“I just made a pot of coffee. Would you like a cup, Detective Yaeger?” said Belinda in a forced chipper tone.
Yaeger dropped her huge brown leather purse on the beige carpet next to an easy chair. “I am so far over my daily caffeine quota already, but yes, I would. I still have a few hours to put in. And please, call me Angela.”
Belinda smiled and nodded. “How do you take your coffee, Angela?”
“A little milk and one sweetener, if you have it. I brought the mugshot book with me and I thought Lindsay and I could look at it.” Angela set the heavy book on the coffee table and addressed the dog, who was giving her the stink eye. “Aren’t you a beautiful dog. What’s your name?”
“He’s Muttley.”
“Pleased to meet you, Muttley.” She reached out and when he didn’t object, she stroked his soft white fur. “My sister-in-law raises Pyrs. Such wonderful dogs.” She turned to Lindsay. “Before we look at the photos, I’d like to ask some more questions. Is that all right with you?”
It wasn’t all right, but she knew she had to do it. “Yeah.”
The girl’s reluctance was obvious to both women, and they glossed over it with exaggerated cheeriness. As Belinda left the room, she called over her shoulder, “Honey? Can I get you anything while I’m in the kitchen? Juice? Soda?”
“No thanks, Mom.”
Angela settled in the easy chair and opened her notebook. “Let’s talk about the weird sign you saw on the house. Could it have been Greek letters?”
“Yeah, maybe.” She scrunched her face. “Actually, I don’t think I know what Greek letters look like.”
“That’s okay. We’ll get back to that later. You said it was a big house. Was it a new house?”
“No. Old.”
“Do you remember the color?”
Lindsay gazed at the ceiling in thought. “I think it was light colored. Not dark.”
“Gray? White? Tan?”
“I’m not sure. Anyways, it was a big, old house and… and it had a porch. There were lots of people on it and I remember I was really embarrassed to walk by them. We went inside and stood around, and then this one nice guy got us some sodas.”
“Who’s us?”
“Me and Jenny.”
“What about…” She scanned her notes. “Mallory?”
Lindsay shrugged. “I don’t know where she was.”
“And the boys you came with? What were they doing?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. I felt really stupid and just wanted to go home.”
“Okay. Let’s go back to the boy who gave you the sodas. Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t remember,” she said. “Just a boy.”
“How old do you think he was?”
“I dunno. Maybe twenty?”
“Ethnicity?”
Lindsay was stuck. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Was he white, Hispanic—”
“White.”
“Hair color?”
Lindsay shook her head no.
“Was he shorter or taller than you?”
The girl’s face brightened. “Taller! Brown hair, I think.”
“Heavy, slim?”
“Uhh, kinda medium, I guess.”
Angela read her notes. We got a medium build, average height, maybe brown haired, white male, maybe twenty, who gave the girls a soda in an old light-colored house with a porch. This is going well, she thought sardonically.
Belinda returned with the coffee and a plate of chocolate chip cookies and set them on the table. She sat next to her daughter. “I made those cookies yesterday.” Before our world came crashing down, she thought.
Angela sipped her coffee and nibbled a cookie, then continued. “What happened after you got the sodas?”
Lindsay thought a moment. “I remember Jenny and me drinking our sodas and, and, oh yeah, he showed us where the party food was, and then I think she went to the bathroom and...”
Belinda smoothed her daughter’s damp bangs back from her face. “And then?”
“Umm… I ate a few chips,” she furrowed her brows in concentration. “A different guy gave me another soda. A Dr. Pepper.”
“Can you describe him?”
Lindsay slowly shook her head and pursed her lips. “Dark hair, I think. He kept laughing at me. I didn’t like him.”
“And his ethnicity?” said the detective.
“I dunno.” Lindsay huddled down on the sofa and clutched the quilt. “I didn’t like him.” She leaned against her mother. “Can I have some orange juice?”
