by Wyborn Senna
Number Four. The Realtor. Ooh-hoo-hoo. Well, I learned a few things this time out—specifically, what I don’t like in a date. First, I don’t like a car that’s older than I am. I don’t like butts overflowing in the ashtray. Above all, I don’t like a glove compartment crammed full of White Owl Cigars and Irish folk music. All that would be fine if I dug that stuff, but I don’t, so the date was pretty much over before it began. Lunch at Fat Cats was pleasant, but the onion rings gave me indigestion. Also—and I’m just learning this—I don’t think I have much in common with most men born in the ’50s. Stats: Gray hair, mustache, fifty-five years old, divorced, two kids. Scorecard: Dead air, no laughter, no common points of reference, no second date.
Number Five. The Electrical Contractor. Sunshine Doughnuts at 8 a.m. in San Luis Obispo? Color me crazy. This date taxed me conversationally, but we found common ground talking about parenthood. Within half an hour, we were both glad the date had been just a before-work stop. Outside, we shook hands, wished each other well, and never promised to call. Stats: Graying brown hair, hazel eyes, thirty-seven, boyishly good-looking, not too tall, two kids. Scorecard: Quick chitchat, no spark, no second date.
Number Six. The Stockbroker. Every woman should date a man who is twelve years younger and *prefers older women*. If he’s attracted to you, it is like going out with a playful puppy. The question is: do you like playful puppies? We met at The Graduate, where an office party was in progress and Legally Blonde was showing on the big screen. Stats: Brown hair, brown eyes, twenty-five, 5′9″, fully loaded with muscles and money. Scorecard: No sweet talk, one hell of a hickey, great Gradburgers, and too much eagerness. No second date.
Number Seven. The One that Got Away. Wow. I took the big fall over this guy. Lunch at Outlaw’s in Atascadero—our first date—lasted hours. The physical chemistry between us wouldn’t quit. He has an offbeat, unusual sense of humor and is musically gifted, artistically balancing out my love of writing. We are both goal-oriented and have specific things we want to accomplish in this lifetime. Comfortable around each other, we were a comfort to each other. Neither of us has chosen a conventional route through life, and we both have roughly equal amounts of baggage.
Unfortunately, some of his baggage was left unfinished, nixing any happy ending for us. One thing is certain—I think things would have worked, and I would have liked them to. Stats: Tall, hunky, fun, sexy, blond-haired, bearded, forty-one, with sweet blue eyes and a to-die-for voice. Scorecard: One afternoon together, one massive make-out session, one broken heart. But hey, who’s counting? Unfortunately, no second date.
Caresse gazed at a favorite Barbie she kept on a stand atop her tiny bookcase next to her printer. No wonder I love dolls so much, she thought. They never disappoint me.
She smiled and saved her work. Then she opened her email and sent the article to Jenna, who would be at the County Times till the end of the week, training her replacement. Caresse had heard the paper was bringing in an outsider, someone from New York City, and that that person was a “he.”
Someone knocked loudly on her door and she smiled at the timing. The feature was done and her schedule was clear. Should she be nervous about talking to the Walnut Creek police? Too late to worry about that now.
She answered the door.
A huge African-American guy who looked like a massive bailiff and a small blond guy with a pasty complexion filled her front doorway. She ushered them in and shook their hands when they introduced themselves. The big guy was Ince Rowell, and his sidekick was August Carter.
Caresse pointed toward the couch facing the window and chose the one across from them for herself. She had opened the drapes behind her so the men might be distracted into focusing on the outdoors rather than her. Chances of that were slim, though. The street was quiet at this time of day, and looking at the trees got way old real fast.
She sat down carefully. The couch beneath the window offered a better vantage point for viewing TV shows. The sound was muted, but she had left All My Children on. She frowned. The fleeting images weren’t going to distract her. Nothing would. She worried she’d be in handcuffs and on her way to jail within twenty minutes even though she hadn’t done anything. The men were dressed in dark suits, without ties. Both their dress shirts were open at the collar. She imagined this was to create a more relaxed vibe, but she wasn’t feeling it.
“So, Ms. Redd,” Rowell began.
The landline rang once, twice, thrice. They all stared at it the phone the desk.
“Don’t worry,” she said. She raised her bare feet up onto the couch and grabbed the nearby hand-knit blanket to cover them. She was shivering inside her sweats.
“They’ll leave a messa—” she started.
The outdated answering machine kicked in, and they listened.
42
Heath Walsh rose early for a game of golf with a few pals at the Lakeside Golf Course in Burbank, leaving household matters to his wife.
As usual, P.J. slept in whenever the magazine staff had the day off, but once she was up, she was all business. After reminding the maid, Vicky, that Chao could use a morning walk, she made sure her personal assistant, Wendy, had scheduled to pick up Heath’s suits for dry cleaning, checked on the delivery time of a living room sofa she was having reupholstered, and talked to the landscaper about trimming the shrubs that lined her front walk. Finally, she enjoyed a breakfast of waffles and fresh strawberries prepared by her chef, Michel, out in the back garden before heading to her exercise room to pack up her recent hauls to move to Darby’s garage in Glendale.
