“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.
FOUR
Friday, May 3
1996
Belinda Moore tried to focus on the show 20/20, but her attention kept flicking to the clock next to the television.
10:05 p.m.
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?”
“No. No way.”
“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.”
The clerk sat at her desk and typed Lindsay’s name into the computer. “Yes, she’s here in cubicle four.”
Belinda stepped to the entry door beyond the desk and placed her hand on the door handle and the clerk stopped her.
“We need to do some paperwork, first. Do you have insurance?”
“Yes—but I need to see my daughter first.”
The door was locked. She turned to the clerk, tears streaming down her pleading face. “I have to know if she’s okay.”
The jaded woman softened. “Of course. We can do this later.”
The door lock buzzed and Belinda pushed through. A nurse approached her. “Where’s cubicle four?” asked Belinda.
The nurse pointed at two police officers standing in front of the curtained area. Belinda’s heart thudded with dread, making it hard to breathe as she approached them. “I’m looking for Lindsay Moore.”
“I’m Officer Gabe Miller and this is my partner, Officer Dan Martinez. We found Lindsay sitting at the train station. Are you her mother?”
“Yes.” Please let her be okay. Please.
“She’s been asking for you,” said Miller. “I have to warn you; she’s pretty banged up.”
Apprehension and relief surged simultaneously through Belinda, nearly buckling her knees. Martinez took her arm to steady her and drew back the curtain, revealing a nurse blocking Belinda’s view of her daughter.
“Lindsay? Your mother’s here,” Martinez said.
The nurse turned and stepped aside.
“Momma!”
Lindsay had not called her “Momma” since she was six or seven and the word wrenched Belinda’s heart as she rushed to the bed and pulled her daughter into her arms, barely registering her daughter’s ravaged face. “Baby, what happened?”
“Oh, Mo-mommy. I was so scared.”
“Shhh. Shhh.” She wrapped her arms around her daughter and felt spasmodic shivers rolling through Lindsay’s slim body. “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” Belinda gently pulled away, fighting to maintain a passive expression as she surveyed her girl’s face. A sob deep inside her threatened to erupt as she tenderly touched Lindsay’s swollen eye and wiped away her tears. “Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.” She burrowed into her mother’s soft chest. “I just want to go home.”
“We will, honey.” Belinda slid her hand under Lindsay’s green hospital gown and stroked her slender back. She rested her chin on her daughter’s blonde head, wrinkling her nose as she caught the unmistakable aroma of cigarettes and pot in Lindsay’s hair.
The attending nurse said, “I need to finish Lindsay’s preliminary exam and draw some blood. Would you like to take care of the paperwork while I do this?”
Belinda rose from the bed and moved out of the way.
“Momma, please don’t go.”
“Not going anywhere, I promise.” She stepped to the foot of the bed and spoke in a cheery voice. “Just getting out of the way.”
The nurse shone an ophthalmoscope into Lindsay’s eyes. “Lindsay, have you had any alcohol or drugs tonight?”
Belinda became indignant. “She’s only fifteen, for God’s sakes.” As soon as she said it, she realized how stupid she sounded. A mother in total denial. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“I understand. I asked because her pupils are dilated. Lindsay, I know how hard this must be for you, but you need to answer my questions truthfully so we can help you.” She glanced at Belinda for backup.
“Honey, please answer her. I won’t be mad. Did you drink or take drugs?” She choked on the words and felt like she was betraying Lindsay by asking. She knew how her daughter felt about drugs and alcohol. A drunk driver had killed Lindsay’s father. And yet her child reeked of marijuana.
“No,” said Lindsay. “I mean, I don’t think so.”
Belinda’s back stiffened. “What do you mean, you don’t think so?”
“I don’t know, Mom. But something really bad happened.” She began to cry again. “I feel so weird.”
The nurse pulled down the sheet to check Lindsay’s feet, and Belinda saw dried blood smears on her daughter’s thighs.
