Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  Mrs. Watkins read the petition, then narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing me. “Were you a student here at the time?”

  “Yes, but you would never remember me. I was a shy, quiet girl. Definitely not someone you’d remember.”

  “Those are often the ones who go on to do the greatest things in life. The shy, quiet ones. What’s your name?”

  “Katherine McKenna. Katy.”

  “Well, Katy, we would be very glad to have your petition here. I know everyone on staff will sign it, and we’ll make sure all our visitors see it, too.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by a bald, fragile-looking boy bursting through the office doors and dashing to the counter.

  “Mrs. Watkins. I need a pass.” He glanced at me and flashed an impish grin. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I immediately thought, What a nice, polite young man, and then, God, am I getting old. “That’s all right, I’m in no hurry, but it looks like you are.”

  We shared a fist bump.

  Mrs. Watkins peered over her glasses at him with a well-practiced stern look. “Where have you been?”

  “I had to go to the doctor’s. Again.” He slammed a crumpled paper on the counter. “My mom wrote a note. Again.”

  She wrote the boy a pass and handed it to him. “Here you go, Nick. Again.”

  He snatched it and bolted out the door, shouting, “Thanks, Mrs. Watkins.”

  “What a sweet kid,” I said.

  “He’s a sweet kid, all right, with a big problem. Leukemia. But always so upbeat. I just want to bundle him up and hug him, but these days hugging is out of the question.” She pursed her lips with disgust. “Lawsuits. And let me tell you, there’s a lot of kids here that sure could use a hug. Thankfully, Nick has great parents.”

  “This must be a hard job.”

  “At times it is. But I wouldn’t trade my time with these kids for anything.” Mrs. Watkins took the petition over to a copy machine. “We’re going to need a lot of these.” She slipped it into the machine and pressed the start button. “You know, Phil Hobart was a student here a few years before Lindsay. I remember him well. Not because of what happened but because he was a nice boy. An Eagle Scout.” She shook her head. “I never understood it. It didn’t gel with the Phil we all knew.”

  Her recollection took me by surprise. “He raped, kidnapped, and killed an innocent girl. How does a nice person do all that?”

  “Sometimes things happen that you never meant to happen. Especially when you’re young. Things get out of control and you get swept along, making one bad decision after another. I am by no means making excuses for the terrible choices he made.” She waved her hands in denial. “I just know that he’d been a good kid while he was a student here.”

  My hackles were erupting like a bad case of hives. How could Mrs. Watkins say anything flattering about this guy? “But a mere fifteen years in prison surely cannot pay for a young girl’s life.”

  “Nothing can ever pay for that, Katy.” She paused, looking reflective. “You know, there was another girl hurt deeply by this crime. Phil’s younger sister, Christy. Suddenly no one would speak to her as if it was her fault this had happened. Overnight, she became an outcast. A pariah. Eventually she tried to commit suicide and that’s when her parents pulled her out of school and she never returned.”

  “Christy was a year ahead of me so I didn’t know her, but I do remember kids talking about her. I didn’t know she’d tried to kill herself. Do you know what happened to her after that?”

  “I have no idea. Once she left the school, I never heard another thing. And of course we were all focused on the trial and Lindsay’s poor mother.” She paused in thought. “I do remember reading that Phil’s dad died of a heart attack during the trial.”

  I hadn’t considered what this had done to the Hobart family. Their lives had been ruined, too. But that didn’t change my resolve to keep Phil in prison. One thing had nothing to do with the other.

  Mrs. Watkins returned to the copy machine, took out a stack of petitions, and put them on the counter. “This is a good thing you’re doing.” She tapped the pile.

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about. It isn’t just the victim’s family that suffers.”

  “No, it isn’t. Not by a long shot. Terrible crimes like this change everyone’s lives forever. If my child had done something like this, I think I would forever wonder what I could have done better, as far as parenting.”

  “This petition could cause the Hobarts more grief,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “So would his parole. These things are never truly over until everyone involved is dead and forgotten.”

