The Ugly Girls' Club: A Murder Mystery Thriller

by C. A. Wittman

  Oliver cleared his throat, and glanced at Emma, a spark of fear in his eyes.

  "Those niggas?" Nisha's voice rose. "Nah. First, they wouldn't go after Donovan. Second, putting some led in Darnell is not the same as hunting down a white boy. If anything happens to Darnell, the LAPD will make a cursory sweep, brush their hands off and be on their way. Not the same with Donovan, even if he is an evil son-of-a-bitch serial killer. Anyway, where you going now? I'll meet you."

  "We're on our way to Cedars in Beverly Hills."

  "Cool. I'll shoot you a text when I'm there."

  Emma felt somewhat comforted, hearing Nisha's voice and knowing she'd be there. As much as she was falling in love with Blue, she'd known Nisha practically her whole life, and Oliver, well, Emma stared at him disdainfully. He didn't count. He was barely a dad, but he had come in handy for once.

  Emma hadn't figured on Gumption being so calm and even-tempered when she called after hanging up with Nisha.

  "Come by after you get your nose fixed, dear. We'll talk more then. I have some business to attend to. If I'm not home when you arrive, Candace will be there to let you in."

  Blue's hand snaked over Emma's, resting on the seat between them, and she scooted closer, leaning her head on Emma's shoulder and sighing.

  "Thanks, Gumption," Emma said.

  "Happy to help," Gumption said. "Bye, bye. Bye," she rang off cheerfully.

  "Bye."

  "I need to go to Gumption's after the doctor," Emma said to Oliver. "Can you talk to Mom for me?"

  Oliver ran a hand along the side of his face. "Yeah. I'll call her soon."

  They pulled into the hospital parking garage.

  "What did Posie say?" Emma asked Blue.

  "To call her when you're done at the doctor's."

  Chapter 47

  "Son of a bitch," Leonard Jobs muttered, adjusting the lens on his binoculars. He watched the young man with dark hair go around the back of the Bakers’. He'd missed Emma Dawson and Sam Baker by five minutes. Although Emma had snuck into the Baker's house, she'd come out the front door with Sam, and her once pretty face was caved in, nose swollen and plastered to the side, eyes bruised. “Holy smokes,” he said, and Gumption wandered out of the kitchen, curious.

  "Wow!" she exclaimed.

  Candace drew up next to them, holding out a tall glass of Coca-Cola to Leonard, the ice tinkling merrily in the carbonated liquid.

  He lowered his binoculars and glanced over at her, taking the glass. "Thanks, hon." He downed the drink in one go, and Gumption's teeth ached for him. Leonard handed the glass back to Candace, drew his lips back in a tight grimace, opened his mouth, and cracked his jaw before rubbing a finger under his short, bristly mustache and burping quietly into his fist. He was seventy years old and built like a tank.

  Candace smiled when he stooped to pick up a large black pistol. He put it in a brown plastic bag, winked and cracked his jaw again.

  “Gimme my phone,” he said, pointing at the simple grey cell phone on the glass coffee table. Candace complied. Leonard shoved it into the pocket of his neutral tan Bermuda shorts. He winked and cracked his jaw again.

  "Call me if Shit for Brains leaves the house," he said.

  "Will do." Gumption retrieved the binoculars he'd abandoned, and Leonard went out her back door. He exited the yard through the side gate and then strolled up the street in a northerly direction.

  It was a quiet time of day. Everyone was at work.

  "Candace, dear, hand me my phone," Gumption said, bringing the binoculars up to her face and peering through them. She could see clearly into the Bakers’ living room. There was no one moving about. She surmised that the young man was still in the back of the house somewhere. Gumption kept her binoculars trained on the Bakers’ until Leonard approached the house. He'd swapped the navy blue shirt for a flashy salmon-colored tropical print shirt, flip-flops for his tennis shoes, and a realistic grey-haired wig on his dyed black hair. Dark sunglasses shadowed his face, the mustache gone. Gumption watched him walk up to the front door and pretend to ring the bell, wait, and pretend to ring it a second time. An older man walking his dog passed by. He didn't even look at the Bakers’ house, or Leonard, and after a bit, Leonard went around back and disappeared from view.

