Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  Fear bubbled in Phil’s stomach. Was it possible the girl his mother was talking about had been the same girl who’d been in Erik’s bed? No way. Erik had said she was a freshman who wanted to party.

  “This sort of thing never happened when we were in college,” said Adam, rubbing a hand over his five o’clock shadow. “Did they get the guys?”

  “Right now Lindsay doesn’t remember anything. Can you imagine having to tell someone they’ve been raped? Let alone your own child? My heart would break.” She sighed deeply, her hand over her ample breast. “Anyway, it turns out she was drugged. Rohypnol. You know, the date rape drug? They found traces in her urine sample.”

  Adam shook his head sadly. “That little girl is going to need some serious therapy.”

  Penny turned to Phil. “Honey, I know I can trust you not to repeat any of this. But if you hear anything, anything at all, let me know immediately and I’ll pass it along.”

  “And you need to be careful, Phil,” said his dad. “Parties can get out of hand real fast. If you think anybody in your frat could do anything like this, steer clear of them. Got that?”

  “Got it.” Phil’s heart was pounding so hard, he thought he was going to have cardiac arrest. Had Erik lied to him? Had he drugged a girl younger than his little sister? That would make it rape and would mean he and Jake had raped her, too. No, no way. Erik’s a player, but no way could he have done this.

  “Hopefully,” Penny continued, “she’ll start remembering things and those lowlifes will be arrested and put away for a long time. The courts are taking this date-rape drug thing very seriously. Just didn’t think we had to worry about it here in Santa Lucia.” She looked at Phil’s full plate. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. I completely ruined your dinner.” She got up and pressed her lips to his forehead. “You do feel warm. I hope you’re not getting sick.”

  Phil had to get out of there. “Maybe I should go home and go to bed.”

  “You can stay here, you know,” said his father.

  “Can’t. Got an early class. It’s easier to go back to the house.”

  His mother wrapped his leftovers and gave him idiot-proof instructions for reheating. As she droned on and on, it was all he could do not to scream, Shut up! Let me go! Finally he escaped and drove home in a daze.

  The fraternity house reeked of fried fish and the smell turned his stomach when he entered. He barely acknowledged a few guys watching TV in the lounge as he passed through, going straight up the stairs to his room. He stashed his food in the little fridge that also served as a nightstand.

  Jake was lying on his bed reading an animal husbandry book and did not acknowledge Phil when he entered the room. After a couple of minutes, Phil noticed he wasn’t turning the pages.

  “We need to talk,” he said to Jake, moving to the window overlooking the backyard.

  “Really don’t want to.” Jake kept staring at the book.

  In the twilight, Phil could see a gray squirrel lounging on a branch of the old sycamore in the backyard. He wished he were the squirrel. No worries. Just gather nuts and hang out. He turned to Jake and said, “About the girl on Friday night.”

  Jake exhaled loudly and flipped a page. “I told you I don’t want to talk.”

  “Listen to me, Jake. My mom said a fifteen-year-old girl was gang-raped by three guys at a party on Friday night. The police found her at the train station. That’s only two blocks from here.”

  “So? What’s it got to do with us?” Jake spoke slowly, still staring blindly at his book. “I’m not proud of what we did, but we didn’t rape a kid.” He closed the book over his fingers to mark the page and looked at Phil. “Don’t you think if it had been a rape, she would have been fighting it? She just laid there and let us do it. How is that rape?”

  Phil stepped to his bed, tossed aside some clothes piled on top, sat down, and told him about the three young-looking girls he’d seen earlier at the mixer. “Mom said it was three high school girls. Two made it home and the third one didn’t. She was drugged with roofies and raped by three guys.”

  Jake shook his head, hanging on tight to denial. “Nope. No way. Erik’s a player, but he doesn’t need to drug anybody to get sex. He always has a hottie on the line.”

  “I dunno, Jake. It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  The door opened and Erik walked in, sweaty from a long run. “Hey, guys. What’s going on? Got anything to drink?” He checked Phil’s refrigerator. “Ooo, what’s this I see? Leftovers.” He unwrapped the food. “Oh, yeah, your mom’s pot roast.” He waved the packet. “You don’t mind, right?” He took a bite and cold gravy dribbled down his chin. “Mmm. Speaking of leftovers, you guys okay now about what happened the other night?”