Angela took that as her cue to back off and worked on her cookie as Belinda dashed to the kitchen. “These cookies are very good. Sure you don’t want one?” She offered the plate to Lindsay, who shook her head.
Belinda returned with the juice and both women waited while Lindsay gave it her undivided attention. She finally drained the glass and gave it to her mother.
Angela picked up the mugshot book and addressed Muttley, who was still stationed at his girl’s knees. “May I sit next to Lindsay? We have some important work to do.”
Muttley sensed her good intention and adjusted his huge body to accommodate her intrusion.
“If anyone here looks even remotely familiar, say something or point at their picture. Don’t stop and second guess at this point. You never know what might jog your memory.”
Lindsay hesitantly opened the book and stared at the first page. The men all looked scary, and most were too old to have been at the party. Belinda sat across from them in the easy chair and watched her daughter’s face. She was apprehensive about what might happen if Lindsay recognized anyone. Would seeing the faces of her molesters send her over the edge?
“Don’t want to remember.” Lindsay turned the pages. “I really don’t.”
“I understand.” The detective patted her arm. “This is truly awful, but we need to stop these creeps, right?”
“Yeah.” Then Lindsay looked confused. “What do you mean creeps? You meant creep, right?”
Belinda sucked in her breath in horror. She’d planned to wait a few days before adding this knowledge to her little girl’s burden. She glanced at Angela, who’d been unaware that Belinda had not told her daughter that three men had raped her. The detective looked sick at her unintentional gaffe. Belinda pleaded with her eyes for Angela to tell Lindsay for her.
Angela set the mugshot book on the coffee table and took Lindsay’s hands in her own. “Honey, it was more than one boy who assaulted you.”
Lindsay’s eyes widened and her lips trembled. “What do you mean?”
“The doctor said three boys… hurt you. They drugged you and that’s why you can’t remember what happened.”
“Momma?” Tears slid down Lindsay’s face as her mother moved to her side and gathered her in her arms.
“Shhh, baby.” Belinda rocked her back and forth. “They can’t hurt you again.”
Lindsay cried for a while, not able to fully comprehend the magnitude of her assault. It was strange to be told something this terrible and all you had was a big, blank hole in your memory. “I want to look at the pictures again,” she said in a voice suddenly older than her fifteen years.
Belinda placed the book back on her lap. Lindsay swiped at her tears and opened the book again. She scanned the pages, scrutinizing each photo, but she recognized no one.
“I’m sorry,” she said as Angela took the mugshot book from her and stood to leave.
“You did your best. What more can I ask? You’re a very brave girl.”
Belinda followed the frustrated detective out to her car. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I hope to God she never remembers.”
Angela opened the car door, tossed in her purse, and turned to her. “I understand how you feel. Believe me, as a mother, I do. But if she doesn’t we may never catch these monsters. And no doubt they’ll do it again.” Angela sho
ok her head in disgust. “Maybe next Friday night I’ll be visiting another innocent young girl in the hospital.” She paused, looking past Belinda to the houses across the street. “But knowing how Rohypnol works, I think you’ll get your wish. It’s highly unlikely she’ll ever remember what happened.” She checked her watch. “I need to go talk to Jenny and Mallory.”
Belinda let out an involuntary snort. “Some friends they turned out to be. I wasn’t going to mention this because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but when Lindsay missed her curfew last night, I called Jenny’s house and according to her father, both girls were pretty stoned when they got home.”
“Well, that figures.
Chapter Six
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
TUESDAY
April 9
Daisy snored next to me in our big cozy chair, exhausted after her morning paper retrieval duty, while I sipped my coffee. The paper remained unopened on my lap, as my thoughts kept sliding back to Lindsay. I’d barely known her, but now she was stuck in my head and driving me nuts.
