Pamela Frost Dennis - Murder Blog 01 - Dead Girls Don't Blog

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Janet. I know how,” she paused, “overloaded—”

  Janet grinned. “You know you were going to say buried, right? Like I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Sorry. I’m not very original, but I am surprised. I know you’re understaffed and our victim’s been dead for nearly two weeks now, so I assumed we’d only see Steve today.”

  “This one really got to me, Angela.”

  “To both of us.” Steve’s dark condemning eyes glanced at Phil for a split second. “I have a girl about the same age.”

  They spoke as if Phil were invisible. A nonentity. He stared at the ground, burning with shame.

  “I’ll head back to the van now.” Steve’s voice caught and he cleared his throat. “You’d think I’d be used to this sort of thing.”

  “I want two officers to assist Hobart down the hill,” Angela called to the other officers.

  Phil had not been arrested yet but understood Yaeger’s meaning; he had no intention of running. The rookie and Officer Danen took Phil’s arms and guided him down the hill. The dirt was loose and Phil’s trembling knees caused his feet to slip out from under him several times, but the officers kept him upright. Before they reached the boulders, Angela stopped the group. “Phil, are those the boulders where your car crashed?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Where did Lindsay hit her head?”

  He nodded his chin. “Those boulders over to the right.”

  “Okay! Let’s get this area secure,” Angela said.

  Phil stood with his eyes bolted to the ground, too ashamed to make eye contact with anyone. He desperately wanted this day to be over.

  Several minutes later, Angela spoke grimly to Phil. “All right. It’s time to take us to Lindsay.”

  Phil lifted his head and pointed towards the eucalyptus grove. “Over there.”

  “You lead,” she said through tight lips.

  Officer Danen kept a firm grip on Phil’s arm. “Don’t even think about running.”

  “Would you kill me if I did?” Thinking that could be his escape.

  Danen realized that might be what the kid wanted. “No. I’d just make you miserable.”

  At the edge of the dark, densely wooded grove, they halted. “Now where?” asked Angela.

  Phil surveyed the woods. “I didn’t bury her, but I think they would have gone towards the middle.”

  “Everyone! Spread out and step carefully,” said Yee. “Take your time.”

  Angela stayed with Phil on the edge of the trees, watching the officers step gingerly through the dead branches and leaves littering the ground.

  Officer Yee shouted from behind a wide, three-trunked tree. “Over here!”

  Angela called to the officer closest to her, the rookie, “Officer Walkin. Please stay with Hobart.”

  “It’s really bad,” Yee warned in a thin, quivering voice. “Really bad.”

  Danen stepped out from the multi-trunked Eucalyptus Globulus and called, “Over here, Detective.” His voice dropped, “Jake Werner is here, too.”

  Angela quickly worked her way around the massive tree blocking her view of the other officers. Halfway around, her nose caught the overpowering, noxious odor of rotting flesh.

  Seventeen years on the force hadn’t prepared her for the grisly scene she beheld. Jake was sitting on the cleared ground with Lindsay’s disintegrating corpse draped across his lap. The blanket hung open, revealing the putrid remains of nature’s recycling process. Maggots spilled from Lindsay’s body, squirming on Jake’s arms and legs, while flies poked his eyes and ants swarmed his entire body. And yet, the most frightening thing of all was Jake’s eyes. He was alive, but his eyes were dead.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Dancing for Joy

  By Katy McKenna on Sunday, April 21

  Today, with a heavy heart, I put every scarf I own in a paper bag and set it by the front door to take to the Goodwill store. It wasn’t easy. I’ve been collecting scarves since high school and I have a color to go with everything, in an array of fabrics from nubby to silky. I’ll feel half-dressed without them, but they have to go. I cannot be wearing lethal weapons around my neck. If I ever have any second thoughts, and find myself being lured by a vibrant, multi-colored scarf that will go with absolutely everything in my closet, all I have to do is look at the photo of my semi-garroted throat in my phone.

