Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “Do you think Debra will tell her folks about Jeremy?”

  “I doubt it. Brittany’s over eighteen, and she was emphatic about us not telling her parents. As her physician, Debra cannot go against her wishes.”

  “But it’s for her own good!”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “Then Nora, you, and I can talk to them.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea either. I work at the hospital where she’s being treated. Nora too. I can’t risk a lawsuit.”

  “Then I can.”

  “Katy, you can’t tell them. It’s too much and it won’t change anything. They have enough on their plate right now without a complete stranger barging in and dumping this on them.”

  This evening, I typed Jeremy Baylor’s name into the Facebook people search, then narrowed it down to Cala Grande and bingo! I could see why Brittany had been attracted to him. I had imagined him as a meth-addicted dude with facial tats and piercings, hands posed in a gang symbol.

  Instead I was looking at a good-looking, clean-cut blond surfer. He hadn’t locked down his privacy settings so I nosed around. Nice family photos, cute friends. Nothing came up that was even remotely connected to what Brittany told us. Nora had said he came from a good family, and she had always considered him a decent kid. Given what I was looking at, he appeared to be just that.

  I was having second thoughts about Brittany. I mean, just because she told us he was a monster, did that really mean he actually was? Maybe she’s a needy, unstable girl, desperate for attention.

  And then I came across a picture of a cute girl a guy named Gabe had posted to Jeremy’s timeline a few months ago with the comment: Your numero uno, bro. LOL.

  Chapter Fifteen

  BETTER DEAD THAN WED

  WEDNESDAY • JULY 10

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  Private

  Around ten-fifteen this morning, Emily’s bedroom door opened, sending Tabitha and Daisy streaking for the dog door. I was at the kitchen table paying bills when she slinked into the room, opened the fridge, and took out a quart-sized carton of Greek yogurt.

  “You could at least say good morning,” I said. Oops. Bad start. Should have just said “Good morning.”

  “So could you.”

  “You’re right. Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

  “No. The bed sucks.” She opened the yogurt and leaned on the counter eating it.

  Oh, gee. You poor thing. “I’m sorry. Maybe I can scrounge up another mattress pad for it. Are you going to work on your book today?” Or look for a job?

  “I dunno.”

  “How far have you gotten? May I read it?”

  “Pretty much just doing research right now.” She sat at the table across from me. “You know, like watching shows like The Walking Dead, Vampire Diaries. Almost Human. I set the DVR to record a bunch of shows. I had to cancel some of your scheduled recordings. Hope you don’t mind. But you know,” she shrugged like a little smart-ass, “research.”

  I minded and I would readjust the recording schedule ASAP. “Have you read any of the Sookie Stackhouse novels?”

  “No. What are those?”

  “It’s the book series that the HBO show True Blood was based on. I think you’d enjoy them. Sookie is a telepathic waitress and she’s in love with a vampire and she—”

  Emily held up her hand, shutting me up. “Don’t really like to read that much. I’ll just watch the show. You got HBO, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “That sucks.”

  So does paying the bills. I closed my laptop. “If you don’t like to read, how can you write a book?”

  “I’m writing a series, not just a book.” She twirled a section of her long, goth-black hair and yawned. “Maybe I’ll go take a nap.”

  “I write,” I said.

  A faint smile curled her lips. “You do? What?”

  Considering her look of derision, I should have kept my mouth shut. “A blog. About my life. Like a diary or a journal. You know. The everyday trials and tribulations.” Like this conversation.

  “Sounds really boorriing.” She tossed the empty yogurt container in the garbage and headed out of the room.

  “Hey. I’ve got stuff going on, you know.” I stood, raising my voice. “Have you forgotten I was almost killed a few months ago? And how about my police ride-along? I would hardly call that boorriing.”

  From the living room, she finished me off with, “Blogging isn’t really writing, you know.”

