Bury Me With Barbie Page 7
P.J. took the napkined bacon out of her pocket and addressed them by name.
“Hi, Pooh. Hi, Schmoo.” Their ridiculous monikers made her smile. The treats were a hit. She had made friends.
Everything in the living room was pastel. Light peach, lemon yellow, and touches of sky blue gave the place a lighthearted feel. The poodle babies followed her into the room, watching her with curiosity in their eyes. She headed up the plush peach-carpeted staircase. The bathroom was at the top landing, a study was set up in the room to the left, and the master bedroom was to the right. She opted to go into the study and was rewarded by the sight of cardboard boxes stacked high beside a curio cabinet packed with Barbies. The curio was lit, but P.J. could barely tell because sunshine creeping in beneath the half-drawn blinds muted the extra light.
“What, does she leave the light on all the time?” P.J. asked.
Pooh—or perhaps Schmoo—yipped in response.
P.J. chuckled and opened the cabinet with her thin-gloved hands. Number One and Number Two Ponytails—the mother lode in Barbie collecting—were both there and in mint condition. A group of Number Threes was dressed in mint examples of some of Barbie’s earliest outfits including Commuter Set, Gay Parisienne, Plantation Belle, Roman Holiday, and Easter Parade. P.J. had never seen an Easter Parade coat that wasn’t a reproduction. The black faille was soft and spotless, and the matching hat, a simple bow of silk organza, seemed as fresh as it must have in 1959.
The dolls and outfits moved forward through Barbie’s history as one gazed down the length of the cabinet. At the bottom, Twist ’n Turn Barbies were dressed in outfits as diverse as Dreamy Blues, Bright ‘n Brocade, and Fab City. Each outfit was complete, from Trailblazer’s goggles to Dreamy Pink’s slippers.
A bevy of AG and bubble cut Barbies filled the middle shelves, and some of P.J.’s favorite 1600-series ensembles were here. Of course, she had them all, thanks to Gayle, but there was no harm in taking a few duplicates. In addition to a blond bubble wearing Here Comes The Bride and a dark brunette AG wearing London Tour, there was an exquisite, raspberry-lipped, longhaired silver brunette AG dressed in White Magic.
P.J. filled her duffel bag rapidly, squeezing in her last two picks—a low-color, coral-lipped, silver-ash blond, side-part AG dressed in Theatre Date and a choice 1966 high-color, long-haired, ash blond AG wearing Country Club Dance—before zipping the bag closed. After hoisting it, P.J. added the second tote to her load and went back downstairs.
It dawned on her that she must be getting stronger. Despite the weight she carried, she had not needed to stop and rest mid-retreat. Kneeling beside the poodles, she pet them good-bye. Then she rose and slipped out the front door, shutting it gently behind her.
It was time to kick Darby’s plan into action.
She examined the arch extending over the entrance porch.
The ever-resourceful Darby had a friend who did the chrome work on motorcycles. Knowing they used cyanide to etch the metal, he had no problem paying his friend a visit and boosting a bucket before he left. Then, at the hardware store, he bought plaster of Paris and glue, followed by a trip to the grocery store, where he stocked up on more toilet paper, rubber gloves, aluminum foil, and two large pots.
The following day, he went to a hobby store and bought sand-colored spray paint and itty-bitty engines used for shooting off model rockets. At home, he laid everything out on a sheet of cardboard roughly half a foot wide. He glued the engines with primer wire sticking out everywhere until the cardboard was covered with nearly two hundred of them.
P.J. watched as he took thin speaker wire and glued that to the cardboard too. Ultimately, a wire led to each igniter.
Darby went into the kitchen and poured the cyanide into the pot on the stove, mixing it with glue as it simmered. When it was ready, he slathered it onto aluminum foil and let it dry.
Next, he filled a vat with toilet paper, water, and glue to create papier-mâché.
“Did you bring the mixer?” he asked.
As though she were in the presence of a mad scientist, P.J. did not speak as she went to the box she’d brought over and removed the electric mixer.
“Bring it to me,” he said.
