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

by Pamela Frost Dennis

  “Just this one time, okay? This is an emergency.”

  “You’re right.” She stood up and pulled her sweat pants back on.

  “How about first thing in the morning? It’s getting late and I’m tired and Daisy hasn’t had her dinner.”

  “Okay.” She gathered me in for a hug. “That was pretty darn shifty of you, kiddo. Setting me up with Ben like that.”

  I gave her a contrite grin. “I know.”

  “No matter what happens, I forgive you. But don’t think I’ve forgotten about your promise to meet Duke.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Monday, April 22 – Part Three

  By Katy McKenna on Friday, May 3

  After leafing rupee—no, I mean LEAVING RUBY surrounded by a mountain of first bait—no, FIRST DATE—jeez—what is wrong with this thing? Darn it! I forget what I was saying, or yeah—FIRST DATE REJECTS, I rowed home—crap—keeping my eyes peeled for menacing rude Princesses—no, I mean, Pri-us-es—blue ones, darn it—I so hate this dictating app! Okay, calm down. I have to speak slooowly and eenunceeaaate. Let me try again.

  After leaving Ruby surrounded by a mountain of “first date” rejects, I drove home, keeping my eyes peeled for menacing blue Priuses. I took a few quick, evasive turns just in case. Once satisfied I wasn’t being tailed, I turned onto Sycamore Lane. Rolling down the quiet, tree-lined street, I saw Josh-the-Viking getting out of his BMW. He didn’t see me and I wasn’t ready to see him. I pulled into the garage and hit the garage door remote as soon as Veronica had cleared the door. Then I remembered I needed to pick up my birth control pills at the pharmacy (like I really need those—ha, ha), so I let Daisy into the backyard, figuring that would give Josh enough time to get into his house before I backed out again.

  Daisy did not greet me when I entered the house through the garage door, so I figured she was in the yard attending to business.

  In the fridge, a bottle of Chamisal Stainless Chardonnay was calling, make that screaming, my name. My plan was to veg out on the couch, savoring my wine and the second to last episode of Frantic Hausfraus. I poured a glassful and set it on the coffee table, queued up the show, and then checked to see if Daisy was ready to come in, but she was still busy in the bushes.

  There’d been no sign of Tabitha, so I went looking for her because I wanted everyone settled before the show started.

  “Tabby. Where are you, sweetie?” I called as I walked down the hall toward my bedroom. I figured I’d find her cat-napping on my bed but no luck.

  “Come on. Where are you?” I heard a muffled mewing but didn’t see her. I pulled back the blankets on my unmade bed, that’s right, unmade—and no Tabitha. She called again and I realized she was in the closet. I opened the door to a very unhappy cat. “Poor baby. Did Mommy leave you in the closet all this time?” I scooped her up and cuddled her. “I am so, so sorry. What a bad mommy you have.” Her fur was up and she was moaning low. “How about a little dinner? That should make you feel better.” I carried her to the kitchen, and when I put her down to fill her bowl, she darted out of the room, presumably to sulk. “When you’re ready to forgive me, I’ll be in the living room.”

  Daisy still hadn’t returned, so I sat on the couch to wait and impatiently sipped my wine. I’ll just watch the intro rehash and then we’ll settle in.

  Just as I pressed “play” on the remote, I heard a soft, shuffling noise behind me. “Is that you, Daisy?” I twisted to look behind the couch. “What took you so darn—”

  It happened fast and my recollection is sketchy at best. I saw a person looming over me, swinging something toward me. One thought flashed through my mind in that millisecond.

  This isn’t going to be good.

  Whatever it was, it connected with my head and it was lights out.

  When I came to, my first thought was, God, what a horrible migraine. I need to take something. I moved to get up and couldn’t. The pain was beyond awful and I was so groggy that I couldn’t fathom why getting up was not happening. I tried a few times and then hung my poor head in despair.

  “My head hurts,” I whimpered, and tried again to get up but was stuck. My muddled brain wasn’t connecting. All I knew was moving hurt. Talking hurt. Thinking hurt. Breathing hurt.

