Bury Me With Barbie (24 page)

P.J. was back at the Glendale Market at a quarter till ten on Monday evening. She waited for Jordanne to finish her shift and then watched as the petite blonde exited, removing her red apron as she walked.

Parked in an adjacent lot, P.J. had a good enough vantage point to see the young woman get in an older Mustang, throw her apron and small purse in the passenger seat, and start her engine. Keeping a safe distance behind, P.J. followed her to Concord Street, where she made a left turn followed by a right onto Arden Avenue.

Jordanne crossed the intersection at Estelle and pulled over to the curb in the 800-block of Arden. P.J. drove past and parked farther up the street, getting out of her Miata so she could watch Jordanne get out of her car and enter her apartment building.

Walking back up the block, P.J. stopped in front of Jordanne’s residence. A light went on in the upstairs unit on the left. Inside, Jordanne went over to her front window and opened the drapes. She looked out, onto the street below, and saw P.J. standing there.

As quickly as she’d opened the drapes, she shut them.

P.J. laughed, a low, guttural chuckle.

Jordanne ran across the small living room to her phone and dialed Darby’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

“Your sister’s outside,” Jordanne whispered.

“What? Jordanne, is that you?”

Jordanne cleared her throat and tried to speak louder, but her vocal chords were constricted. “Your sister is here.”

“Here? What do you mean, here?”

“She’s outside.”

Darby struggled to understand. “Outside?”

“I saw her from my window, standing on the sidewalk, looking up at me.”

There was a loud rap on Jordanne’s apartment door.

“Oh, my God, Darby,” Jordanne said. “I think she’s here.”

Caresse knew something was up with Ann before she even made it to her desk first thing Monday morning.

“The FBI is all over it!” She yelled, only a notch below a shout. Others in the newsroom turned to stare.

“What?”

“The Barbie doll murder cases are all connected,” she said, lowering her voice. “So the FBI is treating it as the work of a serial killer-slash-killers, and—”

“And?”

Ann flipped back her hair with a flourish and presented Caresse with a fat manila envelope. “Open it.”

Caresse’s hands shook as she undid the clasp on the back. The front of the envelope was marked “WCPD,” which meant the Walnut Creek Police Department had come through with photos from Nancy’s file.

She was unprepared to see the photos. Even though they were black and white, the amount of blood pooled beneath Nancy seemed excessive. The gunshot wounds gaped wide like open mouths, and she thanked God she could not see the victim’s face, which was buried in the carpet.

There was a shot of Nancy’s shattered chair, pushed away from the computer desk. It looked like it had been hit at close range by a cannon. Another shot showed Nancy’s computer monitor, lying on its side on the kitchen floor where it had been thrown, several feet from the desk. Close-ups of Nancy’s computer showed it had been riddled with gunfire, rendered as useless as a bookend on an empty bookcase.

The next shots were of Nancy’s doll room, shelf by shelf, starting at the top and traveling left to right along each one. While some collectibles remained, there were spaces where missing items had been. Since Nancy’s entire collection was kept on open shelves, it would be possible to determine everything taken after assessing what remained.

She took a deep breath. The next few pictures seemed insignificant. They were photographs of the floor in the doll room. The first showed bits of gray electrical tape stuck to the rug. Another showed a clear shoe imprint in the carpeting at the top of the stairs. Still another showed an extreme close-up of a red hair found on the staircase landing.

“This is awesome,” she told Ann.

“I took notes. You want to hear?”

She looked around the newsroom. Seth wasn’t in yet, so now was as good a time as any. “Game on.”

Ann smoothed out her shirt and forced herself to sit, facing her computer. “I typed as I talked to them,” she said. “Time of death, approximately 4 p.m. on Saturday, so Nancy’s husband was at work. The killer must have known that.

“Neighbor reported seeing a redheaded female who was a stranger in the neighborhood get into a white, four-speed Miata roadster in front of his house sometime after 5 p.m. She was wearing an over-sized black leather jacket.

“Victim died of six gunshot wounds to the head and torso. Weapon was a .380 Makarov pistol, likely used with a silencer, as no shots were heard in the neighborhood around the time of the murder.

“No sign of forced entry. Victim either knew the killer or the door was open.

