Murder of a Barbie and Ken Read online

  “Dad.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want to get a basic set of tools so I can fix little things around the cottage. What should I get?” Skye asked, thinking about last night’s toilet emergency.

  “You only need two tools—WD-40 and duct tape. If it doesn’t move and it should, use the WD-40. If it moves and shouldn’t, use the duct tape. Anything more complicated than that, call me.”

  Skye rolled her eyes. Her father’s view of women was somewhat antiquated. As Jed turned right on Basin Street, Skye glanced to the left. The downtown area looked cleansed by the whiteness. The spire of St. Francis Catholic Church seemed to float above the commercial buildings. And the businesses themselves sparkled as if dusted with a teenager’s glitter powder.

  They pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Cars were everywhere. Skye didn’t see one open space.

  Jed grunted, “I’ll drop you off and wait in the truck. Don’t take too long.”

  Skye unbuckled her seat belt and jumped out as soon as her father coasted to a stop in front of the entrance. She paused. Oh, that had been a mistake. The sudden movement made her feel light-headed again. Once the world stopped spinning, she hurried inside and halted abruptly. Where was the line of shiny steel shopping carts that usually occupied the space between the door and the checkout stand?

  As she moved farther into the store, her question was answered. The aisles were wall-to-wall people, and they were snatching items from the shelves as if their very survival depended on seizing the last roll of toilet paper.

  What had gotten into everyone? Skye spotted her cousin Gillian fighting with some Jabba the Hutt look-alike over a loaf of bread. As she watched, they tugged at opposite ends until the plastic split and slices flew all over.

  The man quickly gathered them up, shoved them into his cart, and snarled, “Who lit the fuse on your tampon?”

  Gillian burst into tears and screamed, “Pregnant women don’t use tampons, you idiot.” She was a tiny blonde with big blue eyes, wearing a yellow maternity top with ruffles running down the sleeves and matching stretch pants.

  Skye rushed to her cousin’s side and put her arms around her. “What’s going on?”

  Gillian sagged against Skye and sobbed, “That monster stole the bread right from my hand.”

  Skye tried to soothe her cousin. “That’s awful. If brains were chocolate, he wouldn’t have enough to fill an M&M.”

  Gillian sniffled. “Go say something to him.”

  “That’s not a good idea.” Skye attempted a little humor. “After all, I can’t have a battle of wits with an unarmed man.” She patted her cousin’s shoulder. “Besides, the store will get more bread tomorrow.”

  “But Irvin wants French toast for lunch today.” Gillian hiccupped. “And they’re predicting more snow. We might not get more food for days.”

  Skye bit her lip. She was getting along better with her cousins than she had since she was a teenager, which meant she couldn’t tell Gillian what Irvin could do with his yen for French toast. Instead she said, “Well, let’s see what’s left.”

  The two women turned to face the nearly empty shelves. Skye, being close to seven inches taller than her cousin’s five-foot height, spotted a package of hamburger buns shoved to the back of the top shelf. She snagged it and put it into Gillian’s cart.

  “What am I supposed to do with that?” Gillian frowned.

  “Use it in my mom’s recipe for Puffy French Toast. It’ll work fine.”

  “Irvin doesn’t like me to try new recipes.”

  Skye counted to ten. “Okay, I’ll take the buns. Why don’t you call your mom or my mom or your sister and see if one of them has any bread in the freezer?”

  “Hey, that’s a good idea. Mom always keeps a couple of emergency loafs.”

  Skye gave Gillian a quick hug. “You okay now?”

  The blonde nodded.

  “I’ve got to run. Dad’s waiting in the truck.” As Skye made her way through the store, she managed to scoop up a few items, but tempers were short. She didn’t feel well enough to fight for food, so she gave up and headed toward the front to pay for what she had. When she joined the checkout line, she heard more raised voices.

  “What do you mean, I can’t write a check? I’ve been writing checks here for ten years.” The speaker was Theresa Dugan, a well-dressed, attractive woman in her early thirties.

  Theresa was a teacher at the elementary school, and Skye and Simon were on a bowling team with her and her husband on Friday nights.