  Sweat trickled down Donovan's back from nerves. He'd been lucky, though. No one was home. He’d arrived at the Baker’s on an electric scooter, rather than risk anyone noticing his red Porscha. After checking under the stone and finding the key missing, he'd muttered a curse, then tried the back door anyway. It had slid open, to his relief. At least he didn't have to go through with his first plan if Sam was home, pretending to be sorry he'd broken it off with her and asking her to forgive him. He grimaced at the thought of all the times he'd fucked that she-male. The whole gay, transgender, gender-fluid whatever-the-fuck was way out of hand these days. Of course you couldn't say anything about it, especially if you lived in a place like LA. The PC crowd would roast you alive. Well, he wasn't totally anti-gay, Donovan conceded as he rifled through the papers in Sam's desk drawer, careful to not leave anything out of place. Lesbians were cool. Sexy, more like. He thought of Emma and Blue rubbing on each other and became instantly hard. How many times had he gotten off to the memory of that afternoon? Too bad Emma turned into such a prude suddenly. It would have been fun to have both of them on the regular. He closed the last drawer and glanced around the room, frustrated.

  She'd taken down her posters, repainted, and feminized the room. He should have gotten a clue when he saw all those mug shots up on the wall, and the Olsen twins with their eyes gouged out. No girl would put shit like that on her walls. But Donovan had loved it, knew Sam was going to be fun, and she didn't disappoint until she did.

  Fuck, where the hell was that letter?

  He'd already searched the closet. He strode over toward the bed and grabbed one pillow, stripping the cover off, replaced it, and stripped the next pillow until he'd done all four. Maybe Sam hid it in her kid sister's room. Donovan straightened the pillows and made his way down the hall to Cassandra's closed door. He opened it, thinking about the last time he'd been in this room. Fortunately, he had Blue to tell him every little thing Emma told her.

  Blue was hot and could fake a certain amount of maturity, but mostly she was as dumb as they come. Every step of the way, she was feeding him bits of information, an unknowing informant. He grinned to himself. He'd doted on Blue, gotten her the fake IDs for herself and her friends, given her space to be with her new love interest, Emma, who'd gone from a fat, dopey little kid to a full on hottie in just a few short months.

  Donovan licked his lips, his feelings roller-coastering from turned on to nervous to turned on again. He touched himself briefly and then shook his head. He needed to focus and find that letter Poppy sent. The thorn in his side. What the hell did she write? And how much did Sam know? He knew he was taking a chance if Sam was home and Poppy had mentioned him in her letter, although he was pretty sure Poppy didn’t know it was him harassing her before he showed up and surprised her.

  Cassandra had been reading and listening to music with her headphones the night he came by to stage her suicide. He’d opened her door with a small rag, shoving it in his back pocket. She'd startled when she saw him, and he'd motioned for her to remove the headphones, flashing the smile that disarmed most girls.

  "Hey," he'd said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I saw your light on, and I was wondering if it'd be okay if I made myself a snack?"

  Cassandra had frowned at him, wrinkling her ugly beak of a nose, her too-close eyes jumpy, like she wasn't sure what to say.

  "Oh," he'd said as if he'd just thought of it. "You're probably wondering what the hell I'm doing here."

  "Well, sort of," she'd said.

  "Me and Sam made up. Actually," he'd shaken his head, flashing another boyish grin. "I was a complete ass and asked Sam to forgive me. She's giving me a trial run."

  Cassandra had stared at him skeptically, conf
usion radiating from her dark eyes.

  He'd given her an apologetic look. "I'm really sorry about Hunter. It's horrible."

  "Yeah," she'd said, eyes falling to her hands in her lap. "I just can't believe it."

  He'd nodded, waiting the socially acceptable amount of seconds to ponder Hunter. Cassandra had glanced up, frowning, like she was trying to connect the dots, and he'd held his breath, hoping she wasn't thinking too hard.

  “My sister’s really having a hard time.” He’d sighed. “I realized after what happened with Hunter that I wanted, needed, actually to be with a real friend. Sam’s been pretty cool, considering.”

  That little speech had done it. Cassandra’s expression had softened.

