Bury Me With Barbie

by Wyborn Senna

  If you make it past an introductory chat and you’re actually on your first date, do they discuss children or ex-spouses? Remember, what you’re getting is someone with a history, and, above all, issues regarding offspring are critical. If you have a child and he has a child and you fall into a relationship, the kids fall into it too. Attitudes toward exes are also crucial. What went wrong in the past may be part of a pattern you won’t want to repeat.

  What personal ads do is open doors between people who are admitting to wanting to meet someone who might become special to them. I’m thankful for them. They are a bold advancement to the hit-and-miss chances you take in bars, grocery stores, or anyplace public, for that matter.

  Dating is not for the faint of heart. If you’re not ready to embrace the cold, cruel world of dating, which requires having the hide of an armadillo, confidence in yourself and your looks, and curiosity when it comes to meeting intriguing members of the opposite sex, forgo it. There are far less painful things to do with your time.

  While not into pain, I, however, am hooked on the quest to find a good man to enhance my world and imbue it with all the good things a great love has to offer. Sure, I can stand on my own two feet. I do it all the time. But the intimacy to be had with someone you love, on a regular if not daily basis, is a dessert I prefer not to forgo.

  She stopped reading and picked up the burger near her unfinished drink. It was cold, but it was delicious. She wiped her hands, picked up her green Sharpie, and began to write. “Feel the same, but can’t muster up the courage? Sharing some of these personal ad dates I’ve been on may be just what you need to get going.

  Number One. The Bridge Player. Went well, as far as first meetings go. He kept turning to watch the football game on Brubeck’s TV. Talk revolved around lingerie, old people, death, and kids. Stats: Tall, forties, dark-haired, with Tommy Lee Jones eyes and a gaunt frame. Scorecard: Dinner, wine, jazz, walk back to my car, free book, no kiss, no second date.

  She chewed on the barrel of the Sharpie while she thought about her Starbucks date with Jerry. Someone knocked on the closed door, and she gave a jolt. She glanced over and braced herself, not knowing what to expect.

  Ann stuck her head in. “Hi, Mop Top.”

  Caresse relaxed immediately. “How’d you find me?”

  Ann shrugged. “When it’s important to find someone, you usually can. How are you feeling?”

  “Crappy. But my article’s going well.”

  “Ready for some big news?” She sat on the edge of the desk and looked at the burger, drink, purse, and paperwork.

  “Todd’s pregnant?”

  Ann smiled. “The police want to talk to you.”

  “The—what?”

  “A woman up in Walnut Creek was found murdered. Your name and email address were on a slip of paper, in her handwriting, on her desk.”

  “How—what?” She was in full-sputter now, springing away from the desk into the center of the room.

  “Relax. I found out through John, who was talking to friends up there. All they’re gonna do is take a drive down here, interview you, see what your relationship to the vic was, and find out if you might know who wanted her dead.”

  Caresse was incredulous. “Wanted who dead?”

  “John said her name was Nancy. Nancy Roth.”

  40

  Before dawn on Monday, P.J. stowed her duffels packed with dolls and the compact .380 Makarov Darby had loaned her from the stash she’d given him upon returning from Vegas.

  The ever-handy Darby had known just what to buy from the hardware store to devise a slip-on silencer. This was the first time P.J. had used a gun to kill someone, and everything she’d learned from days spent at the Glendale Firing Range with Darby had come back to her like a long-lost lover when she was face to face with Nancy.

  P.J. stood in the exercise room adjacent to her home office and smiled with satisfaction. This was one room Heath never came in alone, and when he visited her here, he never stayed more than a few minutes. There was nowhere to sit, other than on the stationary spin bike, and he had always been a sit-down kind of guy.

  She had closets, cubbies, and an entire downstairs shower and vanity area. The duffels and gun went into a cabinet near the bank of windows facing her garden. She took off her necklace and locked the cabinet door just before Katia entered the back entrance to the office and snapped on the lights.

  P.J. watched her through the glass door across the hallway.