  The cashier’s face was impassive. “Sorry. Walter said cash only today.”

  “Then I’d like to speak to Walter, please.” Theresa’s voice was pleasant but firm.

  “Sorry, he’s not available.” The teenager behind the register popped her gum.

  “Hey, lady, either pay or get out of the way.” The same man who had stolen Gillian’s bread was in line between Skye and Theresa. He looked familiar, but Skye couldn’t remember where she had seen him before today. He said to the cashier, “I’ve got cash, and I’ll take her stuff.”

  Skye rapidly counted the money in her wallet. She had forty-two dollars, more cash than usual. She took a quick total of her own meager purchases; they should run about fifteen dollars.

  “Theresa.” Skye raised her voice over the man bellowing in front of her. “Would twenty-seven dollars help?”

  The woman turned toward Skye with a puzzled look in her brown eyes. “Oh, Skye, I didn’t see you there,” Theresa apologized. “Are you sure, about the money I mean? That, along with what I have, should just about cover it. I’ll pay you back Friday.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Skye handed the bills to her.

  The man swore, and shot Skye a malevolent glare.

  After Jabba the Hutt checked out and Skye was paying for her groceries, she said to the checker, “Do you know who that guy was that just left?”

  The teen popped another bubble. “Yeah, that’s Nathan’s dad.”

  “Nathan who?”

  “Nathan Turner.”

  Ah. Now Skye remembered where she’d seen him before. He was a member of the GUMBs. Although he didn’t hang out with the same group she and Simon did, she had heard his name mentioned and seen him at an official meeting or two.

  Jed was listening to the radio and petting Chocolate when Skye climbed back into the pickup. She looked at her watch. It was almost ten-thirty. “Sorry I took so long. The store was mobbed. Did you see Gillian?”

  “Yep.” Jed put the truck in gear. “Any place else?”

  Skye was about to say no—she really didn’t feel very well, sort of fuzzy and not able to think straight—when she remembered it was Wednesday. “Well, if you have time, I am supposed to pick up my Instant Gourmet order at Barbie Addison’s today.”

  “Where’s she live?”

  “You know those big houses south of here after the curve?”

  “By the cemetery?”

  “Right. Barbie’s is the biggest one.”

  “Okay.” Jed turned left.

  “Dad, do you know a Mr. Turner?”

  “Big guy?”

  Skye nodded. “He resembles one of the less attractive mountains.”

  “That’d be Nate Turner. He owns Turner Landscaping.”

  Jed looked at her. “Why?”

  “He was being a jerk at the grocery store.”

  “Yep, that’s him. He’s a couple of hubcaps short of a Buick.” Jed shook his head. “Stay away from him. He’s a mean son of a—”

  The rest of Jed’s comment was drowned out by a snow-plow rumbling past them in the opposite lane.

  Skye pointed. “There, on the left. That’s the Addisons’.”

  As her father guided the truck down the long driveway, Skye viewed the house with fresh eyes. She’d been inside on two or three occasions to play bridge or attend a party, but she had always arrived at night, and the sheer size of the place hadn’t been as noticeable in the dark.

  In the
stark sunlight, the enormous brown multilevel house looked liked an airplane hangar. It was easily six thousand square feet, and that was without the three-car, double-width garage that was bigger than Skye’s cottage.

  “I’ll only be a minute. I’ve already paid, so Barbie just has to hand me the package,” Skye said to her dad as she slid out of the truck cab.

  She walked past the two vehicles already parked in the driveway and up the front steps. Twin evergreen wreaths with shiny gold bows hung on the Addisons’ big double front doors. Barbie was obviously getting a jump on her Christmas decorating—she was well-known for the extravagant displays she put out for every holiday.

  Skye rang the bell and waited. No answer. She rang it again and once more. Still no response. Swell. Barbie must not be home. She was turning to leave when she saw a small engraved brass sign that read: INSTANT GOURMET PICKUPS IN REAR.

  The drive and front steps had been cleared, but the side-walk leading around back hadn’t. There was a single set of footprints marring the snow, and Skye tried to walk in them to avoid getting her new leather boots wet.

