Bury Me With Barbie Read online

  “And then I realized,” she said, “all these things are still around! After my first blond bubble cut, I began stockpiling dolls and clothes as fast as I could get my hands on them. I bought a case and I thought, ‘you know, I really like the graphics, the artwork.’ Then I started going to shows and began realizing there was such a variety. Every time I thought, ‘Oh, I’ve gotten all the cases,’ I’d go, ‘No, I haven’t. There’s another one, and another one!’ Trunks, cases, hat boxes, and travel pals—what can I say? They’re intriguing and fun.”

  Caresse smiled, thinking Nancy should leave the legal world for a job in PR or advertising.

  “I can store my dolls and clothes in them,” she enthused. “And I view them as a real sampling of our culture at the time, what with the way the dolls are dressed and the artwork is done.”

  “Tell me about some of your favorite cases,” she prompted.

  Nancy first described a case she called “The Equestrienne.” It was a beige case featuring artwork of Barbie and Skipper wearing riding outfits. Then she described a case that was dubbed “The Picnic.” It showed artwork of Barbie, Ken, and Skipper.

  “They’re sitting down, having a picnic, and they have a watermelon. There’s a butterfly in the scene and a blue jay in the trees,” she explained.

  In addition to Nancy’s fondness for the lavish artwork, she was fascinated with different color combinations. “There’s a case which shows Barbie dressed in Red Flare,” she said. “This case is intriguing because on some cases they used Red Flare in red, like it really is, and they put it on a blue, black, or white background. Then, for some reason, they made the case again and used a yellow version of Red Flare, putting the Barbie graphics in yellow on a blue, black, or red background. Six cases with two variations of Red Flare! Who decided to sit down and say, ‘Let’s just put this in yellow here, on red’? Did they leave it up to the artists? Was it because one day they didn’t have enough dye?”

  Caresse laughed. Nancy was running at full steam now. “You have vinyl friends?”

  “I have many friends who are equally into vinyl collecting,” she stressed, pausing to blow her nose again. “We have a great system so we’re not competitive. We like to know what we’re each specifically looking for. At shows, we’ll say, ‘I’ve got my heart set on finding this,’ and then we work it out. We don’t just run in and snatch it. Whoever wants something that day gets it.”

  “And what would you like to add to your collection that you’re missing?”

  Nancy sounded a bit vague as her mind wandered to her wish list. “There’s a Skipper Purse Pal I want. It’s done in the shape of a purse you’d carry in the ’60s. I also want the case that features the head of a side-part American Girl. The case was originally sold together with a brunette Swirl. There’s a window in the case, and you can see the doll.”

  “Got kids to pass your collection on to?”

  “No,” she said, “but my three-year-old niece is a budding Barbie collector. On her third birthday, she had a Barbie party. I’m training her to follow in my footsteps.”

  “Sounds good,” Caresse said, glancing at the wall clock near the computer monitor. She had half an hour to get to 726 Higuera Street for her work-related date. It occurred to her to ask Nancy if she’d heard about Barbie collector Gayle Grace being murdered in upstate New York or Midge fanatic Hailey Raphael being bludgeoned to death in Tucson, but she was out of time. She released the pressure from the receiver cup, disconnected the recorder, wished Nancy a speedy recovery from her cold, and said good-bye.

  16

  After Hailey’s parents were had been led away from the crime scene on East Ocotillo Drive, forensic technicians in Tucson staked out the Raphael property, forming a perimeter along the road, down the side of the garage, across the backyard, and back to the front curb.

  Bagging anything found on or near the lawn, driveway, and sidewalk, the force worked tirelessly, tweezing anything that might be important. Cigarette butts, strands of hair, bits of paper—all of it was collected in an attempt to determine who had killed the young schoolteacher who loved nothing more than eating popcorn while watching Westerns and volunteering her time on weekends to Meals on Wheels.

