Barbie Doll Murders

Much has been written on the psychology of collecting, probably to the detriment of those who collect. I can only admit I do it and leave it at that. I am an adult who collects a toy, but a toy that goes for very adult prices. And I have an unexplainable attraction to this toy, this small plastic thing in the shape of a human being with an extensive wardrobe, the Barbie doll. A Number One Barbie doll, made in 1959 and in mint condition, currently sells at auction for $25,000.

Yes, I do spend more than I should on them, but I have everything in control. I did recently join Spendaholics Anonymous on the recommendation of a friend, but I later realized she was confusing spending with collecting. Collecting is a whole other possibility for addiction. But I’m not an addict. I simply enjoy collecting. The aim of the meetings is to prevent, not encourage, but I often hear about dolls to buy.

At my third meeting, Bob Leswit, also a Barbie collector, who had previously confessed his spending sometimes forced him to panhandle, told me his collection no longer brought him the joy it used to, and he was considering selling it. Though he had not been on my radar, he suddenly turned attractive. If I were forced to pick a doll that resembles me, it would not be a Barbie, maybe the American Girl, a round faced doll Bob might have collected. He audibly swallowed at the end of every sentence uttered to me. His droning monotone often had me pondering things like my bank account balance or whether or not to invest in a security system, but that evening, as we stood by the food table, intoxicated by the cheap wine, staring into Bob’s thick glasses and hearing this news, I immediately accepted his offer to take me to dinner.

From what I could gather, he was the owner of a good collection, though not extraordinary, that included a few decent dolls, including a 1964 Swirl Ponytail, the first Barbie to sweep her hair around her head before tying it back. If she were in good enough condition, and he was willing to sell her, I could include her in my entry in the upcoming Barbie competition, the grand prize a Honda Civic.

“Then maybe after dinner we can see your collection,” I suggested.

“Are you sure?”A dimple in his left cheek suddenly made him resemble an Allen doll, the boyfriend of Barbie’s friend Midge, but with a shiny, hairless head.

We spent the dinner exchanging tidbits from our respective stockpiles of Barbie trivia. We had been advised not to cultivate romantic liaisons with other SA members and, as I had the idea that Bob was a stickler for rules—he criticized the placement of the silverware and disliked Stravinsky for his dissonance, under this safety net I was soon stepping through his apartment doorway.

“Then why do you go to meetings?” he was asking, as I followed him inside.

“They’re a preventative,” I told him while he fumbled for the light switch. “Like taking vitamin C at the first symptoms of a cold.”

He lead me down a hallway. “Do you buy compulsively?”

“Yes.”

“Does buying dolls prevent you from spending on more important things?”

“Like the dentist? Yes.”

“Is a good part of your apartment taken up by dolls?”

“I have shelves of dolls in front of my windows.”

“Then why not admit it? You have an addiction. You might have a better time at meetings if you moved up a few rows and said something. I shouldn’t be allowing you this purchase.”

“At least I’ve found something that makes me happy. It’s not like I’m shooting heroin.”

“I think deep down you know you have a problem.”

He was probably right. And I had a pain in my left heel to prove it. About a month before, I had developed a small, but painful heel spur, or calcium deposit, on the underside of my heel bone causing me pain and swelling and that often felt like a nail piercing the bottom of my foot. Wearing soft running shoes with the left heel cut out reduced the pressure on it and gave me some relief, but tonight I had squeezed into a pair of tight leather boots. The rest of the evening would be more endurable if I took one of the little black pills Leonard, my acupuncturist, prescribed, an herbal painkiller, not quite strong enough, but quick-acting.

Bob opened his coat closet and offered to take my coat.

“Just a second,” I said, groping in my left pocket for the pill vial. The pockets had been a deciding factor in in buying the coat, large enough to hold a sandwich. “I forgot to take my medication. Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

While he headed down the hall, my fingers felt a crumpled cash register receipt, a cough drop, a paper clip and then a piece of newspaper I didn’t remember putting there. I drew it out. It had been torn from a page of classified ads. One of the ads had been circled in black magic marker. My eyes traveled over its words. My blood surged.

“Number One Barbie Doll for sale, mint condition.”

Mint, not excellent, but mint. The date read January 5. The ad had come out two days before.

For a few seconds I didn’t look at it for fear I had read it wrong, but then I couldn’t help but confirm its contents. By the area code, the seller lived in or around Fairview, the largest town in the area, about 40 minutes north. It was ten minutes after eleven, probably too late to call. I stabbed at my phone anyway but reached only the voice mail of a woman sounding so computerized I wasn’t sure she was human. Her name was Sally. I apologized for calling so late. “Please call me.” I said.

