So I started off by e-mailing Nancy the info I’d found about Tiffani and her cyberstalker, along with links to the stories so she could check them out herself.
“I don’t know if this will help Bob’s case, but it’s all I can do. Pass it on as you think appropriate. It might be better if you give the links to Bob’s lawyer and get his input, instead of taking it directly to Detective Sweet.”
You’re doing it again, Carol. You don’t need to get more involved. Let Nancy figure out what to do on her own. You’ve got other things to do.
I sighed and pressed “Send.”
Stop procrastinating. What if Jenny’s in danger right this very minute, and you’re the only one who can save her?
That did it. But where to start? With her Facebook page? Her wedding blog?
I realized that, before I got down to the personal stuff, I needed to find out exactly how cyberstalking was defined. I forced my fingers to type the word into my web browser. And was overwhelmed with the responses I had to sift through.
I decided to start with The National Center for Victims of Crime. I’ll share what I found out with all of you, because it’s a real eye opener. At least, it was to me.
This website defined cyberstalking as threatening behavior or unwanted advances directed at another using the Internet, and other forms of online and computer communications. A United States Department of Justice report quoted on the website estimated that there may be tens or even hundreds of thousands of cyberstalking victims in the U.S.
Wow.
Cyberstalkers can target their victims through chat rooms, message boards, discussion forums, and e-mail. Some examples are threatening or obscene e-mail; spamming (in which a stalker sends a victim a multitude of junk e-mails); leaving improper messages in guest books, blogs, and social media sites; sending electronic viruses; tracing another person’s computer and Internet activity; and Internet identity theft.
The possibilities overwhelmed me. And scared me. There were a few times that my own e-mail account had been hacked into. The only reason I knew this was because friends in my e-mail address book contacted me to say that they’d received suspicious e-mails from my address, which were nothing more than a link to click on. I figured this was just an annoyance, that my e-mail had been chosen randomly. I changed my password, and that was that.
But, after reading just part of the information on this website, I wondered how random e-mail hacking really was.
I knew I needed help to decipher all this stuff. And I had to act quickly. I know, I know. You’re going to tell me I wasted valuable time dithering. You’re right.
There was only one person I trusted to be my Internet guide. He’d helped me once before, when his father was in trouble. That would be my son, in case you’re not following my train of thought.
I knew I was taking a chance, because of what could be going on in his own life right now. But I didn’t endure all those labor pains to bring him into the world for nothing. And I knew he’d want to protect his sister.
So I sent Mike a cryptic Instant Message: “I need your help. Right now. Mom.”
And sat back in my chair to wait for him to respond. I didn’t think it would take too long. Mike is connected to his iPhone the way he used to be connected to…well, never mind that analogy. If you’re a mother, I know you get the picture. And if you’re not, think about mothers and babies. You’ll get my analogy. Eventually.
Ten minutes of staring at a computer screen waiting for a (misnamed) instant reply is a very frustrating experience. Sort of like watching the pot on the stove come to a boil when you’re cooking potatoes – it seems to take forever.
But the instant you turn your back on that pesky pot, the darn thing always boils over. And gets all over the cooktop. I was positive that the minute I left the computer, I’d hear the ping sound which indicates I’d received a message – hopefully, a response from my son.
“I could check Jenny’s Facebook page while I’m waiting,” I said to the dogs. “I’m interested in seeing the pictures she posted from our trip to Nantucket. Before the…you know…accident.”
But to get onto Jenny’s Facebook page, I first had to log onto my own.
Arrgh!
You don’t think I remembered my password from the day before, do you? Fortunately for me, after rummaging around in my desk drawer, I found the slip of paper I’d stashed there a while ago with my various passwords scrawled on it. (Too bad I hadn’t remembered that slip of paper yesterday, and taped it to my computer. I could have saved myself a lot of aggravation.)
Oh, well. Can’t Remember S _ _ _ strikes again.
By the way, Jim has impressed upon me, over and over, the importance of different passwords for different websites, and also the importance of changing my passwords frequently. No wonder I’m always confused.
I’ll confess (to you, but never to him) that I don’t do either one – at least, not as often as he says I should.
This time, Facebook informed me that I had a few outstanding “friend” requests I had ignored. “See?” I said to Lucy. “I’m more popular than you thought. And one of these ‘friend’ requests is from Marlee. My gosh, how come I didn’t know about that? I should have accepted immediately. No wonder she’s been so cool to me. She thinks I don’t like her. I have to confirm her request right away.”
I frowned, then realized I must have gotten an e-mail notice about Marlee’s “friend” request, as well as the few others I had yet to respond to. Which probably directly went into my Spam file. The file I never check.
I checked the date of Marlee’s request – five weeks ago. Yikes. I clicked on “confirm friendship,” which should lead into that friend’s home page (so I’ve been told). And got an automatic response from the Facebook genie, “This page is no longer active.”
Well, I’m sure you can predict where that response led my mind. That’s right – straight back to the YouTube video of the sobbing mother, holding the picture of her missing daughter. More proof – in my mind, not that I needed any more reinforcement to my theory – that Marlee was the bride who’d pulled a vanishing act in Miami several months ago. And left her poor mother desperate to find her.