“Blinds lowered on both small windows. Husband says blinds were always kept raised to let light in since the condo was generally so dark.

“Items missing from doll room to be determined. No list available at this time.”

Caresse exhaled. That was a lot to take in.

“Okay, you got that so far?” Ann asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. So let’s start at the beginning. The first murder was in Oswego, New York. The husband and wife were murdered in a car explosion at SUNY Oswego, but dolls were taken from the home. A list is available of the missing dolls.

“An eyewitness who was in Sheldon Hall, the building which overlooks the parking lot, came forward two weeks ago and said he saw a blond woman in white, spike-heeled boots hanging near the Grace vehicle for a while before getting into an Altima which bore an Enterprise rental sticker.

“The Oswego police took impressions of the spiked-heel boots and car tires. The Altima was rented from the East Avenue Enterprise dealership in Oswego to a Devvon West, residing on 1275 West 29
^th
Street, Los Angeles, California 90007. That address, as you might have expected, isn’t a residential address. It belongs to the Terrace Apartments, built in the early ’80s exclusively for USC student housing.”

Caresse was familiar with the building. It stood where Terrace Avenue met 29th Street. She was beginning to feel cold, even though she was wearing a heavy sweater. She didn’t like the coincidence that the address the killer used had a connection to her alma mater.

Up front, the lobby doors opened and Caresse saw Monya from the antiques store enter. The skinny guy with jet-black hair and
Blues Brothers
shades from her shop was there to help her along, and his gentle patience warmed Caresse’s heart.

Already at her post up front, Laura was in full gossip mode on the phone, but she stopped when she saw Caresse’s flamboyant friend. “Some dress!” she exclaimed at the sight of Monya’s muumuu du jour, a green and gold affair that glinted like a money tray in the morning light streaming through the lobby windows.

“Thank you, darling,” Monya said.

Skinny guy was holding a manila envelope thicker than the one Ann had already handed Caresse.

“I’m looking for Ms. Redd,” she announced.

“Hold on, Ann,” Caresse said, rushing up front.

Monya had brought her a stack of pictures sent to her by her sister Sophie, who had gotten them from Gayle Grace’s sister, Megan.

“Everyone knows Megan and Gayle inventoried Gayle’s dolls, but not everyone knows Megan photographed them for insurance purposes.”

For the second time that morning, Caresse’s hands shook as she undid an envelope clasp. Inside were photos—good, clear photos—of every 1600-series outfit ever made, modeled by a near-flawless array of American Girls.

“We’re thinking that if you have photos of the actual dolls and you see any of them during the course of your professional investigation, you can be certain they belonged to Gayle,” Monya said, sounding grave.

Caresse looked her flashy friend, whom she had already grown so fond of, squarely in the eye.

Professional investigation
. Monya was taking her seriously, and Caresse loved her for it. She would not let her down. She reached for Monya’s hand and saw that her nails were burnished saffron. Despite the wrinkles and liver spots, there was strength in her grasp that belied her years.

“Thank you for these,” she said. “I’ll take good care of them.”

She returned to her desk and watched Monya leave.

“Was that for an obit?” Ann asked.

“No, it’s about this,” she said, holding up one of the photos. “Pictures of what’s missing from Gayle’s collection.”

Ann was impressed. “You’re really working this.”

“You’ve already told me so much, my head is ready to explode.”

“Great. Then I’ll just keep talking.”

“I knew you would.”

The pounding on the door continued.

“Don’t let her in, whatever you do,” Darby advised. “I’ll be right over.”

“Okay,” Jordanne said, ending the call.

Staying a safe distance from the door, Jordanne walked in circles before heading to her couch. She buried her face in a pillow, trying not to scream.

Across the hallway, a door opened.

“What the hell is going on?”

Jordanne had never been so happy to hear her neighbor Neil’s voice. He might not be able to take P.J. down, but his ability to be loud, particularly when disturbed by noise, was considerable. P.J. responded in a low voice. Jordanne couldn’t catch what she said.

“If she’s not home, she’s not home. Come back tomorrow!” Neil shouted.

Again, P.J. responded quietly.

“Then she’s home and she doesn’t want to see you! I don’t blame her!”

