Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “Cookie.” Oh. Now I felt really stupid.

  My cell phone rang on the table next to me. It was Grandma Ruby. If I didn’t answer, she’d worry, so I put on my happy voice. “Hi, Grandma!”

  “What’s wrong?” No fooling her. “You never call me Grandma.” Everyone calls her Ruby, even her kids.

  “Nothin’,” I said in a woebegone tone, and then thought, Snap out of it, Katy. So you got caught in your pj’s in front of your neighbor who has the nerve to be a delectable hunk of man-candy. Get over it already.

  “I take it you’ve seen the paper. Sooner or later it was bound to happen, you know.”

  Ruby is seventy-four, and for the past couple of years her friends have been dropping like flies. Every morning she checks the obits before reading the front page. If anyone she was even remotely acquainted with has passed, she calls and shares with me. I guess that makes me her grief counselor, but I draw the line at attending funerals.

  “Who died?” Silence on her end. This had to be bad.

  “Ruby. Who died?”

  “It’s Chad.”

  My official ex-husband as of one month ago. This time last year, I had been nursing him through a horrific cancer battle. The chemo-diet had shed the extra pounds he’d accumulated during the course of our seven-year marriage, so once he was back on his feet, he got a trainer, started working on his long lost abs, and the next thing I knew, Chad was moving out and in with his twenty-two-year-old trainer. And now he was dead.

  For seven months, I’d been paralyzed with bitter resentment, and in that instant my anger flew out the window like it was nothing. Who knew death could feel so liberating? “So what happened?”

  “The two-timin’ weasel married that bimbo, that’s what happened. It’s in the wedding announcements and I assumed you’d already seen it.”

  My five-second euphoria was officially over and I felt a tantrum rearing its ugly head, but I kept my cool for Ruby’s sake. She’d loved the weasel almost as much as I had. “Wow, that was fast.”

  “They’re expecting. In August.”

  I furiously counted forward on my fingers. May, June, July, August. Jeez, that didn’t take long. He’d told me he wasn’t ready for babies. “I gotta go, Ruby,” I said, choking on a lump of rage.

  “I’m so sorry, kiddo. I know it hurts. You know I love you.”

  We hung up, and I immediately opened the paper to the local section. There it was—a photo of a beaming Chad and her, the bitch who had stolen my husband and my life.

  At one in the afternoon, I was still slumped in my chair in my pajamas when someone knocked on the front door.

  “Sweetie. It’s Mommy.” She peered at me through the window near the door.

  I should have closed the damned shutters before going into seclusion.

  “We’re worried about you. Have you eaten anything?”

  Then Ruby hollered, “That jackass ain’t worth it, honey. You got your whole life ahead of you.”

  “Everything okay here, ladies?” called Josh-the-creepy-Viking as he climbed the wooden porch steps.

  Oh, crap. It just keeps getting better and better.

  “My daughter’s had some bad news,” said Mom, “and she’s not answering her phone.”

  That was because I’d been too busy diabolically plotting elaborate revenge scenarios involving buses and Chad’s rear-end to take calls. Now the three of them were looking at me through the shutter slats and Daisy was barking furiously at them, which is her job as head security guard, but they took it to mean she was telling them I was in dire jeopardy.

  “Honey, I can see you in there. Please open the door,” said Mom. “I just need to make sure you’re all right. And stop biting your nails. I thought you were trying to grow them out.”

  “I’m fine! And my nails are fine too!” I hollered from my chair, wishing I could hide behind it, so I could bite my damned nails in peace. “Just under the weather, that’s all. Don’t want you to catch it.” I coughed a few times for effect.

  “We have to get in there,” said Ruby. “I’m psychic, and there’s no telling what she might do.”

  Ruby has possessed incredible psychic powers ever since she electrocuted herself years ago while hanging outdoor Christmas lights in a drippy fog, so you’d think she’d know I hadn’t done anything desperate. The strongest medication I keep in the house is ibuprofen. She is the one with the medical marijuana card. But I had been swilling chamomile tea for hours and desperately needed to pee.