  Everything outside the house that could be considered potential evidence was photographed and marked on a sketch. Collected, initialed, sealed, and dated bags went into the van. Two cotton-gloved investigators focused their attention on the left-side garage entrance, where the body-width walkway created cramped working quarters. Alek Bryce headed down the narrow path first. He stopped near the garage door and squatted down in the pale gravel. Scanning the area, he stopped and used his forceps to collect a long, vibrant strand of hair lying in pebbles.

  “Get Sketch and Viper,” he said to his partner Eitan. “Got a blond beauty here.”

  The first team of investigators combed the workbench inside the garage. An empty spot on the pegboard filled with hanging tools was photographed and sketched.

  The entire garage was scanned visually with a laser for latent prints. Since the bench was dark, white powder was applied to the surface for contrast. Transparent tape was used to lift latent prints, which were then placed on dark backing cards for contrast. The garage floor was dusty, and examination yielded several footprints. Photos were taken using a manual-focus camera and a tripod to capture each impression directly from above.

  Inside the home, a second photographer was shooting prints on the hallway carpeting, positioning the camera flash at a ten to fifteen degree angle to enhance the detail of the impressions. He added a few additional angles, moving the light and adjusting the sunscreen in a progressive path toward the laundry room.

  Iden “Sketch” Wayne stood in the entrance to the laundry room and graphed out the small area. Clothes remained neatly folded atop the dryer, which had long since gone quiet. Through the cracks between the door hinges, Wayne noticed the lidded hamper, marred by smudges and blood spray.

  The murder victim, Hailey Raphael, lay in a semi-fetal position on her right side, facing him. He glanced quickly, then sketched roughly, capturing her as best he could. He had an embarrassing habit others knew nothing about to prevent himself from getting sick. By squinting so he only saw through a watery, blurred field of vision, he could accomplish the necessary strokes on his pad without becoming overwhelmed by the blood.

  Down went impressions of the fresh, young face. Down went the splayed hair. Down went the crushed skull. Down went the ravaged chest. Down went the battered arms and legs. Down went the bloodied clothing. Down went the bare feet. Wayne exhaled and stepped along the baseboards, moving toward the top of Hailey’s bloodied head. He continued along the wall to the washing machine, which still had its lid up.

  Bryce stood in the doorway, watching his colleague. “Anything in the machine?”

  Wayne leaned forward.

  There were ten pennies inside the empty washer.

  17

  P.J. damaged the screen lock before the sun came up on Monday and stayed parked, down the street from Time’s home, in a rented Toyota Avalon Touring Sedan. She was not far from the Candlelight Suites, where she had taken a spacious room complete with a kitchen and desk area, where she could work on her laptop.

  The rain-soaked neighborhood was intersected by Northeast Oleary, and from there, it was just a short drive to Northeast Sixth. The evening before, she had driven out to the Oak Harbor shore and watched the water lap up on the grainy land. The sand was soft from recent storms and her heels dug into the wetness, leaving a deep set of tracks behind her. The wind whipped her lustrous hair, and she pulled her jacket tight. Farther down the rocky coast, a weathered man fed seagulls from a loaf of bread. With feeble hands, he broke off chunks and tossed them as high as he could into the air.

  P.J. decided to walk the other way and eventually found a swing set and play area for children. She sat in a small swing and kicked off, pumping higher and higher as her momentum increased. Her handbag on the ground grew smal
ler with each arc. Finally, one loafer fell off and she had to stop and hop through wet sand to retrieve it.

  Now, as she rested in the white four-door amidst pillows and blankets she had borrowed from the hotel room closet, she felt relaxed enough to nap. She set her cell alarm for two hours and allowed herself to doze.

  Two hours later, the beeping alarm brought her out of a deep sleep. She’d dreamt she discovered a trunk buried along the Oak Harbor shoreline and had pried it open to discover prototype dolls and outfits. Her unconscious mind has invented a Barbie with rooted hair, a Skipper wearing a smaller version of Barbie’s Outdoor Life, and a three-doll wedding set including Barbie, Skipper, and Tutti, with Barbie as the bride and Skipper dressed in a larger version of her younger sister’s Flower Girl outfit.

