by Wyborn Senna
Shut up, P.J. thought. Just shut up.
“You run around doing whatever you want, but you’re lacking something critical in your life, and that’s why you’re empty. Feeling entitled is deeming yourself more important than those around you. Until you realize that you’re no better or worse than anyone else and that we’re all in this together, until you open up and start to care, really care, about someone, your life is worthless.”
P.J. stepped back.
Darby stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at his feet. “That’s all I wanted to say.”
P.J. hated him now, absolutely and unequivocally. Who did he think he was, preaching to her? He had fucked up his life beyond belief and now lived in a crappy apartment. He had nothing, not even a job. He might believe love had saved him and that love could change his life. He might even believe he could become the man Jordanne saw when she looked at him, someone to be proud of, with a job, with a life, but he would never amount to anything. He would always be nothing. She turned on her heel, walked to the U-Haul, and waited for him to exit the garage.
When he came out, she lowered the garage door, got into the U-Haul, and backed out of the driveway.
She glanced backward only once. He was getting on his scooter, preparing to leave.
I shouldn’t have tried to be nice to him, she thought. He was a complete waste of my time. Fuck him. Fuck Heath. Fuck everybody.
47
An hour and a half later, Chaz and Caresse were marching through puddles on their way to Monya’s Antiques.
The skinny guy with jet-black hair and Blues Brothers shades was skulking in the shadows, standing in front of the curtain that covered the entrance to the back room. Chaz and Caresse took off their raincoats and shook them, leaving them by the front door. Then they collapsed their umbrellas, shook them out, and placed them with their coats.
“Is Monya here today?” Caresse asked, approaching the counter.
Chaz zoomed off to the area of the shop where toys were piled high.
“She’s in the—” he began.
A toilet flushed a room or two away, and they both smiled. No need to finish the sentence.
Monya entered the room and filled it with her presence. She wore a bird of paradise print muumuu today, and her lips were pumpkin to complement her safety-orange nails. Her copper red hair was dazzling. Caresse wondered if there was a posse that showed up regularly just to check out what plumage she might wear next.
She approached the main counter, smiling. “Remember me?”
Monya extended both her hands, taking both of Caresse’s smaller, plainer ones in hers and holding them for a prolonged moment.
Finally Caresse broke the ice bluntly. “Did you know Nancy Roth?”
Monya looked blank for a moment and then said, “No.”
“She collected mostly vinyl Barbie cases, and she lived up in Walnut Creek. Someone killed her and raided her Barbie collection. It’s just like what happened to Gayle.”
Monya paled visibly, and her hand went to her throat, where an elaborate pearl choker was wrapped loosely around her wattle. “Gayle and Mike Grace in upstate New York, Zivia and Rick Uzamba in Vegas, Time Taylor in Washington, that poor little schoolteacher in Tucson, and now another one?”
“I’ve only heard a little about the Vegas murder,” Caresse said. “What happened there?”
Monya led her to a set of upholstered chairs and plopped down in the larger one. Caresse removed boxes from the one next to it and sat beside her.
“Killer came in, murdered the husband by injecting him with some kind of drug, and then went upstairs and did the same thing to Zivia.” She paused for dramatic effect. “She was in the shower.”
Caresse shivered. “Did she have a lot of dolls?”
“So many that the killer was going to make two trips, but she was spotted by someone, so she never returned for the other bags she packed. I saw the whole house on the news. Even after it was trashed, that doll room was to die for.”
“Literally,” Caresse said, thinking hard. “You say she was spotted?”
“Two friends came to visit when the husband didn’t answer his pager. They were on the porch, ringing the doorbell and getting no answer, when they spotted a blond woman holding duffel bags, standing at the foot of the driveway. There were two duffel bags left upstairs packed with dolls she was clearly gonna come back for. But after they saw her, she split.”
“Do they have a sketch of this woman?”
“The Vegas PD does. They showed it on the news. Google it—they should have a picture of her online. How did the woman in Walnut Creek die?”
“She was shot.”
“Might be a whole ’nother deal going on there. None of the others died from gunshot wounds, right?”
“I don’t think so,” Caresse said. “But I think stealing the dolls ties them all together. I’ll bet the killer is just varying her M.O. to throw off the police.”
“That’s smart,” Monya said.
Chaz approached their chairs, holding a small action ficture.
“What is this?” Caresse asked when he handed it to her for inspection.
“It’s a Zbot,” Monya answered for him. “They were invented by a group of scientists to protect the world from evil. They were popular in the early ’90s.”
Caresse studied the little yellow and blue guy as she was informed he was a Robochamp named Zentor.
“They’re pretty small,” Caresse said.
Chaz nodded eagerly. “There’s a whole box full of them.”
“Where’s your new Lego?”
Chaz pointed to the deep front pocket of his jeans.
“Let me see the box.”
Chaz ran off, and Monya and Caresse exchanged smiles.
“So the police want me to help out with the Nancy Roth murder investigation. Meaning, they want me to try and figure out why someone would be doing this and maybe put out feelers inside the collecting community to see what’s up.”
