The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

  “You know, me and my friends—we used to call you guys Pretty Little Devils.” Emma blurted the words out before she could think what she was saying. In the next moment, she felt stupid at her lame admission.

  “What?” Blue cocked her head, a small smile playing at her lips.

  Valentina grinned. “Do tell, Emma,” she said.

  Emma blushed, and Blue nudged her shoulder. “Come on, what was that about?”

  “Nothing,” Emma said with a shake of her head.

  “Why are we devils?” Valentina asked. She laughed, seemingly delighted at the thought.

  Emma covered her face with her hands. “Nothing,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Come on, Emma, tell us,” Blue said, a smile in her voice. “You brought it up.”

  “It’s just… it’s stupid.” Emma’s heart crashed in her chest. “Me and my squad—we’ve always been woofers.”

  A sharp silence followed her words, and Emma rushed to say, “We kind of had this running joke between us about being ugly. The Ugly Girls’ Club.” She laughed, hearing the brittleness in her tone. “It was something we came up with when we were, like, ten as a… an inside joke.”

  Donovan took a seat at the table with them. The coffee pot hissed, and the smell of fresh brew filled the room.

  “Anyway.” Emma continued. “It was stupid. We’ve outgrown it.”

  “You’ve clearly had a glow-up,” Valentina said, looking her up and down. “And that was fucking brave as hell to tell us that. Oh!” Valentina slammed her palm on the table. “You should do a glow-up post.”

  Emma could feel Donovan watching her. She couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.

  “But how did we become Pretty Little Devils?” Blue asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Valentina said. “Spill the tea, Em.”

  “Nisha coined the nickname. It’s a compliment. One time, Cat made this comment that no one deserved to be as pretty as Suri.”

  “What’s that?” Suri said from the hallway.

  “It was a compliment,” Emma said, her cheeks tingling with heat. “Then Nisha said, ‘yeah, she’s a pretty little devil,’ and we agreed that all of you were, so that’s how it started.”

  Valentina clapped her hands and threw her head back in the same way Blue did when she thought something was hilarious.

  “Yas,” Valentina said. “That is funny as fuck.”

  “I’m not going to lie,” Donovan said. “Your friends are SJPs. Ow!”

  Blue had kicked him under the table. “But they’re cool,” he added, “and soon you’re going to have to make an appointment to see Cassandra. She’s got talent. Real talent.”

  “I know,” Emma said. “I’m super happy for her.” She didn’t mention how insufferable she found Cassandra lately.

  “I love how supportive you are,” Valentina said. “Not jello or anything.”

  “And you are not ugly, Emma,” Donovan said, his eyes catching hers. “You’re a complete one-eighty from ugly.”

  Blue slid her arm through the crook of Emma’s. “Yeah, I think you’re definitely a Pretty Little Devil now.”

  Valentina snorted out a laugh.

  “I’m not sure about this one, though,” Blue said of Valentina as Suri came to join them, her dark hair blown out thick and lustrous, framing her model-like features.

  “Oh my god, you guys are so silly,” she said.

  Donovan got up to pour coffees and Valentina proposed he take pictures of them for the gram.

  They posted group shots, Valentina urging Emma to do a glow-up, which she did.

  Blue captioned a post of them making kissy faces at the camera,

  Love from the PLDs to the UGCs. We kidnapped Em to our team. The text was followed by hearts, flowers, and a coffin emoji.

  Half an hour later, Emma’s phone began pinging nonstop as texts flew in from Cat, Nisha, and Cassandra, peppering Emma with questions about what she’d been telling Blue and her friends.

  Fucking hell, Em, Cat texted. R u spilling it to those glitter bombs?

  You actually told them about the club? Cassandra asked.

  And the last text from Nisha read, we need to talk.

  “Everything okay?” Blue asked as Emma read through her texts. She jumped and then shoved her phone back into her purse.

  “Yeah. It’s nothing. Just my mom wanting to know when I’ll be home,” she lied. Blue observed her coolly, then went to sit in Donovan’s lap. The other girls had left, and it was just the three of them.

  “So,” Blue said. “We have a proposal for you.”

  Emma tried to smile, but her facial muscles wouldn’t obey. A dark feeling had come over her.

