by Mary Frame
That’s weird.
Am I being followed? It wouldn’t be the first time. I have a tendency to drive…ahem, aggressively, and piss people off.
I make a few quick and random turns but the car stays fairly close behind. I try to get a read on the license plate, but the headlights are shining into my eyes through the rearview mirror, and I can’t even tell what kind of car it is.
Now I’m getting nervous. I really don’t want to park in the most likely empty parking lot in front of my small building, and walk in with this potential weirdo slash murderer trailing behind. I head away from my house and towards the nearest police station.
I drive into the parking lot and my stalker takes off down the street, no longer following. I still don’t get a look at the type of vehicle they were driving, or the license plate number or anything. I park in an empty spot and wait until my speeding heart calms down.
I really need to take more care while I’m driving so I don’t anger vigilante drivers. Or run people over.
I pull my cell phone out of my purse and find Dean’s number. I have him listed as Mob guy.
“Hello,” he answers gruffly.
“Dean,” I say. “It’s Freya.”
There’s a pause and then, “Yeah?”
“Um.” I really should have thought this through more. What am I going to say?
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
There’s silence. It goes on and on and starts to edge into the realm of awkward.
“Hello?” I say, slightly exasperated.
“I’m here,” he says.
“And you have absolutely nothing to say to that?”
“I’m just surprised is all.”
“Surprised about what?”
“Surprised about a lot of things.” He’s quiet again, but this time I can hear him moving. I imagine him pacing around his apartment. Maybe he’s wearing a tight-fitted tank top—oh wait, that’s way too effeminate looking. Maybe he’s shirtless. And he’s just finished lifting weights so he’s all sweaty and his pecs are glistening in the light…
Oh, God. I need to stop. I do not like him. He’s a suspected murderer with secrets the size of Cleveland, and I do not want to think of him that way!
“Surprised that you called,” he says, finally. I was so lost in how not attracted to him I am, that I nearly forgot he was on the phone. “Doubly surprised that you apologized. You didn’t do anything wrong, Freya.”
“I didn’t?”
“No. I don’t blame you for not wanting to help me. I was grasping at straws. I don’t know why I thought of you. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time, and we really don’t know each other.”
Those were my thoughts exactly, but hearing him say them sort of irks me.
I rub my thumb over a worn spot on my steering wheel and take a breath before asking, “Don’t you have a friend, or a girlfriend that can help?” I ask. Too obvious?
“I don’t have time for friends.”
Hmph. He totally dodged my not-so-discreet jab at information on his love life.
“Well. If you still want me to help you out of the whole murder suspect thing, I suppose there’s a few things I can do.” I let out a gusty sigh just so he knows how much he’s putting me out.
“Really?”
That perks him up.
“Really,” I say. “Can you meet me at my place tomorrow? My last class gets out at three fifteen.”
“I can be there at three forty-five,” he answers quickly.
“Perfect,” I say. “And bring any information you have about the victims.”
I give him my address and then we hang up.
I immediately dial Lucy.
“Hey, my little research muffin, can you do me a huge favor?”
Chapter Eight
Dean
You’ve got to look on the bright side, even if there ain’t one.
—Dashiell Hammett
I make it to Freya’s apartment right on time. I would have been a little earlier, but I had to stop after class and get a haircut because I was beginning to look like a homeless street urchin.
Not that Freya will care. I looked like hell the last time she saw me, and she didn’t seem to notice. Not that I care if she cares, anyway…dear God, I’m starting to sound like a woman.
I jog up the steps to her door and rap out a brisk knock, surprised when my heart seems to accelerate and my stomach twists. I wrap my hands around the backpack straps on my shoulders and take a deep breath.
Am I nervous?
The door swings open and she’s standing there, perfectly coiffed, with a shirt that’s a little bit low cut and a skirt that’s a little too short.
“Hey,” she says, and I swing my gaze back to her face.
“Hey,” I say, and my voice cracks on the word. I clear my throat. What is wrong with me? I have a mother and a sister; I know better than to ogle. But for some reason with her it’s like I can’t control it. She’s petite, but perfectly proportioned.
I don’t feel too bad because it seems like she’s been checking me out, too, and for a brief moment I’m glad I got cleaned up before coming over.
She steps back to let me in and I follow her inside and into the living room.
“Your place is…interesting,” I say.
It looks like the Brady Bunch threw up in here. Everything is seventies style colors and patterns. There’s an orange couch, a yellow recliner and a chair decorated in embroidered flowers.
She sits on the sofa, grabbing a laptop off the coffee table.
I sit gingerly on the flower-covered chair next to her.
“My mom owns a store with a bunch of vintage stuff,” Freya explains before getting right to business. “Did you bring the info you have?”
I open my bag. I wrote down as much as I could remember during class this morning. I hand her the crumpled paper.
