by Wyborn Senna
She stood up and headed toward the windowed wall, where Seth gave her a quick handshake. Outdoing him, Anthony stepped forward and embraced her, refusing to let go, causing the room to erupt into gales of laughter. Finally, Anthony released her and they stood together, side by side, waiting for order to be restored. Nervous but exhilarated, Caresse’s hands began to tremble.
Seth pulled an envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to her, pretending not to notice her nerves. She knew what it was—a check for one hundred dollars, the standard compensation for best feature of the month. She thanked him and began to head back to her seat, but Anthony stopped her.
“If you could stay up here for a moment,” he said, “And Marilyn, if you could come up and join us.”
Marilyn looked flustered. She hadn’t expected to be called upon. She rose and made her way up front to stand beside Caresse, impulsively grabbing her hand and not letting go.
“Marilyn, you’ve been doing such a great job in Classified, and we know you have a degree in English, which we think could be put to better use. We think you’d be having a lot more fun if you actually got a chance to write obituaries and datebook items, so we’re moving you into Caresse’s position.”
The color in Marilyn’s face rose and her smile grew as wide as Seth’s outdated tie.
Anthony stepped forward a pace. “For those who don’t know, we’ve been asked to ‘trim the fat’ around here, so I let my staff go Friday—for good.”
People throughout the cafeteria were nodding. There weren’t many who would miss Nibbles and her gal pals.
“So that leaves me in need of someone to help me put together the entertainment supplement every week, and my choice for that is Ms. Redd.”
Caresse gasped, and Anthony enveloped her in another hug. This time he released her, but he kept his arm around her shoulder as he continued. “I’ve been told she’s been doing the work of three people around here anyway, so it looks like I’ve got an instant replacement for the three dearly departed ladies. And, my dear, Ann has something to present to you, since we’ll need to be in touch constantly.”
A trickle of cold raced down Caresse’s spine. She reminded herself that while surprises weren’t always good, they weren’t always bad, either. Ann stood up, grinning, and approached her with a small, wrapped box. Considering Ann was typically the bearer of small gifts for Chaz, Caresse unwrapped the box expecting to find a set of Legos.
It wasn’t. It was a sleek black cell phone of her very own.
“We expect you to never turn it off and to always answer it,” Anthony warned. “In fact, your first assignment is to call every single person in the newsroom and give them your cell phone number. If your call goes to voicemail, you’ll need to leave a message that you called and that you want them to call you back. I’ll be getting reports from everyone to find out how it’s going.”
Everyone laughed. Caresse’s phone avoidance was legendary.
“Thank you, all,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
But she did know what she wanted to say. In fact, she knew what she wanted to scream. I may have solved the Barbie murders! I may have played an instrumental role in the capture of one of FBI’s most wanted!
It was the biggest story ever; the story of a lifetime.
Going on dates for the newspaper and writing a story about it paled by comparison.
No story ever, anywhere, would eclipse her love for Barbie, and if she had helped solve the most notorious case ever connected to the doll, she would feel endlessly satisfied.
62
Ince Rowell and his sidekick August Carter arrived at P.J.’s home bright and early Monday morning.
P.J. had passed out in the driver’s seat of her Miata, but when she heard the noises outdoors, she scrambled out of the car and made her way to the garage door. She raised her fists and was ready to pound on the galvanized steel when she heard indistinct chatter filtering over a police radio. Lowering her arms, she listened.
Rowell came up to the garage door and bent down. He tried to lift the door, giving it two swift tugs. P.J. jumped away from it as though she had been scalded.
“Locked tight,” she heard him say.
The men walked up the path toward the home, only to find the front door wide open and the screen door slightly ajar. Chao, who had been in the backyard since Saturday, began to bark.
“It’s open,” Carter said, smoothing back his blond hair and straightening his collar.
The detectives went inside.
Locked inside the garage, P.J. began to pace the aisle between the Miata and the remaining storage bins. The broken shards from her glass of lemonade had been kicked out of the way, beneath her car. In a desperate attempt to have something to drink, she had fumbled around on the garage floor until she found a few melting ice cubes no bigger than croutons. Blowing on them in case they were tainted with dirt or glass, she popped them in her mouth and savored them. Faster than LifeSavers, they melted into slivers and were gone.
She felt around in the remaining storage bins, trying to identify her dolls and their outfits by touch. In the dimness of the garage, she could almost make out if they were blondes or brunettes. She could almost discern what they were wearing. Then she dropped one of their shoes and quit, frustrated by how long it might take to find it.
The police were there, but why?
She touched the storage bins of stolen dolls and broke out in a cold sweat. Anxiety began to wash over her in waves, followed by a tidal wave of panic. She couldn’t call out to the police; for all she knew, they were there to arrest her. And if Darby had orchestrated things so that no one would come to her rescue, she was be trapped here for good and would die with her dolls. She stifled a scream of anguish and collapsed, weeping, her eyes raised to the dark rafters, until she was spent. Feeling dizzy, she bent forward, resting her head on her knees. She heard voices again. At first, she was certain she was delirious, but she struggled to get up and made her way to the garage door.
With their search warrant, Carter and Rowell had it all: computer files, paperwork, dolls, hair samples, receipts, the white vinyl boots, the red wig, Dormicum tablets and vials, the Makarov pistol, empty Army duffel bags, and the customized bling that had belonged to Rick Uzamba.
“You got that bin, Carter?” Rowell asked.
P.J. heard shuffling feet before one of her bins was dropped onto the driveway, and she shuddered.
“I think we’ve got enough,” Carter said.
“More than enough,” Rowell said, “to put her away for life.”
“I wonder where she is?” Carter asked.
Rowell shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, “but she can’t hide forever.”
About the Author
A recognized writer who works in the entertainment industry in Burbank, California, Wyborn Senna has a B.A. in journalism from St. Bonaventure University in New York and a Masters in Professional Writing from USC. Before choosing the penname Wyborn Senna, the author published Barbie magazine articles and price guides and conducted radio interviews and vintage Barbie appraisals. Senna also had the privilege of selling the Virginia Stewart Barbie Collection on eBay for $77,500 in 1998, during which time she received several threatening emails “strongly” suggesting that the collection be broken up into affordable lots, thus providing sufficient inspiration for Bury Me With Barbie. Other books by Senna include Porter’s Fortune and The New Elvis.
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Full Fathom Five Digital is an imprint of Full Fathom Five
Bury Me with Barbie
Copyright © 2014 by Wyborn Senna
All rights reserved.
No part of this text may be used or reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in review, without written permission from the publisher.
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om Five Digital, a division of Full Fathom Five LLC, at
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Cover design by Torborg Davern
ISBN 978-1-63370-012-3
First Edition
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