  Right then, I would have killed for ice cream. I rampaged through my cupboards looking for a sweet morsel to sustain me, but I had been too thorough when I had dumped all my goodies a couple of weeks ago. What a dumb idea that had been. Then I remembered I’d saved my cake from my lunch with Sam in the hospital cafeteria last week.

  Like a needy heroin addict, I dumped my purse on the kitchen table and unwrapped the dried-up cake. Napkin lint was stuck to it, but I broke off a petrified chunk and tried it. It wasn’t that bad, but as I shoved the rest into my mouth, I caught my reflection on the toaster. That was bad.

  My name is Katy Ann McKenna, and I’m a sugarholic.

  Ruby called an hour later. “I got good news and I got good news. What do ya want to hear first?”

  “I’ll take the good news!”

  “Your great Aunt Edith is coming for a visit!”

  “When?”

  “Sometime in the fall. We’re going to have so much fun. We can take her to Hearst Castle…”

  Hearst Castle? Really? The woman lives in the UK, the land of castles. Real castles.

  “…and wine tasting and Disneyland. I can’t wait for Ben to meet her.”

  “Maybe he’ll want to go to Disneyland with you guys.”

  “Oh sweetie-pie, this is strictly a girl thing. You, Emily, Marybeth. A fun girls-gone-wild trip.”

  Shoot me now. “What’s the other good news?”

  “Hold onto your hat. I have a job for you.”

  Oh please let it be ice cream tasting. No! Stop! I’m a sugarholic. If it’s an ice cream job, I will have to say no. Just say no. Yeah, right.

  Uncle Charlie’s Clunker Carnival covers a few acres and along the street front is an ongoing carnival. Ferris wheel, merry-go-round, bounce house, calliope music, and carney food.

  In every TV commercial, there’s good old Uncle Charlie dressed like a clown, making balloon animals for a crowd of happy, hyper kids, flanked by shiny used cars.

  “No cash? No problem. No credit? No problem. Bad credit? No problem. Uncle Charlie’s got you covered with instant credit and no money down. So bring the kids for free ice cream and drive away in your brand new pre-owned vehicle today.”

  I parked my car on the street hoping to circumvent a bunch of clowns clustered by the cotton candy machine, but they were too quick for me. I saw them play a quick rock-paper-scissors and then one split from the pack, bearing down on me. I pretended not to see him and scurried toward the big striped tent where I figured I’d find the sales office.

  “Let’s make a deal,” he hollered, catching up with me. “Name your price and we’ll take that…” He paused, bending over to catch his breath while thrusting a sticky business card into my hand. “…old gas-guzzler off your hands. Send you home in a classy pre-owned Hummer.” He pointed yonder to a shiny mustard-yellow Hummer. “In that baby, you’ll be ready for anything. Hurricanes, tornados, the apocalypse, whatever.”

  I glanced at the card. “Really? That’s your name? Mr. Chuckles?”

  He straightened. “Nah. It’s really Matthew.”

  Mr. Chuckles grinned, and I got the impression there was a cute guy hiding under the clown makeup and rainbow hair.

  “Well, Mr. Chuckles, I’m not shopping today. Where can I find Mister, uh, Charlie?”

  Matthew pointed to the big top. I thanked him and he said, “Everyone calls him Uncle Charlie. And don’t ever get rid of your car. She’s a classic.”

  I gl
anced at Veronica sitting primly at the curb in all her shiny orange glory. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The sales office had a large reception area, and I was told to wait with a crowd of other people. I selected a tattered Time magazine from a pile on a beat-up coffee table and took a seat on a worn-out leather couch. I would have preferred the People magazine, but I wanted to appear businesslike in case Uncle Charlie came out. I flipped to the back for the movie reviews. Finally I was called into Uncle Charlie’s office.