“The Best Barbie Board is the right place,” Monya said. “Maybe I can join you in reading through the chat threads to hopefully pick up on something. You never know.”
“Thanks,” Caresse said, and meant it.
Chaz returned and nearly stumbled over the corner of an Oriental runner. The box of Zbots landed in Monya’s lap, and she laughed.
Chaz looked embarrassed but recovered quickly.
“How much for the whole box?” Caresse asked Monya.
“The whole box, twenty bucks.”
Caresse stood up. “You drive a hard bargain,” she said, giving her a warm smile.
The box was no bigger than a shoebox, but it was crammed full.
Caresse slid Monya a twenty-dollar bill and gave her a hearty hug.
“You don’t have a valuable collection the killer might want, do you?” Monya asked, as though the thought had just occurred to her.
“No. My doll collection is small, mostly repros,” Caresse assured her. “And I guess I should be glad.”
Monya looked relieved. She watched as Chaz and Caresse donned their raincoats and started to open their umbrellas.
“Don’t open them in here,” she admonished. “It’s bad luck.”
Chaz looked up at his mother, questioningly.
“She’s kind of right, Chaz,” Caresse said, stepping outside, giving Monya a wave before the door closed.
Once they were outside, she clarified it for him. “If you’re superstitious, there are certain things you do or don’t do to make sure luck stays with you.”
“I’m very lucky,” Chaz assured her.
She rubbed his raincoat-hooded head. “You sure are. You’ve got a mom who loves toys.”
He hugged his shoebox as they walked toward Mitchell Park. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“I think I might like these as much as you like Barbie.”
48
P.J. parked in the lot next to the Glendale Market on Sunday, March 2, close to
2 p.m., and watched for signs of Darby’s girlfriend Jordanne.
If she worked the 6 a.m. to 2 p.m. shift, she would be leaving soon.
P.J. waited until 2:30, grew impatient, and then realized she should call Darby’s apartment and find out if Jordanne was even working that day. If she wasn’t, she would likely be with him. The phone rang eight times before the call kicked over to the answering machine. P.J. hung up without leaving a message.
Restless, she got out of her car and went into the market, making a beeline toward the back of the store to avoid scrutiny by management up front. She poked around in the frozen food section for a while and finally decided to buy a pint of frozen raspberry yogurt.
There were eight checkout stands flanked by magazine racks and the usual impulse-buy assortment of gum and candy. The first checkout was being handled by a dark-haired man, the second by a middle-aged woman wearing glasses, and the third by a blond-haired woman who looked like a taller version of Jordanne, sans her annoyingly cute snub nose.
Checkouts four, five, six, and eight were vacant. At the seventh checkout, an authoritative-looking man in his mid-forties was sorting through slips of paper.
P.J. approached checkout seven.
“Hi,” she said, reading the man’s tag. He was William, Day Manager.
“Hi,” he said, looking P.J. in the eye before his gaze slid to her breasts.
She couldn’t fault him. She was wearing a sexy, skin-tight paisley top with a tiny bow at the neckline.
William turned red and forced himself to face her squarely, refusing to allow his gaze to drift downward. “What can I do for you?”
“Jordanne’s not in today?” she asked.
“Monday through Friday,” he said. “Two to ten.”
Second shift.
“That’s right,” P.J. said. “She has weekends off. How’d she swing that, by the way?”
The manager turned red again. “We rotate quarterly.”
P.J. smiled benignly. “I’ll bet you do.”
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
She relished his discomfort.
“No,” she dismissed him, setting the frozen yogurt on the counter. “Just this.”
The manager rang her up, and she paid cash.
It was only on the way out that she realized she needed a plastic spoon.
49
Vala Bronauer met her at the door. “You’re Caresse Redd, right?”
Vala seemed as small and fragile as the dolls she collected. Her dark hair, approximately the same shade as Caresse’s, was worn short.
“Absolutely,” Caresse told her.
A tall man appeared at her side. “Arnolt Bronauer,” he said, introducing himself. He was dressed casually but smartly in a striped dress shirt and V-neck sweater. Like his wife, he exuded extreme intelligence and charm.
Vala was dressed in white, like an angel, wearing white linen pants, a white cotton sweater, and a white scarf that kept her dark bangs off her forehead. She belonged on a greeting card where everything is black and white except for a spot of color, which in this case would be the subject’s cheeks and lips, blushed a warm rose.
“You’re here to interview us?” She sounded neutral on the subject, but not bored by the prospect. It was as if she had never initiated the idea of being the focus of a feature for Barbie International.
Arnolt interrupted his wife gently. “Not us, dear heart. I need to go down to the office for a few hours.”
Vala looked alarmed. She was obviously dependent on him and wanted him around for emotional support.
“All right.” She sounded reluctant.
“This doll stuff,” he said, throwing up his hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s really your thing anyway.”
“Well, come in then,” Vala told her, and Arnolt and Caresse both crossed the threshold simultaneously, going opposite directions.