  My next stop was the Santa Lucia police station. The charming Spanish Revival building dates back to the 1930’s. As I climbed the steps to the entrance, I paused to admire the colorful tiles fronting the steps… or was I stalling?

  I introduced myself to the clerk at the front desk and explained my mission.

  “I didn’t live in the area when it happened, but I’ve certainly heard about it,” he said, as he read the petition. “The chief was the lead detective on the case. I’m sure she’d be interested in what you’re doing. Would you like to talk to her? I could check if she’s free right now.” He picked up a phone and pushed a button before I could stop him.

  “I really don’t want to bother her. Maybe I can leave it with you?”

  Too late—he was already talking to her on the phone. He told her about the petition, paused a moment, and then hung up. “She’d be happy to talk to you. Go down the hall to the right and she’ll meet you.”

  I longingly glanced back at the entrance door, trying to contrive an excuse to escape, but before that could happen, an attractive middle-aged African-American woman with close-cropped salt and pepper hair stepped into the lobby and greeted me.

  “Hello. I’m Angela Yaeger. Officer Clayton told me you’re here with a petition about Lindsay Moore.”

  Her warm manner immediately put me at ease. Maybe that’s why she was the police chief. I was ready to spill my guts about my parking ticket right there in the lobby.

  We shook hands.

  “Hi. I’m Katy McKenna.”

  “Katy McKenna, Katy McKenna,” she said, tapping her chin. “Now why does your name sound familiar?”

  “My stepdad is Kurt Melby.”

  “Of course, you’re little Katy. I remember you as a little girl at Christmas parties and picnics.” She did an upsweep of my 69 inches. “Not so little anymore, huh? Let’s go to my office.” She started down the hall and I was obliged to tag along. “He talked about you all the time, and I do mean all the time. Talk about a proud papa.” She ushered me into her homey office. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you again. Have a seat on the sofa.”

  I sat and she asked, “Would you like some coffee or water?”

  I watch enough crime dramas to know you should never drink the coffee at a police station, and I don’t drink bottled water—got a big problem with all that plastic, plus you have no idea what you’re drinking—so I passed on both.

  She picked up a half empty water bottle on her desk and sat next to me. “So, Katy, tell me about your petition.”

  “Well, Chief—”

  “Please. Call me Angela.”

  I held up a petition. “How can someone be up for parole after committing rape, kidnapping, and murder?”

  “A lot of that stems from our overcrowded prison system,” she said ruefully, as she took the petition. “And he had a good lawyer and no previous record. Up until the day of Lindsay’s rape, Hobart had been a squeaky-clean kid, and that weighed heavily in his favor.”

  “I heard he was an Eagle Scout.”

  “Yes, he was. Let me read your petition.” When she finished, she said, “This is good. Brief, well-written, and to the point.”

  “Should I be doing this?”

  “Definitely. Someone needs to stand up for that little girl. This case is just as important now as
it was back then. It caused the Alpha Gamma fraternity to be suspended until 2016, and it forced the college to adopt tough new laws to govern that kind of out-of-control partying.” Her tone heated up. “But it’s been a long time now, and things have slipped badly. Last fall, a seventeen-year-old freshman died from alcohol poisoning.”

  “I remember that. He was found in the bushes outside a fraternity house.”

  “Such a stupid, stupid waste.” Angela cleared her throat and sipped some water.

  “Will you be going to the parole hearing?

  “Yes.”

  “May I go with you?” I asked, without thinking my question through. What was I getting myself into?

  “Probably not a good idea. I don’t consider Hobart to be dangerous, but he’s been in the system for a long time now. He went in a scared, naive kid and now he’s in his mid-thirties. God only knows what he’s had to endure. That kid could have grown into someone very different. It’s unlikely he’s going to appreciate your efforts to stop his parole.”