She gives me a pointed look. “Really?”
I shrug.
“This looks like it’s been ripped out of a notebook and scribbled on by a three-year-old,” she says.
I don’t say anything, and she rolls her eyes.
After looking it over, she asks me to translate a few words. Then there’s silence while she types stuff into the computer.
I have nothing to do but watch her. She bites her bottom lip while she’s thinking. I wonder what it would be like to bite it for her. I shut my eyes, like that will quell the thought. It’s been too long since I’ve been with a girl. I’m sure that’s all it is.
“I’m putting this information together with the information my friend Lucy gave me. It’s not much. She’s still working on cracking into their files. She’s sort of a computer wiz,” she tells me, forcing me to open my eyes.
She finishes typing and then reads the information aloud. “Victim number one was Jesse Carmichael. He was an English major, a part of the wrestling team, and a member of Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity, where he also lived. He was dating Daisy McHenry who hired you to give Jesse a giant wedgie…really?”
She glances over at me and I clear my throat.
“After I beat up Conrad for you—”
“Cameron,” she interjects in monotone.
“I didn’t want to commit any further violence. I typically agree to embarrass or frighten the evil exes, but beyond that…” I shrug.
“Okay,” she says. She sounds surprised. I’m glad for it. My business depends on people believing I’m more of a badass than I actually am.
“Well,” she says, “I’m glad I hired you before your conscience kicked in.” She tosses me a bright smile before continuing. “Victim number two was Matt Ellison. He was majoring in biochem, was not involved in any campus activities, lived in White Pine,” the cheapest dorms on campus, “and was dating Samantha Ferguson. She hired you to pretend like you were going to chop off his member, but then let him go once he started crying. Both victims were shot at close range with a nine millimeter—in the head. Both bodies were found o
n campus, one outside of the library and the other in a bathroom in the sports and rec building.” Her eyes roam over the screen, like she’s looking for something more. “There’s no connection we could find between the two victims. Except you.”
I lean my head back against the chair. “So what’s next?”
She taps a finger on her lips and thinks for a moment before responding. “I’ll find Daisy and Samantha, ask them some questions, see if they cough up anything good. You go to the frat house and maybe check with the families. Ask some questions about who they hung out with, who might want to kill them. See if there’s a connection somewhere that we missed.”
“Okay.” I nod, grateful that there’s at least a plan. I’m not sure I should approach the girlfriends since they’re the ones who hired me, so that seems like a wise decision.
We’re silent for a moment. She’s staring at the computer screen and I’m staring at her.
“Why don’t you have an alibi for either night?” she asks suddenly, shifting her gaze to mine. “The detective mentioned it when I was at the jail.”
I wonder if she doubts my innocence, but then again, she is helping me, and she asked me straight up instead of being secretive or weird about it, which I have to appreciate.
“Both nights, it was late by the time I left campus. I went straight home.”
“Oh. That makes sense.” She nods and then gazes back at the computer for a minute, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.
I clear my throat and her eyes snap to mine.
“Thank you,” I say.
“No problem.” She waves a hand at me.
“No really.” I lean forward in the chair, resting my elbows on my knees. “The whole thing is so overwhelming, I didn’t even know where to start. It was like a mental wall. I feel better now, knowing there’s at least a plan of some sort.”
She nods. “Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly.
“I could eat.”
She grins at me. “I can always eat.”
We go to a fifties-style diner down the street. She gives me a strange look when I open the door to my old beat-up Subaru for her. I guess she’s not used to that, but my mom taught me how to treat a lady, which includes opening doors and carrying heavy things. It might be old school, but far be it from me to question my mom.
After we order, and the waitress brings our drinks—iced tea for her and Coke for me—she starts in with questions.
“So. How’s the life of frivolous gaming and gratuitous violence been treating you?”
I stick the straw in my drink and fiddle with the paper wrapper on the table. “It’s good for now. But I’m sure that will change once word gets out that I’m being observed in connection with two homicides.”
“Will that be a big burden?”
I shrug and keep my eyes on the table. I feel like she’s digging for information—she’s not a very good interrogator—so to keep my hands busy, I grab my straw wrapper and begin folding it together with hers.
Apparently, my silence isn’t enough of a clue.
“Why do you do all that stuff, anyway?” she asks.
“For the money,” I answer, giving her a look that says, duh.
“Why not just get a job?” she persists.
“Because I’m a full-time student and my frivolous gaming pays about quadruple what I would get working part-time at Starbucks.”
“But—”
“Look,” I interrupt before she tries for more. “I don’t know what you’re after with this line of questioning, or why you’re suddenly so interested in my finances, but I’m not telling you anything.” I drop the straw wrappers and cross my arms over my chest.
She bites her lip and looks a bit chagrined.
Good.
“Fine,” she grinds out.
Her mollified tone amuses me. I flash her a quick smile.
