, who’s supposed to be a toddler but who’s more, like, in kindergarten now, and then there’s infant sister Krissy. Of course, they’re different sizes. If you take Barbie, she’s eleven and a half inches tall. Then you’ve got Skipper at nine inches, Stacie at seven, Kelly at four and a half, and Krissy at less than two.”

  “They’re all the same age?” Busy playing footsy with her under the table, Todd wasn’t listening carefully.

  A hot flush started to spread across her face. “Well, I hope not. You know, Barbie has always been a well-developed teenager. And Skipper is probably—well, Skipper is getting a little older. She’s developed somewhat over the years from totally flat-chested into—do you really want to hear about this?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

  She scooted her butt around in the booth to get more comfortable and smiled at Manda, who had brought them a basketful of tortilla strips.

  “She’s gone to being somewhat more endowed. And Stacie and the younger ones will probably always be just scrawny little kids.”

  Todd bit into a chip. “And why is it so important that she be well-endowed?”

  “Barbie?”

  “Yeah. I mean, was that a conscious effort
on the part of the designer?”

  “Uh, well, now you have to go back to how Barbie was originally designed. This woman, Ruth Handler, watched her daughter play with paper dolls and saw a need for something more substantial than paper clothes and cardboard dolls. She thought if she could make a 3-D fashion doll, she would have a market there. When it came to designing, Barbie had to wear clothes well. If you design a doll that has a straight, flat figure, clothes are just gonna hang on her. Hence, the shape.”

  Todd stood up across from Caresse. With barely a moment’s hesitation, he came over to her side of the booth and sat down next to her. She didn’t miss a beat. She scooched right up against him and let the fire start.

  8

  The first thing P.J. did when she arrived at Darby’s apartment Tuesday afternoon was take the bloody tack hammer and toss it in the building’s dumpster. She had rubber-banded it inside two micro-cotton luxury towels and placed it inside a large Hefty bag with used sanitary napkins to disgust and discourage garbage pickers from investigating the trash bag’s contents.

  Darby had a space for a car, but since he only had a beat-up 150cc classic Vespa-style moped scooter, he parked it parallel to the concrete space bumper and chained it through the front wheel to street-level grill work, which offered a glimpse of dusty scrub between its metal bars. He “sold” his parking space, which was included in his rent, for a hundred dollars per month to his neighbor Michael Hornberger, an Adam Sandler look-alike with flaming red hair. Hornberger had no problem paying Darby for the favor. He was just grateful he didn’t have to choose whether to park his shiny black Ford Explorer or his primo silver and blue Harley Fat Boy on the street.

  With the hundred he got from Michael every month, Darby rented a storage space in the garage, which was nothing more than a parking slot enclosed between the back wall of the laundry room and the walled-off dumpster. The chain-link gate, which swung wide with a shove, had two combination locks.

  Darby had given his half-sister full permission to use the storage space for her hauls, which she dared not keep at home. Why he would risk being an accessory to her crimes had more to do with his affection for her than any lack of fear of returning to jail.

  Today, P.J. carried her new Midge dolls—and recollections of her trip to Arizona. Darby’s scooter was missing, but she suspected he hadn’t gone far.

  Both combination locks opened to 36-24-36, in homage to Darby’s obsession with curvy women. She peered through the chain-link as she spun and unfastened both combination locks. The white Rubbermaid stacking storage bins lined both sides of the stall as well the back wall, so it resembled a walk-in closet. Only the concrete floor, the dust, and several spiders detracted from the overall effect.

  P.J. closed the chain-link gate behind her and went to her American Girl stash in the first two storage bins to her left. The drawers in each bin were wide and deep enough to lay the dolls flat so their heads were toward the back of each drawer. She was able to completely remove the drawers to examine their contents. She kept a metal folding chair tucked between two bins that she could unfold and sit on, placing the drawers on her lap to peruse one at a time.

  When she had originally put them into storage, P.J. had forgotten to double-check if all the American Girl Barbies were on their correct bendable-leg bodies. She badly wanted to check them now. She selected the top drawer in the first bin, talking to each of the dolls as she examined their bodies.

  While P.J. hadn’t been alive in 1965-66 when Barbie 1070 had been issued, she knew the range of American Girl Barbies in existence thoroughly. An AG face could be high color or low color. Her hair color could be any shade ranging from platinum blond to dark brunette. Lip colors ranged from pink to raspberry. Hairstyles ranged from a middle-parted chin-length bob to a center-parted, soft-textured longer bob.

  P.J. gazed at the eight dolls spanning the width of the first drawer. To see them again was to be struck anew with appreciation for their 1600-series outfits, which were more elegant than any clothing for Barbie made before that time. Many of the 1600 fashions issued during the short, two-year period came with exquisite accessories and closed-toed pumps that looked better, in P.J.’s opinion, than Barbie’s open-toe slides.

  A blond American Girl was dressed in Knit Separates 1602, but in place of the slim, blue knit skirt shown in the Mattel catalogs, she wore gold knit slacks, navy shoes and a multi-stripe knit blouse. The skirt, baggied like the accessories for Student Teacher, was in a Ziploc tied to the doll’s wrist with a two-millimeter navy silk ribbon. The doll itself had an extra full, long factory cut for a high-color blonde.