  I heard the sash window in my bedroom scrape open, which set off the security alarm and put Daisy into howling mode. I bolted to the keypad by the front door to punch in the code, but totally blanked on the numbers—my birth year. Duh.

  I was too busy shouting, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” and pounding the keypad into submission to notice the Viking had joined me.

  “Hey, Cookie,” he said, scaring the bejeebers out of me.

  I screamed, jumping about a foot off the floor as he opened the door to my mother and Ruby, plus several nosy neighbors rubbernecking at the foot of the porch steps.

  And then I lost my tea.

  After a couple of days of hiding out to avoid embarrassing run-ins with the Viking or those other neighbors I don’t know and probably never will now that I am the neighborhood incontinent crazy lady, I decided to clean my house and get on with my pathetic life.

  I gathered the newspapers for recycling, and was once again subjected to Chad’s happy and very much alive face. I resolved to be magnanimous and wish him well. Wasn’t I the grown-up one? Well, anyway I tried, but it wasn’t working for me. So I wished the baby well. That worked. Then another familiar face on the opposite page, attached to a short piece, caught my attention.

  CHILD-KILLER UP FOR PAROLE

  Phillip Hobart raped and murdered local girl Lindsay Moore in 1996.

  In the late hours of May 3, 1996, Lindsay Moore, a promising fifteen-year-old sophomore at Santa Lucia High School was brutally gang-raped by three college students at a fraternity house party. A police investigation was underway when several days later Lindsay was reported missing by her mother, Belinda Moore.

  Weeks later, Phil Hobart led police to Lindsay’s body. She had been kidnapped and murdered by Hobart and two other boys, Jake Werner and Erik Mason, all involved in the frat house gang-rape. Hobart was nineteen at the time and was sentenced to fifteen years to life, and will soon be eligible for parole. The parole hearing date has tentatively been set for July 13. Hobart is incarcerated at Folsom State Prison in Sacramento County.

  I sat on the leather ottoman by the sofa, gazing at Lindsay’s photo while the sad, distant memory refreshed. How could someone who had committed such heinous crimes ever be up for parole, let alone this soon? Surely they wouldn’t let this happen.

  Lindsay had been a cute, popular cheerleader—friendly to everyone, including geeky me. If you’re a kid and a friend your age dies, it’s hard to wrap your head around it—your first realization that you are a mere mortal. It was something I had not forgotten.

  I cut out the article and put it in the desk drawer. It didn’t feel right throwing Lindsay’s story into the recycling.

  Chapter Two

  DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG

  SATURDAY

  April 6

  I was online paying bills when my BFF Samantha texted, Lunch? I replied, Pizza? Ten minutes later her horn honked outside.

  Sam was arguing with her stepdaughter, Chelsea, through the Bluetooth speakers as I folded my 5’9” frame into her Ford Escape.

  “The answer is no. Not maybe. No.”

  Chelsea’s pleading voice whined, “But—”

  Shaking her head, Samantha rolled her sky-blue eyes at me. “No buts. Just watch your little brother, do your homework, and I’ll be home in a couple of hours.”

  “But—”

  She pressed the End icon on the navigation screen before Chelsea could whine some more. “God, Katy. I’m way too young to have a teenager.” She p
eered into the rearview mirror and fluffed her blond pixie cut. “Why did I marry a man eight years older than me with a kid?” She pointed to an infinitesimal frown line. “Look! I need Botox. Already. At thirty-one. She’s aging me before my time.”

  “You married Spencer because he was the sweetest guy on the planet and you absolutely adored Chelsea.”

  “She was nine at the time. I didn’t realize she wouldn’t stay nine. Now she wants a tattoo but needs a parent’s permission to get one. I’m afraid her space-case mother might agree. The kid’s only fifteen, for criminy sakes.”

  “Do you have to go to work later?” I asked to change the subject. She is a maternity nurse and after the birth of her son four years ago, she has taken to wearing scrubs all the time. I know it is because she still has a leftover muffin-top from the pregnancy, but I don’t get it. She used to be so stylish. Today’s ensemble was a blue bunny print. “No, why?”