  I forced myself to focus (focusing hurt) and found my arms and chest were tied to a kitchen chair. My restraints looked familiar. Are those my scarves? Why am I tied up with my scarves? And then I saw my pink, floral scarf lying on my lap and my panic button was officially pushed.

  “Well look who’s back,” a woman said in a freaky, singsong voice.

  Lifting my head to the voice shot piercing darts of pain through my head. A woman was kneeling in front of me, and there was a seeping, bloody gash across her cheek. It took a moment to connect the dots, and when I did, my terror ratcheted up several notches.

  “What are you doing here?” I swallowed my ramping panic and spoke as softly as possible to avoid jarring my scrambled brain.

  She pulled a chair up to me and sat. “You’ve been a naughty girl and I’m here to punish you.” My skin crawled as she carefully looped the pink scarf around my neck. “There, now don’t you look pretty?” She tilted her head and flashed a smile that didn’t extend to her glassy, off-kilter eyes.

  Oh no! Was she going to strangle me again, only this time finish the job? I forced myself to speak. “Why?”

  “For making my little Philly go to prison.” Blood dribbled off her chin as she spat the words at me, tugging the scarf tighter with each word.

  Talk about your lunatic fringe. Penny Hobart was nutso and my life and scarf were in her hands.

  “I didn’t make him go to prison. He raped and killed a girl. That’s why he’s in prison.”

  “Lies! Lies! Lies!” Penny got up and went to the living room and returned with my iron skillet.

  No wonder my head hurt.

  “This thing sure is heavy.” She gripped it with both hands and spoke like a semi-normal person. “You’re probably going to need an MRI. You really should get some stainless non-stick pans, you know. So much easier to clean. Of course, I know you’re not ever supposed to wash these things. So how do you clean it?”

  “I–I…” Why was she asking me that? Oh yeah. Because she’s a loon. So I answered, “I rinse it out with a scrub brush and put it on a burner to dry it.”

  “Wrong!” The crazy voice was back. “That’s not how Alton Brown does it.” She brandished the pan in front of me. Was she going to clobber me again?

  “You put kosher salt in it and scrub that around and then wipe it out, you dummy. Water ruins the pan. Don’t you know anything?” She flung the pan across the kitchen and it crashed through the picture window facing the backyard. The glass shattered and spilled to the floor. “Oh, dear. Now look what you made me do.” She stared at the gaping hole a moment, shook her head, and then spoke in a saner tone. “What a mess. Make sure you don’t walk barefoot in here. You don’t want to get glass in your feet.”

  Penny sat down again, visibly calmer, which terrified me even more. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” A sob burbled in her throat. “It’s just been so hard.”

  I heard Daisy outside the broken window, whining in a pathetic voice I’d never heard before. Something was wrong with her. Had she been hit by the flying skillet?

  “Why don’t you tell me about it,” I replied, to distract Penny from the sound.

  “My Philly is such a good boy.” She met my eyes and beamed with a mother’s pride. “He’s an Eagle Scout, you know. And in the Honor Society. He’s been accepted at USL and he’s going to be a teacher, even though Adam wants him to be a lawyer.”

  What year was she living in? Didn’t her husband die from a heart attack? Yes. Christy said he’d died during the trial.

  “People keep doing mean things to him. They put him in prison and that horrible woman told me she was going to make sure he never gets out.”

  Did she mean me? “I never said that. I just said—”
>
  She smiled spooky-sweet. “Not you, you silly ninny. I’m talking about the mean lady who spoke at my Bible study luncheon. She said my Philly was a murderer.” Tears mingled with the blood on her face and oozed down her cheeks, dripping onto her arms. “She said he raped and killed her little girl. She said she would fight every chance for parole he ever gets so he won’t be able to kill any other girls. How could she say that about my Phil?” Mucus drained from her nose and she swiped at it, smearing a revolting blend of blood, snot, and tears across her face. “She asked everyone to sign a petition that she will present when Phil’s first parole hearing comes up.”

  I really wanted to take a nap, which probably meant I had a concussion, but I forced myself to speak. “What did you do?”

  “I stopped her,” she answered, tilting her head and giggling childishly.

  Loony-toons. “How?”

  “I poisoned her dog food.”

  What? “People don’t eat dog food.”