  My wanna-be superhero-vigilante side saw me courageously standing up for justice as I approached the parole panel and set millions of signatures in front of them. But the self-preservationist, saner side of me saw Hobart jumping out of his seat and throttling me in front of the parole panel. So doing the petitions and then Angela going to the hearing while I stayed home behind locked doors was a win-win for me.

  I had another question. “Whatever happened in the case of Lindsay’s mother’s death?”

  “Belinda Moore’s death is still an open case. However, it’s been a few years and no new leads have surfaced, so it’s pretty cold now. It always amazes me how many conflicting stories you get from witnesses. But these things happen so fast, that it’s understandable when you’re not trained to know what to see in a matter of seconds.”

  “The newspaper account said it might have been a Toyota Camry or a Honda Civic and I can see why people would get those confused. Unless it’s a Hummer or a Rolls Royce, everything kind of blends together for me.”

  “She was a lovely, gracious woman who endured her grief with dignity. I admired her. I would love to close her case and let her rest in peace. But I doubt I ever will now.”

  Officer Clayton stuck his head in the door to remind Angela about her lunch date with the mayor.

  “He loves Thai, and my stomach doesn’t. There goes my afternoon.” Angela stood up, brushing the creases out of her black pencil skirt. “I’m sorry to cut this short. If you have any more questions, feel free to call me.”

  We walked to the door and she gave me a hug. “I’m going to circulate your petition to all the local police departments.” Angela opened the door. “We need more caring people like you in our community, Katy.”

  The last stop on my petition distribution list was The Bookcase Bistro, located two blocks down from the police station, so before I lost my nerve, I strolled over to face the enemy. Santa Lucia’s population of 34,000-ish means that sooner or later, I will run into my ex, Chad, and her. I figured it would be better to break the ice on my terms rather than one day be shopping at Whole Foods, turn into the frozen food aisle, and oops. Plus, I was having a good hair day.

  The bistro area was bustling. Adding it to the bookstore had been a good call on our part. Small bookstores took a major hit when the big box bookstores came to town. Now e-books are killing off those stores.

  I peeked in the door and saw a young woman working the register, but no Chad, so I boldly marched to the front counter and waited my turn to speak to her.

  “I’ll be right with you,” she said with a big toothy grin.

  It was her. Heather. I recognized her teeth from the newspaper wedding photo, although her strawberry-blond hair hadn’t been in pigtails. I hadn’t anticipated her working at the store. She was, or used to be, a personal trainer. Shouldn’t she be at the gym making somebody miserable? I spun around to leave, thinking… what was I thinking?

  “Oh my God! You’re her,” she shouted at my back.

  I froze in my tracks and glanced back over my shoulder.

  “Oh, please don’t go.” She motioned me back to the counter. “Just give me a sec.” She returned her attention to her customer and handed his credit card back to him along with his purchase and a thank you. I had to give her points for not telling him to “have a nice day.” Then she came around the counter and grabbed me in a big hug, or as big as it could be considering her huge belly. Was she that far along? And why was she hugging me?

  She backed away, holding my hands and practically jumping up and down for joy. I prayed her water wouldn’t break. Wouldn’t that be something? Me, delivering my cheating ex-husband’s bimbo bride’s baby on the bamboo floor of the business we built.

  “Oh, my gosh. I have so wanted to meet you. This is so totally awesome.”

  Doesn’t she realize she had an affair with a married man who happened to be my husband at the time? Or is she a complete dimwit? “Uhh, same here,” I said, reclaiming my hands. “I really came in to—”

  “Have you had lunch?”

  “No.”

  Heather grabbed my hand and dragged me to a table in the bistro. “Look.” She pointed to a chalkboard menu. “We still have your favorite sandwich. We call it ‘The Katydid.’ You know, with the cheese and tomatoes and honey and—”

  “Yeah, I know what it is,” I snapped, annoyed they were using Pop’s pet name for me.

  Heather’s enthusiasm dropped a notch, but she persevered in spite of me. “It’s super popular.” She pulled out a red metal chair for me. “Sit here and I’ll go order.”