  Loathing his roommate’s flip attitude, Phil asked quietly, “Just how drunk was that girl? I mean, she had to be pretty trashed to want to do it with three guys.”

  “Wellll...” Erik returned the food to the refrigerator and wiped his greasy mouth on his orange t-shirt. “I wouldn’t exactly call it drunk, maybe more like a little… drugged.” He sank into a yellow beanbag near the window, wearing a guilty grin.

  “Was it roofies?” Phil prayed the answer would be no.

  “You know what? You two should be grateful.” Erik settled his body into the squeaky bag, snickering at Phil. “About time you guys got some action.”

  Phil jumped off his bed and grabbed the front of Erik’s t-shirt, jerking him up. “Tell me!”

  “Yeah, okay. It was roofies.” Phil shoved him back into the bag. “No need to get so ticked off.” Erik had never seen Phil lose his cool and it unnerved him, but he maintained his bravado to cover his growing realization that maybe he’d made a bad choice on Friday night. “I put a roofie in her soda. So what? I was pretty high and I wanted to get laid, but she wasn’t having it. Kept saying she needed to go home, but I knew she really wanted it. Why else would she’ve been here? So no big deal.”

  Phil turned his back on him, his fears confirmed. “Do you have any idea how much trouble we’re in?”

  “What trouble? She’s gone, and the beauty of that drug is, she won’t remember. So we’re good.”

  “Oh, yeah, we’re good, all right.” Phil sat on the edge of his bed, hanging his head. “We all screwed a girl you drugged.” He shook his head with a grim laugh. “But hey, we’re good.”

  “Dude, come on. It was a party, so that makes it consensual. If she didn’t want to party, she should’ve stayed home.”

  Jake flung his heavy book across the room, snapping its binding against the wall. “You’re a fucking idiot, Erik.” He stood up, clenching his fists, the veins in his neck throbbing. “She was fifteen!”

  Erik remembered Jake coming after him the day before and kept his tone calm. “What would a fifteen-year-old be doing at a frat party?” Doubt crept into Erik’s voice. “And how would you know this?”

  “Phil’s mom. Remember she’s a police dispatcher? You tell him, Phil.”

  “She told me cops found the girl at the train station and took her to the hospital. They know she was raped by three men, and they found Rohypnol in her urine.” Phil angrily shoved the pile of clothes on his bed to the floor. “They’re calling it a gang-rape.”

  “Shit, we are so screwed,” Jake said, pacing the room and wringing his hands. “Why did she come here? She should have known better. If she remembers what happened, she’ll be able to identify us and we’ll all go to prison for the rest of our lives. Who’s going to believe we weren’t part of the drugging? No one.”

  “Even if she hadn’t been drugged, it’s still sex with a minor,” said Phil. “That’s statutory rape, even when the girl wants it. And she didn’t want it, did she, Erik?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG

  SATURDAY • APRIL13

  Posted by Katy McKenna

  I woke around 7:30 and after a shower and a five-minute makeup, I sipped coffee and read the paper on the patio while Tabitha w
arily explored the yard for the first time. I hope she will be a stay-at-home cat and not a neighborhood gadabout, but there is no way I can keep her housebound and still have a dog door for Daisy.

  I was about to commute to the office to work on the Acme project when she leapt into my lap and curled into a pulsating fur ball. I didn’t have the heart to dump her on the ground, so I remained on the chaise lounge, telling myself I’d give her five minutes.

  Five minutes stretched into thirty as I pondered the “Lindsay petition” idea again. I decided that I should quit procrastinating and just do it. I carried Tabitha into the house and deposited her on the sofa and then sat at my desk in the living room to write a list of places to leave the petition.

  Cut ‘n Caboodles, Pop’s Fix-it Shop, Suzy Q’s Cafe, Melanie Rogers’ office, her husband’s office, the hospital where Samantha works, Klondike Pizza… I tapped the pencil on my chin. Where else?