  Katia was a hard worker, terminally cheerful. She was in love with the color yellow, which contrasted nicely with her dark brown hair, black lowlights, and sepia eyes. She was in charge of handling matters pertaining to the latest issue of Barbie International, which would now be in the mail and on newsstands.

  Katia put down her purse and bagged lunch before heading over to start the morning pot of coffee for the gang.

  P.J. walked across the hallway and tapped twice on the glass so Katia wouldn’t be startled.

  Katia swiveled and gave P.J. a wave before turning back to measure scoops of Maxwell House into the filter.

  “Good morning,” P.J. said, breezing in and heading over to her desk near the layout table.

  “Morning,” Katia chirped. “I’m down to the last few retailers who say they didn’t get the February issue, so I thought I’d come in and get a head start.”

  P.J. looked at the bank of windows facing the garden and decided to open them. The windows were large and heavy and lifted from the bottom, much like classroom windows that needed to be propped up to stay open. The fragrance from sweet-smelling Sampaguita and Plumeria shrubs melded to create a jasmine-heavy scent that was so potent it begged analysis.

  The office was without cubicles, with most desks paired up and facing each other. P.J.’s desk and the layout table served as the focal center of the room.

  Every desk had its own AT&T phone; P.J. had bought them in bulk from a local company that went out of business. Every desk also had a Dell computer, a Barbie International coffee mug, and a bouquet of fresh-cut flowers from the garden. Today, one of the women would find the time to run out back and clip new bouquets so Friday’s wilted blossoms could be replaced.

  Dressed in navy sweats, their website manager, Kumi, showed up next, opening her Hello Kitty backpack before she even made it to her desk.

  “Lottery tickets for everyone!” she cried.

  P.J. stared at her. “Kumi, there are only two of us here.”

  “That’s okay. She can pass them out and everyone will be surprised when they get here,” Katia said, clapping her hands together and jumping up to help.

  P.J. rolled her eyes and retrieved her mug from her desk so she could grab a cup of coffee.

  The phone rang, and Katia dashed to answer it.

  As she listened, her smile sagged. It had to be a complaint call. P.J. walked over, set her mug on Katia’s desk, and took the receiver from her.

  “This is Sierra Walsh,” she said.

  Katia gave P.J. a grateful smile and ran back to help Kumi pass out tickets, making sure she saved the three-dollar Double Bingo for her boss.

  P.J. laughed. “No, I don’t find anything suggestive about the cover art at all. What? Are you kidding? He’s holding her in his palm. No, she’s fully dressed!”

  Kumi and Katia listened as they finished passing out the lottery tickets. It took about five minutes for P.J. to get the caller off the phone, and when she hung up, she was laughing. “A subscriber thought the shot of King Kong holding a Barbie doll was inappropriate.”

  Both women nodded as if to say, what else is new?

  P.J. went back to her desk and fired up her computer. Katia and Kumi followed suit. Nona and Tess, the Adobe InDesign professionals, entered through the back door next. After greetings all around, they settled in at their desks. The sun was coming up and the day was off to a promising start.

  While Tess whined about inferior graphics submitted by a small Mattel dealer for his ad and Nona complained ab
out the lack of photos for a last-minute report on newly released repros, Katia was reassuring mom-and-pop shops that their shipments would arrive soon, and Kumi was busy Googling Silkstones.

  “Oh, my God,” Kumi sighed. “I would kill to have the Dahlia Silkstone Barbie.”

  Tess and Nona stopped kvetching long enough to address their friend.

  “She is awesome,” Tess agreed. “Love her red hair.”

  “Love her black gown,” Nona added.

  “And it’s great she’s limited to 999,” Tess noted.

  “Too bad she’s not cheaper,” Kumi lamented.

  P.J. stifled her laughter. Was the $400 asking price really too high?

  Kumi seemed to read P.J.’s thoughts. “Maybe if she goes down to 250 dollars and I put aside ten dollars a week, I can have her in time for my birthday this summer.”