  “No reason.”

  We were on 101 heading south to our favorite restaurant, Klondike Pizza, in the charming old town area of Cala Grande. The owners had migrated from Alaska, so hence the name and rustic decor: bear skins, moose antlers, snowshoes… and peanut shells on the floor. A short line was at the register when we walked in, so we got a menu and debated our choices, then ordered what we always ordered. We fetched our sodas and a basket of peanuts and sat at our favorite table under the wood stairs.

  Neatnik Sam was rooting around in the basket for a triple peanut. “Got an interesting call from your mom yesterday.”

  I grabbed a handful of nuts and smashed them to smithereens on the blue gingham tablecloth, causing Sam to wince. “What did she want?”

  Sam delicately cracked a peanut into two perfect halves. “She asked if I knew any nice guys I could introduce you to.” She poured the three peanuts into her mouth.

  “So not ready.” I concentrated on sifting through my peanut shell mess for a nut. “Please say you said no.”

  “Uh, I may have mentioned that Spencer knows a guy you might like. He has most of his teeth and is gainfully employed in the food service industry.”

  “Really?” I smashed another handful of peanuts just to annoy her. “Nice going. Now I’ll never hear the end of it.” I sipped my root beer, thinking real beer would have been a better choice. “So, what happened to his teeth and where exactly is he gainfully employed?”

  Samantha swiped my mess off the table with a paper napkin. “Are you interested, Katy?”

  “Hardly.”

  “He lost his front teeth in a nursing home brawl where Spencer’s grandpa lives. He works in the kitchen.” She tried to keep a straight face as she cracked another peanut. “The residents were protesting the bland food and in the ensuing food fight, he got belted in the chops with a portable oxygen tank.”

  I nodded, holding a poker face. “Sounds painful. How did the protest turn out?”

  “They now have salt and pepper on the dining room tables and Tuesday is taco night.’

  A perky teenaged girl, June according to her name tag, set our pizzas on the table and asked if we wanted anything else.

  “No, we’re good,” I said. “Oh, wait. Would you bring me an Alaskan Amber?”

  “I need to check your I.D.”

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  “Sorry, it’s the law. Anyone who looks under thirty has to have valid I.D.”

  I rummaged through my purse and extracted my driver’s license. “Here ya go.” I smirked at Samantha, knowing this was making her fume over her aging frown lines. Hee-hee.

  June scrutinized it and glanced at me. “Wow. I sure hope I look as good as you when I’m old.” She handed back my I.D. and scurried off to get my beer.

  Sam propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her hands. “Wow.”

  “Oh, be quiet. She meant it as a compliment. And you don’t need Botox. Yet.” I slid a slice of hot veggie pizza onto my plate and forked off a section. “This was a good idea.” I chewed in blissful contentment. “I can’t wait until I’m gainfully employed so we can do this more often.”

  “I will never understand why you took the house and let Chad keep the business,” Samantha said. “You put your heart and soul into The Bookcase Bistro. At least you’d still have a steady income.”

  “I’ve told you I wanted a clean break from everything having to do with him, and no way did I want to run the business by myself. I got great joy when I sold that ostentatious monstrosity of a house that he had to have for a humongous profit. So it’s not like I’m broke. I just need something to do. You know, something that gets me up in the morning. I’m sick of feeling sorry for myself.” I smacked the table. “Oh! Did I tell you I finally cleaned out that dirty old garden shed in my backyard and set it up as an office? I’ve got my drafting table out there and all my art supplies.”

  June set down my beer and asked Sam if she wanted one.

  “I wish. But I have to take my little boy to gymnastics, not to mention I’m driving.”

  I watched the girl walk away, then turned back to Sam. “The bookstore years were great, but that was Chad’s dream, not mine and I’ve always missed being a graphic artist.” I held my glass aloft and offered a hardy, “Here’s to new beginnings,” and took a refreshing swig.

  “That’s great about the shed,” said Sam. “Where’d you put your gardening stuff?”