  Winter had come early to Scumble River. They’d had frost in early October, sleet on Veterans Day, and it looked as if it would be a white Thanksgiving.

  Unlike her mother, who adored snow, Skye was not a fan of the white stuff. She did not like anything that got in her way, made her late, or ruined her expensive shoes.

  Today was a good example. What a waste of time. And despite what scientists said, she was convinced that snow, not germs, caused head colds.

  As Skye followed the footprints to the garage’s side door, she noticed that the Addisons’ backyard looked like a Christmas card, and the air smelled of pine and chimney smoke.

  She knocked, and watched as the door swung inward. It obviously had not been latched. She could hear “Jingle Bells” playing and called out, “Barbie.”

  Nothing.

  She tried again. “Barbie, it’s Skye Denison. I’m here to pick up my order.”

  There was no answer. Skye stepped through the door. It felt as if she had entered a maze made out of cardboard boxes. The entire three-car garage was stacked with bins, crates, and cartons as far as Skye could see. Calling Barbie’s name, she followed the narrow path that appeared to lead toward the back.

  As Skye navigated the labyrinth, she read the various labels —cheddar broccoli soup, garlic mashed potatoes, lemon pepper penne rigate, Caesar pasta salad. These were all side dishes. Where were the main courses kept? She rounded a corner created by cases of vanilla almond oat cereal and stopped.

  She had come to a clearing. Three chest-style freezers were lined up against the wall that the garage shared with the house. That must be where the entrees were stored.

  A row of long tables held open cartons of food arranged assembly-line fashion down the center. On one end, stacks of round boxes covered in glossy apricot paper were empty, ready to be packed with the Instant Gourmet meals. The other end held the lids, three-foot lengths of peach wire-edged ribbon, and big fluffy bows. The finished products were piled on a round table off to the side. Skye shook her head. No wonder this stuff was so expensive. The packaging probably cost more than the food.

  She scanned the area. Where was Barbie? Skye could still hear music, and the door leading from the garage to the house was open. Maybe she had gone inside while Skye was walking from the front door to the garage.

  As Skye moved forward, she noticed an alcove off to the side containing a desk and filing cabinet. Drawers hung open and papers littered the floor. Something was starting to feel wrong.

  Beads of sweat popped out on her upper lip and forehead. Why was it so hot? Should she leave and get her order some other time? No. She wanted to get this over with—her cold was getting worse by the minute, and she didn’t want to have to come back.

  Hesitantly, Skye climbed the three stairs leading into the utility room. The sound of the washing machine ending the spin cycle and turning off startled Skye. There was still no sign of Barbie. Surely she wouldn’t have left in the middle of doing laundry. “Barbie, are you here? It’s Skye Denison.”

  Skye entered the kitchen. On her left was a breakfast nook. To the right, a row of cabinets formed a peninsula dividing the area and blocking her view. As she edged past the counter, she could see the section of the room previously concealed. The cupboard doors stood gaping. Dishes and glasses were shattered on the linoleum, and food was smeared on the counters.

  In the midst of this mess, a large male body lay on its stomach in the middle of the floor.

  CHAPTER 4

  … fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

  —Pope

  Skye ran over and crouched down. “Dr. Addison, Ken, are you alright?”

  There was no answer or movement. She put her fingers to his neck to check for a pulse. Instead of skin, her hand encountered a stiff, slippery material. A piece of peach ribbon was knotted tightly around his throat.

  She had to get it off. She tried to slip her fingers underneath, but it was tied so firmly that the wire edges were cutting into his neck. Scissors, she needed a pair of scissors. Where would Barbie keep scissors?

  A knife. There were plenty of them scattered around from the emptied drawers. Skye grabbed one and tried to slide the blade between the ribbon and his throat, but it was immediately evident she wouldn’t be able to do it without slicing into his flesh.

