Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe not cathartic like Samantha had said, but a daily journal of my action packed life might be fun to read someday when I’m in the old folks’ home. I texted okay, hit send, and immediately thought, Oh, crud. Why’d I do that? Now I’m stuck. I should never act on impulse. There are a lot of expensive and extremely uncomfortable stilettos gathering dust in my closet that could attest to that.

  I opened the laptop and went online to search for information about Belinda Moore’s death. Since I now felt officially obligated to follow my karma, destiny, fate…whatever, I deemed it necessary to know what had happened to her.

  Melanie said they’d bought the house two years ago, but who knew how long it had sat on the market or how long before it even went on the market, what with probate and all. I decided to start my search at three years ago and work my way forward.

  I typed in “Belinda Moore’s death in Santa Lucia, CA” and got zilch. I tried 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011. Nada. My next idea panned out. I went to our local newspaper’s online obituaries and spent a few minutes being distracted by the area’s recent losses, which was silly considering I have Grandma Ruby to do that for me. There she was: Tuesday, August 12, 2009.

  Her listing didn’t go into details about the actual cause of death, but as I read, I learned that Belinda had been fifty-one and predeceased by her husband, her father, and Lindsay. Her photo revealed a cute, vibrant looking woman. She’d had a degree in horticulture, which explained the beautiful yard now lovingly tended by Melanie. She hadn’t remarried.

  Since I had the date of Belinda’s death, I clicked the newspaper archives and quickly found the news story about her fatal accident.

  Police are searching for a person who caused a fatal injury in front of Saint Bartholomew’s Church on Mill Street yesterday morning. Traffic Detective Matthew Lockhart said a vehicle described as a light tan or gray, late model, possibly Toyota Camry or Honda Civic traveling north on Mill Street hit local resident, Belinda Moore, who had just attended a church luncheon.

  Witnesses said the car “came out of nowhere, traveling extremely fast” and after hitting Ms. Moore, did not stop or slow down, confirmed by the lack of skid marks. Half a block further the car turned onto Oak Street. While there was confusion on exact color and make of the vehicle, most agreed it had California license plates. Drunk driving is suspected. Ms. Moore, a widow, was the mother of Lindsay Moore, the fifteen-year-old Santa Lucia High School sophomore who was raped, kidnapped and murdered in 1996.

  The account went into a heartbreaking rehash of Lindsay’s story, then ended with: Police are asking anyone who has information to call the hotline at (805) 555-TIPS. I checked later issues, but found only a short blurb stating there had been no new leads on the case.

  It had to be an accident, probably a drunk driver. It wasn’t like Belinda had been a mobster with a contract out on her. She was the mother of a deceased child and a widow who kept a beautiful garden.

  Curiosity compelled me to type in Lindsay’s father, Jonathan Moore. His photo showed a George-Clooney-handsome man in his late thirties. He’d coached his daughter’s soccer team and had loved camping with his family. A wonderful husband and father who truly would have been missed.

  Finally I read Lindsay’s obituary. Her photo had caught her laughing and hugging a big loveable-looking dog. I tramped across the lawn to Daisy, now lounging on her back in the sunshine, batting at moths. I knelt down to hug her and found myself crying. Her warm doggy smell and kisses comforted me.

  I didn’t know these people, yet I was mourning their deaths. Lindsay had lost her father when she was only twelve. She so easily could have pulled into herself and become a weird, angst-ridden teen. Like me.

  I’d had enough for the day. I had a headache and felt cranky. My stomach grumbled a reminder that I hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day, unless half a pint of ice cream and six cookies counted. I figured I’d better eat a nutritious dinner to counteract the earlier transgressions, especially if I was going to finish off the cookies that Melanie had sent home with me.

  A few blocks from my house there is a sweet little vegetarian diner called Suzy Q’s Café. The organic menu is inventive and delicious. I thought of my favorite dish—a creamy, smoky-flavored mac and cheese covered in a crust of crunchy butter-browned panko—and actually salivated. Decision made, I fed Daisy and walked there.

