Bury Me With Barbie (21 page)

She left the room, and this time, the men stayed put on the couch.

“Milk? Sugar?” she called.

“Black,” Carter said.

“Got Sweet’N Low?” Rowell asked.

“Equal.”

“That’ll do,” he said.

She brought them two of her humorous mugs, hoping to lighten things up. One of them featured a moose holding a gun on a hunter, and the other featured a bunch of ghost children floating around two ghost moms with the caption, “It’s hard raising the dead.”

She ran to get hers last. Her mug was a plain white Starbucks cup with tasteful black lettering and the company logo. She sat back down on the couch opposite them, pulling her legs up into a pretzel and covering her lap with the blanket.

“So, Barbie,” Rowell began.

The phone rang again.

“Hi, Caresse. Hope I have the right number. I’m looking for Caresse. Caresse, my name is Rob Weber. You answered my personal ad. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I’ve been out of town with my stepfather. I’m back now, and I’d love to meet you. So, anyway, here’s where you can reach me.”

Rob left his number and said good-bye before disconnecting.

The investigators were tired of the calls.

“Can you unplug that thing or—”

“Sure.” She turned off the ringer and gave the men a halfhearted smile.

“So, Barbie,” Rowell said. “Why Barbie?”

Ah, the psychology of doll collecting. She was on familiar ground, finally.

“Well, until lately, I didn’t know owning them posed a danger,” she said. “Except maybe for Dave Barry, who’s always experimenting with them in conjunction with Pop Tarts and toasters. If you saw how many adults are into Barbie doll collecting, you probably wouldn’t believe it.”

“You’re right,” Rowell said. “We probably wouldn’t.”

Carter took a sip from the Larson ghost mug, looked at it and almost cracked a smile. “Where were you on Saturday?” he asked.

“At Laguna Lake with my son Chaz.”

“And he can verify that?”

“Well, he’s only four. I don’t think he’d lie. It was his friend Tessa’s birthday, and there was a party for her at the playground there.”

Finally, she’d said something right. She could see it on their faces.

“You wouldn’t happen to have notes from your interview with Nancy about her doll case collection, would you?” Rowell asked.

She couldn’t jump up fast enough. Her elbow slid off her thigh and her cup jerked. Some hot coffee splashed out, but the thick blanket absorbed it quickly. She held it out for a moment and then dropped it on the floor. “I can do better than notes.” She ran over to her computer desk and opened the top drawer. She retrieved her micro-cassette recorder and popped a tiny tape out. “I record everyone I talk to so I can capture quotes verbatim.”

She took the tape over to Rowell and handed it to him. He looked at it as if he’d never seen one before.

A bag materialized in Carter’s hands, and Rowell dropped it into the clear sleeve. Carter marked and sealed it before handing it back to Rowell so he could put it in his briefcase.

“And Nancy’s husband took pictures for the story, which she emailed to you. Might you have those?”

“I sure do.” She ran back to her computer and loaded her photo folder named NANCY onto a USB flash drive. The folder contained not only the photos Nancy had emailed her, but a copy of her finished story for
Barbie International
as well.

Carter went through his baggie routine, and the flash drive was sealed and marked. “We’ll get it back to you once we have the pictures on our hard drive.”

“We have your address,” Rowell added.

“Indeed you do.” She remained standing. She had nothing more to give them and she wanted them to leave. When they didn’t budge, she returned to the couch across from them and sat back down.

“So you know a lot about Barbie,” Carter said.

“More than the average Joe. I’ve been on the Sammy Stoudt Show on KVEC Radio. And I’ve appraised dolls at public events.”

“That call you got from your brother about the double homicide in Vegas,” Rowell said. “We believe someone’s stealing dolls and killing the women who owned them.”

A chill ran down her spine. She had already known it in her heart, but to hear them say it aloud, without emotion, left her paralyzed.

“So we might need someone who’s considered an expert to talk to,” Carter said.

She thought—briefly—about steering them in the direction of Sierra Walsh, or any of the employees at
Barbie International
. They would be able to do as well as she could. But it was so cool they were actually asking her for help, she couldn’t say no. Ann was going to love this. “Sure. Call me anytime. Or better yet, email me. Do you have my email address?”