  “Everything’s been in the garage since I moved in. I kept meaning to move it all to the shed, but this is a much better use of the space.” My pizza was now cool enough to pick up, so I chomped a bite and spoke with a full mouth. “Yup, Chad can have the business and all the headaches associated with trying to keep a bookstore afloat these days. With the mood I’ve been in, I might’ve gone postal on some of those customers and wound up in jail. Especially that irritating woman who always returned books because she didn’t like the endings.” I shook my head, relieved I would never deal with her again. Yup, right decision. “Speaking of jail, did you see the story in the paper about Lindsay Moore?”

  “No. Why would there be a story about her after all these years?”

  I told her about Phil Hobart’s upcoming parole hearing. “I’m wondering if there’s something I can do to make sure this guy doesn’t get out.”

  “I would think Lindsay’s mother will be at the parole hearing to speak up for her daughter. I know if I was her and he got parole, I’d be waiting outside the prison gates the day he was released and get a little justice of my own.”

  “You’re probably right. This is her business, not mine.” I sipped my beer. “It’s not like I knew her that well in high school, anyway.”

  “Cheerleaders and band geeks—not really the same crowd.”

  “She was a really nice girl though, and what happened to her was so awful,” I said. “It hurt everyone in our school. God! I get so sick of monsters like him getting paroled. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “But getting caught up in something you can’t do a darn thing about isn’t going to be good for you right now.” Sam was in mother-mode and patted my hand. “I’ve got an idea for you. Ever thought of writing a blog?”

  “Why would I do that? I don’t even like Facebook. Especially when people write about their oh-so personal problems for everyone to see. The other day, one of my friends posted, ‘I think my boyfriend gave me herpes ‘cause I’m really itchy.’ Eew. So not my business.”

  “Yeah, I saw that because you shared it, thank you very much.”

  “I meant to hit the like button, but, oops. Too funny.”

  “Anyway, a blog would be like a diary or a journal.”

  “Then why don’t I just get a diary or a journal?”

  “You can, but by having it on the Internet, you’ll never lose it and you can set it up so it’s totally private. No one’ll ever see it but you, and you can access it from wherever you are and add entries. Even on your phone.”

  She paused, waiting for me to say something, but I remained silent, listening to t
he white noise in my head.

  “Chelsea can help you set it up. She set up mine. It could be very cathartic for you. Write about everything you’ve been going through this past year. Get it all out there. Purge your anger issues before you make yourself sick.”

  “Let me think about it.” I tapped my chin. “Mmmm. Sounds like work to me. No thanks.” I decided to button her up by changing the subject. “Know anybody who needs a new logo?”

  “Mmmm. Sounds like work to me.”

  Guess I’d annoyed her. Now I felt bad. “Okay. You may have a valid point about my anger issues. I’ll think about doing a blog.”

  Chapter Three

  DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG

  MONDAY

  April 8

  Graphic Design Work

  Freelance graphic designer with years of experience. Logo designs, cartooning, advertising layouts, business cards, design concepts, etc. I will take your idea and make it a reality. No job too small. My rates are reasonable, my hours are flexible, and I’ll give you a fast turn-around.

  I posted the ad on Craigslist, then Daisy and I hopped in the car for a run to the bank to transfer some money from my savings to checking. I could have done it online, but Daisy wouldn’t have gotten her doggy treat at the drive-thru window.

  I drive an orange 1976 Volvo DL wagon that I grew up riding in. At eight years old, I discovered a box of Mom’s old Betty and Veronica comic books while snooping around in the garage. I thought Veronica was so glamorous. I wanted to dress like her, wear my hair like her, have boobs like her, and change my name to Veronica. Mom said no to the first two and the boobs never happened, but she agreed to a compromise and we named the Volvo “Veronica.”

  Veronica became mine on my seventeenth birthday, even though it killed Mom to part with her. I appreciate not having a car payment, but power windows sure would be nice. Especially at the drive-thru when Daisy wants to stick her head out the back window to say “hi,” and I have to twist into a pretzel to roll down her window.