The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

  Knock knock knock.

  “Emma?”

  Emma rose from her bed and strode across her room, placing a palm on her door. “Go away, Mom. Please.”

  Chapter 38

  Gumption never dreamed. She took sleeping pills, placed rubber plugs in her ears, and covered her eyes with a black silk sleep mask before lying back on her cream-colored silk pillowcase and waiting for sleep. Slumber, for Gumption, was like an injection of anesthesia. One moment she was wide awake, and the next, emerging from an unconsciousness that she had no recollection of slipping into.

  But this night, something all-encompassing, a blackness that held her body like an invisible net, swallowed her in and pushed her out. Gumption's body shook, and she gasped as if coming up for air out of the depths of a deep, dark pool. Her arms shot out into the black. She brought her hands to her face, disoriented, as her fingers felt the silk of her sleep mask and she pushed it up to her forehead.

  A shadowy figure. A glow of white skin. Hair brushing against her shoulders.

  "Candace?" Gumption croaked.

  "Come with me," Candace spoke into the darkness that was receding to reveal familiar shapes.

  "What on earth," Gumption said thickly.

  "Just come with me," Candace urged.

  Gumption threw back her down comforter and slowly, achingly, slid to her side and pushed herself up, reaching for her lamp. It was cold in her room, fifty degrees—how she liked it when she was under the covers. The lamp light blasted away the shadows, and Gumption, bleary-eyed, reached for her silk robe at the end of the bed and fought for a moment with the armholes to pull it on. Candace had already hurried out of the room, and Gumption did her best to follow the young woman, her robe flowing behind her.

  Silk on air.

  They passed through the sunroom, the parlor, the breakfast room, the pink room, and finally the grand living room, turning right to the French doors that led to the backyard.

  Something squeezed tight at Gumption's innards, stopping her in her tracks. Stopping her before she could go through the already open doors.

  Candace had slipped out into the night, her waxen skin glowing in the darkness as she moved further toward the artificial beach. Someone sat in one of Gumption's wooden lawn chairs, facing the water.

  "No," Gumption whispered.

  Candace stood above the figure, waiting. Somehow, Gumption took a step forward and another step. A trill of insects hummed, an electric blanket of sound pricking through that dark morning hour.

  Black hair hung over the back of the chair.

  A fedora.

  Gumption's throat went dry, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

  Bare legs stretched out as if sunbathing.

  Hands resting lifeless against the armrests.

  The nails.

  "I was too late," Candace said. "I heard her rustling around, and I thought it was coming from me."

  "What do you mean, Candace?"

  Candace was squatting now by Cassandra's legs, looking up at Gumption, her eyes two dark holes in her white angular face, and then Gumption understood. Candace had been too high to decipher reality from what was in her head.

  "I don't sleep," Candace said, "and the world is always alive, even when it's not." She dipped her head back, her long slender neck stretching gracefully, and then she was bringing her head down. Down to Cassandra's leg, where she let her forehead rest, sucking up sips of quick air, and Gumption knew she was crying.

  Gently, she took the young woman's arm and pulled her away. "Come, love. We must do what we must do."

  A knock on the door.

  Richard Baker, rumpled and craggy-faced from sleep, stood blinking his bafflement at Gumption on his front stoop in her dressing gown.

  Louise Baker was just behind him, her breath catching before Gumption uttered a word.

  She knew.

  "It's Cassandra," Gumption said.

  Richard was still trying to catch up. "Cassandra?"

  "Where is she?" Louise's voice rose sharply, and Richard's expression cleared, the last cobwebs of sleep lifting the filter of confusion from his eyes.

  "At my house," Gumption said softly.

  "Is she okay?" Louise demanded, shrill-toned, cracking the quiet of that dark early morning.

  Gumption's silence was her answer. She pushed Richard aside and jogged across the street, her blue house slippers slapping against the pavement. Richard followed his wife moments later.

  Gumption made her way more slowly. She watched Candace open the door and move aside to let the panicked parents in.

  By the time Gumption got to her front yard, she heard the screams, and then a light went on at the house next door to Gumption’s. Her neighbor Otis Sparks stepped out.