  “Me and you, we like to have fun,” Blue said in her seductive tone and then turned to nuzzle Donovan’s neck, “and so do me and D.” She straightened up and grinned, holding out her hand to Emma. “What do you say we join forces?”

  Emma swallowed.

  “It’ll be fun,” Blue coaxed. “Come here,” she said when Emma didn’t respond. Emma walked over to them, her feet moving as if they had a life of their own. When she was standing over the two, Blue took her hand, then stood and pulled Emma toward her, kissing her softly on the lips. A hand stroked her cheek. Donovan’s.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he said.

  But she was. Yes, she’d been crushing on Donovan. But a threesome? Already?

  “I don’t think—” Emma began, her words cut off by Donovan’s mouth suddenly on hers. She flinched as his tongue touched her lips. His hands roved over her body, squeezed her breasts, and slipped down her bikini bottoms. Emma stiffened when she felt a finger inserted as he continued to kiss her, tongue probing forcefully into her mouth, his erection poking her stomach. Emma’s hands trembled as she brought them up to cover her chest.

  Donovan smiled against her mouth. “You won’t need that,” he said, pulling at the strings of her top. It fell away and Emma felt a numbness descend over herself.

  Chapter 26

  Candace examined Gumption's recently finished painting of Poppy Fields, the second dead girl.

  "Cassandra's sister used to paint her nails like that," she said.

  Gumption took a toke off her joint, studying Candace, who was high, of course. Very high. Her eyelids were blissfully half-closed, and she stroked the window ledge as if it were Bell, the cat.

  "When was that?" Gumption asked.

  Candace shrugged. "Her nails looked like gumdrops. They made me think of the 1950s."

  "Why the 1950s?"

  "When kids used to go to the shop, and the cashier would scoop out the gumdrops from a glass jar and weigh them. You know?"

  Gumption nodded. "Yes, I do know." She took a seat on a plush blue chaise where she liked to rest and reflect. She'd been reflecting a lot lately.

  Candace went to the record collection and flicked through the albums. Finally, she made a selection and put on the vinyl. The opening chords and strong drumbeat of “Nights in White Satin” poured from the speakers. Candace glided to the middle of the room. She began dancing a kind of made-up ballet, hands stroking the air, head nodding, eyes flaming from the power of the heroin. Candace did a twirl and flashed her fangs. Gumption closed her eyes, thinking of her daddy, focusing on that feeling of innocent adoration she’d had for George Road. If she concentrated hard enough, she could stamp out the other memory.

  She saw him cleaning his revolver, a do-rag on his head to keep his shiny, perfect, crimped hair nice and neat. He wore a white ribbed tank top that stretched across his muscular upper body, and black pleated pants with black and white Oxford shoes. His long slim fingers worked the rag over the sleek metal of the gun. Piano fingers, which he put to work playing jazz in New Orleans, a place Gumption had longed to visit.

  "You want to learn how to shoot a gun, Gumption?" Her daddy grinned up at her, flashing white teeth, the left front tooth crowned gold.

  Gumption said nothing.

  "Come here, shaw."

  Gumption wa
lked over to him, and he put his arm around her waist. "I'm gonna show you how to shoot. Every little girl ought to know how to handle a gun. Protect yourself." He grinned at her again. "Come on."

  He picked up his package of cartridges and stood. Gumption followed him out to their backyard, which snaked down to a creek she liked to swim in during the warmer months.

  Her daddy led her to a clearing where he had set out old Campbell Soup cans and Folgers Coffee cans.

  "Now, listen up," he instructed, squatting down next to her. "I'm going to show you how to load this thing. You see this?"

  Gumption peered at what looked like a metal clamp.

  "This is what you call your gate." He pushed it down. "I pull this hammer back and get it just so, in the half-cocked position. You see that? This here revolver takes six rounds of these little twenty-twos." Gumption nodded, watching him rotate the cylinder. He opened the box of cartridges and put one into the first empty chamber. Gumption squinted down at the tiny bullet going into the little hole.

  "Now listen here, ma shaw," he said. "We ain't gonna load up this baby with all six. We leave one of them chambers open. You sees? I'm gonna roll past the next one and put the rest of these little bullets in. Why you think I did that?" He asked.