She discarded the notion of keeping a low profile and dressed for the day in a sequined top, tight black leather jeans, and spiked heels. She tied her long blond hair back with a chiffon ribbon and took extra care with her makeup. While she had missed it on nightly news, she found clips posted on YouTube surrounding the Uzamba murders. The composite drawing that supposedly captured what Rick’s friends saw of her from the doorstep of Rick and Zivia Uzamba’s home was completely off base. They had recalled her blond hair correctly, but it had been tied back, so there was nothing to indicate how long it was. Facial features themselves were vague. The drawing almost resembled Heidi Klum, with dark eyes and lean, hollow cheeks. In fact, P.J. had apple cheeks and blue eyes, and looked more like a living Barbie doll than Heidi Klum ever would.
When she arrived at Darby’s apartment building in Glendale, she parked her car out front and went to his unit with one box-load strapped to her luggage cart. When she rang the bell and got no answer, she used her key and let herself in. Standing there in the center of his living room, she listened to the silence, punctuated by soft moaning and rustling upstairs, followed by a musical giggle. There was an ashtray filled with two different brands of cigarette butts on the table, Kent Golden Lights and Virginia Slims. A matchbook from The Blue Moon Lounge in Montrose was open next to the ashtray, and there were three matches left. Smoke lingered in the air.
Glancing over at the couch she had grown fond of napping on these past few years, she saw a woman’s cheap handbag and a cotton jacket.
The girlfriend.
P.J. went over to the fridge and looked inside. It had been wiped down with cleanser. Everything rotten and moldy had been discarded. A box of baking soda stood open on the bottom shelf. Cheese, fruit, chicken, milk, eggs, bread, pickles, mayo, and veggies filled the space. She sighed, closed the fridge, and went to the front door. Pulling on the cart to give it a jump over a snag in Darby’s worn carpet, she left his unit and went down to the parking garage.
The sheet covering the front of Darby’s storage unit had been removed from the inside, exposing the area to onlookers.
P.J. frowned. Popping the lock with the tiny key on her necklace, she pulled her cart through the gate and released the elastic cords that held the boxes on the small metal base.
An entire wall of storage drawers was three-quarters full, largely thanks to her Vegas hit. Now it was time to unload her Walnut Creek belongin
gs. Pacing the length of the stall, the translucent drawer second from the top in the third unit from the chain link gate caught her eye. The feet of the nine dolls in that drawer should have aligned with the feet of the nine dolls in the drawers above and below. But there were only eight. She pulled out the drawer. Her blond American Girl dressed in Senior Prom was missing.
P.J. felt blood rush to her face. She opened the drawers above and below and then went through every single drawer she had filled.
The gate P.J. had left closed but unlocked creaked open. She looked up. A diminutive young blond smoking a Virginia Slim walked toward her.
“Darby thought he heard you,” she said cheerfully, extending her right hand in greeting. “I’m Jordanne, his girlfriend.”
Darby appeared next, wearing a Lakers t-shirt and faded jeans. He was barefoot, smoking a Kent Golden Light.
“Darby,” P.J. said, ignoring Jordanne’s extended hand. “I seem to be missing a doll. Might you know something about that?”
Jordanne lit up, her smile broadening to show perfect teeth. “Oh, is that what’s kept in here?” She turned to Darby. “Is that why you gave me a Barbie, honey?”
P.J.’s attention swung fully to Jordanne. “What Barbie did he give you?”
“Oh, a real pretty blond one in a green and blue tulle gown.”
Standing behind Jordanne now, Darby tried to hide his alarm.
P.J. spoke slowly, working to contain her anger. “That wasn’t his to give,” she said.
Jordanne’s mouth fell open. Flooded with uncertainty, she looked from P.J. to Darby.
P.J. approached Jordanne and put both hands on the young woman’s slender shoulders. “I want her back.”
Darby pushed P.J. away. He grabbed Jordanne’s arm and pulled her toward the chain link gate.
“What happened to the sheet I had up, Darby?” P.J. screamed.
“You took it from my room!” Darby screamed back. “I wanted it back!”
“I bought you a new set of sheets!”
“Too bad. You had no right to do that!”
“You had no right to give this skank one of my dolls!”
Jordanne cringed and buried her face in Darby’s shoulder.
Gently, Darby led Jordanne back to his apartment.
As always, P.J. had gotten the last word. She lifted the lid of the first box she had intended to unload. The black and light blue wallets were placed carefully alongside Nancy’s Swing-A-Ling Tutti Round Train Case that P.J. had paid for but never received. She slammed the lid back on the box and reattached the bungee cord to the handle.
Heading back to her Miata, she reloaded the boxes into her car. Then she returned to the garage and loaded a set of drawers onto her cart. She returned to her car, unloaded the drawers, and went back to the garage. Giving Jordanne one of her dolls was an unforgivable betrayal on Darby’s part.