  “What would you like to drink?” she called from the counter.

  Something that would dull my senses, like a double shot of Novocain. “I’ll take an iced tea.”

  “No problem. Is green tea okay?”

  Not a fan of green tea. “Sure.”

  She brought two iced teas to the table and sat down, turning her ginormous belly sideways, so she could reach the table. She appeared ready to pop any minute and I was thinking we should move to a larger table.

  “So… when’re you due?” My curiosity winning over my reluctance to ask.

  She groaned loudly. “September 5th.”

  I tapped my calculator fingers on my lap. May, June, July, August, September. She was only four months along. How could she be so big?

  She read my mind. “Triplets. She patted her beach ball tummy. “We are so blessed. Can you believe it?”

  “No, I can’t,” I said rather ungraciously.

  “Oh God, I am so stupid. I know how much you and Chad wanted kids and how devastated he was when you were unable to conceive,” she said with an oh-you-poor-thing look on her face.

  Chad had told her that? It was pretty darn hard to get pregnant when your husband doesn’t want kids, and he vigilantly checks your birth control pills every night and always, I mean always, wears a condom.

  Heather mistook my look of shock, followed by a renewed pulse of anger and betrayal, for disappointment. “Oh, look what I’ve gone and done. I’ve made you feel bad. I am so sorry.”

  And then she burped. It was an amazingly long, loud, and rumbling burp, like an 8.9 on the Richter scale, followed by a few hiccups, interspersed with after-shock burps. The bistro went quiet as the other patrons waited for the inevitable explosion that was sure to follow a belch of that magnitude. Then she clasped her hands to her sternum and winced. “Oooooo… heartburn.”

  The next look she saw float over my face was relief, for me—that I wasn’t in her shoes, but she took it as sympathy for her.

  “Ohhhh. You’re so sweet.” She winced again and took a sip of iced tea.

  Our lunch arrived and I was surprised to find myself suddenly ravenous as I bit into my Katydid sandwich. Heather had ordered spicy black bean soup. Probably not a wise choice, so I decided to eat fast and vamoose.

  “So, Katy, I don’t want to sound rude or unfriendly, but why did you come in? I mean, this has got to be
a little weird for you.” She eyed me as she stuffed a piece of jalapeño cornbread into her mouth.

  It was definitely more than a little weird, and I was wondering what the heck had possessed me to come into the store. Oh yeah, breaking the ice on my terms. How stupid was that?

  I put down my sandwich. “I have two reasons why I’m here. First off, I saw the wedding announcement in the paper the other day and it really hurt. Chad was still married to me when the two of you started fooling around behind my back, you know. But I’m sick and tired of worrying about running into you and Chad, like I’m the bad guy, so I decided to bite the bullet and face the enemy and get it over with.”

  Now I’d lost my appetite, and Heather looked like a pregnant nun caught in church. Her face crumpled, her eyes filled with tears, and it looked like she was having a hard time swallowing her mouthful of cornbread. Great, now I’d be accused of killing my was-band’s former mistress, now extremely pregnant wifey. I handed her iced tea to her, and she drained the glass.

  “I guess that was a little blunt, Heather. Confronting you was not on my list of things to do today. It never occurred to me that you might be working here. I honestly thought I would be seeing Chad.”

  She swiped at her tears. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. I didn’t even realize Chad was married when we started dating, I swear. And then I got pregnant, and that’s when he told me he was married. Gosh, I thought I would die. I’m not that kind of person.”

  “But you’re only four months along. That doesn’t add up.”

  “I miscarried after he left you.” Her shoulders slumped and despair literally oozed out her pores. “It was a really rough time.”

  My indignation softened in spite of my righteous anger. I guess I wasn’t the only one who’d suffered. “Heather, are you truly happy?”

  “Yes.” She paused a moment. “I admit, at first it was super hard after I found out he was married. I mean, what a jerk.”

  Couldn’t argue with that.

  “But that miscarriage did something to him. I think it made him grow up.”