Of course, my sensible side (that would be the side I don’t pay any attention to) told me that it was equally possible Marlee had decided Facebook wasn’t right for her, and closed her account. That all of this was coincidental, and the product of my frequently overactive imagination.
But I’ve always believed that if a bird looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and waddles like a duck, even if it’s wearing a chicken costume, by golly – it’s a duck!
Why had Marlee run away? What was she afraid of? Why would any girl put her mother through such misery?
No way she’s going to confide in you now, Carol. You missed your chance. Give it up, already. And concentrate on your own daughter, before you end up sobbing in a YouTube video yourself.
I was saved from another inadvertent walk down the self-pity highway by the chirping sound of my cell phone. I scrambled to answer it, expecting it to be my son.
“Mike,” I blubbered into the phone, not giving the caller a chance to identify himself, “I didn’t mean to alarm you, but I really do need your help.” And I started to cry.
Imagine my confusion when I heard a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone line.
“Carol, what’s wrong? You sound so upset. It’s Deanna, not Mike. I’m calling because you’re a half hour late for your hair color appointment. You’re never late, and when I didn’t hear from you, I got worried.”
Oh, God. I’d completely forgotten. Which shows you how upset I was. I NEVER miss a hair appointment and take the chance of my roots showing through.
“I’m so sorry, Deanna,” I said. “Things have been a little crazy since we got back from Nantucket.” A slight understatement.
“Can I still come today? Or is it too late and do I need to reschedule? I don’t want to throw your whole schedule of
f.”
“It’s fine, Carol. Can you come right now? My next appointment just cancelled. And I know how important it is for you to keep to the color schedule we set up last month, so we can touch you up once more before Jenny and Mark’s wedding. I know you want to look your very best for that.”
“Deanna, thank you,” I said. “Lots of things have happened since I saw you last. I think some of your special brand of t.l.c. is just what I need right now. Put the coffee on. Or, better yet, chill some chardonnay. I’m on my way.”
I ran around the house like a crazy person for the next ten minutes looking for something clean, and unwrinkled, to wear to the hair salon. I may be in the midst of a crisis – or two – but I’m vain enough to try to look my best whenever I leave the house. After all, you never know who you might see, and I don’t want to scare anyone if I haven’t taken the time to put makeup on. I finally settled for a bright lime green Lilly Pulitzer track suit (I hate the word “sweat”) that I found in the far reaches of my closet, indicating it hadn’t had an outing for quite a while. A quick swipe of blush, mascara, lipstick – you get the picture – my hair flattened down under a baseball cap, a probably illegible note for Jim so he wouldn’t worry in case he got home before I did, and I was ready to go.
Almost.
Lucy gave me that reproachful look I know so well, indicating a desire for a quick romp around the yard for her and Ethel. (She is always the spokesperson.)
“Be quick,” I urged them, shooing them out the kitchen door and following right behind them to be sure they accomplished important things as soon as possible. No time for sniffing the grass today.
As I turned to head back toward the house, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced in the direction of Old Fairport Turnpike and saw Bert Johnson standing on the other side of my picket fence.
I froze, unsure of what to do. How in the world did he find out where I lived? Or was this just a weird coincidence? Then I remembered how I had tracked him down using the Internet, and had a little prickle of fear.
Lucy had no such misgivings. She bounded over to the gate to say hello to her new best friend.
“Nice to see you again, Lucy,” he said, letting her lick his hand. She was so excited to see Bert, I thought she’d wriggle out of her fur coat with joy. Swear to God.
“And who’s this?” Bert asked, indicating Ethel, bringing up the rear as usual.
“That’s Ethel, our other English cocker,” I said, finding my voice at last.
“Nice to meet you, Ethel,” Bert said, giving her his other hand to sniff.
Then, he addressed me. “It’s nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Andrews. Have a nice day.” And he resumed walking down Old Fairport Turnpike. Leaving me slightly shaken, with much to think about.
For instance, how did good old Bert know my last name was Andrews?
Chapter 39
Q: What’s the big difference between a therapist and a hairdresser? A: Hairdressers don’t take insurance.
“I’m so sorry I forgot my appointment, Deanna,” I said, dashing into Crimpers out of breath and prepared to do any groveling necessary to get back into Deanna’s good graces. One of a woman’s cardinal rules is never to offend – in any way – the person who styles your hair. The consequences can be disastrous.
“I knew something must be up with you, Carol,” Deanna said, whipping a black smock over me to protect my clothing and gesturing me to take a seat in her styling chair. “In all the years I’ve been doing your hair, you’ve never forgotten an appointment. Or been late for one, either. I was worried about you. So I took a chance and called you.”
“Thank goodness you did,” I said. “You won’t believe what’s been going on.”
Deanna stopped me. “Let me go mix up your color first. I’ll be right back, and then we can talk.”
Ok, so now you finally know one of my secrets. I do, indeed, color my hair. But only to recapture the natural blonde highlights I was born with, and which growing older cruelly denies me.