  "Just try not to wake my mom. You know how she is, and she's extra right now, considering everything."

  He'd given a little nod and a sad smile, leaving the door partially open on purpose. Further down the hall, he'd left a bag that had orange crush soda in it, Cassandra's favorite, according to Sam. Quietly, he'd gone into the kitchen and poured two glasses of soda, his heart crashing in his chest both at the risk of being caught and the thrill of what he was about to do next. He'd stirred ketamine into one glass. Donovan even brought his own salad plate—white, to match the Bakers’ dishes. He pulled out a small Ziploc bag of already sliced cheese and arranged it on a plate with crackers. The plastic grocery bag was left in the hall. At Cassandra's room, he hovered outside her door so she could see him. He held up the plate with the snack and soda and gave her a big smile.

  "Thought maybe you'd like one, too," he said and took a quick swig from the glass meant for him, just so she wouldn't choose the wrong drink.

  Cassandra had set her book aside. "That's my favorite." She reached for the glass and gave him a grateful smile.

  He took a seat on one of her beanbags, trying to appear natural and unthreatening. "It's my favorite, too. I would have lived on the stuff when I was a kid if my parents had let me," he echoed back something Sam had told him about Cassandra.

  "Oh my god, me, too," she said a little too loud and then covered her mouth, her eyes snaking to the door.

  Donovan got up and nudged the door closed with the toe of his shoe, then picked up the plate with cheese and crackers, offering the snack.

  She shook her head no. He already knew she didn't like cheese. He didn't want to seem too obvious.

  "Thanks for letting me crash in here for a minute. Didn't want to wake the household."

  "No, it's cool," Cassandra said, trying to look cool. She drank more of her soda. "You know, you're really different from, like, what I thought."

  "Oh, yeah?" He took swig of his drink and flashed another boyish smile. "How so?"

  "Just," she paused, then said. "Don't take it the wrong way, but I kind of thought you were a bit of a dick."

  He clutched at his chest dramatically. "Ow."

  Cassandra had laughed. He'd held her gaze flirtatiously before placing a slice of cheese on a cracker. When he looked at her again, she was blushing.

  "Working on any new songs?" He'd asked. "I love your music, by the way."

  "Thanks." Her blush had grown deeper. "Yeah. I'm always working on something."

  It could take up to twenty minutes for the drug to start working, and he needed to keep her engaged. The next part was always tricky. He didn't want to put her out completely. He still needed her to put on her swimsuit and he had to paint her nails. The suicide note was already written and waiting in the grocery bag in the hall. His sister’s work. She was great at copying handwriting. Once he had Cassandra ready, the next tricky part was to walk her across the street to that old bitch's house, where he'd give Cassandra the last dose.

  They'd talked about her music career for a while, and he'd been sure to heap on the praise. At one point, her eyes had wandered to her desk, taking on a glazed look, and he'd known then that it was starting for her. He'd followed her gaze to the Frozen snow globe.

  "That was Wren's favorite movie when she was little," he'd said, to keep the rapport going. Cassandra had frowned at his words, and when she'd turned to look at him, he'd known then that it was time to go in for the kill.

  Chapter 48

  Donovan opened one of Cassandra's desk drawers and rifled through what was in there, although it occurred to him that the police, or—what were they called—CSI? Would have probably been through there looking for anything incriminating of murder. His eyes lit on the Frozen snow globe. He frowned, remembering Cassandra getting up from her bed to sit at her desk after he'd mentioned Wren liking Frozen as a kid. She'd slowly reached out a hand and twisted the snow globe around so that the blond character faced out, then she'd gazed over her shoulder at Donovan, mouth dragged down, a sad look in her eyes.

  Had she known then that something was awry? He wondered.

  It was strange, her action. Donovan noticed that the snow globe was in the same position, the blond cartoon character still gazing out coyly, a slight smile on her red lips. It excited him, and he thought about climbing into Cassandra's bed, stretching out under her sheets, feeling the buoyancy of the water in the mattress. His eyes wandered up to a Dark Side of the Moon poster above the desk. He used to have the same poster in his room when he was a kid. Under the poster, Cassandra had copied out a line of lyrics on the wall in red calligraphy.

