“If you think it’s okay.”
“She can handle it,” he said. “Give me a second and I’ll tell her what’s going on. She might have something to add.”
He moved down the hall to the door, tapping once before he entered. As he eased through the opening, I felt a moment’s unease. Here I was in a strange house in the company of a man I’d never laid eyes on before. I had taken him at face value, trusting him on instinct though I wasn’t sure why. Really, I only had his word for it that Dolores was in the other room. I had one of those flash fantasies of him emerging from the bedroom with a butcher knife in hand. Fortunately, life, even for a private eye, is seldom this interesting. The door opened again and Homer motioned me in.
At first sight, I thought Dolores Ruggles couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five. Later, I found out that she was twenty-eight, which still seemed too young to be married to a man Homer’s age. Slim, petite, she sat at a workbench in a room filled with Barbie dolls. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, dressed in an astonishing array of styles, these bland plastic women were decked out in miniature sun dresses, evening clothes, suits, furs, shorts, capes, pedal pushers, bathing suits, baby doll pajamas, sheaths-each outfit complete with appropriate accessories. There was a whole row of Barbie brides, though I’d never thought of her as married. The row below showed twenty Barbies uniformed as flight attendants and nurses, which must have represented the entire gambit of career options available to her. Some of the dolls were still in their boxes and some were freestanding, affixed to round plastic mounts. There was a row of seated Barbies-black, Hispanic, blonde, brunette-their long perfect legs extended like a chorus line, all shoeless, their unblemished limbs ending in nearly pointed toes. Their arms were long and impossibly smooth. Their necks must have contained extra vertebrae to support the weight of their tousled manes of hair. I confess I found myself at a loss for words. Homer leaned against the open door, watching for my reaction.
I could tell something was expected of me so I said, “Amazing,” in what I hoped was a properly respectful tone.
Homer laughed. “I thought you’d like that. I don’t know a woman alive who can resist a room full of dolls.”
I said, “Ah.”
Dolores glanced at me shyly. She had a doll in her lap, not a Barbie to all appearances, but some other type. With a little hammer and an X-acto knife, she was cutting open its stomach. There was a box of identical little plastic girls, sexless, unmarred, standing close together with their chests pierced in a pattern of holes like those old-fashioned radio speakers. Beside them, there was a box of little girls’ heads, eyes demurely closed, a smile turning up the corners of each set of perfect lips. “Chatty Cathys,” she said. “It’s a new hobby. I fix their voices so they can talk again.”
“That’s great.”
Homer said, “I’ll leave you girls to your own devices. You have a lot you want to talk about.”
He closed me into the room with her, as pleased with himself as a parent introducing two new best friends to each other. Clearly, he hadn’t guessed my unfortunate history with surrogate children. My first, a Betsy Wetsy, if she’d survived, would have had to enter therapy at some point in her life. At age six, I thought it was a bore to be constantly feeding her those tiny bottles of water and it annoyed me no end every time she peed in my lap. Once I figured out it was the water, I quit feeding her altogether and then I used her as the pedestrian I ran over with my trike. This was my definition of motherly love and probably explains why I’m not a parent today.
“How many Barbies do you have?” I asked, feigning enthusiasm for the little proto-women.
“A little over two thousand. That’s the star of my collection, a number one Barbie still in her original package. The seal’s been broken, but she’s in near-mint condition. I’m afraid to tell you what I paid,” she said. Her speech was uninflected, her manner without affect. She made little eye contact, addressing most of her comments to the doll as she worked. “Homer’s always been very supportive.”
“I can see that,” I said.
“I’m a bit of a purist. A lot of collectors are interested in others in the line-you know, Francie, Tuttie and Todd, Jamie, Skipper, Christie, Cara, Casey, Buffy. I never cared for them myself. And certainly not Ken. Did you have a Barbie as a kid?”
“I can’t say I did,” I said. I picked one up and examined her. “She looks like she’s suffering from some sort of eating disorder, doesn’t she? What prompted you to get into Chatty Cathys? That seems far afield for a Barbie purist.”