I slipped from under Daisy’s head on my lap and went to the kitchen for a second cup. I leaned against the tile counter, sipping and staring blankly out the large picture window that overlooks the backyard, pondering my self-imposed dilemma. Obviously, the first thing to do would be to find Belinda Moore and ask if there was anything I could do to help her. With hope she wouldn’t think I was a big buttinsky and with any luck, she’d tell me she didn’t need my help.
I retrieved my laptop from the ottoman in the living room and sat at the kitchen table. I logged on and did an internet search and came up with fourteen Belinda Moores in California. Two in Santa Lucia, one in Santa Verena, one in Colinas De Oro, and the rest scattered around the state. I started with the two local Belindas. She’d be in her fifties now, so that ruled out ninety-four-year-old Belinda and left me with fifty-two-year-old Belinda on Church Street, not far from my house.
I clicked on her name, thinking her phone number would come up but was immediately redirected to a site where I could get her number if I paid ninety-five cents. I am not made of money, so I went old-school, pulled out an old phone book, and found her number and full address on Church Street. I wrote it down on a sticky note and picked up my cell to call her. I got three numbers punched in and stopped.
What would I say? Uhh. You don’t know me, but I kind of knew your daughter in high school and I want to help you keep her murderer in prison. Now there was an icebreaker.
I decided to drive over and knock on the door. Face-to-face, she would see I am a nice, normal, sincere, caring person. Not a psycho. I touched up my makeup, tightened my ponytail, grabbed my purse, and started out the door; then I decided to take Daisy. Nice, normal people have yellow Labs. Right? I tethered her in the backseat and revved up Veronica. On the way, I remembered that Daisy’s bag of dog food was almost half empty. That needed my immediate attention and Belinda would have to wait.
Once inside the grocery store, I figured I should stock up on essentials. Mint chip ice cream being the most essential. When I got back in the car, I worried the ice cream would melt. Who knew how long my visit with Belinda would take? Better to play it safe and go home and put it away. Once there, I thought I should make sure the ice cream was okay.
Half a carton later, I reluctantly put the top back on and stowed it in the freezer. I couldn’t put off going to Belinda’s any longer. It was a warm blue-sky day, so I decided we would stroll over.
813 Church Street was a charming tan and barn-red Craftsman style bungalow with a wide porch and a carefully tended front yard. On the side of the house, a woman was pulling weeds in a vegetable garden. I watched her while I tried to formulate a dialog. She saw me before I was fully-formulated and came out to greet me.
“You look lost,” she said, wearing a neighborly smile.
Daisy wagged her tail furiously and the woman asked if she could pet her.
“Sure, she’d love it.”
She crouched and was immediately subjected to a face full of Daisy kisses.
“Oh, you’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” She looked up at me. “I used to have a Lab. She passed last year and I miss her so much.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’d do without my girl.” There seemed no point in stalling, so I said, “I’m looking for Belinda Moore and your address was listed in an old phone book. Are you by any chance Belinda?” The attractive brunette looked the right age.
She stood up, brushing her pants now covered in dog hair, the only downside to living with a Labrador. “She used to live here. We bought the house a couple years ago. By the way, I’m Melanie Rogers.” She held out a grubby hand to me and then thought better of it. “I’m a little muddy.”
“No problem. I’m Katy McKenna and my sidekick here is Daisy.”
“Pleased to meet you, Daisy.” Melanie scratched my dog behind her ears, which promptly caused her to collapse in rapture. “Were you and Belinda friends?”
Were? I wondered why she used past tense. “No. Actually I was friends with her daughter in high school.” That was stretching the truth a tad.
“Oh, yes. So awful.” She shook her head. “We didn’t live in the area back then, but our realtor told us about it. Really heartbreaking.”
“Yes, it was.” I paused a moment in respectful silence, then asked, “Do you happen to know where Belinda moved?”
She visibly flinched. “Oh, I’m sorry, but she died.”
“She died?” I was dumbfounded. “Was she ill?”
“No. She was hit by a car.”
“Was it an accident?”