  New Age music filtered through the open windows to the sidewalk seating area, setting a tranquil tone as I shoved my way through the annoying crowd blocking the entrance. There was a forty-five minute wait for a table, so I settled at the colorful broken-tile mosaic bar and ordered a glass of local zinfandel, and the mac and cheese dinner special which included a side of spicy fried kale and a slice of baked quinoa loaf.

  I sipped my wine and glanced around the restaurant, recognizing a few of the neighborhood regulars and hoped none of them recognized me as the “crazy incontinent lady”. My phone chirped in my purse. It was Chelsea texting that my blog was ready. Yippee.

  My organic dinner was as close to orgasmic as I had been in a long time. I toyed with the idea of another glass of wine since I was walking. But a Frantic Hausfraus was recorded on the DVR that I was desperate to watch, so I paid my bill and strolled home.

  Chapter Seven

  DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG

  1996

  Sunday, May 5

  Lindsay clutched at the thin paper gown, trying to maintain her dignity as she scooted her butt to the end of the paper-sheeted examination table, and placed her bare feet in sock-covered metal stirrups while keeping her bent knees tightly clamped together.

  Before the pelvic examination, Dr. Clater explained everything that would happen and showed her the instruments she would be using, including a scary looking metal thing called a speculum.

  Now the doctor sat on a rolling stool, focusing a glaring spotlight on Lindsay’s genitalia. Dr. Clater asked her to spread her legs apart, but she couldn’t stop shaking and her knees clenched tighter.

  Her mother stood beside her, holding her hand and stroking her forehead. “Focus and breathe, honey.”

  After Lindsay’s father died, Belinda had taught her the Lamaze technique of breathing she had used when delivering Lindsay. Whenever her grief felt as though it would drown her during that gloomy time, her mother said, “Focus and breathe, honey. Focus and breathe.”

  Belinda reminded her now. “Don’t hold your breath. Try to relax and take long, slow breaths. Focus and breathe.”

  Lindsay held her mother’s hand in a bone-crushing grip, and they breathed together.

  Dr. Clater gently coaxed Lindsay’s knees apart. “Good girl, you’re doing great. I’m going to insert the speculum now. It might feel a little cold.”

  Lindsay was cold to her bones and her teeth chattered a rapid staccato in the warm room.

  “You know what? It’s a little chilly in here. Let’s get you a blanket,” said Dr. Clater. She removed one from a drawer and draped it over Lindsay’s thin body. “That better?”

  Lindsay nodded, pulling it to her chin, and reached again for the security of her mother’s hand.

  Tuesday Afternoon

  May 7, 1996

  Belinda knew that a bad therapist could cause a lot of damage to a young, impressionable psyche, but the pleasant woman standing before her quickly dispelled those fears. Plump and seventyish with short-cropped silver hair and wearing a lavender hand-knit cardigan, Belinda thought she was like a nice cup of tea.

  Her office was homey, the lighting soft and warm with a hint of apple pie scenting the air. The large, overstuffed chairs held fuzzy throws and cushy pillows.

  “It’s so nice to meet you both. I know this must be difficult and I will do my best to make it as easy as possible.” Dr. Greenburg gestured at the inviting chairs. “Sit wherever you like. Would either of you like something to drink? Water? Soda?”

  Lindsay hunched in a chair, hugging a throw pillow against her stomach
. “Have you got a Sprite?”

  “Will 7UP do?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, barely audible.

  Belinda perched ramrod straight on the edge of her chair, looking like she was going to bolt at any moment. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  Dr. Greenburg removed a soda from an under-counter refrigerator and poured a glass. She put a plate of oatmeal cookies on the table centered between the chairs and sat down. “I will talk with both of you for a few minutes and then I’d like to have some time alone with you,” she said to Lindsay. “Is that all right with you?”

  Lindsay avoided eye contact, feverishly nibbling a cookie as though she were biting her fingernails to the quick. “I guess.”

  To put them at ease, Dr. Greenburg spent a few minutes talking about herself. When she asked Belinda to wait in the outer office, Belinda felt more comfortable leaving Lindsay alone with the compassionate woman.

