Killer Content

by Olivia Blacke

  I didn’t envy her, though. Sure, there were more cute choices for a size two than a size sixteen, but I liked being curvaceous. I ate relatively healthy—choosing water over soda and a side salad over French fries most of the time—but I wasn’t interested in crash diets or starving myself to death just to fit in a smaller size. I was moderately active without spending money I couldn’t afford on a gym membership. I’d much rather be comfortable in my own skin than worry about a few extra pounds.

  Being a bit curvier than average—whatever that was—made it more difficult to find the perfect fabric for myself at a second-hand store, but sometimes the shopping deities were in a generous mood. Today was one of those days.

  I spotted the dress—it was pink roses on a field of silvery gray—at the end of the row and snatched it up, hugging it against my body. The fabric was silky soft and there were yards of material in the full dress. I looked at the price tag and said a little prayer of gratitude. It was marked down to fifteen bucks. It would cost me maybe five or six times that just to buy the fabric wholesale, assuming I could ever find something this lush at a local hobby store.

  “Hey, that’s mine. I saw it first.”

  “Huh?” I looked down and saw a woman in a wheelchair, several dresses already draped across her lap, glaring up at me. If I had to guess, she was a decade or so older than me, younger than Todd but likely closer to his age than mine.

  “You heard me. That’s my dress.” The expression on her face was anything but friendly.

  I clutched the dress closer to my body, even knowing that I was wrinkling it. “I don’t see your name on it.” I know, I know. I sounded like a petulant third-grader. But this dress really did have my name all over it. In my head, I was already deconstructing it, taking apart each seam, and removing each button with the careful hands of a surgeon. I already had the perfect pattern picked out for it. It would be a long, simple sundress with enough material left over to make a matching shawl.

  It was the kind of dress to wear on a first date. The perfect dress. And I wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Hand it over. You don’t gotta be a jerk,” the woman in the wheelchair ordered, holding out her hand. I noticed she had on fingerless gloves, like a bicyclist might wear for a long ride. Her outfit was black from head to toe. Black shoes. Black tights. A black tank top. Even her hair was dyed black.

  “Be reasonable,” I said. “Do you even wear pink? Besides, I had it first.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me and dropped her hand so she could inch closer to me with her chair. “Seriously? You wanna go? You think you can steal that dress from me? Gonna take my purse, too? My wallet? Maybe you want my chair?”

  “Nobody’s stealing anything from anyone,” I said. I glanced down at the dress. It was perfect. But was it worth getting into a fight over? “You know what? You’re right.”

  I smoothed the fabric in my hand before holding the dress out toward her. It was hard to judge with any real accuracy since she was seated and I was standing, but she was probably taller than me, and several dress sizes smaller. No way would the dress, my dress, fit her. It would be as flattering as a wet paper sack. “Do me a favor? If it doesn’t fit, let me have a shot at it?”

  The woman snatched the dress and let it fall in a crumpled pile on top of the other dresses in her lap. “Good thing I don’t need it to fit. I just need to chop it up into little tiny squares,” she gloated.

  “You what?” I stared at her, appalled. Sure, I’d been planning on repurposing it, too, but as a gorgeous dress that I would wear. Not as confetti.

  Izzy reappeared, her arms laden down with an eye-searing mishmash of colors and patterns. “Help me narrow this down, will ya?” She studied my face. “What’s wrong? Looks like you’re about to blow a gasket or something.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not important.”

  The woman in the wheelchair laughed and I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something rude I would regret later.

  “Hey, I know you,” Izzy said.

  “I doubt it,” she replied.

  “No, I never forget a face. You’re that girl on YouTube that makes the all-natural soaps. Bethany showed me one of your vids one time. I think you were making aloe vera soap that day.”

  The woman snorted, and a grin split her face. “Bethany? That hack. I always knew she secretly watched my vids. That’s how she stole my ideas. I’m gonna crucify her.”

  “Too late for that,” I said, without thinking. “Someone already beat you to it. Bethany’s dead.”