  Although I slept through most of yesterday, I still felt wrung out when I finally dragged my tush out of bed at nine-thirty this morning, so I thought it would be a good day to catch up on shows piling up on the DVR. I’d missed the last two American Idol episodes. Usually I watch it the night it is on so I can vote, but it’s down to the final five—all girls—and all so good, I can’t decide who I want to win—so I don’t feel the need to vote.

  The performances were stellar and I cried when they booted Jackie on the results show. Then I cried through two Army Wives episodes. And I cried through Modern Family. It was definitely time to get out in the sun and soak up some Vitamin D.

  My neck looked too nasty to go anywhere—swollen and scraped raw where the fabric had dug deep into my skin, with swirls of blue, purple, red, and green around the circumference. Between my neck and nose, I’m a ghoulish sight to behold, so I decided to attack the overgrown geraniums around my front porch.

  I plugged ear buds into my cell phone, opened the iPod app and spun through the menu looking for a playlist suitable for gardening. I chose Shania Twain’s album, “Come On Over.” Cell phone safely jammed in my denim pocket and clippers in hand, I cranked up the volume and opened with “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.” Of course, I was singing along, or more like croaking along.

  I know snatches of the song, so when a line came that I knew, I squeaked it out as I mangled my poor geraniums. And when listening to a tune like that, who can resist dancing? So I danced.

  I did a spin and spotted the Viking standing at the edge of my lawn, watching the crazy lady show along with a Great Dane walking an elderly couple, and a boy on a skateboard with his cell phone aimed at me, which probably means I’ll soon be the next YouTube star.

  I paused the music and bowed to my audience. Yes, I was embarrassed, but I was dancing in my yard, not laying in a casket, so what the heck?

  Josh clapped as he strolled across my yard. “What do you do for an encore?”

  “Got any requests?” I said in my new deep, gravelly voice.

  His smile faded as he came towards the porch. “What happened to your neck?” He moved closer to inspect the growing collage of gruesome bruises. “There’s only one thing that could cause this, Katy.”

  I nearly swooned when he said my name. Katy. Who knew my name could sound so lovely? Kaa-tee.

  Josh tilted his head and frowned. “Are you all right? You look a little sick. Maybe you should sit down.”

  I plopped myself on the porch steps. Shania’s lyrics twisted in my head to—I feel like an idiot.

  He sat next to me, a paragon of concern. “So what happened?”

  I gave him an abbreviated version of the petition story and the scarf attack at the hospital.

  “I didn’t live in the area in 1996, but I’d like to hear the whole story. Do you know Suzy Q’s?”

  “It’s one of my favorite restaurants,” I said. “Their mac and cheese—”

  “Is killer. I’ve tried to replicate it at home and failed miserably. “Why don’t we go for dinner and you can tell me everything.”

  He cooks. He gardens. He picks locks. What can’t this man do?

  “Sounds great.” I touched my neck and winced. “But I don’t have a thing to wear that’ll cover my neck, and I sure don’t want people staring at me, and I will never, ever wear another scarf.”

  “Don’t blame you, and I don’t like the idea of people looking at me and wondering if I’m a wife-beater.” He snapped his fingers. “I have a turtleneck you can wear. Be right back.” He dashed across the yard before I could say a
nything.

  Had I just been asked out on a date? I wasn’t sure. Should I call Samantha? Sam! Guess what? The Viking has asked me out. I think. How juvenile. So I didn’t call her. I texted.

  A few minutes later, Josh returned with a sweater. “A little out of season, but it’ll do the job.” He held up a hideous Christmas sweater adorned with appliquéd felt reindeers outlined in white against a green background. The middle deer had a large red fuzzy ball attached to his nose and a jingle bell on his tail. “A gift from my Aunt Arna in Minnesota.” He handed the sweater to me, with a sheepish grin. “I know. It’s pretty ugly and way too big for you, but you’re so stylish, you’ll make it work.”

  OMG! He thinks I’m beautiful, I mean stylish. Whatever. I clutched the adorably ugly sweater to my chest. “Ugly Christmas sweaters are very popular now.”

