Pamela Frost Dennis - Murder Blog 01 - Dead Girls Don't Blog

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  Before returning home to work on Acme, I decided to drop off a few petitions at my parents’ businesses. The rest would have to wait a couple of days to get distributed. Pop’s shop was closed and I found him next door in Mom’s beauty shop about to get his usual “Bruce Willis” buzz.

  “Hey, guys.” I dropped into the empty chair next to Pop and spun around to face them. “What’s up?”

  “I’m trying to persuade your dad to grow his hair out while he still has some, but he won’t listen to me.”

  He winked at me and went back to annoying Mom. “Too much trouble. Then I’ll have to comb it.”

  Mom always fell for the bait. “Every morning I have to wash, dry, and style my hair, plus put makeup on. It’s a pain. How would you like it if I stopped doing that?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Fine then. Maybe I will.”

  “Don’t forget to stop shaving your legs,” I said, “and plucking your eyebrows, and covering your gray, and clipping your nose hairs, and bo—”

  Now Mom was glaring at me, so I wisely shut up before I gave out all her beauty secrets to her staff; although, the “B” word had definitely gotten their attention, so oops.

  Pop smiled sweetly. “I’ll still think you’re beautiful, Marybeth.”

  “Give it up, Mom, he’s not going to change. But before you turn on the clippers, I have some petitions for you.” I handed one to each of them.

  Mom set down the clippers and put on her reading glasses. While she read, Pop said, “When you’re done, let me use your glasses. I left mine in the shop.”

  “It’s good, honey.” She went to the receptionist desk and signed it.

  “Can I leave some here for customers to sign?”

  “Of course.” She waved the petition in the air and announced to the other three stylists and their clients, “Please make sure you read Katy’s petition before you leave today. It’s important.”

  Since I’d been exonerated for my thoughtless remark to Ruby about the All My Family cancellation, I figured it was safe to swing by her house on my way home and drop off some petitions. She lives in a charming two-bedroom cottage in the independent living section of a posh senior community, “Shady Acres,” on the south end of town.

  Gramps died years ago and his life insurance policy allows Ruby to live a comfortable life with no financial worries as long as she lives within her means.

  Through the years she has supplemented her income as an independent sales consultant for several multi-level marketing companies, and for the most part has done well. The only one that had not been a success was “Rubber-Wear.” Clothes and accessories made out of recycled tires. The purses and belts were actually cute, and I still use mine, but the clothing was hot and uncomfortable, and I swore on a hot summer day my “Goodyear” cardigan smelled like burned rubber. It was probably all in my head, but it was a huge relief when she moved on to her next money-making scheme; although, every time that happens she expects me to host another party and invite all my friends. Needless to say, they do not appreciate this.

  I parked in the visitor parking area in her cul-de-sac, gathered my petitions, and walked to the front door. When she didn’t answer, I peeked in the garage window and saw her car, so I figured she might be in the clubhouse.

  At the front desk, I asked Elaine if she’d seen Ruby and she pointed to the bingo room. As I approached the double doors I could hear raucous laughter, but it didn’t sound like a bingo game was in progress. I cracked the door and peeped in.

  Ruby was standing at the front of the room behind a long, folding table, talking to about thirty women sitting at tables facing her. From a distance, she looked different—oddly different. I was closing the door when she spotted me and motioned me in.

  “Look who’s here, ladies. Katy, my beautiful granddaughter. Come in, dear.”

  As I reluctantly pushed the door open, the ladies started chanting, “Do Katy! Do Katy!”

  I had no idea what they were shouting about until I got into the room and saw their faces. They all had enormous red lips. So did Ruby. It felt like I’d stepped into a scary clown convention. Ruby had a new business.

  “E-Z Lip Stencils.” The E-Z way to apply lipstick. Are you tired of smearing lipstick all over your face because of shaky hands? Want big, pouty, youthful lips like the celebrities? Do you wish your lipstick would last for days? Try E-Z Lips Stencils and E-Z Lips semi-permanent lip colors. Use it once a week for your perfect E-Z Lips.