  9

  Odessa Dean @OdessaWaiting ∙ June 25

  U call it a defect, I call it a 1-of-a-kind creation #sewing #homemade #crafty

  WAIT, SHE’S WHAT?” the woman in the wheelchair asked, her gleeful expression disappearing in the span of a heartbeat. “You’re talking about a different Bethany.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” I was still salty over losing the dress and her talking bad about Bethany, but something about the woman’s crestfallen face tugged at my heartstrings. I hoped we were talking about two different people, but how many people in Williamsburg were named Bethany and made homemade soap videos on YouTube?

  Don’t answer that.

  Probably about as many women our age running around New York with cute little owl tattoos.

  “Bethany Kostolus passed away yesterday,” Izzy clarified.

  The woman in the wheelchair started to cry, tears running down her face. “No, that can’t be.” She shook her head and used the dress, my dress, to dab at her eyes. “No way.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true.” Izzy shifted the clothes she was carrying so they were tucked under one arm. She used her free hand to touch the other woman’s shoulder. “It was an accident, very sudden. We’re all still trying to process it.” She gave me a sideways glance. “I’m sorry for your loss. Were you two close?”

  She sniffled. “You could say that.”

  “Oof,” Izzy said.

  “Hey, we’re planning a memorial-service-slash-pool-party for her. A wake of sorts, if you will,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to come?”

  “That would be nice,” she said, bobbing her head several times. “A poolside memorial service. Bethany would have liked that.”

  “We thought the same thing,” Izzy said.

  The woman in the wheelchair shifted the clothes on her lap and dug out her purse. She scribbled down something on a piece of paper and handed it to Izzy. “You’ll call me with details? I’m Jenny Green, by the way.”

  “Izzy Wilson. And this is Odessa Dean. We worked with Bethany at Untapped Books & Café.”

  Jenny sniffled. “Good to meet you. Wish it had been under better circumstances.”

  “Same,” Izzy said. “I’ll text you when we know more.”

  Jenny wrenched one wheel around so she was poised to head to the counter with her purchases. Then she paused and gave a half-turn back toward us. “Odessa, sorry about the dress.” She held it out to me.

  “You keep it,” I said, feeling ashamed that I’d almost picked a fight over a silly dress.

  “I insist.” She was still holding it at arm’s length. The roses had shiny thread woven into them that I hadn’t noticed earlier, and it sparkled in the cheap overhead lights.

  “Thanks,” I said, snatching it before she could change her mind. “Look forward to seeing you at the service.” She gave me a curt nod before spinning back around and heading away.

  “I don’t get it,” I said, as soon as she was out of earshot.

  “You don’t get what?” Izzy asked. She draped her finds along the top of a clothes rack, a garish orange-checkered pinafore next to a yellow-and-blue-striped track suit next to a romper with purple stars on a field of gold.

  “One second, Jenny was acting like she hated Bethany’s guts, and the next she was crying her eyes out like they
were besties.”

  “Oh, that.” She held a sheer white blouse up to the light before hanging it back on the rack. “They’re frenemies.”

  “Huh? I thought frenemies were friends in public but enemies in private.”

  “In this case, it’s the other way around. Reverse frenemies?” Izzy suggested.

  “Or Jenny was pretending to be upset when we told her about Bethany because she was hiding something.” I looked down at the gorgeous dress in my hands. But would Jenny have given up her claim on the dress unless she was genuinely distressed?

  “We’ll know the tea if she shows up to the memorial service. What do you think about this?” She held up a green lace blouse.

  “Lace is a pain to sew.” I forced myself to give her my full attention. I couldn’t go around suspecting everyone in Williamsburg of murder. I’d drive myself batty. “Same goes for anything too stretchy, mesh, or really thick. Start out simple, with cotton or a cotton blend. What are you looking to make?”

