The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

  "Maybe the person's not that obvious," Cat said. "Like Ted Bundy, for instance. Wasn't he really normal-seeming on the outside?"

  "I think that's rare," Nisha said. "I think most psychopaths you can spot a mile away."

  "But what about that friend of yours, Darnell? He killed your cousin, and you were crying on his shoulder,” Cat said.

  Nisha opened her mouth and then fell silent. "You know what? You've got a point."

  "I think it's someone who knows us," Cat said. "Knows us well."

  Emma's face felt blistery hot as she listened to Cat, her pulse in her ears and throbbing through a vein in her neck.

  "If I were you, I'd stay in Barcelona," Nisha said. "Because as far as the detectives out here, they think they got this thing signed, sealed, and delivered. We're basically dealing with Tweedle Dees and Tweedle Dums."

  "My mom was kind of saying the same thing—well, not stay in Barcelona, but maybe we should move."

  Emma felt her eyes fill with tears. "I can't imagine you not being around, Cat," she said.

  Cat's eyes watered, too, her tears sparkling on her lashes. "I know," she rasped. "I know."

  "My mom wants to send me to the Heights for good," Nisha said. "Ain't that some shit?"

  "What about you, Em?" Cat asked.

  "My mom hasn't mentioned anything."

  "Maybe she'd let you come out here with me until we figure it out."

  Emma nodded, sniffing. "I feel like my whole world is dissolving."

  Nisha put her arms around her. "You going to be alright, baby girl. I'll take you home with me. We're going to get through this."

  From behind Cat, her bedroom door opened. Brenda came in. She looked so sad it broke Emma's heart.

  "Hi," she said in her familiar raspy voice that Emma realized at that moment she'd always associated with comfort and the familiar. "How are you girls?" Brenda asked, stepping closer to the screen so all Emma could see was her waist. But then she bent down so her face was near Cat's.

  "We pulling through, Mrs. B," Nisha said.

  "I love you, Brenda," Emma said, the words coming out of her mouth as if they had a life of their own.

  "Ohh," Brenda said and put her arm around Cat. "I love you girls like you wouldn't believe."

  Chapter 40

  #watersidesuicides#cassandrabaker

  #restinpeacecassandrabaker#suicideprevention #imuglytoo.

  Emma read the confessional. A major influencer on Instagram, Kylie Sparkles, had written about her struggles with low self-esteem and feeling ugly most of her life. She'd used her fashion vlog as a catalyst to channel her negative feelings into something positive. The caption of her latest post read:

  Let's prevent any more of these waterside suicides from happening. If you have a friend struggling with depression, reach out to them and show your friend some love. Together we are strong and can fight this.

  It wasn't a long post, but it garnered a flood of support and feedback from her followers. Most of them commiserated with Kylie that they had felt ugly at some point in life, or still did. Emma scrolled through the comments, reading a heated debate about the negative impact of glow-up before and afters. Were they part of the problem?

  There were 10,903 likes and twelve hundred comments from all over the world. Several hours later, the post had garnered over a million likes and nearly ten thousand comments. It spawned other posts that spread to Facebook, TikTok, and Snapchat.

  On the local news, Cassandra became the face of the suicides, the facts misconstrued. Described as an emerging new talent with a hit song, Cassandra was reported to have been part of a tight-knit friend group with Wren, Poppy, and Hunter. Gumption Road, the unconventional feminist artist, was said to have become Cassandra's mentor and close confidante.

  The story took a sensationalist turn when Gumption's portrait of Cassandra flashed onto the screen, the anchor-woman reminding viewers of Gumption's infamous suicide series created decades earlier.

  Gumption Road lived just across the street from the young Cassandra Baker. In the elderly artist's backyard near the pool, Cassandra took her life. Like her friends before her, she painted her nails a variety of colors, donned a bathing suit, and overdosed on the drug ketamine. Cassandra left a goodbye letter in which she expressed low self-esteem and depression.

  Helen Porter, an art curator at Griffith's in Manhattan, where Ms. Road's work has been featured, had this to say about the suicides.