  “That was the best dream ever,” she said aloud, reaching for her now-cold drive-thru coffee in the holder in front of her. She re-tied her hair back and sat up straight, re-zipping her hooded sweatshirt.

  A few minutes later, as she sipped the cold coffee, she saw Time Taylor. The woman emerged from her home and nudged two poodles back from the door’s threshold.

  “Visual confirmation on the dogs,” P.J. said aloud. She felt around in the pockets of her hoodie until she uncovered the cold slices of bacon wrapped in Denny’s napkins.

  Time’s stringy blond hair hung around her face as she tried to insert her key in the screen door keyhole without success. She stopped, wiped her chubby hands on her baggy pants, and tried again without success. Finally she straightened up and leaned in to lock the regular door, slamming the screen with a frustrated sigh before heading down the walkway to her car. She started her Ford Taurus and was off in a cloud of exhaust, careening around the corner as if she were in hot pursuit of the very next breakfast BK would serve that morning.

  P.J. drank the rest of her cold coffee before she grabbed the canvas tote and empty duffel out of the back seat. Walking slowly up the street, she stopped once to look around before approaching Time’s front door. Then she carded it open and let herself in.

  18

  The first Monday in February, Caresse and her four-year-old son Chaz discovered a storefront a few doors down from the Salvation Army store on Islay that bore the sign “Monya’s Antiques.” Caresse said they had to go inside, suggesting there might be toys. She was hoping they might have some cheap old dolls to grab.

  Quickly, she made herself at home amidst some of the heftier items in the collectibles paradise while Chaz wandered off. The shop owner, Monya, was a woman who spoke in absolutes whenever she felt expansive. She was half Ukrainian, half L’Oreal Intense Red hair dye. She had passed heavy forty pounds ago, and she wore a red and orange silk muumuu and too much perfume. Her lips were painted orange to match her tangerine fingernails.

  Despite being off the beauty scale, she had a firm handshake and a beguiling smile. There was no question she could sell Cubic Zirconia to a fine gems expert. Caresse took an instant liking to her but nevertheless wanted to assess her knowledge. She waited patiently while a woman in gray sold Monya some cut glass her grandmother had left her. Monya gave the lady half the resale value in cash, and the woman left the shop, arms empty, smiling at Caresse as she passed by.

  Chaz had discovered an open box of old wooden trains and track pieces in the corner of the shop, where a bit of space had been allotted for set-up and play, so he was fully occupied. Caresse approached the main counter while rearranging her bra strap so it was once again hidden by the loose neckline on her beige shirt.

  She came right out with it. “Got any old Barbies?”

  A skinny guy with jet-black hair and Blues Brothers shades skulked in from the back room and caught Monya’s eye. He pointed to the staircase. She nodded slightly and he slunk away, up the stairs and out of sight.

  “Barbies,” Monya murmured as she walked over to a curio cabinet and took a doll down from a high glass shelf. She walked back over to Caresse and put the doll on the counter. “How can you not fall in love?” she asked.

  The doll presented to her wore an elaborate red-sequined gown, a lavish cape, and a heart-shaped headpiece with a red feather sprouting from it.

  Chaz approached the counter, holding one of the small wooden trains from the box.

  “That’s a Barbie?” he asked.

  “The Queen of Hearts by Bob Mackie,” Monya replied. “A very expensive, highly-collectible Barbie.”

  Caresse studied the creation. She was impressive. The doll’s dress was sparkly, and the reflection from the sequins caught in the mirrored items throughout the shop and bounced off the overhead lighting.

  Chaz beamed at Monya. “I like your hair.”

  “Why, thank you!”

  “It reminds me of fire.”

  The kid in the dark glasses slipped back down the stairs, nodded to Monya once, and left.

  Monya smiled benignly. “He always steps in to check my records.”

  Caresse was surprised. “He’s an accountant?”

  Monya frowned. “Records. LPs.”

  Caresse hunkered on the edge of a chair dressed in dusty tapestry upholstery depicting hunters on horseback.

  Chaz peered into one of Monya’s glass cases. “Hey, Mom, your magazines.”