  “Good to meet you, Katy.” He shook my hand at the door, then sat at his desk, gesturing me to sit opposite him in a leather chair. His wood-paneled office was a dusty clutter of memorabilia collected over thirty-something years in business. Clown paintings, bowling and softball trophies, framed yellowed newspaper clippings. “Did your temp agency fill you in on the job?”

  “No.”

  He straightened his giant polka-dot bow tie. “We’re doing a huge promotion, and what I need are some big, splashy posters, flyers, banners…”

  The desk phone buzzed. “Uncle Charlie? A Ms. Levine is calling from the bank. Do you want to take this call?”

  “Tell her I’m in a meeting.” He shifted in his seat and yanked his bow tie with a grimace. “Where were we?”

  “Banners.”

  “Oh yeah.” He slapped the desk. “We’re going to have a bunch of veterans compete to win a car and—”

  The phone buzzed again. “There’s a Mr. Smart calling about our web hosting. He sounds a little agitated. Are you still in a meeting?”

  “Yes! In a meeting. Just take messages, June. And don’t interrupt again.” He yanked off his Bozo wig and swabbed his sweaty balding head with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry about that, Katy. I shouldn’t get cranky with her.”

  “What do they have to do to win a car? Guess the winning number? Count jelly beans in a jar? Shoot bull’s-eyes?”

  “Nah, nah. Nothing hard. All they have to do is put one hand on the prize and keep it there the longest. Last man…” He caught my steely expression. “…or woman still got a hand on the car wins.”

  Pop did a stint in the Coast Guard. I could be his coach. Bring him water and snacks. A father-daughter thing. Could be fun.

  “What car will they win?”

  He led me to the window facing the lot and pointed at the Hummer. “She’s a beaut, don’t you think? Who wouldn’t want that?”

  Anyone with a bad knee, like Pop. No way could he hoist himself up into that thing. “A vet with a disability might have a problem with that.”

  He scowled, stroking his turkey neck. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “So, no contest?” And no job for me.

  “No, no. I’ve already contacted the radio and TV stations, and they’ll be doing live remote broadcasts throughout the event. How fast can you get everything done?”

  “When do you need it?” I already knew the answer. My work is the first thing a client needs and the last thing they think about. That meant he’ll want it yesterday.

  “The contest begins the 27th, but we’ll want the banners up by the weekend.”

  “This coming weekend? Are you kidding?” I think I yelped.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It’s not only a problem, it’s impossible. At least for me it is. I have to create a few thumbnail sketches for you to choose from.” I ticked the steps off with my hands. “Then produce several pieces of finished artwork for the printers. Then they have to do proofs for me to approve, then…”

  “Okay, I get ya. How much do you want to make this happen?”

  “It’s not about the money, Mister, uh—”

  “Call me Uncle Charlie.”

  “It’s about the time frame, Uncle Charlie. I’m just one person, working all by myself, and there are only so many hours in the day.” My tone was borderline screeching at this point. “My suggestion for you is to go to one of those speedy sign shops. Maybe they can get it done in time. And way cheaper too.”

  “Nope.” He slapped his desk again. “Has to be you. Ruby Armstrong, the boss at the Nothing Lasts Forever temp agency, spoke very highly of you. Said you’re the best in town and worth every penny.”

  I closed my eyes, taking a long cleansing yoga breath. “If you move the contest date out another week, I’ll do the job.” Now he will say “No way,” and I’m outta here.

  Uncle Charlie looked at his calendar. “How’s this. We kick off the contest on August second—that’s a Friday.”

  I needed a visual, so I stepped over to his desk and looked at the calendar. “I can work with that.” Barely.

  Bzzz.

  “WHAT, June?”

  “A Ms. Kiger with the IRS is on line two and she won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Katy, I better take this. We’re having a little snafu with those jokers. Personally, I think they need to get their own house in order before harassing the little guys.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  BETTER DEAD THAN WED

  THURSDAY • JULY 11

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  While commuting through the dewy grass to my garden shed/office this morning to begin the Clunker job, I called Debra Williams to get an update on Brittany.