  “It is a macabre existential twist of art imitating life and, years later, life imitating art.”

  The next day, Jaylene's humiliation of Cassandra at the graduation party was aired on TMZ. The hosts discussed and analyzed the incident. Viewers called in to give their opinions about Jaylene, mostly tear-downs of her character.

  "But isn't this girl just as mixed up as the other kids in the waterside suicides?" One of the hosts asked. "She's had to go into a mental health treatment center for all the bullying online."

  "It's a vicious cycle," the other host replied.

  People left flowers and cards in the Bakers’ front yard, as well as Gumption’s. Celebrity musicians played covers of Cassandra's song.

  "What do you make of your sister's suicide note?” A reporter with snappy brown eyes asked Samantha Baker during a brief interview in front of the Bakers’ home. "Cassandra expressed damaged self-esteem due to bullying over her looks. Even with her growing fame, she remained haunted by past humiliation.”

  Samantha had grimaced. "I think it's tragic. My sister had so much going for her."

  "Is it true Cassandra and her friends were part of a private club? The Ugly Girls' Club?" The reporter asked, her features skewed in a look of exaggerated sympathy.

  Samantha had stared at the reporter for some seconds, and then her jaw had hardened, mouth turning down. "I think it was only meant to be fun and games. What I've learned is that we need to accept ourselves for who we are. I've had sex reassignment surgery… and I've kept it a secret. I've been ashamed and scared of going public. But I don't care anymore if the world knows my secret," she said, speaking straight into the camera. "I wish my sister and her friends had not let their physical appearance define them."

  Suddenly, Samantha and Cassandra became a tragic tale of two sisters, endearingly close and sensitive to the harsh judgment and condemnation of a patriarchal, beauty-obsessed society.

  Fans of Wren Mahoney's fashion and beauty vlog expressed shock that she had once been a part of an exclusive clique called the Ugly Girls' Club.

  It doesn't make sense. She was so beautiful, one fan lamented in a comment.

  "That's because it's complete made up BS," Cat had ranted to Emma and Nisha on FaceTime. "No one who looked like Wren would have been in our club. I can't believe how twisted they've made this story. It's like, who are these people?"

  "Yeah, talk about alternative facts on steroids," Nisha said.

  In this new reality, Posie had become the best friend Cassandra never had and her sister a close confidante. What Emma found odd was that Samantha and Posie went along with the new narrative. At no time did Posie correct the reporters on their story. She failed to mention that she never really knew Cassandra or had been part of the Ugly Girls' Club that supposedly included Wren and Poppy. Hunter was remade into a clinically depressed gender-neutral teenager who, out of wanting to belong, committed a copycat suicide, their rant on YouTube a cry for help. Even Cassandra giving a homeless man twenty dollars months ago had been caught on camera. Although Hunter had instigated the show of collective good will, someone had only caught the tail end of that moment. Cassandra’s philanthropic gesture was replayed multiple times on the news.

  Emma, Nisha, and Cat were never mentioned as having been a part of Cassandra’s life. It was as if they never existed.

  All of it felt surreal, Emma thought as she sat in the car with her mom, part of the long train of vehicles in the funeral procession. Closer to Holy Trinity Church in Westwood, crowds of people congregated along the stre
et, holding up signs that read, “I'm Ugly Too” and “RIP Cassandra, Wren, Poppy, and Hunter.” Emma caught the eye of one girl who was crying. She held up her “I'm Ugly Too” sign higher, dark hair whipping in the breeze. She was short and round, her body similar to the figure Emma used to have, and Emma felt her eyes prick with tears as they passed her.

  Cassandra Baker has become a catalyst for protest against unrealistic, toxic beauty standards that women and girls are held to. Kylie Sparkles had posted last night, garnering another viral response. Some celebrities had even reached out to the Bakers, expressing their condolences and offering to say a few words at the funeral.

  Emma's phone vibrated, and she glanced down at the screen.

  It was Blue.

  Let me know if you need anything, she texted.

  Thanks, Emma texted back.