An hour later, back in my apartment, I stood my newly purchased Swirl Ponytail, still in her box, on my bedroom shelf between my Ponytail Six and my Bubblecut, both seemingly accepting of the new doll by virtue of her early sixties birthdate and style, more under the influence of Jackie Kennedy than campus radical. Shelves of Barbies ran through my apartment, a double layer of simple wooden planks that sat on metal braces I had screwed to my walls using the electric drill I had gotten for opening an account at City Capitol Bank. I kept the least valuable of my dolls in the front of the apartment in my kitchen, those from the eighties and nineties in the narrow hallway between my kitchen and my bedroom and the most valuable in my bedroom, farthest from my front door in case of theft, though no resident of my building on Montgomery Street, as far as I knew, had ever been victim of a break-in. All dolls sat in their boxes and peered out from behind the cellophane windows, protected against use, dust, fingerprints, anything that might lower their value. Despite the fact I rarely had visitors, they were my bluster, my swagger, evidence I was an interesting person. They were my accomplishment in life, a constant reminder of my true identity.

I went back to my kitchen passing my Barbie shopping bags, clock, and Christmas stockings hung on the wall under the shelves, passing the long table that narrowed my hallway even more where I displayed other Barbie paraphernalia I had found either online or at local tag sales, or that friends or relatives had given me—many clueless as to the value or authenticity of most of it—including my Barbie boat, off-road vehicle, helicopter, indoor furniture and pool with slide playsets. Last, I passed my armoire full of used Barbies, dolls no longer in their boxes that stood on stands, not as valuable, but in good enough condition to show without embarrassment.

I made myself a cup of black tea and sat at my kitchen table to re examine the ad. It was encircled by a determined black line, so deeply pressed into the paper, it left an indentation on the other side. The paper’s torn edge was smooth, as if ripped in a hurry.

I was able to draw some conclusions: 1) Whoever slipped it to me was familiar enough with me to know I was a collector of Barbie dolls. 2) They wanted to conceal their identity. 3) They were familiar enough with Barbies to know the value of this particular doll but did not want it for themself or could not afford to buy it. 4) They had access to my coat when I wasn’t in the room with it. At my workplace, I always kept my coat in my office and often made trips away from my desk. The door to my office had no lock, and I often left it open, so it was possible it was somebody I worked with. I thought of Jim, the manager, Sydney, the career counselor, Grace, the receptionist and Sun-Joo, the accountant, whose English was poor. All knew I collected Barbies, but none had ever asked about them, and none would have found reason not to hand me the ad in person, unless he or she held a grudge against my fellow therapist, Isabel Runyan. But everyone loved Isabel. She too was a passionate Barbie collector. If anyone were to slip an ad to anyone it would have been to Isabel.

It couldn’t have been anyone at the office, most of all, Isabel. She would have killed for this doll. Every day she came to work in her version of a different Barbie ensemble. Though she was twenty-eight, a little older than Barbie was meant to be, and a well built 5′10,” Isabel carried herself as if she were much slighter, and had an uncanny resemblance to a doll from circa 1967 when her make-up became muted, her eyes turned a more vibrant blue and her eyebrows took on a more gentle curve. She wore her blond hair in a high ponytail so tightly bound it made her eyes slant upwards like a Barbie’s. I was never sure if she was drawn to Barbie because of her resemblance to her, or if collecting her altered her appearance.

I had been working as a therapist at Morehouse Social Services for about five years, a small, independently funded agency established to help ex-cons readapt to life outside prison, located on Fleet Street, Squire Hills’ main drag. Due to an ordinance made long ago when a rare leaf-eating beetle invaded, the street was completely treeless and lined with low, boxlike buildings. Most residents took care of whatever shopping or business they needed to there as quickly as possible and moved on to more attractive parts of town. But today it was a lovely street where I had a lovely office where I would receive a call from someone named Sally to arrange the purchase of her doll.

At 9 AM I entered the glass doors of the squalid, two story building determined to reach her. I passed through a large room of empty desks to enter my office at the far end, hung my coat, sat at my desk, took out my phone and, before dialing, consulted the ad one more time, unnecessarily really, I had the number memorized.

Sally answered on the first ring, in the same generic voice I had heard on her voicemail.

“This is Karen August,” I said. ” About the ad you put in the paper…”

“You want the doll?”

I hesitated at her brusqueness. “Yes. Is she still available?”

“Yes, hello, I’m Sally Sloane.” It was as if it had been years since she’d spoken to anyone. “She’s a model number 840 from 1959, and wears a blond ponytail with a zebra striped swimsuit, gold hoop earrings and white sunglasses.” By the end of the sentence her words were practically running into each other.

“Is she still in her box?” I said, trying to keep my voice even. Too much eagerness might have her add a few more dollars to the exorbitant price I expected.

“Yes, with the three tiered illustrations. But one thing I should tell you. You probably know the Number Ones were the only Barbies with hand-painted faces, and one of her eyebrows is arched slightly higher than the other giving her a sort of.…questioning look. The appraiser told me according to the people at Mattel, she was painted by someone new on the job and he was fired after working on only three dolls. I did a search on the internet for the other two and I’m pretty sure I found them. One’s owned by a woman in Rockville and the other somewhere in Kansas. So this one may be even a little more valuable than the usual Number One, but I’m throwing in the uneven eyebrows for free.”