  P.J. checked for leg damage, stains, tears, and chew marks in the doll’s leg vinyl. Finding none, she bent the doll’s knees. The left leg clicked three times, the right one only twice.

  “What’s wrong with your right leg?” she asked as herself.

  This was followed by a posh response: “Oh, but yours don’t click at all!”

  P.J. laughed at this as hard as she did at Kathy. Ah, British Barbie was hysterical.

  She put down the blond doll and examined the next one. This lemon-lipped honey blonde was perfectly suited to her elegant Black Magic strapless dress with matching tulle evening cape, and each of her legs clicked three times.

  Next up was an ash blonde with faded peach lips wearing Junior Designer. The adhesive-backed cutouts on the dress were not aligned precisely, but she looked good despite one non-clicking leg.

  The blond Student Teacher she had checked out on her departure from Oswego was still intact with her baggie of accessories. Her legs were in perfect working order.

  The fifth doll in the box had serious leg defects, with a split behind one knee and a slight ankle tear. The brunette wore On The Avenue, a lovely gold and white knit suit gathered at the waistline with a flashy gold belt. While the doll’s face was flawless, P.J. thought she might put the outfit on another doll at some point and redress the brunette in a gown to hide her flawed gams.

  Dolls six and seven in the first box were a platinum blonde dressed in Lunch on The Terrace and a silver-ash blonde wearing Riding In The Park. Both wore hats—the first, a wide-brimmed affair in gingham and polka dots, and the second, a brown riding cap. After checking their legs, she removed their hats to make sure their hairdos were rooted well.

  Last in box number one was a titian doll wearing her original American Girl swimsuit. Her legs were as flawless as the rest of her pristine face and body.

  P.J. was quicker at examining the second box, which contained a brunette with thick hair dressed in Garden Tea Party, a high-color brunette with raspberry lips wearing Junior Prom, a highly-prized silver blonde dressed in Midnight Blue, a pale blonde looking chic in Aboard Ship, a silver brunette looking sexy in Sleeping Pretty, an ash blonde looking fabulous in Coffee’s On, an ash brunette looking stylish in Club Meeting, and a yellow blonde ready for bed in Sleepytime Gal. Some had perfect legs, but others needed to have their outfits swapped out to hide problem areas.

  P.J. pulled paper and a pencil out of her purse and began making notes.

  A pink-lipped, platinum blond American Girl Barbie was first to come out of drawer three. She wore Barbie Skin Diver, and her bright orange sweatshirt offset her tresses vividly. With her unoxidized hair nearly white in appearance and silky to the touch, the doll reminded P.J. of her own mother Angela, who called to mind Grace Kelly—if Grace had been a chain smoker with a deep, resounding cough.

  Tenderly, P.J. stroked the doll and realized it had been a while since she and her mother had talked. It had been New Year’s when P.J. had vowed she would come visit her in France before much more time passed. In reality, she probably would not see her at all. She had an aversion to her stepfather Dirk, who was Darby’s dad, because she knew for a fact Dirk was cheating on her mom. She had overheard a phone call late one night during the last trip she’d made to see them before they decided to retire abroad. She wondered if Dirk knew she knew about his philandering and if this had been
the impetus for them to settle down an ocean away.

  P.J. assumed Dirk’s need to run around was just a variation on his family’s curse. Darby would run around if he had half the schmooze and smoothness of his dad, who could have doubled for the charming Charlton Heston. Alas, Darby was a step down in looks, two steps down in personality, three steps down in demeanor, totally hopeless when it came to small talk, and absolutely angry at the world. If he could find a Plain Jane who liked to play Russian Roulette on a rainy Saturday afternoon or an Emo Emily with whom he could share a tome on nuclear war and the inevitability of World War III, he’d be all set, but P.J. doubted he’d ever find such a Dark Debbie in LA.

  P.J.’s own father, Steve Croesus, had left home when she was only five years old. Angela had been harping on him for not making more money and not handing her the good life, which to Angela meant a better house, better jewelry, and better vacations. It was as simple as him not coming home one night after he got off work at the restaurant he helped his best friend manage.

  Ironically, the place was called Sea You Soon, and Steve had always smelled like breaded fish, tartar sauce, and more exotic seafood P.J. wasn’t able to pronounce, let alone want to taste. But she loved his scruffy face and his wide smile, and she missed him, wherever he was, to this day.

  Dirk entered the scene weeks later, introduced to Angela by a mutual friend. Within a month, he moved in. Three months later, Angela was pregnant with Darby. At the five-month mark, Dirk and Angela planned to wed, pending finalization of her divorce “due to desertion.”

  P.J. laid the platinum American Girl Barbie back in the drawer after making sure her legs clicked properly. A coral-lipped, brunette, side-part AG rested beside her, dressed in Saturday Matinee—a fur-collared, gold and brown tweed suit.

  Toy industry legend had it that Mattel manufactured fewer side-part American Girl Barbies due to their more complicated hairstyle. Not only was her hair parted on the left, but there was also the slightest wave to it, and factory workers had added a turquoise ribbon hairband to each one.