  Emma hadn't seen Blue all week. She had no desire to visit with anyone. Often, she sat for long periods staring at nothing. The anonymous texter continued to harass her nightly. Emma knew those videos would go public one day, and when they did, life as she knew it would be over. She was just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Nisha had already moved back to Lincoln Heights to live with her aunt, but she'd come for the funeral, riding in her mother's car.

  Jill had expressed no desire to send Emma away. In fact, her mother spoke little about Hunter’s and Cassandra's deaths. But her OCD that she usually kept under control had grown worse. Jill spent more and more of her time cleaning and organizing rather than working. At night, Emma heard her pacing in the living room and talking to herself, reciting passages from Emily Post's Etiquette book.

  Emma knew her mother was trying to understand the suicides on a deeper level, the emotional component.

  Soon Jill would purge the house, and Emma was getting ready. She'd bought labels to write “Please Do Not Donate” on her most valuable items, because going to her dad's was out of the question.

  Jill hadn't recited from Emily Post's Etiquette since Emma was ten. It was something her mother used to do often. Emma remembered the tight knot she got in her stomach when her mom began spewing out passages, stacking the silverware just so in the plastic tray, lining up the dishes in the cabinets so that the dinner plates, salad plates, and dessert plates were evenly spaced. The same went for the bowls, mugs, glass cups, and wine glasses. Counters were wiped multiple times a day, carpets vacuumed excessively, gleaming furniture dusted. A spill of any sort could set off a full-blown emotional crisis. Jill got help for her obsessive compulsions, and much of the OCD was under control, but the stress of the suicides was bringing it all back.

  Jill pulled into a parking stall, and Emma climbed out of the car, waiting while her mom adjusted her dress.

  "Hey, Em," Nisha said, Deja a few feet behind her.

  Emma tried to force a smile, but it wouldn't come.

  "Oh, baby," Deja crooned and swooped her up into a tight hug, joined by Nisha.

  Jill waited, arms pinned to her side.

  When they'd disengaged from each other, Deja glanced over at Emma's mom.

  "Hi, Jill," she said. "Sad business."

  "Yes," Jill agreed curtly.

  "I thought maybe we could talk after the service," Deja said.

  A flicker of concern crossed Jill's features. "What about?"

  "Well, I don't want to go into it now, but do you have time later?"

  Jill glanced at her watch. "I can spare twenty minutes. I need to pick up the twins after the service."

  "That's plenty of time," Deja said, and in a softer tone, "How are you holding up?"

  Jill grew more rigid. "Just fine." She paused and added, "And how are you doing?"

  Deja seemed to consider the question. "I've been to more of these than I care to admit, and, tragic as it is, I know eventually we'll all get through this."

  "Yes. Time heals all wounds," Jill replied. The platitude sounded all wrong to Emma's ears. But that was her mother. Jill Dawson would rather be naked in public than have anyone look to her to provide emotional support at a funeral.

  Cassandra's funeral was open casket, her white coffin displayed in the nave of the church. The Bakers had saved the first three pews for close family and friends, of which Emma, Nisha, and their moms were not included. Instead, the Jenner family and a swarthy man with thick black hair who looked an awful lot like Cassandra sat next to Samantha. A few girls and their parents, who Emma didn't recognize, along with Instagram influencer Kylie Sparkles, sat in the friends section.

  Louise, catching sight of Emma and Nisha, directed them further back, explaining that Cassandra's friends from her old school had traveled from San Jose to attend the funeral. Except Cassandra didn't have any close friends from her old school. Emma and Nisha knew that, and so did Louise.

  The slight stung.

  An hour later, Emma stared down at Cassandra in her boat of a coffin, looking more like a life-size wax figurine than an actual person. Emma was glad Cat couldn't make it to the funeral. There was something particularly grotesque in Cassandra's overly rouged, lifeless cheeks that seemed to sit higher on her face, the flesh marbleized. Red lipstick colored her thin lips, which had sunken into her face so that her mouth was just a red slash. Her long brown hair fanned dramatically over a white silk cushion. The wax-doll hands crossed one over the other against her belly. She wore a bridal-looking white dress that Emma had never seen on Cassandra before, and, Emma noticed, startled, fake eyelashes. It was everything Cassandra didn't want.