She did so, helping him adjust the settings once he had it plugged in and running.
“Just let it run,” he said, returning to where the aluminum foil had been spread out. The cyanide-glue mixture was dry, so he put on rubber gloves and started breaking it into pieces like malleable peanut brittle. When he was done, he glued a crystallized hunk of cyanide to each rocket.
Darby turned off the mixer and moved the vat of papier-mâché to the floor, where he spread out fresh aluminum foil. After pouring it out, he went to the table with the plaster of Paris. He coated the wires with a powdery layer to protect them and then applied the papier-mâché to the cardboard.
A chunk of sand-colored stucco “borrowed” from a home nearby served as a model for their next step. They filled the stucco with plaster of Paris to create a mold, and then duplicated the stucco affect by applying the mold to the papier-mâché. The next morning it was dry, and Darby spray-painted it the proper sand color.
P.J. was determined to follow through on Darby’s hard work. He had explained that radio control airplanes came with servos and that the wires would run down to a little remote control.
As she appraised the archway, she realized just where to hang the strip of stucco—off to the side, in the wall of the arch, where trailing wires could hide behind the potted plants on the porch.
After gluing it into place with the pungent glue Darby provided, she ran the wires behind the plants and down off the porch, placing the big battery behind the shrubs. Then, afraid to linger, she grabbed her bags and hastened back to her rental car.
If what she posted on the Barbie board held true, Time would be home at noon to check on her babies. She didn’t like to leave them alone for more than a morning or afternoon, and certainly not a whole day.
Exhausted, P.J. rested in the car while waiting for her victim to arrive, setting her alarm for 11:30 in case she nodded off. At one point, the gray skies began to lull her into a sleepy fog, but she shook herself awake. 11:30 came, and she shut the alarm off, regaining her excitement for what lie ahead.
She didn’t have to wait long. At 11:45, Time pulled up in her Taurus and jumped out, running to the front door. When she stopped on the welcome mat to dig for the house keys at the bottom of her large bag, P.J. pushed the switch.
With a whooshing sound, the archway exploded in a spray of plaster and smoke.
It wasn’t as loud as P.J. expected, but it was messy.
Inside the car, P.J. shivered with delight.
She remembered Darby’s assurances. “The blocks of cyanide will be pushed into her skin. She’ll look like hamburger meat, and her guts will liquefy. It’ll take about thirty seconds to a minute for the cyanide to enter her bloodstream. It’s definitely faster than having her ingest it. I mean, it’ll be right in her system in no time flat.”
The neighborhood remained quiet, save for a flock of birds emerging from a nearby pine tree, flying up, over the homes and away.
P.J. allowed a minute to pass. When all remained quiet, she started her engine and slowly drove up the street, daring one quick peek at Time’s home as she passed. She could see the woman lying slumped beneath the archway, with one raw, bloodied arm stretched across the porch.
Driving away from the scene, P.J. began to relax. She reflected on what Confucius said—that he not only forgot food and sorrows, but did not even perceive old age coming on in the pursuit of knowledge—and P.J. could readily apply that sentiment to her aim of collecting all the dolls she needed, wrapping them up in armfuls, squeezing the bundle tight, and grinning the most satisfied of smiles.
20
FREDERICKS – Paul Francis Fredericks, 90, of San Luis Obispo, died Monday at a San Luis Obispo Hospital. Arrangements are pending at Los Osos Valley Mortuary.
Care
sse hurried through the County Times’ death notices she needed to write in order to make time to log in at the Best Barbie Board. She had half an hour before she had to run to the Starbucks downtown for Date Number Three.
A quick glance around the newsroom told her this was a good time to surf. Seth, Ann, and even Jenna and her three stooges were AWOL. Laura was at the switchboard up front, putting calls through to advertising, laughing as late morning sunlight streamed through the windowed lobby, touching upon a sparkly trinket in her hair. Over in Classified, Marilyn Garrett was online, playing Scrabble.
Beth had posted a message only three minutes earlier, sharing information about her morning visit to the Raphael residence.
