Bury Me With Barbie (14 page)

Standing beside the threesome was the doll P.J. craved—the Japanese side-part Barbie with silvery brunette hair that Zivia refused to sell. She was dressed in a gown exclusive to the Japanese market, a pink satin masterpiece with a beaded bodice. P.J. clasped her gloved hands to her mouth and let out a squeal. There could be no attempt to fan out any remaining dolls evenly among the shelves when she was done. She wanted as many as she could take. Hell, she wanted them all.

She ran downstairs, past the music room where Rick remained motionless on the floor, and glanced at the big screen where Bruce Willis and Jessica Alba were deep in conversation.

P.J. ran into the hidden storage room and scooped up a hammer, four olive green duffel bags stamped “Army” that were lying in the corner, and her own camel-colored duffel.

Hurrying back upstairs, she ran to the bathroom. Zivia was lying in the same position, and her open eyes were dull. P.J. was certain she was dead, but dared to check her pulse.

Nothing.

P.J. returned to the doll room and smashed the bottom cases. She snatched the Japanese American Girls, taking special care in handling the one she had been so desperate to claim for herself.

Next in the lineup came scores of Japanese Francies. The ones in Zivia’s collection were all brunettes. Some had pink lips, blue eyes, and brown eyebrows. Others had red lips, blue eyes, and darker brown eyebrows. A third variety had rose lips with dark brown eyes and brows. It was the brown-eyed ones that captivated P.J. the most. Barbie’s teenage cousin had never looked so good.

Blond, brunette, and redheaded Skippers came next. They each had huge, dark brown eyes, very dark brows, and pale lips. All wore kimonos in an array of colors and patterns.

Next to them stood a handful of Japanese Midge dolls that Hailey Raphael would have loved to own. These dolls struck P.J. as similar to Fashion Queen dolls; both had lash ridges and molded hair with blue plastic hairbands. The Midge dolls in Zivia’s collection wore a series of dresses sold only in Japan, including floral-print sheaths in yellow and blue, a unique version of Suburban Shopper in a bold floral print, and Friday Night Date in a bright yellow and orange floral pattern, utilizing the same white petticoat as the U.S. version.

The rest of the Japanese-exclusive outfits were modeled by swirl Barbies, which P.J. liked every bit as much as American Girls. A bevy of babes with brunette, red, platinum blond, ash blond, and standard blond swirl ponytails wore outfits as diverse as a pink version of Sleeping Pretty; Cinderella featuring a gold, fringe-trimmed veil; Candy Striper Volunteer with a pink gingham and floral pinafore; and Theatre Date done in the reverse brocade of Evening Splendor.

After that came row upon row of bubble cuts and early ponytails wearing outfits like Gold ‘N Glamour, Evening Gala, Sunday Visit, and International Fair.

Into the duffels they went, all of them, without exception.

When P.J. had over 200 dolls packed in the four Army duffels, she assessed the situation and realized she would need to make two trips. She picked up two packed Army duffels and her empty, bland duffel and headed downstairs. She walked slower than she needed to, admiring the opulence of the home as she departed.

She stopped again at the music room to see if
Sin City
had ended. Not quite, but close.

P.J. went into the music room and carefully removed the iced-out jewelry from around Rick’s neck. There was a crucifix measuring approximately four inches long and a half-inch thick, encrusted with diamonds on both sides. There was also a hefty chrome medallion featuring Jesus’ face, with diamonds scattered throughout his crown of thorns. A skeleton with a kama weapon, a skull with diamond eyes, and a Last Supper pendant rounded out the mix. After collecting the pieces and stuffing them into a duffel bag, P.J. went into the storage room.

She loaded her camel duffel full of guns for Darby and then went into the room with her socks and sneakers. The dyshidrosis on her feet was worsening. She’d had the condition since she was in college, and it tended to flare up when she was under stress. Standing near the sliding glass door, using light from the lampposts outside, she took off her gloves and scratched her bare feet. The ugly blisters were beginning to flare up on her index fingers as well. She popped one of the blisters on her finger and then scratched the inside of her right foot vigorously, putting her gloves back on when she was done.

Once her gloves, socks, and sneakers were back on, she removed the contents of her breast pockets and tucked them into the camel duffel, looking twice at the four strips of 15-milligram Dormicum tablets she hadn’t used. She supposed they might come in handy sometime, but for this occasion, liquid dosages administered by needle had worked brilliantly.

Running back to the hidden storage room, she grabbed the metal box filled with hundred-dollar bills and carried it over to the camel duffel filled with guns. The box wouldn’t fit, but with careful placement, the money could be stuffed into crannies and still zip properly.

P.J. went out the same way she had entered, through the sliding glass door. She hurried across the lawn and up the side of the house, where the shrubbery was thick.

She was almost home free, but not quite. As she was just about to cross the driveway, she was forced to pull back into the shadows of a large bush. A red Mercedes was pulling into the driveway, its CD player blaring Lil Beef music at full volume.

“Hey!” the driver shouted.

There was a second man in the car, just as muscular, just as menacing.

