After I completed my banking, I decided to run over to my stepdad’s appliance repair shop to talk to him about Phil Hobart’s parole hearing. Pop had been a cop until he was forced into early retirement after pursuing an unhappy, gun-toting housewife who was chasing her philandering husband down the street. She had tripped over a tree root and Pop had caught a bullet in his knee.
After Pop’s retirement, he had driven Mom bonkers. He was bored but clueless as to what to do with the next stage of his life, and poor Mom had borne the cranky brunt of it. When the escrow office next door to her beauty shop had become vacant, she had suggested he take the space and open an appliance repair shop. Ever since I can remember, Pop has rattled on about how people hadn’t thrown things away when he was a kid: “You bought a toaster once, and you kept it forever. If it broke, you fixed it. My grandmother had the same Toastmaster she got for a wedding present in 1932 until the day she died in 1978.”
Pop’s Fix-It Shop is a quaint throwback to a simpler time—or more simply put, a symptom of having watched The Andy Griffith Show in his youth. An ongoing chess game sits on a table under the window, and there is a vintage appliance museum on shelves lining an entire wall featuring Great Grandma’s gleaming old Toastmaster. Under the shelves is a working mahogany Magnavox Astro Sonic Stereo Console, circa 1969, that Pop inherited from his folks, along with all of their old records, when they moved to a condo in Palm Desert.
The little bell over the door jingled as Daisy and I entered. Cool jazz filled the room, so I stepped to the stereo to check the current selection playing. It was the soundtrack to a 60’s movie called Walk on the Wild Side—music by Elmer Bernstein.
“Hey, Pop. What’cha doing?”
He was perched on a stool behind the counter, hunched over a commercial espresso maker. “Darn thing won’t steam.” He switched the machine on and it wheezed as though suffering an asthma attack.
“That can’t be good,” I said.
He turned it off and continued tinkering. “What brings you here on this beautiful spring day? Shouldn’t you be outside playing?”
“Did you see the story in the paper about Phil Hobart’s parole hearing? You know, the guy who kidnapped and murdered Lindsay Moore back when I was in high school?”
“Of course I remember who Phil Hobart is, and yes, I read it.” He set down a tiny screwdriver and pushed his “cheaters” down his nose, giving me his full attention. “So why are we talking about this?”
“It’s just not right that her death has so little value that fifteen years covers the debt.”
“Nothing can cover that debt, Katy. Should have been life with no possible parole. Better yet, should have been death for what those boys did to that little girl.”
I shuddered. I don’t believe in the death penalty. So barbaric. A dark, cold dungeon works for me, or even better, a lifetime sentence of Jerry Springer reruns 24/7. The crime rate would plummet.
“There must be something I can do to help stop this guy’s parole,” I said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Protest? Picket the prison? But before I do anything, I want to be absolutely sure he’s guilty. That there’s no possibility that he was wrongly accused. You know, bad DNA, that sort of thing.”
“Katy, he confessed. He and his friends raped her, kidnapped her, and murdered her. He doesn’t deserve freedom. Come over for dinner tonight and I’ll tell you what wasn’t in the paper.”
Pop was relaxing on the patio when I arrived, nursing a Firestone Pale Ale while grilling chicken breasts and a vegetable kabob for me. I went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Chablis out of the fridge and poured a hefty glassful before flopping on the chaise lounge next to him.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Working on a wedding. This may be the last wedding she ever does. Too much drama. The bride can’t decide if she wants her hair up or down. She’s so upset about it that she’s broken out in a rash.”
“Sounds like the problem isn’t really about her hair but maybe second thoughts about the wedding.”
“That’s very astute of you.” Pop got up and slopped more BBQ sauce on the chicken. “These days the marriage is usually kaput before the wedding bills have been paid off.” He saw my puckered brow. “Katydid, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
I sipped my Chablis. “I will be. Far worse things happen in life than getting divorced from a rat. Like what happened to Lindsay.”
He took a long pull on his beer. “I don’t know what you can do to stop Hobart’s parole, Katy, but it’s unlikely he’ll get out on his first go-round anyway.”
“I’m confused. He’s serving fifteen years to life and this is his first parole hearing. But the crime happened in 1996, so it’s been more than fifteen years. Why didn’t he have a parole hearing sooner? Bad conduct or something?”
“It took over a year for the case to go to trial, plus it had to be moved to another county to get a fair trial. Then several postponements on final sentencing. These things drag on and on. It’s not like the TV shows, honey.”
Pop pulled the chicken and my kabob off the grill, set them on a platter, and we went into the kitchen. “Your mother said to go ahead and eat if she isn’t home in time. You get the salad in the fridge, while I get the rolls out of the oven. Oh, and grab me another beer, will ya?”
I did as told and was about to top off my wine when he said, “Are you walking home?”
No, I wasn’t walking. I put the bottle back.
A few bites into the meal, I said, “Why did they kidnap and murder Lindsay after she’d already made a statement? The police had their descriptions, so what was the point?”
“They were morons, Katy. None of them had a criminal record and Lindsay had no idea who they were or what they looked like.”