  "Open casket funerals creep me out," Cassandra had remarked once. "I definitely want to be cremated."

  Emma glanced away after some seconds and moved on. Jill was just two steps ahead, gripping tightly to her purse strap. It was clear she found the viewing just as disturbing and was eager to get away.

  Outside the church, Emma took big gulps of air, Nisha sticking close by, their mothers wandering off to talk.

  "She's going to ask your mom if you can stay with me at my Aunt Tanika's," Nisha said after a bit.

  Emma swallowed and stared down at her shoes. As much as she appreciated the offer, she knew she didn't want to go to Lincoln Heights. Emma didn't want to live at Nisha's aunt's, who had bars on all her windows and doors, the house on a bleak street corner, blocks away from a run down 7-11 and a tired, uninspired downtown. Nisha had close friends in the heights, friends who dismissed Emma entirely, talking over and around her as if she didn't exist. When Nisha was with them, it was like she was in another world, a world that Emma was not a part of and where she didn't belong.

  "What?" Nisha said.

  "What did you think of the open casket?" Emma asked, changing the subject.

  Nisha pursed her lips and rolled her eyes. "No comment," she said drily, then threw an arm around Emma. "All I know is that I don't want one of us to be the next one going in the ground."

  Emma shivered, and Nisha gave her a squeeze. "I got you," she said.

  "Deja says she thinks the suicides aren't suicides," Jill said as they climbed into their car on their way to the burial. She glanced at Emma with a frown and placed her key in the ignition, negotiating her way out of the parking space. "It makes sense," she said. "I've been trying to understand," Jill continued, nodding to herself, "and what Deja says makes sense. She offered for you to stay with Nisha in Lincoln Heights."

  "I don't want to," Emma interrupted, hoping her mother wouldn't make a thing of it and latch onto the idea.

  "No. I don't want to send you out there either," Jill agreed.

  Emma sighed, her relief short-lived.

  "I want you to go to your dad's. In fact, we are all going to go there until we figure out what to do next."

  "What? Are you serious?"

  "I am very serious," Jill said.

  "But I'm not even talking to Dad."

  "You don't have to talk to him. The house is big enough for all of us to have our own space. What your father did was egregious, but right now we have to think of our safety." She kept her eyes
on the road as she spoke. "Have you suspected that your friends may have not taken their lives?"

  "No," Emma lied.

  "Well, I have. When we get home, I want you to pack your things."

  "But you haven't even asked Dad yet. You can't just move into his house like that."

  "It's my house, too," Jill replied, tight-lipped.

  "Your house?"

  "Yes. It belongs to both of us."

  Emma was so stunned by this news that it knocked her silent.

  "But I thought Dad bought it with the money from the Cahuenga house. After the divorce, didn't you give him that house?"

  "What divorce?"

  Emma stared at her mom. "What do you mean, what divorce? The divorce you got four years ago."

  "Emma, what in the world are you talking about? Your father and I aren't divorced."

  "What?" Emma felt like she had just fallen through a hole in the ground and wound up in another world.

  Jill glanced quickly at Emma before her eyes returned to the road. "We never divorced," she said. "We both wanted different things and felt it would be better to live in our own homes. I agreed to sell the Cahuenga house in exchange for Oliver fathering the twins. The money was used to buy the Malibu house."

  "I don't understand. Why are you still married?"

  "Divorces are expensive. Your father had no interest in remarrying. He wanted his freedom to live his bachelor lifestyle, and I definitely am not interested in remarrying or dating. Why waste money on an attorney? Money that should go to you and the twins. I ran the numbers, and we would have had to sell our properties to divide the assets equably, and then there was the spousal support."

  "But why not divorce and live how you live now?"

  "Too messy," Jill said with a shake of her head. "Why divorce at all? Like I said, neither of us is interested in remarrying. It's simpler this way."