In the early hours of that bleak Saturday morning, Lindsay was subjected to a grueling head-to-toe forensic examination. Even in her foggy state of mind, the inspection of her naked body was an intensely discomforting violation that no young girl was ever prepared for. Blood, urine, and other body secretion samples were collected. Her mouth, vagina, and anal area were swabbed. Fingernails were scraped and the findings placed in a small paper envelope. Then her nails were clipped off and saved in another envelope. Her body was photographed, all injuries documented, and each item of clothing was bagged individually. Lindsay’s hair was combed and hairs were plucked from different sections of her head—the same procedure was followed for her pale pubic hair. Those samples, along with other fibers and hairs collected from her body, were placed in separate envelopes.
During the long exam, Angela Yaeger, a statuesque, thirty-nine-year-old African-American police detective, waited in the ER lobby to interview her. After Lindsay was returned to her cubicle, the motherly detective entered the curtained alcove and gazed at the pitiful little girl huddled in the bed, holding her mother’s hand for dear life.
“Hello, Lindsay. I’m Detective Angela Yaeger.” She displayed her badge.
“Hello,” said Lindsay with a timid half-smile.
Belinda stood up. “Detective Yaeger, I’m her mother, Belinda Moore.”
Angela extended her hand and they shook. “I hope I’m not intruding, but I have to ask Lindsay some questions about what happened. I know it’s been a long night, but we must do this now while everything’s still fresh.”
“Mom? Am I in trouble?” Lindsay asked.
“Oh no, sweetheart. The detective just wants to know what happened. That’s all.”
Yaeger dragged a steel chair to the bedside and sat. “That’s right. We need to get to the bottom of what happened to you tonight. Why you’re injured and confused. Maybe we can figure it out together. Deal?”
Lindsay nodded. “Deal.”
The detective extracted a notebook and pen from her large handbag. “Let’s start at the beginning. Tell me where you were going.”
Lindsay released a slow shuddery sigh. “We were going to the movies.”
“Who’s we?”
Belinda sat on the narrow bed again and took her daughter’s hand. “She went with her best friend, Jenny Farrell, and Jenny’s older cousin, Mallory.”
“Last name?”
Belinda looked at Lin
dsay for the answer.
“Farrell, too.”
“What were you going to see?” asked Yaeger.
“James and the Giant Peach.”
“Oh, that’s a great movie. I went with my daughter and we loved it. Did you like it?”
“Yeah. It was pretty good. It was the only movie my mom would allow me to see.”
“Because practically every other movie was rated R,” said Belinda.
“What happened after the movie?”
Lindsay broke eye contact and picked at a loose snag in the thin, woven blanket covering her. “Um. We were going to go have dinner at the pizza place next to the theatre.”
“PizzaShmizza?”
“Yeah.” Lindsay hesitated and then continued, barely above a whisper. “While we were waiting for a table, there were some older boys in line that Mallory started talking to. Anyways, they invited us to a party.”
Belinda inhaled sharply but remained silent.
“Mrs. Moore? Would it be easier for you if you waited outside?”
“No. I want my momma here,” Lindsay cried out.
“Do we have to do this now?” Belinda felt as though she were trapped in the middle of a Law and Order episode and desperately wanted to turn it off. “I’m sorry. I do understand why you have to do this.”
“It’s all right. I know this is upsetting.” She gave Belinda a reassuring smile and then turned back to Lindsay. “Take your time.”
“Mallory wanted to go, but me and Jenny said we should have pizza like we planned.” She stopped, peeping at her mother’s stoic expression. “Mallory told us they were college boys and she’d gone to college parties before and it’d be fun.” She took a breath. “I said, no way. You’d kill me, for sure.” She glanced at her mother for reassurance.
Belinda wanted to scream but forced a smile and said, “You’re right about that.”
“Go on,” said Angela.
“Mallory said we’d be home in time so our parents would never know. We still said no, and then she got all mad that she was hanging out with babies. She’s almost eighteen. Then Jenny said okay and that really surprised me. I guess she didn’t want Mallory to think we were babies.”
Pamela Frost Dennis - Murder Blog 01 - Dead Girls Don't Blog Page 3