  “Do Katy! Do Katy!” The ladies were in a frenzy, pounding on the tables, and I was trapped with no gracious way out.

  Ruby pulled out a chair for me and I sat facing the women. Year ago I watched the Stephen King miniseries, It, with that evil clown, Pennywise, and ever since, I have not been a fan of clowns.

  Ruby dove into her sales spiel. “The starter kit includes three lip stencil choices—the “Jolie,” the “Griffith,” and the “Jagger.” She held them up for my perusal. “Which glam lips would you like to try?”

  None. “Uh…are there any other options, like maybe, ummm…” I frantically sifted through my memory bank searching for a celeb who had not blown her lips totally out of proportion. “Like Ellen DeGeneres?”

  “Ellen DeGeneres?” She smiled patiently at me. “When I think of glam lips she doesn’t come to mind.”

  “Then I guess I’ll take the Jolie.”

  “Excellent choice.” She turned to the group. “How many of you gals used the Jolie?”

  Everyone raised her hand, except for one butch looking eighty-something who pumped her fist in the air and yelled, “Jagger, baby. Rock on.”

  Ruby removed my neutral pink lip color and then opened one of the various bright reds in the kit. The end of the tube had a spongy tip that oozed out color when she squeezed it. She placed the stencil over my lips, and while holding it firmly in place, she daubed the color on. Next, she held a hairdryer to my lips for three minutes before peeling the stencil away. She finished with a high gloss sealer. “Well, ladies? Is she gorgeous? Or is she gorgeous?”

  The thunderous applause made me excited to see my new lips. I picked up a hand mirror on the table and flinched. I looked like I was having an anaphylactic reaction.

  “You like?” asked Grandma.

  No, I did not like; however, I wasn’t ruining it for her, even though I hate it when she’s in her “sales-pitch-carnival-barker” mode. It’s like watching one of those screaming pitchmen on TV selling cleaning products. Did I mention she had on a microphone headset?

  “Wow. I absolutely love it. Can I buy a kit?” I gushed. “Give me a kit for Mom, too. It’ll make a swell Mother’s Day gift.” That brought a round of “ahhhhs” and more applause. I stood and continued. “Ladies? If I could have your attention for a minute, I have something I’d like to share with you.”

  Ruby whispered in my ear, “Katy, what are you doing?”

  “This is really important.” I puckered my clown lips and kissed her cheek. “Pretty please?”

  She pulled off her headset and handed it to me. “You better put this on. Most of them are hard of hearing.”

  My voice boomed through the room as I told them about Lindsay and the petition to stop Phil Hobart’s parole. It killed the festive mood, but I got thirty-two signatures and several women took petitions with them. Luckily, they’d all purchased a kit before I’d arrived, or Ruby would have killed me.

  As soon as I was out of the building, I bolted for Veronica and dove into the driver’s seat, before anyone could see me. The first thing I did was take a picture of myself on my phone and text it to Samantha. She would die when she saw it, plus it was good payback (to me) for the time I (so embarrassed to admit this) outlined her lips with a red marker when she was asleep. In my defense, I was only fourteen, but she has never let me forget it. Then I turned the rearview mirror towards me and wiped my lips with a tissue. That merely dulled the gloss. I rubbed some more, but the color didn’t budge and now white tissue lint was stuck to m
y lips. Then I remembered the ominous words “semi-permanent,” “lasts for days,” and “once-a-week,” and I freaked.

  As I turned into the driveway at home, I thought of the Viking. I didn’t see him outside, but I couldn’t risk it, so I clicked the garage door opener. When it was halfway up, I saw the pile of junk I’d set there while searching for the space heater, blocking the entrance. Rats.

  I turned off the car and checked to see if the coast were clear. No Viking. I opened the door and stepped out, ready to dash for the front door.

  “Hi, Cookie.”

  Oh, crap. Where’d he come from?

  “I saw you drive up and I have something for you.” He was walking across the lawn carrying Tabitha. “Look who I found on my kitchen counter when I came home. She must have come through my dog door. I hope you weren’t worried.”