  “She’s doing okay, considering. Of course, I can’t go into details with you. She was released from the hospital early this morning and is home now.”

  “Has she told her parents about Jeremy?”

  “No. And I cannot get through to her. And because of that, I think she’ll try again rather than face her problems.”

  I propped open the shed door, cleared away a cobweb blocking the entrance, and sat at my drawing board. “Brittany has at least sixty years of living ahead of her.” I switched the phone to speaker mode and flipped open a sketchbook. “A lot of wonderful things can happen in those years.”

  “You’re right about that,” said Debra. “I’m in my fifties, and when I think of what I would have missed. So many good things. Of course in every life there are times when it feels impossible to go on. I don’t often speak of this, but I’d like to share my story with you.”

  “Okay.” I picked up a pencil and started doodling.

  “Years ago, I was married and we had a little girl. My husband was an alcoholic, recovering, four years sober or so I thought.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “Anyway, one day while I was working a sixteen-hour shift…” She hesitated, then rushed her words as if saying it fast would hurt less. “…he backed the car over Becky and killed her.”

  “Oh my God, Debra.” I set the pencil down and reached for a tissue to blot my sudden tears. “How old was she?”

  “Three. It was the worst day of my life. The only thing that could have hurt more would have been if I had been the one who killed her. Katy, I was so awful to him. I refused to forgive him.”

  “How could you have?”

  “Eric wasn’t a bad man. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. I can’t imagine his pain. Knowing he’d killed our baby.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He went to prison. I was glad. I wanted him to suffer for killing my little girl. But, Katy, he didn’t belong in prison. Eric was a gentle, loving man, and to be honest, a better parent than I was. I was doing my residency. Working thirty-six hour shifts and exhausted 24/7. I should have realized he was drinking again, but I was too busy and too worn out to notice. If I had, they’d both still be here. Becky would be a grown woman about your age.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He served a three-year sentence, then wound up living on the streets up in San Francisco. One day he was found dead in an alley.”

  “Oh my God. When was that?”

  “Over twenty years ago now. Hold on.” She coughed several times.

  “That sounds bad. You coming down with something?”

  “Sorry about that. Allergies. I think the drought’s making them worse.” She cleared her throat. “Anyway, when he was sentenced, he told me to file f
or divorce. Said I was better off without him. Believe me, I had every intention of doing just that, but for some reason I never did. I guess deep down I still loved him. Then he was dead. I hate the fact that I never forgave him while he was still alive.”

  “If you could get through all that, then Brittany should be able to get through this.”

  “Katy, we all have our own level of coping abilities. And I wasn’t a nineteen-year-old girl then. I told Brittany’s parents not to leave her alone for a minute. Monitor everything she watches on TV, who she talks to, what music she listens to, and for God’s sake, no Internet. I wanted to keep her under watch at the hospital another day, but they wanted her home. She’ll be seeing a therapist, of course.”

  I stood, feeling restless, helpless. “That boy has got to be stopped. There must be something we can do.”

  “I agree. But I don’t know what. If we go to the police, they’ll want to talk to Brittany. I don’t think she can handle that.”

  “But we can’t just sit back and do nothing. I mean, knowing what we know and allowing it to continue. Doesn’t that make us guilty too?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  BETTER DEAD THAN WED

  FRIDAY • JULY 12

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  Before I hit the sack last night, I checked Jeremy Baylor’s Facebook profile and found this posted:

  Parents out of town. Big party at my house on Friday Night. 6 until whenever. Bring eats, booze, and the ugliest girl you can find. 768 Wyndham Lane. Let’s party!!!!

  It was too late to call Sam, so I pasted his post into an e-mail, along with an invitation to crash the party with me.

  Bradley Cooper’s three-day stubble grazed across my eager lips while he delicately tickled my cheeks. “Oh yes, my darling. Kiss me again…”