  "What's going on?" He asked as the screams continued.

  But Gumption couldn't bring herself to speak.

  Otis looked one way then the other before coming out to the sidewalk and gazing at Gumption's house as Louise Baker's crooning woke up more of the neighborhood.

  "Do I need to call 911?" He asked.

  "Yes," Gumption finally said, but she knew her voice was barely audible. She cleared her throat and spoke louder. "Yes. Please call 911."

  Gumption continued walking until she was in her house, in time to see Louise Baker flying back into the living room at Candace, who stood motionless.

  Louise Baker. Her face was unrecognizable, features distorted into a swollen, wide-eyed mask of pain and fury.

  "Did you do this?!" The words shot out, guttural and animalistic. Richard caught her up before she could lay her hands on Candace, and then she was screaming at Gumption.

  "You brought her here. A murderer. You brought a murderer to live in your home! Oh." The last word came out strangely soft as if she had forgotten something, and then she was sagging against her husband. Gumption thought that maybe Louise had fainted. But her eyes remained open, glossy and staring.

  Louise Baker was in shock.

  And time, like Gumption's sleep, seemed to jump from one reality to the next.

  There was Louise, eerily silent in her husband's arms, Richard breathing heavily, Candace holding her elbows, and the next instant, police in her living room, looking from one to the next with bewildered expressions.

  "She's outside," Gumption said.

  The cops stamped outside, and Gumption heard, "Oh shit. Another one."

  Then one of them was shadowing the French doors. "Whose house is this?" He asked.

  Chapter 39

  Hunter's first memorial service was held at Kenneth Hahn Park at the Japanese Garden, which boasted lush green lawns, a lotus pond, and red garden bridges.

  The Garretts had kept the gathering small, close friends only. There would be a second ceremony in Sonoma County at a place called Memory Forest, for family members, Joanne had told Emma. Hunter's ashes would be placed in a Living Urn and planted with a tree dedicated to their memory.

  Emma had arrived at Kenneth Hahn park with Nisha and Nisha's mom, Deja, Henry having requested that Jill not come. The Bakers were invited, but with their own recent loss and Cassandra’s impending funeral, Samantha Baker was the only one to arrive. She brought an enormous bouquet of white roses and a condolence card from all of them. Samantha placed the bouquet next to a tree with the other flowers. Near the tree, blankets were spread on the grass for people to sit on.

  Posie and Donovan arrived with their parents. Their father wore tan slacks and a black dress shirt, and their mother wore a little black dress with short sleeves, her face swallowed up by sunglasses so that Emma could barely tell what she looked like. Donovan's dad looked like an older version of his son, and the two lingered about with their hands in their pockets until Joanne invited them to take a seat. Donovan squatted down on his heels next to Posie, squinting at Samantha sitting across from him. His father hesitated, then lowered himself down to the blanket, wincing slightly as he sat awkwardly on his butt, legs not quite crossing.

  Emma ha
d Cat on speaker.

  What's happening? Cat texted.

  Everyone's getting situated.

  Emma looked up, and at a distance, she saw Gumption, Candace, and Ezra making their way toward them. Gumption wore a white, gauzy flowing suit and a wide-brimmed white silk hat. Candace had donned a long sleeve black dress that fell to her ankles. Her hair was pulled back with a black ribbon, revealing elfin ears which gave her a childlike appearance, and Emma felt a surprising stab of tenderness for her. Ezra wore jeans and a T-shirt with a brown blazer. He pulled a cooler of food and stopped at the fold-up table Henry had erected to set out the dishes he'd prepared. Henry got up to help Ezra, followed by Nisha's mom, Deja. Joanne tutted that she hadn't thought to bring a chair for Gumption, but Donovan and Posie's mom said she had beach chairs in her car and walked briskly off to get them. Then Joanne opened a leather satchel she had with her and pulled out a bundle of brochures, her face long and drawn as if every bit of moisture had been sucked out of her. The wrinkles on her cheeks stood out stiffly, like fingers had pinched her skin and left it puckered. Her eyes, dull as old marbles, scanned the group as she handed each person a brochure reading, “In Memory of Hunter Garrett”.