  “I was thinking maybe those big loose pants that almost look like a skirt. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “Sure do. Palazzo pants. Good choice. They’re easy.” I rifled through the clothes that she’d collected. Izzy was a woman of varied tastes. “Do you want something cutesy or something fun?”

  “Nothing basic,” she replied.

  “Well, then, let’s mix it up a little.” I draped the orange-checkered pinafore and a simple dress covered in bold yellow daisies next to each other. I left a gap between them, then laid out the purple and gold romper next to a blue and lilac tie-dyed maxi skirt. Finally, I matched a red and white Hawaiian print muumuu with a pair of loose cotton pants that were covered in bold, primary-colored American traditional tattoos like screaming eagles, huge red roses, snakes interwound with skulls, and daggers piercing hearts. “Pick the combo you like the best. We’ll do one leg in one pattern, and the other leg in the second. It will look amazeballs, much cuter than anything you can find in the stores and tons more affordable.”

  “Not the orange check.” She hummed to herself for a minute. “I like the tie-dye a lot, but that third set is lit.”

  “Help me put the rest of this back, and we’ll get the tattoos and Aloha dress.” We carried our selections to the front counter. Izzy insisted on paying for everything, even my new material. “You don’t have to do that,” I told her. “You’re making dinner, remember?”

  “And you’re letting me crash at your place for free. Least I can do.”

  When we got to the building, Izzy went out of her way to flirt with Earl, even though he was old enough to be her grandpa. I think he liked the attention, because he was nicer to her than he’d ever been to me before. Upstairs, I showed her where the washer and dryer were, and advised her to wash the clothes before we ripped them apart and reused them. Sure, she could have washed them when we were done, but I never knew what might be on second-hand clothes.

  Once the laundry was started, she took my key—Aunt Melanie had only left me one set—and a few reusable canvas grocery bags, and headed to the market. I pulled out my laptop, made myself comfortable on the couch, and pulled up Bethany’s YouTube channel.

  I’d never had an urge to make my own soaps or lotions before, but Bethany made it look so easy. I was half tempted to text Izzy and ask her to grab some lye and shea butter while she was out. In addition to learning how to combine essential oils into the soap-making process, I also found out that Bethany talked a metric ton’s worth of smack about Jenny in her videos.

  So of course I had to check out some of Jenny’s vids, and the next thing I knew, I’d gotten sucked into the black hole called YouTube. In the first video, I was greeted with a cheery, upbeat tune that I just knew was gonna be stuck in my head as Jenny—dressed in cute cotton-candy colors—greeted me with a friendly, “Hello again! So happy to see you guys!”

  Granted, I’d just met her the once, but that Jenny hadn’t exactly been warm. Or welcoming. Or particularly nice. Maybe Jenny was the evil twin?

  “Okay, today, we’re gonna make”—she held a dramatic pause—“soap! Surprise! Just kidding, of course we’re making soap today. Unlike that hack Bethany, we’re gonna experiment with colors and scents instead of using cheesy molds that someone found on eBay.”

  Now that was more like the Jenny I’d been expecting. Frankly, I couldn’t see why they were such bitter rivals. Both were in the same general market, sure, but they were different enough that they weren’t direct competitors.

  Bethany’s soap-making videos were popular, but her real hustle was selling her soaps in her Etsy store. Her claim to fame was her funny shapes. From flamingos to raunchy bachelorette party favors, she made just about everything. She had an entire line of nerdy soaps including a TARDIS, a Firefly-class spaceship, and Thor’s hammer.

  Jenny, on the other hand, concentrated on teaching people how to make soap with simple, natural ingredients. She demonstrated how to make colorful soaps without using artificial dyes and how to infuse soap with essential oils. She had more web traffic than Bethany, but didn’t sell as much direct to the public.

  I thought it was weird that anyone would buy their soaps after watching the detailed tutorials, but I guess some people didn’t have the time or energy to make their own. Someone who wanted a wide selection of fun, funky shapes shopped with Bethany. Those who wanted more natural ingredients bought from Jenny, who always packaged her soaps in pretty scraps of cloth instead of plastic before mailing them out to her buyers.