“How much are you asking?”

“Fifteen thousand. It’s really a deal. One sold at auction a few months ago for twenty. I’ll take cash, a personal check or money order.”

It was a few grand higher than I had expected. But I would have given my entire collection for this one doll.

“Does she interest you?” Sally asked. “I have others calling.”

I wondered if this was true. But it didn’t matter what she said. I had about ten grand in savings and maybe two in checking. I might be able to borrow against my next few paychecks. “At the risk of sounding overeager,” I said, “I’d like to see her as soon as possible.”

“Good.” She paused a few seconds. “I assume you’re a collector?”

“I own about a hundred dolls so I guess you could say so. Collecting is my passion, but I work as a therapist.” I was immediately sorry I mentioned my job. It often invited people to confide in me. So I quickly said, “Are you a collector, too?”

He voice took on a bitter tone. “My ex and I, the son of a you know what, became collectors about a year ago when our marriage started to crack.”

As someone who spent endless hours at work listening and advising, this was the last conversation I was in the mood for. Then again, if I happened to be competing with anyone else for the doll, this might be the perfect way to ingratiate myself with her.

“It sure didn’t help,” she went on. “I found out the s.o.b. was cheating on me.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I caught him with…her in his office making use of a chintz covered couch I helped him pick out. So quicker than you could say divorce I asked for one.”

“Was he agreeable to it?” I began to wonder if she were only selling the doll to make friends.

“Not at first. He kept begging me to take him back, but he didn’t have a chance. He told me he’d never leave me again, but I wasn’t about to hang around and find out. When I left, about six months ago, we split the Barbie collection and he insisted I take the most valuable doll.

“I wanted to make a clean break, so I moved here to Fairview. I changed my number, I didn’t tell him where I was and since our divorce I haven’t been in touch with him or any of our old friends. Unfortunately I passed one of them on the street recently and I think she ratted on me, because about a week later, I was looking through the Bugle and my ex had put an ad in it. You want to hear it? I couldn’t believe it.” I heard rustling, then she cleared her throat and read, “‘Sally, please forgive me. I’m in misery until I hear the sound of your voice. Call me and let’s talk about it.’”

“It sounds like he really cares about you.”

“If he really cared about me, he wouldn’t have cheated.”

“Did you answer it?”

“No. He swore in front of a minister he would love me till the day he died. I’m not a religious person, but he broke our marriage bonds and that’s enough for me.”

“You’re not willing to forgive?”

“Some acts are unforgivable.” She paused, and I wondered if she were too choked up to speak. But she went on in a strong voice. “Just listen to me. You’d think after six months I could put it behind me. ”

“These things take time.”

“Anyway, Fairview is clean and pretty, but it would be nice to meet another woman who cared about something besides which pain-killer to take. Anyway, for a few months I moped around the house collecting alimony, but then I needed something to do, so I started collecting again. I went to flea markets and shopped online, and now I have a pretty decent collection, but lately every time I look at this doll she reminds me of him, so I have to get rid of her as soon as possible.”

“I don’t blame you.” I said. I stopped myself from saying, “And I would highly recommend it.”

I wondered when she would suggest a time for us to meet. “Where do you live?” she said.

“In Squire Hills.”

“Oh! We used to live in the east section.”

“That’s about ten minutes from me.”

“Alone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Not at the moment.” She was probably asking because she wanted me to return the question. “And you?” I said. “Anyone new in your life?”

She sighed. “It took me a while before I was able to trust anyone again, but now I’ve been seeing this guy, Segal, for a few months. We haven’t even talked about living together, so I’m not sure where it’s going. He’s a lawyer with a pretty busy schedule, so I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like.”

“That can be trying.” I wondered when we’d get back to the subject of the doll.

To my relief she said, ”Only one other person called me about the doll. A Margaret McRae who also lives in Fairview. She sounded very nice, but I don’t think she collects. She wants her as an investment.”

I wondered if Sally would sell the doll to someone with so little affinity for Barbies and deprive a real collector like me of such a remarkable and necessary addition to her collection. If only I had found the clipping in my pocket earlier! I scratched my brain trying to think of the right words to convince her I deserved the doll, something passionate and persuasive. But what finally came out sounded weak and cliched: “Owning this doll would really mean a lot to me.”

I held my breath. Sally’s voice finally emerged from the silence. ”But I’d rather sell her to you.”

My blood turned to warm milk. I imagined a crowd surrounding my display at the convention ogling the doll, pictured myself behind the wheel of the Honda, speeding down a highway, my scarf blowing behind me. “When can I come see her?” I said.

We decided that since I had a busy work week and she saw Segal most evenings, she could expect me at her house the following Saturday at one. I wrote her address on my Barbie notepad.

Before hanging up, Sally said, “It was nice talking to you, Karen. I look forward to meeting you in person. Do you drink coffee?”