  Josh laughed. “Especially in April.” He looked at his watch. “How about I meet you here in half an hour?”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t move. I was grinning, which hurt my neck, so it may have been more like a grimace, but I couldn’t stop.

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  So considerate. “Yeah.” Grin-grimace.

  “Oo-kay then. See you soon.” He turned and strolled away and at the edge of the yard, looked back and waved.

  “Yeah.” I waved back, and he disappeared around a Pyracantha bush.

  Suddenly it dawned on me. I had a date, I think. My first maybe-date in my new, wonderful life. And then I freaked out. I only had half an hour!

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Monday, April 22 – Part One

  By Katy McKenna on Wednesday, May 1

  It’s been quite a while since my last post and so much has happened. It has been crazy! I’m going to break this down into segments, because my elbow really aches and I can’t type, so I’m using a new dictating app.

  I checked to see if there were any responses to my Craigslist ad (nada) while my coffee brewed and Daisy brought in the newspaper. That chore done, she went back to bed, evidently zonked from getting up, and I settled in the living room to catch up on the news.

  The big feature on page one covered an unfaithful, senior senator on trial for trigamy. Page two featured a story on a spoiled Hollywood star whose name I won’t mention, just in case I ever share this blog online, but let’s just say she needs to get her act together and quit the drinking and the drugs, and for God’s sake, somebody needs to take away her driver’s license before she kills someone. I read the first paragraph concerning her latest self-inflicted dilemma, super annoyed that she still gets acting jobs, then lost interest and turned to the local news.

  Page one of Section B had a story about a concerned local who was gathering signatures to keep a convicted felon in prison. I read the woman was me, Katy McKenna, residing at 539 Sycamore Lane, former co-owner of The Bookcase Bistro. The article applauded my efforts and evidently I had been unavailable for comment.

  I flung the paper down, completely astounded. How could they print a story about me without asking? Isn’t there a law that prevents such things, like invasion of privacy or something? Then I calmed down as I rationalized that nobody reads the newspaper anyway. These days, most people get their news from those showbizzy “news” shows where everyone looks like a movie star. The average Joe on the street will recognize a photo of Kim Kardashian and be totally stumped when shown a photo of the vice president.

  I was still fuming when Samantha called to find out how my dinner date with Josh had gone. I knew she’d waited until later in the a.m., in case I was “busy.” I could have called her, but it was more fun leaving her in suspense.

  “Hi,” she asked in an exaggerated whisper. “Can you talk?”

  “Yes!” I shouted, which was not a good idea with my sore throat.

  “I take it he’s not there?”

  I have never been the kind of girl (all right, amend that to “never was,” since it has been a hundred years since I’ve dated) who hops into bed on the first date, if this even was a date. Still not sure.

  “Tell me everything,” said Samantha, “from the beginning and don’t you dare leave anything out.”

  I decided to start at the good part. “He thinks I’m stylish.”

  “Why would he say something like that?”

  That miffed me. Doesn’t Samantha think I am stylish?

  “Because he lent me a really ugly turtleneck Christmas sweater to hide my neck. He said I’m so stylish, I could make anything look good.” Close enough.

  “Did you?”

  “I belted it and wore leggings, my cowboy boots, and the leather bomber jacket we found at that thrift shop in San Francisco. It worked. Kinda. A scarf would have helped.”

  “That sounds cute until you take off the jacket. So tell me about the date. No wait, hold on a sec.”

  In the background I heard little Casey whining. He is a cheerful little four-year-old, so when he is cranky it usually means he is coming down with something. Then I heard Sam say, “blow,” and he did for all he was worth. She told him she would read him a Thomas the Tank story in a few minutes and that seemed to appease him.

  She came back on. “He’s got a little cold, but I think it may be going into his ears, as usual. Now tell me the rest.”

  “You sure? We can talk later when he’s napping.”

  “No, tell me now. I was up half the night with him, so I plan to take a nap, too. But I can’t do that until I hear about your date.”