“What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“How are you living in the lap of luxury? You have a job?”
“I had savings from my high school job, money from graduation, and I work for my mom at her shop in the summers. I also offer a transcription service occasionally to a law firm in town. That’s how I pay my rent and for food and stuff. My mom pays my tuition.”
“Ah,” I say.
“See?” she says, pointing a finger at herself. “Open book.”
I lean toward her, elbows on the table. “Are you suggesting that I’m not an open book?”
She makes a derisive noise. “You’re like the Great Wall of China.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve got walls so big, they can see them from space.”
I have to chuckle at that. “Maybe.”
Our food arrives. We both ordered cheeseburgers. There’s silence for a moment while we dig in, but it’s not uncomfortable.
After a minute of watching her eat in between my own bites, I have to say something. “Wow, you can really eat.”
She finishes chewing a bite before responding. “Yep.”
“No really, I’ve taken two bites and you’re already halfway done. You just like, unhinged your jaw, and shoved the food in there. How’d you do that?”
“It’s a special talent.”
“It really is.”
She finishes her food, and then I catch her eyeballing my fries.
I shake my head and nudge the plate in her direction. “I can’t believe you ate all of that and you’re still hungry.”
“I love fries,” she says with way too much feeling.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if I could get her to be that emotional about me, but I quickly dismiss the thought.
“Do you have a tapeworm?” I ask.
She just snorts and keeps eating.
After we’re done, she tries to pay her half, but I can’t let her, despite my financial situation.
“Consider it a thank you for the time you’ve spent helping me,” I tell her.
I drop her off in front of her apartment and she goes over the plan one final time. I’m going to find the family and friends of the victims, and she’ll track down the girlfriends.
“You know what we need right now?” She turns towards me before getting out of the car, her hand on the door.
“What’s that?”
“The Law and Order sound, you know, the clank-clank between scenes. That would happen and then the camera would pan to me interviewing the girls.”
I can’t help but laugh, and then I shake my head. “You’ve got problems, you know that?”
Chapter Nine
Freya
There are some people who still feel threatened by strong women. That’s their problem. It’s not mine.
—Gloria Allred
CLANK-CLANK!
I find Daisy, Jesse’s girlfriend, er, widowed girlfriend, after her one o’clock class gets out. Lucy was able to obtain both girls’ class schedules. She’s the best stalker ever.
“I’ve already told the police everything I know.” Daisy tells me after I approach her and ask what she knows about Jesse’s death. She stopped to talk to me when I walked up, but after my Mariska Hargitay impersonation and invasive questions, she started moving. Now I’m following her through crowded halls trying to catch her answers over the buzz of noise. Daisy looks like her name: blonde hair, blue eyes and flowing bohemian clothing.
“And that is?” I ask.
She shoves open the door to outside and doesn’t hold it open for me even though I’m walking behind her. Rude.
“Jesse left the library late that night. He texted me before he left, and then I texted Dean.”
“You were still in contact with him even though you guys broke up?”
“I pretended to forgive him and make friends so I could exact my revenge.” She darts through a crowd of students yelling and holding signs outside the administration building—they’re protesting something about the college using athletic materials made by blind orphans in China—but I’m hot on her heels.<
br />
“Did your revenge involve death and dismemberment?”
This stops her. We’re still outside, between the administration building and the library. It’s a bright spring day and the sun brings out the horror in Daisy’s eyes at my question.
“Of course not!” Her eyes dart around to see if anyone is listening. “I wasn’t even around that night. I was at a friend’s house with three other witnesses. Unlike some people I have an alibi. And that’s all I know, okay?” She shrugs her bag up more firmly on her shoulder. “Dean texted to tell me the deed was done. I didn’t think he was going to kill the guy.”
I really don’t like how she keeps trying to throw Dean under the bus, and how defensive she is. It makes me more suspicious of her.
“He didn’t,” I say.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“What time did Dean text you?”
She rolls her eyes but pulls her cell phone out of a side pocket in her bag and scrolls through it.
“Ten twenty-seven,” she says.
I write the information down. If the coroner nailed down a time of death, that might be useful.
“Did Jesse have any enemies?”
She shakes her head. “Not that I know of.”
CLANK CLANK!
Samantha, victim number two’s ex-girlfriend, is a music major. I catch up with her before her violin practice outside the orchestra room. She’s tall and thin with long brown hair and a pinched expression.
“Can I ask you a few questions about Matt?” I ask.
Her eyes widen and then she bursts into tears and runs away.
Well, that was useful.
***
A few days after my unsuccessful attempt at being Veronica Mars, Bethany forces me out for a girls’ night.
I definitely need it. I haven’t had a chance to tell Dean what I learned (or didn’t learn). I tried to call him yesterday, but he didn’t answer. Maybe he’s still working on getting his side of the information. I hope he finds something.