  “Not her, silly. Why are you so confused? Your stupid dog. I poisoned her. That’s why she wouldn’t come in when you were calling her. I had to cover my mouth so you wouldn’t hear me laughing. Can’t you hear her crying out there? She’s dying.” She turned her head and screamed, “Shut up, stupid dog!” She turned back to me. “Oh, boo-hoo, so sad. Your doggy’s dying.”

  Oh, no. Not Daisy. Not my baby. I thought my heart would break, which made my head ache even more, but I knew if I lost control, I wouldn’t have a chance of surviving this.

  “Your stupid cat wouldn’t eat it.” She pulled up her sleeve and showed me a long, nasty, red slash down her arm. That also explained her shredded, bloody face. Way to go, Tabitha.

  “I hate cats. They’re so uncooperative.”

  I love cats! I didn’t know what to do, but in the crime shows, they always keep the bad guy talking until someone rescues them, so I asked, “What about the woman?”

  She looked perplexed. “What woman?”

  “The one who spoke at your church luncheon. The mean lady with the petition.” I thought if I could convince her that I had nothing to do with a petition, I might survive.

  “Oh, her,” she laughed. “The idiot was crossing the street and so busy talking on her cell phone, she never knew what hit her.” She sighed contentedly. “When I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw her petitions blowing away in the wind. That was the end of that.” Her smug, satisfied look faded and she refocused on me.

  “Until you came along.” She cocked her head and sighed. “Hey, how do you like my Prius? Cute, huh? You should get rid of that old orange crate you drive and get one like mine.”

  I heard a soft noise and gazed beyond her shoulder at the gaping hole in the wall. Daisy was attempting to climb into the room. Normally the eighteen inch wall under the broken window would have been no problem, but in her feeble condition, she was having a difficult time and I was afraid Penny would hear her and finish her off.

  NO! NO! I willed Daisy to hear my thoughts. Stay! She ignored my mind-melding attempts and kept struggling to get in the room. So I kept talking to distract Penny. Beyond that, I had no plan.

  I winced with each word as I nearly shouted to cover Daisy’s noise. “What do you mean, until I came along?”

  “You found her petitions and you were going to use them to make Phil stay in prison. So now I have to stop you—Katy McKenna, 539 Sycamore Lane.” She frowned at me like I was a petulant child. “When Phil is released, I’m going to retire and everything will be wonderful. Phil can teach and I’m going to write a cookbook.”

  Daisy had her front paws planted on the glass-strewn wood floor and was painfully dragging a hind leg over the wall.

  Penny’s gaze drifted to my vintage white O’Keefe and Merritt stove. “My parents had a stove like that.”

  Daisy was hauling her other back leg in the room. I was terrified for her.

  “Oh really?” I bellowed. “I love mine!” Please don’t see Daisy!

  Daisy was in the room. I watched her in my peripheral vision while trying to keep Penny distracted. “So, uh, where’d you grow up?”

  Daisy’s ears laid flat against her head. Her muzzle twitched and puffed as her lips wrinkled back baring her long, sharp canines. The muscles in her back quivered and the hair along her spine stood rigid. Her tail slowly wagged while a low menacing growl rumbled deep in her throat. My sweet girl had shape-shifted into Cujo.

  Penny’s eyes shifted towards the window just as Daisy bolted across the room and lunged at her throat, knocking her off the chair to the floor. The element of surprise was on Daisy’s side and even in her weakened state, she was doing serious damage. My baby’s teeth were clamped on Penny’s scrawny throat, shaking her like an old rag doll. Penny was struggling and her bloodcurdling shrieks escalated Daisy’s adrenaline infused canine frenzy.

  I seized the opportunity and bounced my chair out of the kitchen toward the front door, shouting encouragement at Daisy along the way. “Kill her! Good girl! Kill the wacko, Daisy!”

  Each bounce ricocheted through my cracked skull, and several times the chair legs grazed down the back of my ankles, but incredible adrenaline was propelling me and I made it to the front door. It wasn’t locked, and after several attempts I was able to push the door handle lever down with my foot and coax it open.

  As soon as it swung wide, I started screaming, “HELP! Somebody help me!”