  She waited in the small reception area outside the office, holding open a garden magazine that she couldn’t focus on. Ten minutes passed and Dr. Greenburg came out with a tearful Lindsay.

  “I think Lindsay’s had enough for today. These things take time and I don’t want to push her too quickly.” She went to the reception desk and checked her appointment book. “Can you come in on Friday about this time?”

  Belinda glanced at Lindsay and said, “Yes.”

  As soon as they left the office, Belinda said, “Focus and breathe, baby. Focus and breathe.”

  Friday Morning

  May 10, 1996

  Lindsay decided it was time to go back to school. She wore her favorite pink and purple top with a matching fuzzy, purple cardigan, and her mother had French braided her long, blond hair. She dabbed concealer over the fading bruises around her eye, and if you didn’t know, you’d never notice.

  On the drive to school, Lindsay sat silent in the front seat, her lips set in a tight, grim line. Belinda tried to relieve her daughter’s tension by popping a No Doubt cassette into the player and one of Lindsay’s favorite songs, “Just a Girl,” filled the minivan. In the old life, Lindsay would have sung along, dancing in her seat. Now the music made her squirm, and she turned it off.

  Belinda was surprised. “You’re turning off your favorite music? What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think I like them anymore.”

  That’s strange. Why all of a sudden? “Are you sure you’re ready to go back? You can wait until Monday if you want.”

  “I want to get the first day over with, Mom. Then Monday will feel more like normal.”

  “You’re a very wise girl.” Belinda stopped the car just past the school entrance next to the flagpole. When Lindsay didn’t ride the bus, this was their usual drop-off and pick-up zone, away from the traffic jam in front of the entrance.

  Jenny was waiting there, her body language tense. Lindsay stared through the windshield, not budging.

  “Sweetie, she’s your best friend, and she feels guilty. Look at her. She is absolutely miserable.”

  “She should be.” Lindsay flicked a glance in Jenny’s direction. Jenny saw it and smiled tentatively, her fingers twiddling a shy hello.

  “If you can forgive her,” Belinda said, “you’ll feel better, I promise.”

  Jenny didn’t wait and opened the car door. “Lindsay. I am so, so, so sorry.” Her gray eyes flooded with tears and her freckled face flushed as she grabbed for Lindsay’s hand. “I promise I will never be so stupid again. You were so right. We shouldn’t have gone there. Please. You have to forgive me. I will never let you down again, I swear.”

  Lindsay got out of the car and hugged her best friend. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t want to go, but instead I wimped out.”

  “But I left you there. I will never forgive myself.”

  “I forgive you.” Lindsay reached back into the car for her backpack. “Thanks, Mom. You’re pretty wise yourself.” She cracked a smile and Belinda saw a trace of the old Lindsay emerge.

  As Belinda drove away, her heart ached fiercely and she longed for her deceased husband’s strong support. Oh, Jon, I need you so much. Please tell me what to do.

  Chapter Eight

  DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG

  WEDNESDAY

  April 10

  I checked my email and found two responses to my Craigslist ad. One was a local upholstery shop that needed a new logo. Acme Upholstery had been in business since the 1960’s and felt it was time for an update. Ya think? The other wanted to know if I’d be willing to pose nude for his high school photo class assignment. Yeah, right, you little perv. I called the first one and arranged a meeting later in the day at their shop.

  Before logging off, I checked Facebook to see what exciting things my thirty-four friends were doing. Chelsea had announced that she was helping me start a blog. That got a few “likes” and a “can’t wait to read it.” That is not happening.

  There was a “friend request” from Bert McKenna, my bio-dad, the famous “plastic surgeon to the stars.” Mom had put him through medical school by running a beauty shop in their kitchen with little me underfoot, only to be dumped once he was established. I ignored it. If it weren’t for my stepdad and Samantha’s husband, Spencer, I could be a total man-hater.