  Pathetic, P.J. thought. She knew she didn’t pay her staff well. They were here because they loved Barbie, not because they wanted to get rich, but having to save up to buy a doll was still really sad.

  Barbie International’s proofreader, Lilani, came through the back door slowly. Her light brown hair was windblown, and she struggled with the Yummy Cupcakes box she carried.

  “Hey, welcome back!” Katia called out.

  Lilani had been out for the past ten days, recovering from a bad bout of sciatica and back pain. They had all had a good laugh about the fact she never seemed to learn not to wait till the cat litter waste bucket weighed fifty pounds before lugging it out to the trash.

  “I’m done,” Lilani announced to the room. “When I scoop poop from now on, I am sticking to taking out little bags every three days instead of waiting a month and trying to lug out a barrel-full.”

  “You need fewer cats,” Nona suggested.

  “Do cats really poop that much?” Kumi wrinkled her nose.

  “Three cats,” Lilani replied, hobbling half-erect over to the coffee pot and setting down the box, which proved to be filled with everyone’s favorite selections from Burbank’s best cupcake shop.

  Tess rushed over to grab an elaborate chocolate cupcake. “Oh, Lilani, you should be out more often if it means you’re gonna come back with these!”

  P.J. stayed at her desk, sipping coffee. She could live without cupcakes. Each one of those women could afford to lose at least twenty pounds, and skipping decadent treats like the peanut butter cupcakes topped with marshmallow buttercream would be a great start.

  “So did you get any rest?” Katia asked, joining the rapidly forming cupcake brigade.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Lilani said, rubbing her hip joints frenetically. “Taking time off should be about stopping to smell the roses. I feel like I’ve had my head shoved in a rose bush. Even with painkillers, I’ve been anguished. Did you know that when you have sciatic nerve pain, you move your leg even a little, and this bolt of pain goes shooting right through you? And if you sneeze, you jolt in torment from head to foot? And when you try to get to the bathroom, you’re just about crawling because you can’t stand upright?”

  Lilani’s friends selected their cupcakes and moved back to their desks. They didn’t want to hear about physical distress any more than they had to.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re better,” Katia offered, biting into a coconut-filled Almond Joy cupcake, trailing crumbs all the way back to her post.

  The phone rang again, and P.J. picked it up.

  “Barbie International. Sierra Walsh speaking.”

  The crew of cupcake fans watched P.J. talk on the phone, straightening the coiled cord as she spoke. They should get back to work, but they loved to watch their boss in action.

  “Okay, give me an address,” she said.

  She listened further.

  “If it’s what you say it is, I’m sure there’s a story in it,” she agreed.

  With the business formalities addressed, P.J. hung up and turned to Katia.

  “Katia, where’s Pismo Beach?”

  Katia typed into her computer and then replied, “Central Coast.”

  “How far is it from San Luis Obispo?”

  “About ten miles.”

  “Great.” P.J. got up and walked a slip of paper over to her. “Email Caresse Redd and have her call these folks. They’ve moved here from Germany and claim to have the best European Barbie collection ever. They want to be featured in the magazine.”

  “Who are they?” Nona piped up.

  P.J. stared at the slip. “Bronauer. Arnolt and Vala.”

  “Yeah, Vala’s on the Best Barbie Board,” Nona said. “I’ve seen her mod era stuff. Anyone would trade their soul for it.”

  P.J. raised an eyebrow. “Tell Caresse if there’s a story to write it for the April issue. And tell her if she goes over there to take her camera and email me some pictures to whet my appetite.”

  Heath gave three short raps on the glass hallway door before pushing it open. He carried a large, wrapped gift tied with a floppy cream bow into the office and placed it on a chair near the door. Then, rushing across the room, he caught P.J. in a bear hug near Katia’s desk. “Sweetie!”

  P.J. struggled a bit, embarrassed by the PDA. She extricated herself from his arms and kissed him chastely on the cheek. The office girls exchanged glances, rolling their eyes.

  I’ve seen more affection in a stewardesses’ preflight greeting, Kumi thought.