  I kept my head down, hand over mouth, not making eye contact. “I didn’t know you have a dog.” I held out one arm to take Tabitha, still keeping my head down and my mouth covered.

  “I don’t. The previous owners did. And I didn’t know you had a cat until I saw her tag.” He bent at the waist and looked up at my face. “You okay?”

  I used Tabitha to shield my mouth and spoke through her fur. “I’m fine. Just gotta a toothache, that’s all. I’m a little swollen, so kind of embarrassed to be seen.”

  “Hope you don’t need a root canal. Have you tried swishing with warm salt water? Or vodka? Taken anything for the pain?”

  “Gonna do that right now.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of it. Really gotta go now.” I scuttled to the front door, unlocked it, and slammed it behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard. Then I remembered the alarm and punched in the code before it went off. I wanted to throw Tabitha across the room, but I set her on the couch and collapsed next to her.

  I was annoyed with myself for constantly being the village idiot, plus the fact that I hadn’t even thanked Josh for bringing my cat home. I berated myself for several minutes, then went into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee.

  While it brewed, I went to the bathroom to scrub my mouth. I’m a cosmetic junkie with drawers of everything imaginable, so I wasn’t worried about getting the lip color off. I found some heavy-duty makeup remover that I use for waterproof makeup, so it should have worked. It didn’t. I scrubbed with soap and a scrubby and the color flaked and cracked but remained on my face. I tried dish detergent, oil, Goo-Gone, S.O.S. pad, and nail polish remover. Nada.

  I gave up and heated up a blueberry scone, poured my coffee, and trudged across the backyard to my office to finish the Acme job. Thank goodness my coworkers, Daisy and Tabitha, weren’t fazed by my freaky appearance.

  FOURTEEN

  Just Call Me Bozo

  By Katy McKenna on Sunday, April 14

  Quote for the day: “A foolish man tells a woman to stop talking, but a wise man tells her that her mouth is extremely beautiful when her lips are closed.” Except if her grandma stenciled her lips with E-Z Lips! So I’m going with: “A cosmetic is a boon to every woman, but a girl's best friend is still a near sighted man.” – Yoko Ono

  I need to deliver the Acme job tomorrow, but there is no way I can set foot out of the house with my Bozo lips, not to mention the enflamed, puffy skin around my mouth from all the scrubbing, so I called Ruby. She got me into this mess, so she can deliver the project for me. My call went to her voicemail, and I had to listen to her recorded sales pitch.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Ruby Armstrong, your E-Z Lips consultant. Leave your name and number after the beep, and tell me when you want to earn oodles of money hosting your own E-Z Lip party.”

  Beep. “Hey. It’s me. Your granddaughter. Call me.”

  Ten minutes later, I was thinking about making my bed when she returned my call. “Hello, dear.” She sounded like a worn out three-pack-a-day smoker.

  “What’s wrong? You sound awful. Have a rough night?” I could picture her sitting in her recliner, wearing the ratty, green chenille robe she only wears when she is sick.

  “I just can’t party like I used to and I’m paying for it this morning.”

  I walked out of my bedroom leaving the bed unmade, as usual. “What’d you do?”

  “The gals were feeling glam-fabulous after the E-Z Lip party, so we went clubbing.”

  I had to smother a giggle. Not about clubbing, they do that all the time—the part about feeling glamorous with those silly stenciled lips. “Where’d you go?”

  “First we went to Chili’s for their happy-hour nachos and margarita special and then hopped over to Benny’s for their Saturday night senior deal.”

  “Which was…” I already knew what it was because she has dragged me there so many times.

  “Liver and onions with creamed spinach.”

  Ruby’s favorite dish. One night when I was a junior in high school, she tried to get me to taste it and I blurted, “I can’t. I’m a vegetarian.” Been one ever since. Well, almost. I eat free-range eggs and occasionally, fish, so I guess that makes me a pescatarian.