Rowell looked at his notes. “It’s c-a-r-e-s-s-e-r-e-d-d, all one word?”

“Right.”

At last they stood up, prompting her to rise and walk them to the door.

Carter handed one of his cards to Rowell, and Rowell combined it with one of his before handing both to her.

“We want you to think about why someone would be doing this,” Rowell said.

“Sure.”

She had mistaken their reserved professionalism as judgmental and cold. Now she suspected they might even respect her.

The door was open.

“Any chance you taped the radio show you were on?” Carter asked.

She grinned. “I’ve got it here somewhere, and I’ll send you a copy.”

The next day, P.J. returned to Darby’s apartment in Glendale. She was driving a U-Haul she’d rented in Burbank, and was dressed for the part in Liz Claiborne overalls and a plain blue ball cap. As she pulled into the parking garage and parked the U-Haul as close as she could to the storage unit, she debated whether or not she should go knock on Darby’s door.

Ultimately, she voted against it. His scooter rested neatly against the garage wall, and the world was quiet save for the sound of birds singing their blues away. As she loaded each set of drawers into the truck, she flashed back to the Nancy Roth murder.

She had arrived at Nancy’s condo at 4 p.m. Saturday, pressing way too close to the time she felt Nancy’s husband might return from his job at the used car lot a few miles away. Northbound traffic had been a bitch, and she was feeling frazzled.

Dressed in dark jeans and an extra-large, black leather motorcycle jacket, she had covered her head with a red wig she pulled from her extensive Halloween costume stash. She fancied she looked a bit like Ginger
on Gilligan’s Island
, complete with the facial mole and pouty lips. No one would see the beautiful blond killer depicted in the Vegas Police sketch in the face of the ravishing redhead she’d temporarily become.

The .380 Makarov pistol with the Darby-devised slip-on silencer rested in a deep-pocketed vest she wore inside her jacket. With one hand inside her coat, she released the safety and rang the doorbell. The empty duffel bags were jammed inside the back of her jacket, strapped to her vest with electrical tape.

A hoarse voice called, “It’s open! Come on in!”

P.J. pushed the door open slowly and looked around, taking an instant mental snapshot. Nancy was at her desk, sitting in front of her computer. Her dark hair was highlighted burgundy, and she appeared to be somewhat short and heavy. The computer desk was adjacent to the kitchen table, where four laminated chairs were pulled in tight. The place was country cute, decorated with ducks and hearts, bunnies and whimsy.

It was a straight shot from the front door to Nancy. Nothing stood in the way.

P.J. stepped in and closed the door behind her.

With a smile on her face, Nancy turned to see who it was. She was the kind of woman who knew her neighbors, the kind of friend who had an open door policy and made sure she made baskets of muffins and cookies for parties and potlucks.

Moving her feet a few spaces apart, P.J. took her stance, pulled the gun and fired at Nancy point-blank.

Pfft!

One shot hit the chair Nancy sat in and blew it to shreds.

Pfft!

The second shot nailed Nancy in the forehead. She flew back toward the desk and then forward onto the carpet.

P.J. approached and stood over her.

Nancy was face down in the blue carpeting, her right arm outstretched, her left arm toward her side.

Pfft!

Pfft!

Pfft!

P.J. fired shots into Nancy’s head and torso at close range, watching the blood pool out and turn the carpet a sticky grape.

Glancing at the ducky wall clock in the kitchen, she realized it had all gone down in a matter of a minute. Without a window facing the street and only small ones in the kitchen and dining room facing out back, she was confident no one had seen her. Nevertheless, she went to lower the blinds on both the small windows, singing the
Gilligan’s Island
theme song as she crossed the room.

Crossing back toward the door, she stepped over the body to lock the front entrance, lest any cheerful neighbors pop in.

Wouldn’t they be surprised?
P.J. thought, stifling a short laugh.