Pop and I finished dinner, and while he caught the basketball scores on TV, I scavenged in the refrigerator hoping to score something “dessertie” and came up empty-handed, as usual. Pop keeps a slim figure, but is pre-diabetic, so Mom diligently keeps the house sweet-free. But I know she has a chocolate stash somewhere in their house and one of these days, I’m going to find it.
“Did Mom tell you your sister’s coming home for a while?” he called from the next room.
“No. When?”
Pop returned to the kitchen. “Sometime in June or July, when her lease is up.”
“Why’s Emily coming home?” I love her, but I love her more from afar.
“So she can concentrate on her writing.” Pop finger-quoted.
“Please tell me it’s not rap.”
Emily is my half-sister, nine years my junior. Two years ago she dropped out of college in her sophomore year to come home and become a rapper, LayZeeE. A gritty, street-wise, middle-class, suburban rapper, rapping about growing up in the ‘hood. We’re talkin’ quarter acre lots on tree-lined streets with a strict homeowners association pushing you around and not allowing you to paint your house pink kind of ‘hood. The mean streets of Santa Lucia.
The high point of LayZeeE’s career was an “open mic afternoon” in the bistro at the senior community where Grandma Ruby lives. Yes, it really happened and I have the video proving it. Since then, she’s been living in San Diego with friends and working at Bed, Bath & Beyond.
“She’s writing a murder mystery,” said Pop. “She called it a paranormal-fantasy with ghosts, alternate universes, fairies, werewolves, zombies, shapers or shafters—”
“Shapeshifter?”
“That’s it. What the hell is that?”
“It’s a human who morphs into other things, like a werewolf.”
“And how would you know this?”
“I read the Sookie Stackhouse series that the TV show True Blood is based on. Speaking of writing, I’m thinking about starting a blog.” I was interrupted by the squeaky rumble of the garage door opening. “Mom’s home.”
“Pour your
mother a glass of wine while I dish up a plate. I’m sure she’s frazzled. You’ll find an open red in the pantry.”
“No more weddings!” Mom hollered as she came through the door. “I’ve had a day and a half, let me tell you.” She threw her purse and tote bag onto the rattan settee in the kitchen, then ripped off her sweater and tossed it onto the pile. “I am boiling.”
“Here, Mom.” I gave her a glass of Justification—a delicious local blend of cabernet and merlot and pecked her cheek.
“Thank you, honey.” She took a slow deep sip. “Ooo. The good stuff. What’s the occasion?”
“We love you, and it was already open.”
“I love you, too. But if I ever sign up for another wedding, promise me you’ll get my head examined.”
“Hungry?” asked Pop, as he pulled out a chair for her at the ancient harvest table in the nook.
“I’m starved.” She glanced at the plate waiting for her. “Looks yummy. I’ve got a huge headache, probably because I’m so hungry.” She ignored the chair, opened the patio glass door and fanned herself with it. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”
“Having another power-surge?” I asked warily, suppressing a wince. You never knew what might set her off.
“Come here and feel my back.”
“You gotta do it, Katy,” said Pop. “It’s amazing.”
I tentatively stepped close and she grabbed my hand, jamming it under her shirt into hot sweat streaming down the small of her back. “Eew. Gross.” I jerked my wet hand away and wiped it on my pants.
She laughed at my disgusted expression and Pop tossed her a dish towel to mop up. “Will you throw this in the laundry room?” She dangled the towel at me.
I took it by the edge. I thought PMS was bad. So not looking forward to the peri-menopausal years.
Mom sat at the table and ate a bite of the grilled chicken slathered with Pop’s apricot-chili-cilantro sauce and half-closed her eyes in appreciation. “I might live after all.”
“What’s the bridal hair verdict? Does she want it up or down?” I asked as I sat next to her.
“Neither. I got the call on my way home. The wedding’s off and they’re eloping.”
“And they lived happily ever after.” Pop started clearing the table.
“Pop, sit down. I’ll do the dishes.”
“Stay put and talk to your mom. You know I can’t sit for very long with this bum knee. You were about to tell me about starting a blog before Marybeth got home.”
Mom arched an eyebrow and smirked. “You’re going to write a blog? You’ve always said blogs are stupid.”
“True, but Samantha says it might be cathartic to write about my pent-up feelings about my divorce from that jerk whose name we won’t mention. Like a diary.”
“You already have a diary. It’s still in your bedroom on the closet shelf, behind the—” She stopped, looking guilty as all get-out.
“You read my diary? Mother, how could you? Those were my private sacred thoughts.”
Mom held her glass up again, and Pop emptied the bottle into it. It was only a few drops, but it gave her time to compose an answer. “The truth is you were fourteen and becoming very weird.”
True.
“And I was worried.”
“We both were worried,” said Pop.
“It’s a difficult age to be or to be the parents of—”
“Amen to that,” Pop agreed.
“And your safety and well-being overruled your right to privacy.”
I could have recited the next inevitable line having heard it about a gazillion times through my younger years, but I let Mom hold the spotlight.
Her lips twitched, trying to suppress a laugh. “And you will never understand until you have kids of your own.”