  Gumption stared down at the gun. "Is it for safety?"

  He nodded, pleased, and pressed his finger to his temple.

  "You're a smart gal. Pretty, too. Once you learn how to handle a gun, no one's gonna mess with you. I ain't always gonna be around to beat the boys off."

  They shared a smile.

  He stood to his full height and held his arm straight out. "I just line up my mark, pull the trigger." Nothing happened. He turned to Gumption. "That was the empty chamber. I cock it again." He did so, and this time he sent one Campbell Soup can flying. In rapid succession, he cocked and fired, knocking each of the cans back.

  "Wanna try it?"

  "Yes," Gumption said.

  Her daddy squatted back down, showing her how to empty the shells and begin again with reloading.

  "Alright, hold it straight out; aim for that can over there." Gumption slowly held up her arm.

  "Don't be afraid of it. You got to make friends, see. Your gun's your friend. Safe, yes. Scared, no."

  Gumption focused, then pulled the trigger. The bullet missed the can, whistling through nearby bushes.

  "Let's get you more centered here." Her daddy came up behind her, correcting her stance and aim. This time, when she pulled the trigger, the bullet shimmied off the side of the metal. "Good girl," he crowed, and Gumption felt a swelling in her heart and a power in her chest. She practiced shooting until they heard Mama calling them in for dinner an hour later.

  Gumption's mouth watered at the savory smells enveloping the house when she and Daddy stepped inside. Her Mama stood over the stove, stirring something in a pot. Gumption's little brothers, John and Benjamin, waited at the kitchen table. Daddy ruffled their hair and then leaned his chin on Mama's shoulder.

  "Mmm-mm. Butter beans." Then, in a lower voice that Gumption could still hear, "I love me some butter beans from my butter bean."

  Her Mama pushed him away playfully. "Go sit down, George."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He swaggered over to the table and winked at the children, taking a seat.

  Gumption and Benjamin laughed. John hung his head and didn't even crack a smile.

  "What's wrong with you, son?" Daddy asked.

  John looked up, tossing his too-long bangs out of his eyes. "I cain't stand Lawrence and Malcolm."

  "Why?" Daddy asked, looking at him bemusedly. "What dey do?"

  "They was callin’ me names," John muttered.

  "What kinda names?" The smile remained on Daddy's lips, but it had left his eyes.

  John didn't reply right away. They all watched as Mama brought the butter beans, rice, cornbread, and collard greens cooked with ham hock, each in their own serving bowl, over to the table.

  "Sure looks good, Mama," Daddy said. "What kinda cold drink we got?"

  Gumption's Mama grabbed a pitcher of lemonade from the ice box and set it down on the table. Her daddy poured himself a glass and refocused on John, but Mama took a seat and announced, "Prayers."

  With that settled, Daddy said,

  "Now how about you tell me what's going on, John."

  John scooped a spoon of rice onto his plate and slathered it with butter beans. "Nothin’," he said.

  "Somethin's goin’ on," Daddy pressed. "Your face looks as long as the Mississippi."

  "I'm sick o’ them calling me white. Sayin’ I'm the white man's leavings."

  Daddy helped himself to the food, and Mama frowned.

  "I ax you, John, what does it matter what a couple o’ little niggers say about your skin?"

  "George, don't be using words like that in this house," Mama bristled.

  Daddy glanced at her and then looked back at John. "You know what's good about your skin? You can blend in, and no one would ever know you is part negro, just like your Mama. It gives you opportunities that Malcolm and Lawerence will never have. That's why they tease, because they're jealous."

  Mama snapped out something at Daddy in French, and he responded. The children couldn't understand. They had not picked up the Creole patois.

  There was a clear demarcation of where the language had halted between the generations.

  "Don't pay dem boys no mind," Mama said, her hazel eyes grilling into John’s. Depending on the lighting or what Mama wore, her eyes sometimes looked light brown, other times green. Right now, they looked green from the light streaming through the kitchen window, her bone straight dishwater brown hair pulled back and twisted up into a tight bun with a hairnet over it. "You just go on about your business. They'll stop."

  "That's right," Daddy said agreeably and took a bite of collard greens. "And a haircut wouldn't hurt. Hair is too long. Soon we ain’t gonna be able to tell you apart from your sister."