  "I thought we could place the cups over here," Emma heard Ezra say quietly to Henry as Emma stared down at the cover of the brochure in her hands. Hunter’s face, done up with lavender eyeliner and glitter blush, smiled up from the piece of paper, and her throat closed so tight that she had to fight to take her next breath.

  When next she looked up, she saw Sam and Donovan sizing each other up. Then Donovan turned to glare at Candace, and Posie slipped on some oversize shades similar to her mom's.

  Nisha opened her brochure. "Damn," Emma heard her mutter.

  Posie’s and Donovan's mom returned with a chair. Gumption took a seat, her gaze focused on Sam. Her expression was unreadable.

  Joanne sat down and crossed her legs, waiting for Henry, Deja, and Ezra. She held some other papers in her hands, and her eyes watered, but she reached up to wipe at them, taking a ragged breath, and Donovan's dad got up to get the box of tissue set out on the table and handed it to her.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  A gentle breeze ruffled everyone's hair. The sound of children laughing and screaming as they played elsewhere in the park carried on the wind.

  Once everyone was seated, Joanne asked for a minute of silence, suggesting they close their eyes and just be in the moment. She closed hers, and Emma watched a steady stream of tears snake down her cheeks and listened to the snuffling sounds of Cat's crying coming from her phone. Henry stared down at her clasped hands in her lap. Over a few days, she seemed to have aged a decade. Deja put her arm around Nisha, her hand slipping over the top of Emma's.

  "We're here to honor and celebrate the life of our sweet child, Hunter Garrett, and the talented, beautiful Cassandra Baker." Joanne began, glancing at Sam. She gave her a watery smile. Sam smiled back sadly, then lowered her gaze to the grass, her mouth fighting the downward pull of her facial muscles. "We are so blessed to have had them with us on this earth, however short. And Hunter, our wonderful child, the light of our lives," she reached for Henry's hand, squeezing it. "Hunter brought us so much joy. So much love. I want…" Joanne's voice broke. She tried again, but couldn't seem to form any more words. Instead, she leaned against Henry and turned her face toward her wife's chest, shoulders shaking silently. Henry's dark eyes cracked with pain. Emma had to fight hard to keep her composure, glad for Deja's hand firmly planted over hers like an anchor keeping her from floating away on a sea of grief.

  "We love you, Hunter," Henry said, eyes unfocused. "And we'll see you again. We promise."

  "Hunter loved life," Ezra spoke up.

  Henry gave him a grateful look.

  Ezra cleared his throat. "I'll never forget meeting them and being so impressed with that kid, the way they livened up a get-together, their maturity, and chutzpah when dancing."

  Nisha smiled and nodded.

  "Hunter always looked out for us," Cat said from the speaker on Emma's phone. "They always had something wise to say when any of us was having a problem."

  "HH was for real," Nisha said, her voice husky, eyes bleak.

  "Hunter was special," Emma heard herself say.

  Candace stared off into the distance, fiery eyes tamped down to a soft glow. She gathered herself up and stood, looking down on all of them, black dress fluttering around her ankles, the fabric periodically flattening against the taut frame of her belly.

  Into my heart an air that kills, she said, her voice clear and strong. Joanne looked up from Henry's chest, clutching her crumpled tissue to her nose that had turned red.

  From yon far country blows:

  What are those blue remembered hills,

  What spires, what farms are those?

  Gumption had closed her eyes and was mouthing the words.

  That is the land of lost content,

  I see it shining plain,

  The happy highways where I went

  And cannot come again.

  The poem finished, Candace continued standing and then smiled a slow, sad smile, her long side teeth winking out at them.

  The wind picked up, and her dress now whipped on the current. Emma thought it looked like a flag, a black flag of death.

  Sam picked agitatedly at the grass, and when Emma met her gaze, Sam's nostrils flared. Something close to fury sparked in the dark depths of her eyes, and Emma felt a stab of fear, looking away, but her skin crawled, knowing that Sam was still watching her.

