As soon as I was out of the building, I bolted for Veronica and dove into the driver’s seat, before anyone could see me. The first thing I did was take a picture of myself on my phone and text it to Samantha. She would die when she saw it, plus it was good payback (to me) for the time I (so embarrassed to admit this) outlined her lips with a red marker when she was asleep. In my defense, I was only fourteen, but she has never let me forget it. Then I turned the rearview mirror towards me and wiped my lips with a tissue. That merely dulled the gloss. I rubbed some more, but the color didn’t budge and now white tissue lint was stuck to my lips. Then I remembered the ominous words “semi-permanent,” “lasts for days,” and “once-a-week,” and I freaked.
As I turned into the driveway at home, I thought of the Viking. I didn’t see him outside, but I couldn’t risk it, so I clicked the garage door opener. When it was halfway up, I saw the pile of junk I’d set there while searching for the space heater, blocking the entrance. Rats.
I turned off the car and checked to see if the coast were clear. No Viking. I opened the door and stepped out, ready to dash for the front door.
“Hi, Cookie.”
Oh, crap. Where’d he come from?
“I saw you drive up and I have something for you.” He was walking across the lawn carrying Tabitha. “Look who I found on my kitchen counter when I came home. She must have come through my dog door. I hope you weren’t worried.”
I kept my head down, hand over mouth, not making eye contact. “I didn’t know you have a dog.” I held out one arm to take Tabitha, still keeping my head down and my mouth covered.
“I don’t. The previous owners did. And I didn’t know you had a cat until I saw her tag.” He bent at the waist and looked up at my face. “You okay?”
I used Tabitha to shield my mouth and spoke through her fur. “I’m fine. Just gotta a toothache, that’s all. I’m a little swollen, so kind of embarrassed to be seen.”
“Hope you don’t need a root canal. Have you tried swishing with warm salt water? Or vodka? Taken anything for the pain?”
“Gonna do that right now.”
“Which one?”
“All of it. Really gotta go now.” I scuttled to the front door, unlocked it, and slammed it behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard. Then I remembered the alarm and punched in the code before it went off. I wanted to throw Tabitha across the room, but I set her on the couch and collapsed next to her.
I was annoyed with myself for constantly being the village idiot, plus the fact that I hadn’t even thanked Josh for bringing my cat home. I berated myself for several minutes, then went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.
While it brewed, I went to the bathroom to scrub my mouth. I’m a cosmetic junkie with drawers of everything imaginable, so I wasn’t worried about getting the lip color off. I found some heavy-duty makeup remover that I use for waterproof makeup, so it should have worked. It didn’t. I scrubbed with soap and a scrubby and the color flaked and cracked but remained on my face. I tried dish detergent, oil, Goo-Gone, S.O.S. pad, and nail polish remover. Nada.
I gave up and heated up a blueberry scone, poured my coffee, and trudged across the backyard to my office to finish the Acme job. Thank goodness my coworkers, Daisy and Tabitha, weren’t fazed by my freaky appearance.
Chapter Fourteen
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
SUNDAY • APRIL 14
Posted by Katy McKenna
Quote for the day: “A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, but a wise man tells her that her mouth is extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.”
Except if her grandma stenciled her lips with E-Z Lips! So I’m going with:
“A cosmetic is a boon to every woman, but a girl's best friend is still a near-sighted man.” – Yoko Ono
I need to deliver the Acme job tomorrow, but there is no way I can set foot out of the house with my Bozo lips, not to mention the enflamed, puffy skin around my mouth from all the scrubbing, so I called Ruby. She got me into this mess, so she can deliver the project for me. My call went to her voicemail, and I had to listen to her recorded sales pitch.
“Hi. You’ve reached Ruby Armstrong, your E-Z Lips consultant. Leave your name and number after the beep, and tell me when you want to earn oodles of money hosting your own E-Z Lip party.”
Beep. “Hey. It’s me. Your granddaughter. Call me.”
Ten minutes later, I was thinking about making my bed when she returned my call. “Hello, dear.” She sounded like a worn out three-pack-a-day smoker.
“What’s wrong? You sound awful. Have a rough night?” I could picture her sitting in her recliner, wearing the ratty, green chenille robe she only wears when she is sick.
“I just can’t party like I used to and I’m paying for it this morning.”
I walked out of my bedroom leaving the bed unmade, as usual. “What’d you do?”
“The gals were feeling glam-fabulous after the E-Z Lip party, so we went clubbing.”
I had to smother a giggle. Not about clubbing, they do that all the time—the part about feeling glamorous with those silly stenciled lips. “Where’d you go?”
“First we went to Chili’s for their happy-hour nachos and margarita special and then hopped over to Benny’s for their Saturday night senior deal.”
“Which was...” I already knew what it was because she has dragged me there so many times.
“Liver and onions with creamed spinach.”
Ruby’s favorite dish. One night when I was a junior in high school, she tried to get me to taste it and I blurted, “I can’t. I’m a vegetarian.” Been one ever since. Well, almost. I eat free-range eggs and occasionally, fish, so I guess that makes me a pescatarian.