“Wait,” Caresse said, remembering the camera and tripod still in her trusty Honda. “I need to get my camera. I’ll be right back.”
She ran to her car and glanced back at the house. It was a fabulous Pismo Beach estate, set close to other homes in prime real estate two blocks from the ocean.
Arnolt startled her by appearing at her side.
“One moment of your time, if I may,” he said, lowering his voice lest it carry toward the house.
“Yes?”
“She doesn’t like me to worry,” he said in a low voice, taking her elbow and walking her farther away from his residence.
Arnolt’s demeanor suggested he didn’t have an ounce of worry in him. He looked as though he had stepped from the pages of an executive issue of GQ and exuded confidence. Caresse tried not to look at the somewhat rough toupee covering his dome, focusing instead on his twilight-blue eyes.
“I’m not worried about you being the killer. I’ve already had you checked out.”
“You—what?”
“I’ve been advised I can trust you,” he told her.
“By whom?”
Arnolt shook his head as if her question was unimportant. “These women who are collectors, they’re getting killed and their dolls are being taken. You saw the recent report in the news, right?”
“About the Vegas murders, yes—I mean, no, but I know what you’re talking about.”
“Maybe you can talk to her,” he said, glancing back toward the house quickly as though he’d suddenly noticed Vala in his peripheral vision.
Caresse was puzzled. “About what?”
“Suggest we get a security guard or even a large dog. You would think she would listen to me after all these years, but my voice has become like constant, running water to her. She tunes me out.” He grabbed her sleeve. “But she listens to strangers, new acquaintances, and friends. She takes everything they have to say very seriously.”
“What do her friends say?”
“These Barbie people, they’re obsessive. They don’t forgive or forget any opposition or contrary opinion. Vala’s got a collection of dolls that must be worth a half a mil by now. They’re jealous.”
“And you think one of them might be jealous enough to kill her and steal her dolls?”
“I’m sure more than a few wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her and take her prized possessions.”
Caresse sighed. “Then what the heck are you doing, having an interviewer from Barbie International here, doing a story on what she owns? It’ll be a six page advertisement inviting trouble, like a banner over your house saying, ‘Vala lives here, so come on in!’”
Arnolt’s mouth formed a tight, impenetrable line. His eyes glinted with anger.
Caresse waited him out.
Finally, he spoke. “The story will serve to foster interest in the sale of the collection. Once the dolls are gone, she’ll be safe. If I can keep her alive the next eight weeks, we can put to rest that she might ever become a target.”
It all made sense now. “So you’re looking for the story to whet the appetite of interested buyers. Sell the dolls, and you don’t have to worry about anyone coming to get them or your wife.”
Sadness flashed across his face. “I’m sorry she has to give them up, but it’s the only way to keep her safe. She’s the only thing that’s important to me. She is the love of my life.”
Caresse touched his arm. “Don’t worry. I’ll make it a great feature.”
“Thank you,” he said. “And now I must go, because she’s going to wonder what took you so long to get your gear.”
He looked down at Caresse’s camera and tripod and smiled before turning on his heel and heading toward his garage. The wind rustled through the trees as she watched him go. She didn’t know what to make of the man. He seemed to genuinely love Vala, but using this article to broadcast her doll collection, even for the purpose of selling it, was still dangerous.
Caresse met Vala again at her open doorway and struggled to manage her purse, tripod, and camera without dropping anything.
“Can I help you?” Vala asked, m
aking no move to do so.
“No, I’ve got it,” she said, following her inside.
Vala’s home was the most beautiful residence she had ever seen in San Luis Obispo County. It was a virtual museum, with glass-fronted cabinets stretching the entire length of several rooms. But the most magnificent thing of all was that the rooms formed a box around an indoor pool that sat square in the home’s center, almost out of view beyond the hallway they now stood in.
Caresse exhaled audibly.
Vala’s smile was glorious, her teeth as white as her sweater. “You like it?”
Caresse was drawn to the center of the house, where turquoise water beckoned. All four sides of the pool were screened but there were wide entrances. She walked in and took a lounge chair without being asked. She needed to put her things down and couldn’t wait for the invitation. “This is breathtaking.”
Vala pressed a call button beneath the patio table and took the opposite lounge chair, kicking off her sandals, flexing her bare toes on the Mediterranean tiles.
When a young woman appeared, she waited to be introduced.
Vala smiled warmly. “Caresse, meet Becca.”
Becca nodded hello. Despite her golden tresses, she was much plainer than one might suspect at a distance.
“Diet Pepsis,” Vala told Becca, electing not to offer a selection of beverages to her guest.
When Becca left, Vala spoke again. “She goes to Cuesta College. She needs extra money, and we need help. It works out fine.”
Caresse nodded, noticing a bracelet on Vala’s left wrist as it slid out from underneath the cuff of her sweater. Charms encased in clear cubes caught her eye, and she recalled her brother mentioning having met a braceleted woman named Devvon on the Greyhound to Vegas. Vala’s bracelet consisted of charms that seemed to be small doll accessories. The links and clasps appeared to be solid gold.