I will never, ever talk to Darby again, she vowed, kicking the gate hard.
She took another set of drawers, locked up the storage area, and left.
Heath would be heading out of town for work in the morning, and her schedule would be clear. She could come back for the rest of her belongings and be done with her half-brother once and for all.
43
“Hi, Caresse, it’s Marilyn. We’re missing you this morning. I know you hate the phone, so you won’t pick up. Just wanted to wish you well with the investigators this morning. Make sure you hide the bloody knife before they get there. Oh, by the way, you’re going to love Jenna’s replacement. His name is Anthony Price, and he’s hilarious! He and the brats are like oil and water, and Jenna is looking like she can’t wait for training to end so she can get the blank out of here Friday. Well, your machine’s going to cut me off, so I’ve got to go. Love ya. Bye.”
The investigators from Walnut Creek exchanged glances.
“Bloody knife?” Carter asked.
Rowell smiled grimly. “A joke, I’m sure.”
Caresse’s throat was dry. “Yeah. She was joking.”
Rowell straightened up on the couch, casting a shadow clear across the room. He looked down at the notes he’d pulled out of his pocket.
“So the reason Nancy Roth had your name and number—” he began.
Nervous, she cut Rowell off. “She had it so she could do an interview with me. I called her and left my number. Then she called me, and I called her back. I do interviews for Barbie International.”
“We know,” Carter spoke up. He removed his glasses. Digging a tissue out of his pocket, he rubbed the lenses before putting them back on. They were modern, rectangular-framed specs, making him look more like a college professor than a street-smart cop.
“You know?” she asked.
“We already talked to her husband, obviously,” Rowell said. “He told us about the magazine story.”
Caresse felt an adrenalin rush from head to toe. She knew it didn’t really mean anything. It just connected her to the victim, and that’s what they were concerned with.
“Do you want a drink? Coffee, maybe? No problem making a pot. I can drink most of one myself in a matter of hours. Sometimes I’m up all night long.”
Rowell was curious. “For a good reason, I hope?”
She didn’t answer. Even though they hadn’t said yes to the offer, she threw off the blanket and stood up.
She was heading toward the kitchen when they stood as well.
“Mind if we look around?” Rowell asked.
And what, see if I have any of Nancy’s doll cases?
“No problem.”
She had nothing to worry about. She didn’t collect cases. Most of them were big, bulky, and basically not her thing. And it was a good thing Nancy hadn’t sent her any to photograph. Like Lucy, she would have had a lot of ’splaining to do.
She went and started a fresh pot of coffee made with a combination of Colombian and vanilla coffee beans she’d ground up earlier, listening as the men bumped around in her tiny bedroom. One of them knocked a box down from the shelf in her closet, and she heard it thud on the hardwood floor. She was ready to call out and tell them to stay out of her underwear drawer, but these weren’t friends she could joke with. This was serious.
When the coffee began filtering into the pot, she left the kitchen and returned to her place on the couch by the window.
The men came back and sat down in the exact same spots they’d been in earlier.
“It’ll be ready in a minute,” she said.
They stared at her.
“The coffee,” she added needlessly.
The phone rang again, and the machine picked it up.
“Hi, Care. Long time no talk. It’s Craig. I know you’re probably at work, but I didn’t count on talking to you in person anyway since you never answer the phone, so a message is just as good now as later. Did you catch the news last night? The reason I ask is because there was a double homicide in Vegas, and the killer supposedly had to leave in a hurry when some friends of the victims showed up, so the murderer left behind some stuff they’d planned on taking. Namely—drum roll, please—two duffel bags full of Barbies. Someone out there is stealing Barbies and killing people. What is the doll world coming to? Oh, by the way, I’ve been running around Los Angeles and Vegas this past month, going back and forth, and I sat next to a Barbie collector on one of my trips. She was wearing a Barbie bracelet, so I asked if she was a collector. She said her name was Devvon West. I figured you probably know her. She was really pretty, with long blond hair. Kind of even looked like a Barbie doll. Anyway, I can’t believe your machine hasn’t cut me off yet. I’ll talk to you before too long. How about you promise to answer all calls on, say, Memorial Day? Will you do that for me? Loads of love. Bye.”
The room was silent for a moment.
“Who’s Craig?” Rowell wanted to know.
“My brother.”
“Do you always get this many calls?” Carter asked.
“No, I—” She stopped, reconsidered. “I guess I hav
e a few messages to listen to when I get home every evening, so this must be when people leave them.”
The men were still silent.
“That’s weird, about the Vegas thing,” she said.
Rowell and Carter exchanged glances.
She was certain they were going to let her babble to death.
“How long have you lived here?” Carter asked.
“Less than a year.”
Rowell looked at his notes. “And you’ve been writing for Barbie International for—”
“Oh, God, for years. As soon as I discovered the magazine, I was all over it. Write about what you know, right?”
The men exchanged glances.
She jumped up. “Let me get that coffee.”
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.