She belched a burp a fifth grade boy would have been proud to take credit for and continued. “I had a couple of glasses of chardonnay with dinner, and then for dessert, the bartender bought us a round of tequila shooters. He said it was for the pretty ladies. Isn’t that sweet?” Another burp. “Well, one thing led to another, and before ya know it, we’d each bought a round.”
“How many of you were there?”
“Six.” Ruby burped again. “Woo. Excuse me. Oh, I can taste the liver.”
I had just opened the fridge to look for a snack, but that comment did me in, and I slammed the door.
“We’d planned to go to the brew pub downtown and check out the action, but it was already 8:30 by then, so we decided to call it a night.”
“You weren’t driving, were you?”
“Nooo,” she said with pitch-perfect adolescent attitude. “Give me a little credit, will ya? We used the senior dial-a-ride service. The driver was really cute, and I told him all about you and he wants to meet you. His name is Duke.”
No way was that going to happen, so I acted like I hadn’t heard her. “Ruby, I need a favor.”
“What?”
I heard a series of farts in the background, but I took the high road and didn’t comment on her toots. “I need you to deliver a job I did for Acme Upholstery. It’s due tomorrow, and I can’t go because I can’t get my lips off.”
“I’m surprised. The EZ-Off lotion in the kit should have done the job.”
I’d left the kit in the car yesterday while trying to elude the Viking. “I didn’t know about the EZ-Off.”
“Well, you might try it, although I don’t understand why you would want to remove your gorgeous new celebrity lips,” she said peevishly and belched again. “You know, I don’t feel so good. I think I’ll go back to bed, but we’ll talk later. I have a good feeling about this Duke fellow.”
Not happening.
Chapter Fifteen
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
1996
Tuesday, May 7
Phil was still in bed when Erik came in from his midday soccer practice. “You sick or something?” he asked.
“Yeah. Sick of myself.”
Erik peeled off his soggy t-shirt and pitched it at the lau
ndry bin. “You need to get over it, man. Life goes on.” He opened a dresser drawer and grabbed a t-shirt.
Phil sat up, propping himself against the wall and scrubbed his hands over his dark, two-day stubble. “I’m thinking about turning myself in. Take the punishment I deserve.” He squinted against the early afternoon sun glaring through the window.
Erik had one arm through the shirt sleeve and stopped cold. “Are you crazy? What good will that do?”
“At least she’ll know how sorry I am. Knowing I’m in prison might help her get over it.”
“This isn’t just about you, buddy. You do realize that if you turn yourself in, you’ll be turning me and Jake in, too. Do you have any idea what happens to guys like us in prison?”
“No worse than what we did.” Phil climbed out of bed to adjust the mini blinds, then returned to his bed.
Erik snorted derisively and pulled the shirt on. “Oh, it’ll be worse, all right, and we won’t be drugged while it’s happening. And it will be every day, several times a day. We’ll be the prison bitches. Is that really what you want?”
“No. It scares the hell out of me.” Phil cleared his constricted throat and whispered, “But I don’t know what to do.”
Erik paused a moment, staring at Phil’s pathetic hang-dog face. It galled him knowing his fate lay in his goody-goody roommate’s hands but knew he needed to stay cool. “I don’t know what to do, either. But before you do anything, think about this. Turning yourself in will kill your parents. Do our families really deserve to have their lives ruined because of what we did? And for what? Confessing won’t undo the damage, Phil.” Erik pulled out a desk chair and sat backwards, resting his arms on the chair back. “Listen. I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s news.”
Erik’s tone became defensive. “Believe it or not, I have a conscience, too. No way would I have knowingly done that to a kid. I must’ve been pretty shit-faced to not realize how young she was.”
“So what you’re saying is, it’s acceptable to drug someone over eighteen for sex, but you draw the line at,” Phil finger-quoted, “under the age of consent. Glad you have such high standards. You do realize that no matter what age they are, when you slip a girl a roofie, it’s still rape, right?”
Erik hung his head, staring at the floor, resisting an urge to get up and punch Phil in the face. “Just hear me out, will ya? I was thinking maybe we could do something nice for her, anonymously. To make amends.”
“Like what?”
He raised his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Money?”
“You really think money’s going to make everything okay for her?”
“No, but it could help. By the time she’s old enough for college, I’ll have my trust fund. It’s more money than I can ever spend, so I won’t even miss it. She could go to the school of her choice. Full ride.”
Phil rubbed his eyes and yawned. He was achy and exhausted. “What if she remembers? Your money won’t help then.”
Erik stood and shoved the chair under his desk. “I’m sick of the what-ifs. She’s not going to remember because roofies cause amnesia. So technically, I don’t have to do a damn, fucking thing. I’m just trying to be nice.”
Chapter Sixteen
DEAD GIRLS DON’T BLOG
1996
Thursday, May 9
Six days after the frat party, Phil called home, asking if he’d left his jacket when he’d been there for dinner on Sunday night. It was a ruse to find out if his mom had more information about Lindsay Moore.
“I haven’t seen it, honey, but let me go check the front closet.” Phil heard her as she walked through the house to the entry area. The door opened and then a moment later, clicked shut.