  The Bookcase Bistro—because Chad owes me. Plus, it might do me good to bury the hatchet. No, not in his back. But it is a small town and I’d rather choose the time and place that we finally face each other, and I’d rather it not happen by chance in Target.

  That brought me to Holly and Erica, local friends I’ve neglected during my divorce and long pity-party. Erica is a stay-at-home mom, working her butt off chasing after toddler twins. She belongs to every mommy group there is in Colinas de Oro, about twenty minutes north up the road, so she could probably muster up a lot of signatures. Holly is a physical therapist in a big clinic here in town, so plenty of signature opportunities there. Who else? Ruby’s senior community. Maybe I would get thousands of signatures after all.

  I typed up the petition and after proofing it about a hundred times, I printed it out, immediately caught an error, and printed again.

  I changed into a more formal outfit than my office attire of baggy, faded sweats. Jeans, T-top, cardigan, and sandals—pretty much my year-round uniform on the temperate California central coast. I refreshed my makeup, tightened my ponytail, and added a floral print scarf and a pair of silver hoops.

  Daisy kept a close eye on my mini-makeover, and when I picked up my handbag and walked to the front door, she danced around me, thrilled about whatever super-exciting adventure I had planned for us.

  “Sorry, Daisy. Not this time.”

  I went to a print shop on South Oliva Street first. My legal size petition had room for fifteen signatures below the brief account of the crime and the plea to stop Hobart’s parole. I printed one hundred, which would get me fifteen hundred signatures. The girl at the counter asked if she could keep one to print out and gather signatures from her customers. As I walked out, I heard her asking the shop manager to sign it.

  Before returning home to work on Acme, I decided to drop off a few petitions at my parents’ businesses. The rest would have to wait a couple of days to get distributed. Pop’s shop was closed and I found him next door in Mom’s beauty shop about to get his usual “Bruce Willis” buzz.

  “Hey, guys.” I dropped into the empty chair next to Pop and spun around to face them. “What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to persuade your dad to grow his hair out while he still has some, but he won’t listen to me.”

  He winked at me and went back to annoying Mom. “Too much trouble. Then I’ll have to comb it.”

  Mom always fell for the bait. “Every morning I have to wash, dry, and style my hair, plus put makeup on. It’s a pain. How would you like it if I stopped doing that?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Fine then. Maybe I will.”

  “Don’t forget to stop shaving your legs,” I said, “and plucking your eyebrows, and covering your gray, and clipping your nose hairs, and bo—”

  Now Mom was glaring at me, so I wisely shut up before I gave out all her beauty secrets to her staff; although, the “B” word had definitely gotten their attention, so oops.

  Pop smiled sweetly. “I’ll still think you’re beautiful, Marybeth.”

  “Give it up, Mom, he’s not going to change. But before you turn on the clippers, I have some petitions for you.” I handed one to each of them.

  Mom set down the clippers and put on her reading glasses. While she read, Pop said, “When you’re done, let me use your glasses. I left mine in the shop.”

  “It’s good, honey.” She went to the receptionist desk and signed it.

  “Can I leave some here for customers to sign?”

  “Of course.” She waved the petition in the air and announced to the other three stylists and their clients, “Please make sure you read Katy’s petition before you leave today. It’s important.”

  Since I’d been exonerated for my thoughtless remark to Ruby about the All My Family cancellation, I figured it was safe to swing by her house on my way home and drop off some petitions. She lives in a charming two-bedroom cottage in the independent living section of a posh senior community, “Shady Acres,” on the south end of town.

  Gramps died years ago and his life insurance policy allows Ruby to live a comfortable life with no financial worries as long as she lives within her means.

  Through the years she has supplemented her income as an independent sales consultant for several multi-level marketing companies, and for the most part has done well. The only one that had not been a success was “Rubber-Wear.” Clothes and accessories made out of recycled tires. The purses and belts were actually cute, and I still use mine, but the clothing was hot and uncomfortable, and I swore on a hot summer day my “Goodyear” cardigan smelled like burned rubber. It was probably all in my head, but it was a huge relief when she moved on to her next money-making scheme; although, every time that happens she expects me to host another party and invite all my friends. Needless to say, they do not appreciate this.