Jordanne listened as P.J. clattered down the staircase.

Once out on the street, P.J. stood there, looking up at Jordanne’s closed curtains. Her rage burned white-hot. She assumed Jordanne had called Darby, and she had no wish to deal with him. Their cousin Lynne was insane, and she herself was homicidal. There was no question Darby was cut from the same crazy cloth.

P.J. jumped into her Miata, gunning it down Arden to Concord to Glenoaks, heading back home to the safety of Burbank.

Chaz wanted to go to Taco Bell that night for dinner, so Caresse drove them to the Madonna Plaza, where they got enough food for a small army. After they settled themselves at a table near the soda dispenser, she spread out the notes she received from Ann and re-read them.

Murders one and two, Gayle and Mike Grace, Oswego, New York, car explosion. List available of dolls taken. Eyewitness noticed blond female near Grace vehicle. Drove Altima rented from Enterprise. Used Devvon West I.D. with L.A. address. Wore white spike-heeled boots
.

She added,
Photos of dolls taken available through Monya, who got them from Sophie, who got them from Megan, Gayle’s sister. Write to Craig and confirm the woman on the bus to Vegas told him her name was Devvon West
.

Murder three, Hailey Raphael, Tucson, Arizona, tack hammer. Complete (?) list available of dolls taken. No eyewitnesses. Blond hair recovered from scene
.

Murder four, Time Taylor, Oak Harbor, Washington, chemical explosion. Complete (?) list available of dolls taken. No eyewitnesses. Fingerprints on battery. Footprint impressions in carpet
.

Murders five and six, Zivia and Rick Uzamba, Las Vegas, Nevada, lethal injection. Complete (?) list available of dolls taken. Eyewitnesses saw blond woman near bottom of driveway. Police sketch available. Numerous footprints determined to be from Nike Huaraches, men’s size nine, spot of serum (?) near back entrance
.

Murder seven, Nancy Roth, Walnut Creek, California, shot (.380 Makarov pistol with silencer). Bullets recovered. Time of death obtained: approximately 4 p.m. Man living nearby reported seeing woman (described as having red hair, wearing an over-sized black leather jacket, driving a white four-speed Miata roadster) in front of his house sometime after 5 p.m. No sign of forced entry. Victim either knew killer or the door was unlocked/open. Blinds lowered on both small windows (atypical, according to husband). Husband not considered suspect—present and accounted for at work at victim’s time of death
.

She added the note,
Photos of doll room supplied by Walnut Creek PD to be compared to photos sent by Nancy for
Barbie International
feature
.

She had the most to go on with murders one/two and seven, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try to garner more information on the others. She put her head in her hands and sighed.

“Mama.” Chaz climbed off his seat and went over to her, giving her a bear hug around the waist. She looked down at his little taco face and picked a crumb off his cheek.

“You know this isn’t a very healthy dinner,” she told him.

“Yeah, but it’s fun,” he grinned, reprising his first hug with one more fierce.

The leftovers were bagged and taken back to Caresse’s apartment, where she discovered the March issue of
Barbie International
wedged inside her mailbox.

At 3 p.m. on Tuesday, March 4th, P.J. returned to Jordanne’s apartment. She had spent most of Monday night worrying that Darby would storm over and attack her for bothering his girlfriend. Nothing played out.

Now Jordanne was at work and the unit across from hers, occupied by Jordanne’s confrontational neighbor, was quiet.

P.J. carded the door and let herself in.

She was there to find her blond American Girl dressed in Senior Prom, and she wasn’t going to leave until she’d gotten her back.

The apartment stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweet perfume.

Her first move, once inside, was to close Jordanne’s slightly parted drapes, covering the window that overlooked the street.

She looked around the boxy abode, with its front living room, back kitchenette, tiny bathroom, and single bedroom. Furnishings were sparse, and there were few places to hide treasures. P.J. went into the kitchen and pulled out every drawer, rummaging through bills and silverware, paper clips and pens. She systematically checked each cupboard, sneering at the cheesy Corelle dinnerware and cheap pots and pans. Spices were non-existent, as were condiments. The refrigerator/freezer yielded nothing aside from salad fixings, Diet Dr. Pepper, and Chunky Monkey ice cream.