Free Bury Me With Barbie by Wyborn Senna Page B

because sunshine creeping in beneath the half-drawn blinds muted the extra light.
    “What, does she leave the light on all the time?” P.J. asked.
    Pooh—or perhaps Schmoo—yipped in response.
    P.J. chuckled and opened the cabinet with her thin-gloved hands. Number One and Number Two Ponytails—the mother lode in Barbie collecting—were both there and in mint condition. A group of Number Threes was dressed in mint examples of some of Barbie’s earliest outfits including Commuter Set, Gay Parisienne, Plantation Belle, Roman Holiday, and Easter Parade. P.J. had never seen an Easter Parade coat that wasn’t a reproduction. The black faille was soft and spotless, and the matching hat, a simple bow of silk organza, seemed as fresh as it must have in 1959.
    The dolls and outfits moved forward through Barbie’s history as one gazed down the length of the cabinet. At the bottom, Twist ’n Turn Barbies were dressed in outfits as diverse as Dreamy Blues, Bright ‘n Brocade, and Fab City. Each outfit was complete, from Trailblazer’s goggles to Dreamy Pink’s slippers.
    A bevy of AG and bubble cut Barbies filled the middle shelves, and some of P.J.’s favorite 1600-series ensembles were here. Of course, she had them all, thanks to Gayle, but there was no harm in taking a few duplicates. In addition to a blond bubble wearing Here Comes The Bride and a dark brunette AG wearing London Tour, there was an exquisite, raspberry-lipped, longhaired silver brunette AG dressed in White Magic.
    P.J. filled her duffel bag rapidly, squeezing in her last two picks—a low-color, coral-lipped, silver-ash blond, side-part AG dressed in Theatre Date and a choice 1966 high-color, long-haired, ash blond AG wearing Country Club Dance—before zipping the bag closed. After hoisting it, P.J. added the second tote to her load and went back downstairs.
    It dawned on her that she must be getting stronger. Despite the weight she carried, she had not needed to stop and rest mid-retreat. Kneeling beside the poodles, she pet them good-bye. Then she rose and slipped out the front door, shutting it gently behind her.
    It was time to kick Darby’s plan into action.
    She examined the arch extending over the entrance porch.
    The ever-resourceful Darby had a friend who did the chrome work on motorcycles. Knowing they used cyanide to etch the metal, he had no problem paying his friend a visit and boosting a bucket before he left. Then, at the hardware store, he bought plaster of Paris and glue, followed by a trip to the grocery store, where he stocked up on more toilet paper, rubber gloves, aluminum foil, and two large pots.
    The following day, he went to a hobby store and bought sand-colored spray paint and itty-bitty engines used for shooting off model rockets. At home, he laid everything out on a sheet of cardboard roughly half a foot wide. He glued the engines with primer wire sticking out everywhere until the cardboard was covered with nearly two hundred of them.
    P.J. watched as he took thin speaker wire and glued that to the cardboard too. Ultimately, a wire led to each igniter.
    Darby went into the kitchen and poured the cyanide into the pot on the stove, mixing it with glue as it simmered. When it was ready, he slathered it onto aluminum foil and let it dry.
    Next, he filled a vat with toilet paper, water, and glue to create papier-mâché.
    “Did you bring the mixer?” he asked.
    As though she were in the presence of a mad scientist, P.J. did not speak as she went to the box she’d brought over and removed the electric mixer.
    “Bring it to me,” he said.
    She did so, helping him adjust the settings once he had it plugged in and running.
    “Just let it run,” he said, returning to where the aluminum foil had been spread out. The cyanide-glue mixture was dry, so he put on rubber gloves and started breaking it into pieces like malleable peanut brittle. When he was done, he glued a crystallized hunk of cyanide to each rocket.
    Darby turned off