“Most of the Chatties aren’t mine. I’m repairing them for a friend who runs a business doing this. It’s not as far-fetched as it seems. Chatty Cathy was introduced in 1960, the year after Barbie. Chatty Cathy was more realistic-freckles, buck teeth, little pot belly-this in addition to her ability to speak. Even with Barbie, 1967 to 1973 is known as the Talking Era, which includes the Twist ‘n’ Turn dolls. Few people realize that.”
“I know I didn’t,” I said. “What’s that thing?”
“That’s the little three-inch vinyl record of Cathy’s sayings. When you pull the string, it activates a spring that makes that little rubber belt drive the turntable. The early versions of the doll had eleven sayings, but that was increased to eighteen. Odd thing about Chatties is that no two look alike. Of course, they were mass-produced, but they all seem to be different. It’s almost creepy in some ways. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t drive all the way down here to talk about dolls. You’re interested in my father.”
“Homer filled me in, but I’d like to hear your version. I understand he and Alfie Toth spent some time with you just after they were released from Chino.”
“That’s right. Pops was feeling sorry for himself because none of the other kids wanted anything to do with him. He tried to spend a night with my brother, Clint-he lives down in Inglewood by the L.A. airport. Clint’s still bitter about Pops. He refused to let him in, but he told him he could sleep in the toolshed if he wanted to. Pops was furious, of course, so he left in a huff, but not before he broke into Clint’s house. Him and Alfie waited ’til Clint was gone, stole his cash, and busted up all his furniture.”
“That must have been a big hit. Did Clint report it to the police?”
Dolores seemed startled, the first real reaction I’d seen. “Why would he do that?”
“I’ve heard there was a plainclothes detective trying to serve a warrant against Toth around the time of his death. I’m wondering if it dated back to that same incident.”
Dolores shook her head. “I’m sure not. Clint would never do a thing like that. He might not want Pops in his house, but he’d never snitch on him. It’s odd, but when my sister Maine called-this was just about a year ago-to say they’d found his body, I started laughing so hard I peed my pants. Homer had to call the doctor when it turned out I couldn’t quit. Doctor gave me a shot to calm me down. He said it was hysteria, but it was actually relief. We hadn’t heard from him for five years by then so I guess I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Why do you think he went from Clint’s to Lake Tahoe?”
“My sister lives up there. Or one of them, at any rate. Not in Lake Tahoe exactly, but that vicinity.”
“Really? I’ve been curious what prompted him to travel in that direction.”
“I don’t think Maine’s husband was any happier to see him than Homer was.”
“How long was he with her?”
“A week or so. Maine told me later him and Alfie went off to go fishing and that’s the last anyone ever saw Pops as far as I know.”
“Do you think I could talk to her? I’m sure the police have covered this ground, but it would be helpful to me.”
“Oh, sure. She isn’t hard to find. She works as a clerk in the sheriff’s department up there.”
“Up there where?”
“Nota Lake. Her name is Margaret, but everybody in the family calls her Marne.”
SEVENTEEN
When I got home, Henry was in the backyard, kneeling in the flower bed. I crossed the lawn, pausing to watch him at work. He was aware of my presence, but seemed content with the quiet. He wore a white T-shirt and farmer’s pants with padded knees. His feet were bare, long, and bony, the high arches very white against the faded grass. The air was sweet and mild. Even with the noon sun directly overhead, the temperature was moderate. I could already see crocuses and hyacinths coming up in clusters beside the garage. I sat down on a wooden lawn chair while he turned the soil with a hand trowel. The earth was soft and damp, worms recoiling from the intrusion when his efforts disturbed them. His rose bushes were barren sticks, bristling with thorns, the occasional leaf bud suggesting that spring was on its way. The lawn, which had been dormant much of the winter, was beginning to waken with the encouragement of recent rains. I could see a haze of green where the new blades were beginning to push up through the brown. “People tend to associate autumn with death, but spring always seems a lot closer to me,” he remarked.