  I walked out onto the backyard patio and settled in a lounge chair to enjoy the gorgeous spring day. “I’m not sure if it was a date or just a friendly get-to-know-ya kind of a thing, but I had a nice time.”

  “That’s how most relationships start, Katy. Go on.”

  “We walked to Suzy Q’s and it was busy when we got there, so we had a glass of wine while we waited for a table.”

  The dog door slapped and Daisy strolled by on her way out to the lawn, where she laid down and rolled over to wriggle all the itches out of her back, moaning in doggy ecstasy.

  “Then what happened?” she asked.

  “Once we were seated, I started telling him the petition story. He asked a lot of questions and seemed genuinely interested. I think he was impressed with me.”

  “Well, he should be. And it’ll take the edge off of when you peed your pants in front of him.”

  I winced at the memory. “Thanks for reminding me, as if I’ll ever forget.”

  “Hey. What are friends for? Someday we’ll laugh about it. Actually I already am. What else did you talk about?”

  “Not that much really. The petition story took up most of dinner.” I thought a moment. “I wanted to know about his ex, but it didn’t feel right to ask. I did ask if he had any children.”

  “And?”

  “No. Loves kids and it’s a someday thing when he finds the right person.” I smiled, feeling all glowy inside, thinking what a great guy he was and how beautiful our children would be.

  “Well, that’s good. No strings. So you walked back home and then?”

  “I was so nervous. I was afraid he’d try to kiss me, or maybe even want to—uh, you know. I was also afraid he wouldn’t.” I stopped and left her in momentary suspense.

  “Jeez. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Okay, okay. Joshie, that’s what I call him now, walked me to my door and waited while I unlocked it. He was standing behind me, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body…”

  “Yeah? Yeah?”

  “Then he got upset when he realized I hadn’t set the alarm.”

  “Shame on you. And then what?”

  “Hold on, I’m watching Daisy.”

  Daisy was done scratching and now hunting for lizards. A couple weeks ago she spied a blue-belly sunning on a rock, and since then, she has devoted a portion of every day to hunt for the elusive little critter.

  Samantha cleared her throat. “I’m waiting.”

  I sighed orgasmically. “He looked deep i
nto my eyes, our two souls merging and then…”

  “And then? And then?”

  “And then he… Oooo…” I’m so awful.

  “WHAT? You’re killing me!”

  “He made me promise to set the alarm as soon as I closed and locked the door. I said good night and closed the door, then locked it and set the alarm. The end.”

  She snorted with disgust. “Well, that’s sure exciting—not.”

  “Hey, have you read this morning’s paper yet?”

  “Who has time? I’m not a woman of leisure like some people I know. Hold on.” She held the phone away and called to Casey, “Yes, buggy-boo. Mommy’s coming.” Then back to me, “I gotta go. Keep me posted.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Monday, April 22 – Part Two

  By Katy McKenna on Thursday, May 2

  I’m loving this dictating app. Typing is so old-school.

  This is my favorite time of year. The days are getting longer, the daffodils are blooming, and it’s time for Nordstrom’s annual spring shoe sale. Against my better financial judgment, I decided to take a stroll through the shoe racks to sniff the divine aroma of fresh footwear.

  I gathered my things and set the alarm. Before stepping off the porch into the wide open, I peeped around the trumpet vine to see if Josh was in his front yard. I felt confused and shy about our “date”, and if I’d seen him, I probably would have ducked back inside. How seventh grade was that?

  The coast was clear, so I dashed down the steps and jumped into Veronica. At the stop sign about a block from my house, a cute blue Prius appeared behind me and for a split-second, I wished I had one. And then I felt a twinge of guilt. Veronica has been my trusty steed for as long as I’ve been driving, and before that, she and Mom had safely transported me to preschool, gymnastics, soccer, ballet, school… I patted her dusty dashboard and said, “Shame on me. How could I think such traitorous thoughts?”

  On a sudden whim, I detoured past the dog park to see if Ben were there. It was close to four in the afternoon, the right time of day for him, and if he were, I had concocted a diabolical plan.