  My appointment at the Acme upholstery shop wasn’t for a couple of hours, so I made my favorite sandwich for lunch. I had seen a variation of it on the Oprah show several years ago. Her BFF Gayle had been traveling around the country looking for the best sandwiches in America. She’d swooned when she bit into this one, created by Café Muse in Royal Oak, Michigan.

  It is a fancy grilled cheese sandwich. The original calls for havarti, mozzarella, and fontina cheeses, but I make do with just havarti. The other ingredients are fresh basil, sliced tomato, and here is the kicker—honey drizzled over the basil and tomato and a sprinkle of sea salt. I always use a cast iron skillet that has been in the family for over one hundred years and was passed down to me as a wedding gift from Ruby.

  While my lunch sizzled, I touched up my makeup and pulled my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. I read somewhere that ponytails are never out of style. Thank goodness, or I’d never be in style.

  The sandwich was so good that I made another half. I am five-nine with a fast metabolism, but Ruby keeps warning me that it won’t always be this way. You just wait. Those damn peri-menopausal years will get ya. Your mother was just like you and look at her now. Mom is five inches shorter than me and looks terrific, but she has been battling a little pot belly and some back-fat for the last couple years and is always saying, Where did that come from? So I guess I am doomed.

  ACME Upholstery is located in an old brick building in a mixed-use area of town. I found a parking spot about a block away and dug through my purse for stray quarters to feed the meter. I’d be adding seventy-five cents to my bill.

  I entered the dusty, cavernous shop carrying my large portfolio and was greeted by the scariest cat I’ve ever seen. It jumped onto the worn laminate counter and leaned towards me, drooling and making menacing gurgling sounds. It had sparse patches of gray fur, random snaggle teeth, a bitten off ear tip, three or four long, screwy whiskers, and was skin and bones. I figured this must be some horrible disease like leprosy that I didn’t want to catch, so I backed away.

  “Oh, now, don’t let Doris frighten you,” said an unseen female with a Midwestern twang.

  A plump, middle-aged platinum blond wearing designer jeans and a rhinestone studded top entered the area from the back office and came to the counter.

  “She’s a love, aren’t you, sweetie?” She scratched Doris’s head, and the cat leaned into her making that weird sound. Maybe it was a purr. “She loves everyone. Go ahead and pet her.”

  The thought of touching that mangy mess gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I had to be polite, so I tentatively reached out to her and she hissed and bit me.

  “Bad, naughty girl.” The woman put Doris on the floor behind the counter. “Sorry about tha
t. I’ve never seen her do that before, but she is getting old.”

  “How old is she?” I rubbed my hand where she’d bit me, or more like gummed me.

  “She’s twenty-nine, which in human years is about a hundred and thirty-three. She doesn’t look so good now, but she’s still going strong. Still a great mouser.”

  I was dumbfounded. Who knew that eating mice was the key to a long, healthy but not so pretty, life? “Wow. I’m impressed. By the way, I’m Katy McKenna.” I held out my hand and we shook.

  “Nice to meet you, Katy. I’m Wanda. Did you want to get something reupholstered?”

  “Actually, I’m here to talk about your logo. We had an appointment?” I placed my portfolio on the counter.

  “Oh, right.” She laughed. “Don’t mind me. I was doing the books, and sometimes it’s hard to switch gears. You’re ‘Craigslist Katy.’ That’s what I’ve been calling you. I’ve never used Craigslist before, and my son-in-law told me to be careful.” She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Lot of wackos, don’t ya know.” Then she laughed, “But you look okay.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “And yet, you’re the first person Doris has ever bit. Mmmm.”

  “My dad was a cop,” I blurted.

  “I’m just kiddin’ ya.” She pointed at my red portfolio. “What’cha got there?”

  I opened the case, revealing eighteen by twenty-four inch pages with examples of past projects encased in plastic sleeves. Most of my work is several years old now due to the “Bookcase Bistro” years, but I have to admit, it’s still pretty impressive.

  Wanda worked her way through the pages, making the appropriate appreciative sounds, ending with, “Wow. You’re good. You know, I can’t pay much.” She snapped her fingers. “Tell you what. You can have one of Doris’s kittens.”