  I parked in the visitor parking area in her cul-de-sac, gathered my petitions, and walked to the front door. When she didn’t answer, I peeked in the garage window and saw her car, so I figured she might be in the clubhouse.

  At the front desk, I asked Elaine if she’d seen Ruby and she pointed to the bingo room. As I approached the double doors I could hear raucous laughter, but it didn’t sound like a bingo game was in progress. I cracked the door and peeped in.

  Ruby was standing at the front of the room behind a long, folding table, talking to about thirty women sitting at tables facing her. From a distance, she looked different—oddly different. I was closing the door when she spotted me and motioned me in.

  “Look who’s here. Katy, my beautiful granddaughter. Come in, dear.”

  As I reluctantly pushed the door open, the ladies started chanting, “Do Katy! Do Katy!”

  I had no idea what they were shouting about until I got into the room and saw their faces. They all had enormous red lips. So did Ruby. It felt like I’d stepped into a scary clown convention. Ruby had a new business.

  “E-Z Lip Stencils.” The E-Z way to apply lipstick. Are you tired of smearing lipstick all over your face because of shaky hands? Want big, pouty, youthful lips like the celebrities? Do you wish your lipstick would last for days? Try E-Z Lips Stencils and E-Z Lips semi-permanent lip colors. Use it once a week for your perfect E-Z Lips.

  “Do Katy! Do Katy!” The ladies were in a frenzy, pounding on the tables, and I was trapped with no gracious way out.

  Ruby pulled out a chair for me and I sat facing the women. Year ago I watched the Stephen King miniseries, It, with that evil clown, Pennywise, and ever since, I have not been a fan of clowns.

  Ruby dove into her sales spiel. “The starter kit includes three lip stencil choices—the “Jolie,” the “Griffith,” and the “Jagger.” She held them up for my perusal. “Which glam lips would you like to try?”

  None. “Uh… Are there any other options, like maybe, ummm...” I frantically sifted through my memory bank searching for a celeb who had not blown her lips totally out of proportion. “Like Ellen DeGeneres?”

  “Ellen DeGeneres?” She smiled patiently at me. “When I think of
glam lips she doesn’t come to mind.”

  “Then I guess I’ll take the Jolie.”

  “Excellent choice.” She turned to the group. “How many of you gals used the Jolie?”

  Everyone raised her hand, except for one butch looking eighty-something who pumped her fist in the air and yelled, “Jagger, baby. Rock on.”

  Ruby removed my neutral pink lip color and then opened one of the various bright reds in the kit. The end of the tube had a spongy tip that oozed out color when she squeezed it. She placed the stencil over my lips, and while holding it firmly in place, she daubed the color on. Next, she held a hairdryer to my lips for three minutes before peeling the stencil away. She finished with a high gloss sealer. “Well, ladies? Is she gorgeous? Or is she gorgeous?”

  The thunderous applause made me excited to see my new lips. I picked up a hand mirror on the table and flinched. I looked like I was having an anaphylactic reaction.

  “You like?” asked Grandma.

  No, I did not like; however, I wasn’t ruining it for her, even though I hate it when she’s in her “sales-pitch-carnival-barker” mode. It’s like watching one of those screaming pitchmen on TV selling cleaning products. Did I mention she had on a microphone headset?

  “Wow. I absolutely love it. Can I buy a kit?” I gushed. “Give me a kit for Mom, too. It’ll make a swell Mother’s Day gift.” That brought a round of “ahhhhs” and more applause. I stood and continued. “Ladies? If I could have your attention for a minute, I have something I’d like to share with you.”

  Ruby whispered in my ear, “Katy, what are you doing?”

  “This is really important.” I puckered my clown lips and kissed her cheek. “Pretty please?”

  She pulled off her headset and handed it to me. “You better put this on. Most of them are hard of hearing.”

  My voice boomed through the room as I told them about Lindsay and the petition to stop Phil Hobart’s parole. It killed the festive mood, but I got thirty-two signatures and several women took petitions with them. Luckily, they’d all purchased a kit before I’d arrived, or Ruby would have killed me.