Penny came back on the line, sounding amused. “As I opened the door, I realized the closet would be the last place you’d leave your jacket.”
“Funny, Mom. Hey, anything new going on?”
“Dad and I are going to go look at RVs this afternoon. Want to come?”
“That’s cool, but I can’t. Too close to finals.” Phil was sitting at his desk, doodling Lindsay’s name on a legal pad. “Any news on that girl?”
“What girl?”
He broke the pencil lead in frustration. “The girl that got attacked.” Whoa. Lighten up, Phil, he told himself. Just keep it cool. In a calmer voice, he continued, “You know, the girl you told us about during dinner on Sunday.”
“Oh, yes. Lindsay Moore. Angela’s spoken to her a couple more times and both her friends, too, but still hasn’t come up with anything concrete, other than it was a big party in an old house with a funny sign.”
“What do you mean, a funny sign?”
“Angela figures it must be a Greek symbol like you have in front of your house. She’s already contacted all the fraternity and sorority presidents. Problem is, being this close to the end of term nearly every Greek house had a party last Friday. So the next step is to talk to every chapter member.”
Phil gripped his cell phone and tried to control his labored breathing.
“You still there, honey? You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m here. Just listening.” He was so freaked out by the idea of being interrogated that he could barely hear her words now.
“It’s so hard to believe that not one of them knows where they went that night. How could they be so completely oblivious to where they were going?”
“I dunno, Mom,” he said, feeling hopeless.
“Just shows you how young and naive those girls are. I mean, those boys could have taken them anywhere and murdered them, for God’s sake. Anyway, I think the therapist will be able to help Lindsay remember.”
His mind had been wandering, but he caught the word therapist. “She’s seeing a therapist?”
“Well, when you consider what she’s been through, of course she’s seeing a therapist. Angela’s optimistic they’ll have a breakthrough. Her next appointment’s right after school tomorrow.”
“What do you mean by a breakthrough?”
“Hold on.” The screen door to the backyard slammed, which meant she had walked out onto the deck to smoke. He heard the flick of her lighter and a second later, a long exhale. “Okay, much better. I’m down to four a day.” She paused.
He knew she was waiting for praise. “That’s great, Mom. Really proud of you.”
“Thanks. It’s not easy.” Another puff. “So what did you ask before?”
Phil squeezed his eyes shut and tried to maintain. “I asked—”
“Oh, right. If Lindsay’s mother agrees to it, Angela wants to try hypnotherapy.”
Phil’s pulse was thundering, making it hard to keep his voice normal. “Do you think she’ll agree?”
“I know I would. If someone did this to Christy, I’d move heaven and earth to get these monsters and make them pay.”
Phil felt lightheaded and clammy. Maybe I’m hyperventilating. “So, if this hypnotherapy thing works, they could have these guys in jail by the weekend, huh?”
“That may be a little optimistic. My understanding is, she’s not going to remember the actual crime, which I think is a good thing, but the hope is the therapist will be able to guide her through the events leading up to the rape. You know, what the house looked like, the address, a good description of the boys who drugged her. And if it doesn’t work, or Lindsay refuses to do it, then Angela will talk to her friends’ parents about them doing it.”
“But I thought nothing happened to them.”
“True, but they all walked to that house, and once we know where the house is, we can get a warrant and forensics will go over every inch with a fine-toothed comb. Her clothes and body were a veritable cesspool of evidence, so it’s just a matter of matching up some fibers and hairs, and then there’ll be a court order for semen samples. Sorry, I know that’s a little too graphic. The whole thing’s disgusting and I hope they string those boys up.” She inhaled her cigarette and blew out slowly. “Now where do yo
u think you left your jacket?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
Phil sat at his desk, relating what his mother had said to Erik and Jake. “Even if she just remembers the house, Mom said forensics would go over everything. You know, looking for hairs, fingerprints.”
“Shit.” Erik jumped off his bed and ripped the sheets off. “First thing in the morning I need to wash these.”
“You’re kidding,” Phil’s face puckered with revulsion. “You didn’t wash your sheets after what happened? That’s disgusting.”
Erik tossed the sheets in the corner. “Give me a break, Martha Stewart.” He looked under the bed and pulled out some dirty clothes and tossed those in the pile. A barrette bounced on the floor and landed by Jake’s desk.
He leaned over and picked it up. “What’s this?” He held up the pink, glittery object. “Do you think this is hers?” He pulled a long, blond hair from it.
Erik snatched it. “Could be anyone’s.” He remembered Lindsay’s hair had been clipped back. “I’ll get rid of it.”
Phil got up from his chair and walked to the sheets and crouched. “While you’re at it, you better get rid of these, too.” He pointed to a pink wad of material on the sheet pile.
Erik leaned over and peered at the object. “Shit.” He stuffed the panties and the barrette into his jeans pocket.
“Could be anybody’s?” asked Phil, standing up. “What else is in this room for the police to find?”
Erik checked under his bed and around the room. “Nothing.” He sat on his bare mattress and shook his head in dejection. “We’re screwed if she goes to that appointment.”
Murder Blog Mysteries Boxed Collection Page 10