  I tried to jump the chair over the threshold, but it toppled and I fell out onto the porch, landing hard on my side, which I felt in spite of the adrenaline. The damned scarves held me tightly bound to the chair, but I kept screaming.

  From a distance, Josh yelled, “What’s going on?” He raced up the walk and pounded up the wood porch steps.

  “My God, Katy. Are you all right?”

  No, you idiot. I’m tied to a chair, lying sideways on the porch, with a skillet-flattened skull. “I’m fine. Help Daisy. In the kitchen.” He raced through the front door to the kitchen, as I warned, “Be careful.”

  A split second later, I heard him shouting, “Daisy, stop! It’s okay, girl. You can let go of her now.”

  Daisy wasn’t ready to relinquish control and she snarled like a hungry wolf protecting her prey from scavengers.

  “Daisy, please. Let go of her,” Josh spoke in a calm, soothing voice. “It’s all right now, girl. Let go. Come on, let go of her throat. That’s a girl. You did good.”

  A moment later, she lay next to me and rested her bloody muzzle on my thigh.

  “Daisy. Thank you,” I murmured. “You are my brave, brave girl.”

  The adrenaline rush was officially over, and we both slipped into oblivion.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, April 23

  By Katy McKenna on Saturday, May 4

  I was released from the hospital in the late morning. My left elbow was broken and encased in a half-cast, and I had a concussion. No surprise there.

  My folks took me to their house and ensconced me on the sofa in the sunroom, where I had a view of the garden and the sixty-inch flat screen. Almost perfect.

  “Are you hungry, Katydid?” Pop set a cup of my favorite tea, Murchie’s No. 10 blend, on a tray next to me.

  “No, thanks.” I took a sip, placed it on the side table, and settled my aching head into the down pillows. I closed my eyes, listening to the birds twittering outside and counting my blessings.

  I opened my eyes to a pair of beautiful brown eyes gazing into mine. Daisy was on the couch wedged between me and the back cushions, her head on my chest, her breath tickling my chin. Samantha, Ruby and my folks stood nearby.

  “We were trying to keep her off the couch so she wouldn’t wake you, but she wasn’t having it,” said Mom.

  Now everything was perfect.

  Police Chief Angela Yaeger came to see me late in the afternoon. She’d brought along her sidekick, Lieutenant Joanne Yee.

  Mom led them into the sunroom, offered coffee, tea, or soda, which both declined, and the
n excused herself. Before they sat on the rattan chairs near the couch, they peeked at the back of my head, even though it was covered by a bandage.

  “You poor thing,” said Angela. “How many stitches did you get?”

  “Eight.”

  “That must be why they had to shave so much hair off,” Yee observed.

  “I’m bald?” I shrieked and instantly learned that shrieking hurt. “MOM!” Ouch.

  Mom ran into the room. “What’s wrong?”

  Due to my pounding head, I whisper-screamed, “You didn’t tell me I’m bald!”

  I caught the apologetic glance that Yee shot my mother, and knew that meant it was bad.

  “How big is the bald spot?” I demanded.

  Mom gave me a it’s-not-that-bad smile. “Maybe an inch or so.”

  “Or so? What does ‘or so’ mean? Five, six inches or so?” I raised my arms to check the back of my head, momentarily forgetting my left arm was no longer operational. Agony shot through my elbow and curled my toes.

  “Two inches at the most.” She and Angela exchanged a quick glance. Liars. Traitors.

  “I saw that! Two inches, ha! More like the entire back of my head. Might as well shave the rest of it off and be done with it.”

  “Honey, you have a severe scalp wound and it needed stitches. The doctor had no choice. She had to shave the area. It’s hair. It’ll grow back. I can give you some layers and it won’t even show. It’ll be cute.”

  “I hate layers,” I whined like a spoiled, pissy child. “It’s too hard to put your hair into a ponytail.”

  Angela laughed. “You certainly are the plucky one. By all rights you should be dead now, and here you are, having a fit over your hair.”

  “You won’t be getting your hair into a ponytail for a while, anyway, with your broken elbow,” said Mom, using the reasonable tone that had never worked on me when I was a pissy child.

  “I think your hair will look cute.” Yee unconsciously flipped her long black braid over her shoulder.