  Just thinking about the near fate of my perfect thrift store find, I shuddered. It would have been a crime to cut the fabulous dress up to make fancy tissue paper.

  Between all of the snarky jabs they aimed at each other in the videos and the comments section, it was hard to imagine the two of them being in the same room as each other, much less singing “Kumbaya” around a campfire. Jenny had sure talked a good game before doing a one-eighty. Comparing the sullen Jenny I’d met at the thrift store to the perky Jenny in the videos, I knew she was an expert at pretending to be someone she was not. Was she acting when she was mad or when she was distraught? Could Jenny be so competitive that she would want Bethany out of the way, permanently?

  That was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

  What kind of sicko would murder someone over a YouTube feud?

  I was so engrossed in the videos, no time at all seemed to pass before Izzy burst back into the apartment. “I’m back!” she announced. She kicked the door closed behind her and lugged her grocery bags to the counter.

  Unlike the rest of the apartment, Aunt Melanie’s kitchen was bland. Modern. Basic. It had long, gray granite countertops and shiny steel appliances with a subway tile backsplash. At least the dishes were clunky, mismatched, and brightly colored. Even the drinking glasses were of uneven thickness with visible bubbles, as if they were someone’s first attempt. I wouldn’t be surprised if my aunt had made all of her dishware. But she hadn’t bothered putting her unique stamp on the rest of the kitchen, other than a row of funky cookie jars lining the island bar.

  Although, judging by the basket overflowing with takeout menus and the drawer filled with packets of soy sauce and individual ketchup servings, Aunt Melanie ordered out. A lot.

  While Izzy worked on dinner, I took a break to feed Rufus before returning to YouTube. There were an awful lot of videos to review, especially since I was alternating between Bethany’s and Jenny’s channels. The videos and comments began to all blur together.

  “What are you watching those for?” Izzy asked, peering over my shoulder. She had a dishcloth draped over one arm and a smear of green on her cheek that I could only hope was pesto.

  “Seeing if I can find any clues,” I admitted.

  “Come on, Odessa. You couldn’t possibly think that Jenny killed Bethany. I mean, you heard her, they were buddies. Besides, and don’t take this the wrong way, but do
you know how hard it would be for a person in a wheelchair to hoist a grown adult woman up and over a waist-high railing?”

  “It’s not unmanageable.”

  “No, and neither is monkeys flying out of the refrigerator, but it’s low-key impossible.”

  “Or, that’s just what Jenny wants us to think,” I argued.

  Izzy shifted the dish towel from her arm to over her shoulder before sitting down on the low coffee table across from the couch. She had to nudge her suitcase out of the way to make room. My aunt’s apartment was huge by New York standards, but almost every inch of it was filled with eye-catching tchotchkes or oversized sculptures.

  “Why are you doing this, Odessa?”

  “I told you, there might be clues in—”

  She interrupted me. “No, I mean this. Obsessing over Bethany’s death like it was some kind of a murder or something.”

  “Because I think it was.”

  “It’s not fair. Bethany was young. Bright. Talented. She wasn’t supposed to die in a senseless accident, but that’s all it was. An accident.”

  “You’re wrong. What about the mysterious meeting she attended in the park? She said it was a matter of life and death.”

  “Bethany exaggerated. All the time. You’ve seen her videos.” She waved a hand at my laptop where, even now, Bethany demonstrated how to make unique molds out of other objects for one-of-a-kind soaps. “She lived for attention,” Izzy said.

  “And her bracelet? She never took that silly thing off.”

  “Maybe she gave it to someone. Or maybe the clasp broke a week ago, but no one had noticed yet.”

  “Please. I’ve barely known her a week,” I pointed out.

  “Exactly. Don’t take this the wrong way, Odessa, but you didn’t even really know Bethany and it’s a little sus how you’re fixated on her death. I think maybe this memorial service will help you, too. Help you accept that she’s gone.”