  "I saw her looking at you," Nisha said to Emma of Samantha. They were at Nisha's apartment on 26th street. Emma had decided to spend the night, a rare occurrence. Emma could count on one hand the number of times she'd slept at Nisha's over the years. Cat's was usually the go-to and if not, then Emma's. It was only after they'd met Cassandra that the girls divided their time between the Smiths’ and the Bakers’.

  The decision to stay had been last minute, and now the two girls sat cross-legged on Nisha's bed with her laptop open, Cat joining them through FaceTime. Emma wore a pair of Nisha's pajamas, the fabric puddling on her body. Nisha had to give her the tie from her bathrobe to hold the bottoms up.

  Over the past week, Emma had lost more weight. The anonymous texts had kept trickling in every night, each time a new video of her sent. She was sick with fear. Had Sam somehow found out she suspected something? Had Cassandra said something to Sam before her death? But how did Sam hack into her phone? She'd thought of going to the police several times, but then always lost her nerve every time she thought of those videos of herself. What would the police do? Would they think she was responsible for the deaths of Cassandra, Hunter, Poppy, and Wren?

  Emma half-listened to Nisha and Cat rehashing the memorial service. Exhaustion laced their words, their voices diminished by a feeling of something menacing sneaking up on them.

  "Before she was staring Emma down, girlfriend was burning a hole through creepy D, and he was giving it right back," Nisha said.

  "They're probably still hating on each other after the breakup," Cat speculated. She had several large pimples on her chin, one of them oozy and bleeding. Cat was in Barcelona, but she spent most of her time in her bedroom, the rest of the family going to the beach and out to eat half-heartedly. Cat's dad, so concerned over what was happening in LA with her friends, couldn't write.

  Emma swallowed, thinking of Donovan flicking his tongue over her nipples and rubbing himself between her legs. She thought of all those empty beer bottles in his living room, clothes lying on the floor, dirty dishes everywhere. She'd never told Nisha or Cat about sleeping with Donovan. They didn't even know about her blossoming relationship with Blue, who had turned into a girlfriend of sorts, or how Emma had caught her dad in a compromised position the night of the graduation party. Emma hadn't told them about her suspicions of Sam. She hadn't mentioned the conversation she’d had with Blue and Posie or Cassandra right before her suicide,
which the police now confirmed it to be. Cassandra had left a letter placed neatly on her bed pillow.

  Police searched Gumption's house, Emma learned from Louise Baker. They’d found some heroin in Candace's room, resulting in her arrest and subsequent bail a few hours later, but no evidence was found that could tie Gumption or Candace to Cassandra's death.

  Detective Garcia had told Louise and Richard that it was just an unfortunate opportunity Cassandra took. Gumption had a pool that Cassandra used to emulate the theme of the waterside suicides her friends had already committed. Young people were impressionable. The drug in Cassandra's system was the same drug found in Hunter, Poppy, and Wren. Ketamine.

  Emma was subjected to yet another interview at the police station. Detectives asked her a series of questions about her whereabouts over the last few days, her own mental health, and whether she ever took drugs recreationally. Nisha and Posie had gone through the same drill. Nisha told Emma that when Detective Garcia stopped by her place to question her, Deja had snapped at him.

  "Y'all need to do a better job. We all know those children never killed themselves. I don't care how many suicide notes you found."

  "What makes you say that?" He'd asked. "Do you know something?"

  "Yeah. I know something," Deja had replied heatedly. "Not one of those kids was suicidal, and neither is my baby."

  The girls' conversation lapsed into silence, each lost in her own thoughts.

  "Do you think it's murder?" Cat asked quietly, pulling at her top lip.

  Emma felt her heart take off.

  Nisha picked at the fabric of her socks. "Yeah," she said. "There's no way HH and Cassandra offed themselves."

  Cat chewed on her nail. "Who do you think is doing this?"

  "If I was going to take a jab at guessing, I'd say Sam. She's got pictures of serial killers hanging on her walls like that shit is normal, like Ted Bundy is the poster child for Corn Flakes. And that sick as fuck poster of the Olsen Twins with their eyes gouged out and blood rolling down their cheeks. Um, if that's not the room of a killer, then I don't know what is."