  A smile flickered on John's lips, and their daddy grinned, his gold tooth sparkling merrily back at them, but one look at Mama's face and Gumption could see the storm of anger on its way.

  After dinner, Gumption helped Mama wash the dishes. The boys ran out to play, and Daddy settled in the rocking chair in the living room for a smoke. When Gumption was done with the dishes, she went to join him. He sighed, stubbing out the thin little brown cigarette with no filter.

  "I could use some comme ci comme ça," he said. Gumption got up to pour him a glass of whiskey, but Mama intersected her, scolding Daddy in their private language. Daddy said nothing as she continued on in a litany of angry words until he rose from his rocker.

  "Yes, Claudette," he said as Mama continued, face pinched and red with anger. "Yes, Claudette," he said again, going to the hat rack and putting on his fedora. "Uh huh," he continued, nodding. "Yes, ma'am. Yes, Claudette."

  Mama's words flew out of her mouth faster and harder as Daddy sidled to the door, turned the handle, and left, muttering out one more, "Yes, Claudette."

  Daddy returned late in the night. Gumption heard the front door creaking open, the squelch of his shoes on the wooden floor, another creak as he opened the bedroom door across the way, and Mama's whisper, "Where you was, George?"

  "Shh." The soothing sounds of him comforting her and the door closing.

  Minutes later, Gumption heard a low moan, and she smiled to herself, closing her eyes again. Daddy would stay a little longer. Mama hadn't tired of him yet.

  The music came to a crescendo. Tears leaked out from behind Gumption's closed lids, and she opened her eyes. Candace was gone.

  Gumption rose slowly from her chair and went to her painting. She didn't really see it. What she saw was the other memory. The one she was trying to avoid. Dead eyes bulging. She heard the thunk of Daddy's head landing on the front porch and the whoops of the men who had murdered him, not the sound of the needle lifting and the record starting over. She saw and heard cars spraying dirt as they sped away
. Mama, screaming. John and Benjamin, crying. And she saw herself, young Gumption, herding her brothers away.

  Gumption let the mental imagery fade out until all that remained was the memory of Samantha Baker's hard stare. Samantha watching Cassandra with murderous contempt that night at the gallery. The night Nisha outed Samantha to that snake-in-the-grass boyfriend. Gumption studied the colorful nails in the painting she'd created of Poppy Fields.

  "Gumdrops," Gumption muttered to herself.

  “Ketamine,” Mr. Fix It had said out the side of his too-small mouth, lips an afterthought. It didn't matter. His chutzpah made up for everything, even his stature, which was short and paunchy. "Both girls had ketamine in their systems. Looks like they got a visit from the candy man just before they took a trip to the great beyond.”

  "And the authorities still think it's suicide?"

  "They don't have any definitive reason to pin it on murder."

  Gumption picked up her brush and painted the last pinky nail of the reclined, dead Poppy Fields lemon yellow.

  Chapter 27

  Emma covered her mouth, trying to suppress her cry, when Hunter opened the door. She emitted a gurgle from between her fingers, and Hunter took her into their arms, hugging her tight as she let her emotions go on their shoulder, only noticing Hunter's mom, Joanne, after a full minute of crying. Joanne sat at the back of the living room, watching the two of them with a sober look.

  Emma straightened up and wiped her eyes, trying to smile.

  "Can I get you a cup of tea?" Joanne asked softly.

  Hunter took Emma's hand.

  "That would be nice," they said. "We'll be in my room. Come on, Emma."

  Emma followed them down the hall and to their bedroom. She'd been over a few times and, as at Cat's, it felt comfortable in Hunter's home. His moms were easy to talk to. Relatable. The House was comfortable and not overdone with too many statement pieces.

  Hunter's room had a lot of ‘80s memorabilia, a penchant Emma had in common with them. A collection of Stephen King paperbacks was on one shelf, and a Back To The Future poster over their twin bed, made up with a blue and white checkered quilt. Across from the bed was a full vanity table that always reminded Emma of the TV show Bewitched. The shelf next to the bed held a collection of model cars Hunter had received for their birthdays from their mom, Henry, a mechanic.