  She belched a burp a fifth grade boy would have been proud to take credit for and continued. “I had a couple of glasses of chardonnay with dinner, and then for dessert, the bartender bought us a round of tequila shooters. He said it was for the pretty ladies. Isn’t that sweet?” Another burp. “Well, one thing led to another, and before ya know it, we’d each bought a round.”

  “How many of you were there?”

  “Six.” Ruby burped again. “Woo. Excuse me. Oh, I can taste the liver.”

  I had just opened the fridge to look for a snack, but that comment did me in, and I slammed the door.

  “We’d planned to go to the brew pub downtown and check out the action, but it was already 8:30 by then, so we decided to call it a night.”

  “You weren’t driving, were you?”

  “Nooo,” she said with pitch-perfect adolescent attitude. “Give me a little credit, will ya? We used the senior dial-a-ride service. The driver was really cute, and I told him all about you and he wants to meet you. His name is Duke.”

  No way was that going to happen, so I acted like I hadn’t heard her. “Ruby, I need a favor.”

  “What?”

  I heard a series of farts in the background, but I took the high road and didn’t comment on her toots. “I need you to deliver a job I did for Acme Upholstery. It’s due tomorrow, and I can’t go because I can’t get my lips off.”

  “I’m surprised. The EZ-Off lotion in the kit should have done the job.”

  I’d left the kit in the car yesterday while trying to elude the Viking. “I didn’t know about the EZ-Off.”

  “Well, you might try it, although I don’t understand why you would want to remove your gorgeous new celebrity lips,” she said peevishly and belched again. “You know, I don’t feel so good. I think I’ll go back to bed, but we’ll talk later. I have a good feeling about this Duke fellow.”

  Not happening.

  FIFTEEN

  Tuesday, May 7

  1996

  Phil was still in bed when Erik came in from his midday soccer practice. “You sick or something?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Sick of myself.”

  Erik peeled off his soggy t-shirt and pitched it at the laundry bin. “You need to get over it, man. Life goes on.” He opened a dresser drawer and grabbed a t-shirt.

  Phil sat up, propping himself against the wall and scrubbed his hands over his dark, two-day stubble. “I’m thinking about turning myself in. Take the punishment I deserve.” He squinted against the early afternoon sun glaring through the window.

  Erik had one arm through the shirt sleeve and stopped cold. “Are you crazy? What good will that do?”

  “At least she’ll know how sorry I am. Knowing I’m in prison might help her get over it.”

  “This isn’t just about you, buddy. You do realize that if you turn yourself in, you’ll be turning me and Jake in, too. Do you have any idea what happen
s to guys like us in prison?”

  “No worse than what we did.” Phil climbed out of bed to adjust the mini blinds, then returned to his bed.

  Erik snorted derisively and pulled the shirt on. “Oh, it’ll be worse, all right, and we won’t be drugged while it’s happening. And it will be every day, several times a day. We’ll be the prison bitches. Is that really what you want?”

  “No. It scares the hell out of me.” Phil cleared his constricted throat and whispered, “But I don’t know what to do.”

  Erik paused a moment, staring at Phil’s pathetic hang-dog face. It galled him knowing his fate lay in his goody-goody roommate’s hands but knew he needed to stay cool. “I don’t know what to do, either. But before you do anything, think about this. Turning yourself in will kill your parents. Do our families really deserve to have their lives ruined because of what we did? And for what? Confessing won’t undo the damage, Phil.” Erik pulled out a desk chair and sat backwards, resting his arms on the chair back. “Listen. I’ve been thinking.”

  “That’s news.”

  Erik’s tone became defensive. “Believe it or not, I have a conscience, too. No way would I have knowingly done that to a kid. I must’ve been pretty shit-faced to not realize how young she was.”

  “So what you’re saying is, it’s acceptable to drug someone over eighteen for sex, but you draw the line at,” Phil finger-quoted, “under the age of consent. Glad you have such high standards. You do realize that no matter what age they are, when you slip a girl a roofie, it’s still rape, right?”

  Erik hung his head, staring at the floor, resisting an urge to get up and punch Phil in the face. “Just hear me out, will ya? I was thinking maybe we could do something nice for her, anonymously. To make amends.”