DESERTLIFE: Hi, everyone. Thanks for knocking off the idle speculations about Hailey’s love life if just for the simple reason she’s no longer around to defend herself. As promised, I met with the Tucson police this morning—way earlier than anyone should have to get up—and they allowed me to go into Hailey’s room. Boy, was it weird to be in there with them, with them watching and waiting to see what I’d say. On first glance, Hailey’s room seemed pretty much the way it always did—clean, neat, organized. And to look at her doll shelves, an outsider would think nothing was amiss.
This is what I saw when I went in. I looked at both sets of shelves, four on her west wall and four on her north. Her dolls used to be lined up almost as though they were holding hands, with no real space between them, and she used to have fewer Barbie dolls than Midge, who was her favorite.
What I saw on her shelves shocked me. The dolls were spaced evenly, inches apart from each other, and there were only six Midge dolls left, placed dead center on six of the eight shelves, the bottom-most shelves remaining Midge-less. All of her best Midge dolls were taken, along with some NRFB Wigs Wardrobes. The thief did not touch Hailey’s bubble cuts. I don’t know why.
It’s still debatable whether or not the Tucson Police believe Hailey was murdered for doll-related reasons, but they were appreciative of my time. We’ll see what happens from here on out.
So that’s it, guys. I am seriously tired (not to mention depressed), so I’ll check back in later to hear what you all have to say.
Peace out, Beth
Caresse remembered what Megan Dailon had said.
The robber chose to take at least one example of each rare outfit and the best of Gayle’s dolls, leaving those that were less mint or wearing duplicate or more common outfits rearranged uniformly, three to a shelf.
Beth’s description of Hailey’s shelves was similar.
The dolls were spaced evenly, inches apart from each other, and there were only six Midge dolls left, placed dead center on six of the eight shelves.
The killer had stopped long enough to rearrange the dolls on both victims’ display shelves after swiping the ones that met his or her fancy.
It was the same person.
Caresse shook herself out of her reverie and glanced at her watch.
No matter how much she didn’t want anything Venti with a guy named Jerry, she was committed to her next date at Starbucks.
21
As soon as she returned home, P.J. took care of some work, stored her Oak Harbor dolls at Darby’s, and was back on the road again, this time Greyhounding her way from L.A.’s Union Station all the way to Las Vegas.
As the people piled up for a weekday excursion, she realized the bus would be packed because rooms in Sin City were cheaper midweek, particularly in the winter. This was the on-a-budget crowd who couldn’t or wouldn’t fly or drive or enjoy a two-day stay at the Wynn. Greyhound security was lax to nonexistent, and identity checks were nil. The only way to trace P.J.’s whereabouts would be to know her alias (Devvon West) and to know that Darby had retrieved mail from the P.O. Box in Glendale where her bus tickets were mailed. Darby and “Devvon” had set up the P.O. Box together late the previous year with fake IDs, posing as a married couple that wanted the P.O. Box for anonymity regarding mail order transactions.
Buses heading to Vegas arrived at a depot hidden by most of the Union Station terminal. The benches in the depot sat beneath roof overhangs where those who smoked stood or sat on benches and blew smoke rings over the heads of mothers with babies, the elderly, the disabled, and the disenfranchised.
When P.J.’s Greyhound pulled in, her group moved forward en masse and waited for the attendant to open the belly of the bus so they could throw their beat-up suitcases into the mosh pit of belongings. P.J. was one of the first to board. She chose a seat in back, next to the right side window. She was carrying a handful of fashion magazines in her over-sized satchel. The drugs she would use to murder Zivia Uzamba were stowed with her clothing and toiletries in the bus cavity.
P.J. had once offered Zivia $4,500 for a Japanese side-part Barbie with silvery brunette hair that she was determined to add to her collection. When Zivia refused to sell the doll, P.J. bumped the offer to $4,750, then $5,000, and finally $5,200. Zivia continued to say no, and P.J. became enraged. Zivia had money, like she did, so this wasn’t about cash value. It was a power struggle.