P.J. felt faint. She had nowhere to go, so she squatted in the darkness and held her breath.

There was sufficient buzz in the national news about the Oswego and Tucson murders to warrant Caresse being interviewed as a Barbie expert by Sammy Stoudt on KVEC.

Before lunchtime on Friday, she headed over to the small radio station on Zaca Lane on foot, since it was a mere fifth of a mile from work. No one told her who had arranged the interview. Todd? Marilyn? Another friend? Didn’t much matter, as long as she was spreading Barbie love far and wide.

She stepped into the pleasant lobby at half past eleven and took a seat across from the receptionist. A bowl of Valentine conversation heart candies sat in a covered dish on the woman’s desk. Caresse trained her eyes on the glass, trying to read the little sayings as she waited. Music was playing, and it was her kind: Top Forty. As she listened to pop hits, Caresse decided the pink heart in the dish facing her read “WANT U,” the mint green one read “U R MINE,” the white one read “EZ 2 LUV” and the yellow one read “PURR FECT.”

Sammy Stoudt, as fast on his feet as he was quick-witted, stormed into the lobby and zeroed in on her. He was a burly man, dressed in a flannel shirt and khakis, with a full lumberjack beard. “Caresse!” he boomed in his deep, made-for-broadcast voice.

She jumped up. “That’s me.”

He appraised her, from her windblown brown hair and haphazard clothing to her tennis shoes. He was likely thinking,
Thank God this isn’t television
.

“Come on back,” he said, and she meekly followed him into the recording studio.

“Is there a way to get an audio recording of the show?” she asked, doubtful.

“Of course,” he said, surprising her. “It’s a no-pay gig, but we’ve got some class. You’ll get a nice recording for posterity to share with your grandchildren.”

Caresse wasn’t thinking about any grandchildren that might or might not be in her future. She was thinking it would be nice to share with friends who missed the broadcast.

Sammy expertly positioned the mic and motioned for her to be quiet. The clock on the wall showed it was nearing the top of the hour. Sammy gave a short mention about her before heading into national news. They sat through the top stories and commercials quietly, smiling at each other without speaking. Then, on schedule, a red light above the door that said “On Air” lit up, and it was show time.

With great reluctance, P.J. went with Darby to a party in Venice Beach for their Aunt Liz and Uncle Stuart’s fortieth wedding anniversary.

They lived in the 600 block of Boccaccio Avenue, a healthy hike inland from the ocean, but to P.J., they were so far from the Pacific, they might as well have lived in the San Fernando Valley.

That most Venice bungalows cost more than a million dollars seemed wrong. She would put that down for a home in Burbank Hills anytime—and in fact, she and her husband had.

Images of charming little homes overlooking the canals, tourists thronging the boardwalk to peruse assortments of five-dollar sunglasses and t-shirts while listening to guitarists, couples strolling along the fishing pier at the end of Washington Boulevard—the appeal of this was lost on P.J., and she would never get it. Darby, on the other hand, reveled in the fact that so many Beat Generation artists from this laid-back surfers’ paradise sent out ripples that influenced the world. He swore their spirits remained and invigorated the entire area, spilling into Santa Monica and beyond like vibrant paint bleeding off the edge of a weather-beaten canvas.

P.J. was in the driver’s seat, gunning her white, four-speed Miata roadster around every curve on the freeway. Darby relaxed on the passenger side, reveling in the knowledge that he now had a bigger and better collection of firearms than possibly anyone else in Glendale, thanks to his half-sister.

His eyes had been bigger than Jupiter when she brought the gun bag into his apartment and unzipped it, presenting each gun as though she had fashioned it herself in a workshop.

Despite the wind and the noise of the traffic, Darby shut his eyes and rambled about how cool the guns were, how truly
special
the collection was, and how truly great she was to think of him.

Somewhere in the midst of his babble on Mossberg hammerless, pump action repeaters, P.J. recounted what had happened the night of her escape from Vegas.

* * *

The red Mercedes pulled into the driveway. The huge man at the wheel hadn’t shouted because he’d seen her. He was talking animatedly with the man who sat beside him, taking no notice of P.J
.

“Hey! You tell that bitch what you think?”

“Sure did. Soon as she get back.”

“How you find out?”

They got out of the car and both car doors slammed simultaneously
.

“Big Joe. He say she outta town”

“And she borrow money from you for a what?”

“Say she need an operation.”

The muscular men were on their way up the impossibly long driveway, their backs turned toward P.J. as they made the trek
.

“So she don’t need no operation?”

“Say she ain’t got no medical insurance, but Big Joe say she do.”

“She tell you she need money for an operation and she in Reno?”

“Gambling, dawg. All of it gone.”

“Sheeee-it.”

Their voices were fading and P.J. took a tentative step out of the shadows. It was now or never
.

Picking up the duffels, she walked as briskly as she could, considering the weight she carried, past the cherry-tomato sports car. At the bottom of the driveway, she dared to glance back. The men were at the door, talking, when one of them turned and looked down the driveway
.