  With the ribbon wound so tightly, could he still be alive? Clamping her fingers around his wrist, she tried to find a pulse. Nothing. His hand flapped limply as she laid it by his side. It had a bluish tinge. She finally took a good look at him. His skin was purplish, with a waxy overtone, his lips were pale, and his eyes had a curiously flat appearance. He was dead.

  She wished she could think straight. Should she turn him over? He was such a big man she wasn’t sure she’d be able to budge him. Besides, she shouldn’t disturb the crime scene. A phone. She had to call the police. Frantically, she looked around. The receiver was missing from the kitchen’s wall unit. She rushed into the adjoining den.

  This room had also been ransacked. Sofa cushions were sliced open and stuffing was spilling out; chairs were upended, their bottoms slashed; and pictures were torn off the walls, their glass smashed. Either the killer was in a rage or looking for something. Maybe both.

  The killer. What if he were still here? She had to get out of the house. The front door was closest. She ran past the curving stairway, through the hall, and into the foyer. The inside key Barbie said was always kept in the deadbolt was missing. Had the murderer taken it and locked the door from the outside as he left?

  Skye hoped that was what had happened, because she wasn’t getting out this way, and since it now looked like she had to retrace her path and go out the garage, she didn’t want to run into the murderer. She started back toward the den, but had only made it to the staircase when she heard the thud of heavy footsteps. Which way were they coming from? She couldn’t tell. Skye took a deep breath and tried to think. Should she hide, try to get out a window, find a weapon?

  All three, she concluded. If she could make her way to the kitchen, she could grab a knife, see if the French doors would open, and, if not, hide among the cartons in the garage. But what if that was where the killer was?

  She had to make a decision. Better to go down fighting than stand there and make it easy for the murderer. She tiptoed over to the foyer’s dining room entrance and peered around the corner. It was empty. She slipped in, eased the pocket door closed, and darted across the room, pausing at the door to the kitchen, which was slightly ajar.

  She could no longer hear the footsteps—or anything else, for that matter. Had the killer left the house? Just as she started to push open the door a hand wrapped around the edge. Without thinking, she yanked the door shut. A grunt of pain rang through the wood.

  Great. She had just pissed off the killer. Now what should she do? She needed another way out. Monday night, when she had been for
ced to change clothes in the master bedroom for the Fashion Designer game, she had noticed French doors leading to a backyard patio.

  Skye bolted back across the dining room and flung open the pocket door. As she ran into the foyer, she slammed into something solid and unyielding, then felt a blow to her head and crumpled to the wooden floor.

  Everything was dark. What had happened? Shit! The killer must have hit her. Was he standing over her right now ready to plunge a knife through her heart?

  Her eyelids flew open. Sprawled opposite her was her father. Without speaking, Jed struggled to his feet, grabbed Skye by the arm, and jerked her upright. Silently, he pulled her through the den, kitchen, and utility room.

  As they entered the garage, Skye stopped. Her head was spinning, and she thought she might throw up. “Dad, wait, I need a minute.”

  Jed kept his grip on her arm. “First get to the truck.”

  “Just a second.” Skye freed herself from her father’s grasp and leaned back against one of the freezers. She put both hands on her thighs and dropped her head between her arms.

  “We gotta go.”

  He was right. Skye took a deep breath and put her palm on the freezer to help her stand upright. What? Instead of the cool metal she felt … oh, my God, it was hair. She leaped away from the appliance, then reluctantly looked back. Yes, she could see a sheaf of blond tresses caught between the top and the chest.

  “Dad.” Her voice broke. “Come over here a minute.”

  Jed grumbled as he joined her. “Yeah?”

  Skye pointed to the hair, and he sucked in his breath. She put her fingertips under the lip of the lid and started to lift.

  “Don’t,” Jed said.

  But it was too late. The lid opened with a whoosh and Barbie Addison’s face loomed into view. A peach ribbon was wound tightly around her neck. She looked like a gift-wrapped doll.

  Skye snatched Barbie’s wrist. No pulse. She put the back of her hand to Barbie’s lips. No breath.

  Suddenly, Jed grabbed Skye and hauled her away from the freezer. He continued to pull her behind him, not stopping until they were in his truck with the doors locked.