“Hallelujah!” shouted Pop, waving his arms like a holy-roller.
“Besides, you only made three entries, so it’s not like we read a bunch of deep dark secrets.”
“Something about hating school, hating boys, hating your hair,” said Pop. “Pretty heavy stuff.”
“You forgot the lima beans, Kurt. She hated those, too.”
I crossed my arms and morphed into a fourteen-year-old. “It was personal and you had no right. I’m going to start a blog, a private blog, and you can’t stop me. And you won’t be able to read it, so ha.”
“All right, dear.” Mom patted the top of my head.
I still hate lima beans.
Chapter Four
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
1996
Friday, May 3
10:05 p.m.
Belinda Moore tried to focus on the show 20/20, but her attention kept flicking to the clock next to the television. Her fifteen-year-old daughter, Lindsay, had gone to the movies with her best friend, Jenny and Jenny’s older cousin, Mallory. The cousin drove, inaugurating a new phase in her teenaged daughter’s growing independence that Belinda was not ready for. After the movie, the girls planned to eat at the pizza place next to the theatre.
10:15 p.m.
“If you think this is hard, Belinda,” she said aloud, running her fingers through her short, dirty-blond hair, “wait until she’s driving. Then you’ll really have something to worry about.”
10:20 p.m.
Belinda called Jenny’s house and her father answered.
“Hi, Bill. It’s Belinda Moore. Are the kids there?”
“No. I called Jenny’s beeper a few minutes ago. I’m sure they’re on their way. Not to worry.”
“Yeah, right. Kinda goes with the territory, huh?”
He laughed. “I guess we’re finally getting a taste of what we put our parents through. Payback's a bitch, ain’t it?”
“I’ll say! You’ll call me?”
“As soon as I hear. And they better have a damn good excuse.”
10:45 p.m.
Beside herself with worry, Belinda cradled the phone in her lap, willing the damned thing to ring. No longer able to wait for Bill’s call, she phoned him again.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Bill’s tone was no longer jovial. “This is so unlike Jenny. I shouldn’t have let Mallory drive them. I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
11:30 p.m.
The phone rang, and Belinda, rigid with dread and terrified to answer, snatched it up before the second ring. Bill told her that Jenny and Mallory had just walked in the door.
“Thank God.” Belinda sagged back into the sofa with relief, then a flood of anger washed through her. “Let me speak to Lindsay.”
“She’s not with them. I haven’t had a chance to talk to them yet, but I assumed they’d dropped her off at home.”
Dread replaced Belinda’s anger again. “I need to talk to Jenny.”
“Hold on,” Bill put his hand over the phone, but she still heard him yell. “Jenny! Where the hell is Lindsay? Get in here and talk to her mother.”
Jenny took the receiver and spoke in a thin, tremulous voice. “Hello?”
Belinda loved Jenny but not so much right now. “Where’s Lindsay?”
“I dunno.” The girl’s speech slurred. “Isn’t she home?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. If she were home, why would I be asking you? Where is she?”
“We went to a party and—”
“What party? You were supposed to be going to the movies and dinner.”
Jenny took on the belligerent tone usually reserved for one’s own mother. “We did, but we ran into some kids and they invited us to a party. When we left the party, we couldn’t find Lindsay, so we thought she’d already gone home.”
Belinda wanted to reach through the phone and shake Jenny until her teeth fell out. “How? How would she have gotten home?”
“I dunno.” Jenny was sobbing. “Maybe walked or called you?”
Bill took the phone back. “They both smell like a 60’s rock concert, so I’ve a pretty good guess what was going on.” He turned from the receiver and said, “Were you smoking pot?”
“Yeah, right. Of course, I’m just a stupid dad, so what the hell do I know? Do not walk away from me, young lady. I want to look at your eyes.” A pause. “You’re stoned. You must really think I’m a complete idiot, huh?”
Belinda couldn’t listen to any more and screamed into the phone. “Where was this party?”
“Where was the party?” he asked the girls.
Belinda heard hysterics in the background but nothing coherent. Bill came back on. “I can’t get a straight answer out of either of them. I think this is more than a little pot! It’s a miracle Mallory didn’t crash the car and kill them both! Lindsay was safer not being with them.”
Except they’re home and I don’t know where Lindsay is.
Belinda Moore’s minivan bounced on the curb as she jerked the wheel sharply into the emergency room parking area. She’d broken the sound barrier getting there and was thankful she hadn’t been stopped for reckless driving while under the influence of parental panic.
Her daughter had been found sitting on a train station bench and taken to the hospital, and Belinda’s brain was stirring up the worst possible scenarios.
Oh God, what if she was dying? Or already dead? She turned off the ignition, grabbed her purse, and ran to the automatic doors. “Open!” she screamed at the slow moving glass doors.
A wall sign pointed to the reception desk down the hall and she sprinted the distance. She slapped the counter for attention. “I’m looking for my daughter. She was brought in by the police.”
A hefty, middle-aged woman wearing a purple pantsuit and a “been there, done that” expression on her face stepped to the counter. “Name?”
“Belinda Moore. No, that’s me. Lindsay Moore. She’s my daughter.”
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 3