It was hard to say why P.J. fell in love with that particular doll. She had seen other Japanese side-parts and found them attractive, but there was something about how Zivia’s doll’s full bangs complemented her extra full, slightly waved bob. When combined with her brilliant turquoise eye shadow, flawless strawberry-colored lips, and the fact that there was no discoloration whatsoever to the tip of her nose, the doll was a must-have.
There were many more rarities in Zivia’s collection that P.J. hungered for, including Japanese Francie, Skipper, and Midge dolls. Zivia also hoarded several outfits manufactured exclusively for the Japanese market that P.J. was anxious to acquire.
A tall man with disheveled hair and a prominent nose took the seat next to P.J., smiling as he sat down and made himself comfortable. He carried a thick book with a book light clipped to the binding. He also had a copy of the day’s L.A. Times and a black briefcase, which he slid under the seat ahead of him—a difficult feat since the space was so narrow.
“A little crowded,” he commented.
P.J. judged him to be a youthful forty-five, with barely a hint of gray in his dark hair and a small network of laugh lines near his eyes. He looked distinguished and out of place among the bus crowd.
He seemed to read her mind. “Beats driving,” he said. “Can’t read or get work done when you drive, and Amtrak doesn’t go to Vegas from here.”
“I know,” P.J. said. “But you could fly.”
She played with her bracelet nervously, afraid this man would want to talk the entire trip. She would parse down her sentences until she barely said a word and then tune him out entirely.
“Hate to fly,” he said, sounding earnest. “Something about being on the ground makes me feel a lot safer.”
He glanced down at the bracelet she was fingering.
“Barbie,” he said.
P.J. gasped.
“What, you’re surprised?” He stifled a laugh. “You got a sister who’s as into it as mine is, you know a Barbie bracelet when you see one.”
P.J. looked down at her wrist and cursed herself for wearing it. The gold-plated work of art by Patricia Field featured a Barbie silhouette charm that fell onto the back of her hand, glinting off her tanned skin. More than the shoe or the star or the handbag charms, the classic ponytail profile of the Barbie charm was a dead giveaway.
She opened her satchel and pulled out her stack of Elle, Glamour, Harper’s Bazaar, and Vogue magazines. She snuggled down in her seat—a near impossibility since they seemed to have no cushioning whatsoever—flipped over the top magazine, and started to read. Meanwhile, the man beside her buried himself in world news. She glanced over and he noticed.
“The Central African Republic has to be feeling extremely pregnable now.”
P.J. looked at him blankly. Who was pregnant?
He chuckled. “You don’t keep up with what’s happening, do you?”
With his right side virtually pressed against her left shoulder, the man turned slightly and extended his left hand toward her.
“Craig Krieger,” he said.
P.J. swallowed hard. “Devvon West.”
22
The San Luis Obispo Starbucks was in the Downtown Centre on the corner of Marsh and Morro.
Caresse’s date, Jerry, was her age nearly to the day. They’d both had birthdays in January, hers on New Year’s and his on the ninth. He resembled her cousin, which raised in her the impulse to give him a noogie, messing up the gel job he’d done on his auburn hair.
The barista behind the counter, a blonde in her twenties, worked quietly and efficiently, mastering chocolate, caramel, and peppermint combinations as she went. Her workmate, a definite rock star barista, greeted old friends and newbies like old pals.
“Caresse!” he screamed after scribbling her name on a Venti cup. “Venti. Venti … what’d you say you wanted? Where you been?”
“Here,” she replied.
Jerry had already placed his order for a toffee nut latte.
“Venti house,” she mumbled.
“Black is all I drink now,” she told Jerry. “It’s kind of a long story.”
No matter how things went, this date could never be as bad as date number two. On that disastrous outing, she had forgotten it was Farmers’ Market night and had a hell of a time finding a place to park. She ran to Brubeck’s, thanking the stars she wasn’t one of those chicks who needed to wear high, strappy sandals to impress on a blind date. Sneakers, jeans, and a gorgeous heliotrope top worked just fine. The sexy shoes would wait until she found out whether she was even attracted to the guy.