Melanie shrugged. “I don’t know.” She crouched to rub Daisy’s tummy, probably to avoid eye contact with me. “Tragic accidents happen.”
I was completely flummoxed. How could Belinda Moore be dead?
Melanie stood up and gave me a hug. “I feel like I’ve ruined your day.”
“No, I’m okay. Just a little shocked.” I chewed on a nail for a moment. “I wasn’t holding out too much hope I’d find her at the first house I tried, but—”
“But instead you got me, and bad news.” She smiled ruefully. “Hey. You know what? I was about to knock off for a break and make a pot of coffee. Come sit on the porch and have a cup with me.”
How could I say no? She led me up the steps to a porch straight out of Better Homes and Gardens. Daisy settled on a colorful Indian rug.
“Have a seat and I’ll be right back.” Melanie went through the front screen door and returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with a French press carafe, cups, all the essential mix-ins, and some tasty looking cookies.
I was a little overwhelmed by her kindness, but I grabbed a cookie anyway. Homemade. “Oh, wow,” I mumbled while chewing. “I’m not usually a peanut butter cookie fan, but this is sensational.”
“Neither am I, but a few years ago, I watched a bake-off contest on the Food Channel and this recipe won a million dollars, so I had to try it. Now I’m addicted.” She poured the coffee and settled back in her chair with a sigh of contentment. “I love this porch. When I first saw it, I knew I wanted this house before we even stepped inside. My stubborn husband insisted we actually see the rest of the house before making an offer.” She laughed. “But I just knew. We both love it. The place has a good vibe.”
I was on my third cookie and wondering how many more I could eat before it became rude, when she leaned forward. “Can you tell me why you were looking for Belinda Moore?”
I told her everything, even the truth about how well I’d known Lindsay. It felt a little awkward, but I couldn’t lie to the gracious lady.
“I know it must seem odd that I’m poking my nose into this, but from the moment I read the story in the paper, something has been compelling me to do something.” I shook my head. “I just don’t know what.”
She paused a moment in thought. “When we bought this house, it was a probate sale. There was no will and no living relatives, so
there’s no one to speak for Lindsay now. I believe things happen for a reason, and I think you have to follow your gut feelings on this, not only for Lindsay but also for her mother. I’m not exactly sure what karma is, but it seems like this would be it. Your karma.”
That flustered me, and I didn’t know how to respond.
“So what do you think you’ll do?” she asked.
“I had planned to ask Belinda if there was anything I could do to help her keep this guy in prison. You know, like go to the parole hearing with her and speak up...” I trailed off in uncertainty. “Now I don’t know what to do.”
“What about a petition?”
“You think it would do any good?”
She pushed the cookies closer to me. “Looks like I’ve corrupted you.” She refilled my cup. “Yes, I do. Someone has to speak up for that little girl. Why not a thousand?”
“A thousand signatures? How will I get a thousand?”
“I can help. You get a petition put together and I’ll take some to my office and my husband can take some to his.”
I got excited. “My friends could help, too. My mother can have one in her hair salon.”
“What’s the name of her shop?”
“Cut ‘n Caboodles.”
“You’re kidding. You’re Marybeth’s daughter? She does my hair. What a coincidence.” She leaned forward and patted my knee. “Katy, we can definitely get thousands of signatures.”
Thousands?
Back at home, I poured a glass of water and took my cell phone and laptop out to the patio. The dog door in the laundry room slapped open and shut, and Daisy joined me for whatever super exciting thing I was doing in the yard. I set the water and computer on the table and picked up a tennis ball and flung it across the overgrown grass. “Fetch.”
Daisy tore out after it and caught it on a bounce as I shouted, “Bring it here. Bring Momma the ball.” That concluded our game as she laid down to gnaw on it.
I sat down at the teak table and checked phone messages before opening my laptop. There was a text from Samantha’s stepdaughter, Chelsea. Blog?
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 5