  A shadow of a feeling that something was wrong fell over him before he felt the hard metal pressing into his backside and a voice behind him.

  "Put your hands up, Donny, and turn around slowly. I don't want to have to make a mess in these nice people's home."

  Donovan's heart rate increased doubletime, and he did as he was told, blinking in surprise at the short man in front of him. He was squat and thick, dressed like a tourist about to go to a luau. Big dark glasses hid his eyes, his mouth just a hard line. Danger crackled off of him, and Donovan knew he was in trouble.

  "Dead girls' bedrooms turn you on, kid?"

  Donovan had forgotten about his erection. He didn't dare look down.

  He licked his lips and tried to think fast.

  "I'm Samantha's boyfriend."

  The man stood watching him for a long moment, features set like granite.

  "I know it looks strange," Donovan added. "I was going to surprise Sam... and I was just looking for condoms."

  "You like cookies or cake, Donny?" The man asked.

  "Uh, what?"

  "I think you heard me."

  "Cookies. I guess."

  "You guess?"

  The man's expression stayed the same. Stony. Donovan started to sweat. A drop of sweat leaked into the corner of his eye. It stung. "Well, uh, I mean," he stuttered. "Cookies. Definitely."

  The man said nothing, just continued staring at him.

  "Sorry. Who are you?" Donovan asked.

  "What kind of cookies do you like?"

  For a moment, Donovan's mind went blank.

  "It's not that hard a question. You like cookies. You must have a favorite."

  "Right. I'm just kind of… this is a weird conversation."

  "What's weird about it? It's a common question."

  "Dude. I don't know you. And I think you've got the wrong idea about me." Donovan looked around for something he could grab and hit this whack job over the head with, or even a way to get around him without getting shot.

  "There's a baseball bat over there by the desk. You see it?" The man said.

  "What?"

  "You losing your hearing already? Too young for that. O’ course, all those fucking little earbuds everyone's shoving in their ears these days, and the headphones…" The man whistled. "People's cochleas don't stand a chance. You know what that is, a cochlea?"

  "Yeah," Donovan said softly. "It's the tiny hairs in your inner ear."

  "Yep. Itty bitty hairs. Good on you for knowing that." He lifted his glasses and smiled a tight smile, the brown eyes cold, hard, and flat.

  Donovan swiped at the moisture on his forehead. His hand came back wet,
like he'd taken a shower.

  "Anyways, I was saying," the man continued in a louder voice. "There's a baseball bat by the desk. You're looking for a weapon, right? Something to bash my skull in. Get away."

  Donovan said nothing.

  "You could try it. Wouldn't be the first one," he continued in the same raised voice. "By the way, can you hear me okay?"

  Donovan nodded.

  "Good. There's a couple o’ things you got going against you, kid. For one, you're not trained to fight. I'm old, but I can still snap your skinny little neck, just like that." The man snapped his thick fingers, and they made a loud cracking noise. "The other thing is this gun. You know anything about guns, Donny?"

  "No."

  "Oh. Well. This gun. This is a Maxim 9mm semi-automatic pistol. A beauty. But you know what makes this gun special?"

  Donovan's mouth went dry as he stared at the gun that looked like something out of some futuristic sci-fi movie.

  "Do I need to speak louder?" The man asked.

  "Uh, no."

  "No, what?"

  "No, I don't know what makes the gun special."

  "Oh," the man's voice rose cheerfully, and he smiled another tight smile. "It's special because it's got a built-in suppressor. You know what that means?"

  "It suppresses the sound when you shoot it,” Donovan said. He had been to shooting ranges before and had shot guns with silencers. Instead of the explosive sound of fireworks going off in his ears, a silencer took the noise level down to the subtlety of a car door slam.

  "Two for two," the man said. "We're on a roll. You're not as dumb as I thought. You any good at following directions?"

  Donovan nodded.

  "So here's what. We're going to walk out of here together. We're going to walk to my car, and a friend of mine is going to take us for a drive."

  "Please," Donovan said. "I really think you have the wrong idea about me."

  "Oh, I think I have a good idea. You and your old man run a porno prostitution business."