Bury Me With Barbie by Wyborn Senna Read Free Book Online

that over four dozen dolls that were here are now gone.” Dailon is certain there is a connection between the robbery and the deaths of her sister and brother-in-law
.
    At this time, law enforcement will not commit to robbery as a motive for the homicides, but Dailon insists otherwise
.
    “Gayle and Mike didn’t have any enemies,” she said. “There was no reason on earth for anyone to want them dead.”
    Caresse looked up from the newspaper, her mind buzzing.
    The killer had a penchant for American Girl Barbies.
    Juicy guy, juicier story
.

11
    P.J. stared at the man wearing the San Francisco 49ers jersey.
    He looked down at his shirt. “It’s a replica,” he explained, waiting for her reply.
    She froze. On her lap was box number three, containing the requisite eight dolls. She had only checked the first five before the interruption.
    When the man realized she wasn’t going to say anything, he opened the gate and approached her, offering his hand. “You must be Darby’s sister. I’m Michael.”
    P.J. began to get up, but the box in her lap shifted and threatened to spill. Michael caught it and helped her keep it upright, whereupon she abruptly tugged it away from him and went to slide it back into the Rubbermaid unit.
    “Your brother lets me use his parking space,” he told her.
    She finally spoke. “Michael Hornberger. You’re the one with the new Explorer and the Fat Boy. Why does a guy with money live in this dump?”
    Michael grinned shyly. “Me? I get restless and like to move every few years.” He looked around. “So you like dolls?”
    P.J. disregarded his question. “Did you get the money from your parents?” It was a rude question, but she had no trouble asking it.
    “No. I write for TV,” he said.
    “Anything I would know?”
    “I doubt it,” he said.
    “Try me.”
    “Have you heard of
Monk
?”
    “Oh, sure,” P.J. said. She folded her hands and began wringing them.
    “I must be bothering you.”
    Michael started to back away, hoping she would stop him.
    P.J. held up her left hand and flashed her diamond ring at him, wishing the substantial marquis cut could blind him
    “I get it,” he said, leaving the stall, closing the gate behind him.

12
    P.J. dreamt of the Tucson murder that night, at home in her California King bed.
    She had arrived in Hailey’s neighborhood in a rented green Sebring delivered to her at the hotel by Enterprise twenty minutes before Hailey’s parents left their sloped driveway. The Raphaels had a double garage with an inside door leading into their opulent abode. The exterior garage entrance on the left-hand side was down a narrow walkway. Wearing dark clothing and thin leather gloves, P.J. moved carefully over the pale gravel and tried the knob. It was unlocked.
    Once inside, it took a moment for her eyes to focus. The door leading into the hallway from the garage was half-open, and a light in the laundry room was on. She found a workbench near the half-open door that offered a surfeit of tools, and the best of the lot was incontrovertibly a menacing-looking tack hammer. P.J. picked it up and valuated its weight and ease of use, judging it perfect for the job at hand. She dropped it into her empty duffel and glanced toward the half-open door leading into the hallway that led to the laundry room.
    Clothes were neatly folded atop the dryer, which rumbled quietly while it dried its current load. Using the running dryer as cover, P.J moved swiftly into the laundry room and found a wide-based, lidded hamper behind the door. Testing it to see if it would hold her weight, she stood on it and saw that, with the high doors and ceilings, she was obscured at full height behind the door, which opened inward. Taking some spare change out of her jacket pocket, she leaned around the back of the door and began pinging it at the top of the washer, which was open but empty. As each coin hit, it clinked against the top, fell into the washer, and brattled on the bottom. After