  He pointed at a vintage stack of Barbie International issues from the late eighties.

  Monya looked where Chaz was pointing.

  “Your magazines?” Her curiosity was piqued.

  “I write for Barbie International.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Like the Wizard of Oz emerging from behind the curtain, Monya came around the counter and took an upholstered chair near the one Caresse occupied. She immediately launched into a story.

  “Once upon a time, back in the mid-’80s before Barbie turned thirty, a little-known woman who worked for the American Cancer Society decided a monthly Barbie magazine would sell to baby boomers who treasured Barbies. The woman put together a now-archaic desktop publishing system, found a printer, learned everything she could about distribution, and was soon clearing $20,000 profit each month from sales of Barbie Digest.

  “At the time, Sierra Walsh, the future creator of Barbie International, was already known on the Barbie circuit as a real go-getter. She had majored in journalism and thought she should write about Barbie, combining two loves. She wrote to Sophie, the woman who launched the first Barbie magazine, and started contributing articles to her publication. But soon, Sierra had more plentiful and better ideas than Sophie. And she was in Southern California where Mattel was, while Sophie was stuck on the East coast.

  “Everyone told Sierra she should give Sophie a run for her money. When Sierra got married and her husband wanted to finance her dream, it was all over for Sophie. About half of Sophie’s subscribers decided if they could only afford one Barbie magazine, they’d rather buy Sierra’s. Sierra was more creative and had better stories.

  “Sophie was pissed, but what could she do? It’s a free country.” Monya threw up her hands and then let them flop onto her lap.

  “How do you know all this?” Caresse asked.

  “Sophie is my sister.”

  “Wow.”

  “She’s still back east,” Monya said, anticipating Caresse’s next question. “Have you ever met Sierra?”

  “No. We email, and we’ve talked on the phone once or twice. I send my features and photos to her, and that’s about it. I get checks when issues come out, and I have to file a freelance tax thingie each spring. She’s got a lot to do to publish every month.”

  “Did you hear about the Gayle Grace murder?”

  Caresse held her breath. Finally, someone might offer some tidbits that hadn’t been published.

  “Sophie told me some woman in upstate New York was murdered, and her American Girl Barbie collection was raided. As far as they can tell, the dolls were taken the same day she was killed.”

  Chills ran down Caresse’s spine. Instead of letting Monya know she had heard about the homicides, she decided
to let her talk to determine whether or not the old woman had information she hadn’t run across.

  “Both Gayle and her husband died in an explosion,” Monya continued. “Investigators talked to Gayle’s sister Megan, who originally helped Gayle inventory her dolls. They went through the Graces’ home, and guess what? Many of the dolls on the list were missing.”

  Caresse wanted to hear Monya’s suppositions. “But why kill them? If you just want someone’s dolls, you take the dolls when they’re not home, right?”

  “Clearly the killer had a grudge against Gayle and wanted her dead. Taking her dolls was important, but killing her was meaningful, too.”

  Chaz approached slowly, dragging a box of trains and track pieces with him.

  “Mom, I want this.”

  Caresse stood up and smiled.

  “How much for the whole box?” she asked Monya.

  Monya placed her right, liver-spotted, many-ringed hand on Caresse’s shoulder. They had bonded. “The whole box, ten bucks.”

  “Such a deal,” she said, returning the woman’s warm smile.

  She turned to Chaz. “You’re gonna have to help me carry it back to the car.”

  Chaz considered this, realizing they’d left their Honda clear over by Mitchell Park prior to their inner-city trek. “It’s worth it,” he said finally. “And Mom, I’m gonna leave this stuff at your place. Dad says we’ve got too much clutter.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “He does, does he?”

  “He should see this place,” Monya said, and the three of them laughed.

  They left the shop each holding a side of the box with both hands. They walked semi-sideways in tandem for a while until Caresse almost tripped. She told her son to hang on to her belt loop while she balanced the box on her head all the way back to their car.

  19

  The poodles greeted P.J., their tiny black-nailed feet slipping and sliding on the smooth cerulean tile floor in the entryway.