Upstairs, next to the master bedroom, a bland, beige room was crammed floor to ceiling with goodies. She stopped to remove her jacket and put the safety back on the gun before tucking it into her vest pocket. Next, she stripped off the tape around her body and removed the duffel bags from her back, unfolding them and snapping them flat like bed sheets.

In went the Mattel wallets, in went the Ponytail pencil cases, in went the Tutti play cases. In went Tutti, Carla, Chris, and Todd. In went Sundae Treat, NRFB. In went Buffy and her little doll Mrs. Beasley. In went Lori and her little bear, Rori; Angie and her little doll Tangie; and Fran and her little doll Nan. In went the white, red, and black versions of the Barbie and Midge Travel Pals, and a Lunch Kit for good measure. In went the Tutti suitcase featuring graphics of Tutti standing on a stone pathway in front of a wooden door. And then P.J. saw it on the shelf. She blinked once, then twice. It was the Swing-A-Ling Tutti Round Train Case she had paid Nancy for but never received. Nancy had kept it, sending P.J. an empty package instead.

Red swam in P.J.’s line of vision, and she had to hold onto the shelf to steady herself. The notes on the Best Barbie Board stung anew.

P.J. could barely see straight as she zipped the duffel bags, retrieved her jacket, and marched downstairs. She stepped over Nancy and stomped over to the computer, dropping the bags and kicking the shattered chair out of the way.

Nancy was still logged on to the Best Barbie Board, her legal paperwork stacked next to the keyboard. P.J. squatted down and began to type in the blank message window in the center of the screen.

P.J. hit send and stepped back from the monitor, watching as the message posted itself at the end of the long stream of endless chatter.

Gilligan’s Island
was far from her thoughts now.

With full force, she lunged at the monitor and knocked it a good six feet off the desk

She stepped back twelve paces and aimed her gun at the computer itself.

Pfft!

Pfft!

Pfft!

P.J. approached the desk. The motherboard was clearly broken.

Pfft!

It flew off the desk and clattered on the kitchen floor.

Composing herself, P.J. put the gun back in her vest. Then she grabbed her duffel bags, stepped over Nancy, and made her way toward the front door.

She opened the door and looked outside. She had no idea how long she had been inside Nancy’s condo, but the street was quiet. She was ready to head to her car. With a moderately quick step, she made it to the Miata and threw the duffel bags in back. She was parked in front a single-story home. Curtains on the picture window parted momentarily, and a bald man peered out and squinted.

P.J. smiled at him, jumped in her car, and pulled away from the curb.

In short order, she was back on the freeway, and the cooler evening air began to clear her mind.

The sun was setting and clouds painted the horizon.

She would sleep better that night than she had in weeks.

Caresse’s story ran in the weekend edition, and she was overwhelmed with compliments. Her story was up for best feature of the month, and she was glad she’d made an impression.

At work, Anthony had assumed Jenna’s job with aplomb, but he had taken a definite disliking to Jenna’s entourage, which Ann had recently dubbed “the enter-tainted.”

When he came over to Caresse’s desk and noticed the Ken Cop near Ann’s phone, talk turned to, of all things, Barbie.

Anthony was well groomed and impeccably dressed, and the women at work agreed there was nothing quite as wonderful as a man who smelled good every day. He wore clear gloss on his nails and had impeccable taste in clothes. His hair was cropped short in a highlighted, blond crew cut, and his Italian loafers were buffed to a high shine.

“I like Ken myself,” Anthony said that afternoon, holding Ann’s cop in his hands as if the doll were fragile or expensive. “Do you go to any shows?”

“I make it to the ones in Anaheim sometimes,” Caresse told him. “I write show reviews for
Barbie International
.”

“The last time I went to a show with Matthias—we’re in a committed relationship, just so you know I’m taken—we saw a Shimmering Magic ensemble a dealer had on her table, and Matthias said, ‘That’s a mint Shimmering Magic,’ and I looked real close and saw a slight stain on the bodice of the dress and said, ‘No, it’s not, it’s got a stain on the bodice.’ And he said, not missing a beat, ‘Well, it’s a
mint
stain.’ Wait! Did you just say you write for
Barbie International
?”