  Heath hammed it up, bowing to the ladies present.

  “And all of you are well?” he asked.

  “All except for Lilani,” Tess said.

  “I hurt my back,” Lilani shared.

  “Have a cupcake,” Katia offered.

  The women liked Heath and couldn’t understand what he saw in P.J. One might think it would be the other way around—that any man in his fifties would be lucky to have a trophy wife twenty years his junior—but this trophy wife was only gold-plated, and it was she who was lucky to have him.

  “I think I will,” Heath said, heading over to the counter.

  P.J. ran and grabbed his arm, refusing to let go. “What about your cholesterol?”

  Her voice was shrill, and Heath gave a mock shudder.

  The ladies laughed. They could relate to being berated by the boss.

  “Maybe next time,” he said, nodding at the women as he gently released P.J.’s grasp and put his arm around her. “I’ve been gone a while, and I need to borrow this beauty for a bit.”

  The women watched as Heath led P.J. to the door and scooped up the present he had set down on the way in. Allowing her to pass first, he followed her out, turning to wink at the ladies before the door closed behind them.

  The women were quiet until they were certain the lovebirds were well on their way upstairs.

  “What does he see in her?” Nona asked.

  “He’s so cool,” Tess enthused.

  “I’d marry him,” Kumi volunteered.

  “He’s probably the type of guy who likes a demanding woman,” Katia said.

  “They make those?” Nona asked.

  “Some guys like a challenge,” Katia replied.

  “And some guys like to be dominated,” Tess reflected.

  “Bet he likes to be tied up and whipped and beaten,” Kumi said, her eyes huge. “You know, like S&M? Bondage?”

  The women laughed in surprise.

  “Kumi!” Katia cried. “You’re so bad.”

  “Oh, beat me harder, Sierra,” Kumi cried, playing it up. “Make it hurt so good!”

  The others decided to jump in, wailing and moaning and crying until they got so carried away, they dissolved into tears of mirth.

  “Oh, wait, I think I hear her coming back,” Tess announced loudly, with a straight face.

  The women stopped their silliness immediately, until they realized Tess was kidding.

  Then they were off again, kidding and joking in a way they never could when P.J. was around.

  41

  Caresse was home alone on Monday morning, excused from work because she was expecting
a visit from the Walnut Creek investigators in charge of the Nancy Roth murder.

  The upcoming days were going to be interesting. She had gotten an email from Katia at Barbie International mentioning that Sierra wanted her to interview Arnolt and Vala Bronauer in Pismo Beach for the April issue, and plans were set for them to meet. Meanwhile, to tide her over, she was due to get her March issue of Barbie International in the mail any day.

  Putting her time to good use, she made a strong cup of coffee, scrambled a few eggs, and sat down at her computer to finish her Valentine’s issue assignment. Working off the nervousness she felt about her impending visit from law enforcement, she channeled her energy into writing. She was dressed for a day at home, in gray sweats that felt flannel-soft and cozy. Her bare feet danced on the computer cords tangled on the rug. It was going to be great to wrap this up. She had Brubeck’s Bill out of the way, and it was time to move on.

  Number Two. Mr. Environmental Science and I went to Starbucks for some java. He was nice enough, but didn’t seem to have the intensity I like. After he graduates from Cuesta (yes, he’s still a student), he wants to work in a park. Stats: Tall, auburn hair, blue eyes, thirty-seven, divorced, no kids. Scorecard: Good talker, cousin-appeal, some laughter, friendship, no second date.

  Number Three. The Guitar Picker/Real Estate Appraiser and I met on a spontaneous whim at 7 p.m. at Applebee’s, and we had no problem connecting emotionally and intellectually, mostly because he asked me questions about my favorite hobby, Barbie dolls. There was just, alas, no physical chemistry. Stats: Six feet tall, dark hair, mustache, brown eyes, forty-five years old. Scorecard: Great talk, awesome appetizers and shrimp Alfredo, more of a business meeting than a romantic encounter, no second date.