I’m betting that most of you don’t even remember what your natural color is. Or care.
“All set,” Deanna said, returning from the back of the salon carrying a container of noxious goo, foils, and a brush. Trust me, even though the process looks disgusting, it produces fantastic results.
“Talk,” she commanded as she divided my hair into sections and began the process.
So, I did. Fortunately, there wasn’t anyone else in the salon to overhear my babbling. And babble, I did. And cry. And then, when the tears subsided, I went back to babbling.
Deanna wisely let me go on without any interruption, and finally I ran out of steam. And tears. (I bet this is the same technique therapists use.)
Deanna ran out of foils for my hair at about the same time. She turned my chair around so we were face to face, set the timer for 30 minutes so I could “cook,” and handed me a tissue to dry my eyes.
“Do you want coffee?” she asked.
I declined. I knew I was jittery enough without any added caffeine. “So, what do you think?” I asked my hairdresser/therapist.
Deanna applied some mousse to her hands and ran them through her raven (today’s color) locks. “I think it’s a darn good thing that my three o’clock cancelled today,” she said, eyeing the clock. “We can talk privately for about twenty minutes, but then I have a new client coming in for a preliminary consultation.”
Deanna sat down opposite me and said, “It’s great to get off my feet for a while. This has been a heck of a day.”
“So, what do you think?” I asked her again. Deanna doesn’t usually jump in and offer her opinion right away. The exact opposite of me. (I thought I’d better say that myself, before any of you did.)
“What do I think?” Deanna asked me. “I think all of this is nuts,” she said. “Nancy’s husband just happens to be having his hot and heavy affair with Jenny’s wedding planner. The wedding planner dies on Nantucket under mysterious circumstances. Nancy’s husband is suspected of killing her. And who not only finds the wedding planner’s body, but also places Nancy’s husband at the scene of the crime? You! Of all people. This sounds like a bad reality TV show.”
Well, put like that, I had to agree with her. It did sound nuts. Except for the fact that Tiffani was really dead. Etc. etc. etc.
“And as far as your daughter-in-law being the runaway bride that poor mother talked about on YouTube, maybe what you saw was a picture of Marlee’s double, not Marlee herself.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d come up with the exact same scenario myself before my overactive imagination kicked in.
“And your theory does, Carol?” Deanna countered. “Your theory makes less sense than mine. I’m betting I’m right on this one. And I read in People magazine that lots of the big stars in Hollywood use doubles today to throw off the paparazzi. We all have at least one identical double in this world, and I don’t mean someone who bears a slight resemblance to us. I mean an exact double.”
Deanna was pretty persuasive. The part about Hollywood stars using doubles made perfect sense.
“I’ll grant you that your theory is as good as mine,’ I said. “I did think of the same thing myself, when I first saw the video clip.”
The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Deanna was right. And I felt a tremendous sense of relief.
I felt so much better talking to Deanna. Not only is she a wiz with hair, but she’s pretty good in the advice department, too. And always manages to calm me down, which is not easy task.
Just ask my husband.
“I know someone who was cyberstalked,” Deanna continued. Somehow, I knew she would. She knows everything about practically everybody in Fairport.
“I don’t know her well,” Deanna said. “She only came to the salon a couple of times. And she told me about the stalking in confidence. I’m not sure I should say anything.”
I could feel my anxiety lev
el ratchet up again.
“Deanna, if you know anything that could help, please tell me. When did it happen? And was she able to stop it?”
I know, too many questions. Another one of my faults.
“The client told me that the stalking started after she joined an online book club. She checked out the site before she joined, and it seemed legitimate. The idea was that all the members – she didn’t know how many there actually were – would read the same book for a month, then go online at the end of the month and discuss what they thought of it. Just like in-person book clubs do.”
I nodded. I’d heard book clubs were becoming increasingly popular, especially among women. It was a way to get together with others and share common interests, and perhaps learn something at the same time.
So far, I hadn’t found enough spare time to get involved in something like that myself. But it was on my to-think-about-doing-whenever list.
“So what happened?” I asked. “A book club sounds harmless.” “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” Deanna said, leading me over to the sink so she could wash the goo out of my hair. For the next few minutes, I saw her lips moving but couldn’t make out what she was saying with the water pulsing on my head.
“You’re going to have to repeat that,” I said as I sat back in the chair. “I couldn’t hear a word.”
“Sorry,” Deanna said, wrapping a towel around my hair and squeezing the excess out. “What I said was, the whole cyberstalking thing began when my client objected to one of the books that was chosen for the group to read. I don’t remember the reason why she objected. But she doesn’t mince words, that’s for sure. Apparently, she offended someone in the club. And they started trading e-mails via the book club site. To hear my client tell the story, the e-mails from the other person escalated to such a point that my client believed she was being cyberstalked. Threats began to appear on my client’s Facebook page, too. And then she started getting threatening phone calls. It was really awful.
“My client said she was scared to death. She reported the stalking to the head of the book club, of course, took down her Facebook page and changed her e-mail information. She also reported the abuse to Facebook, the telephone company and the police.”
Marriage Can Be Murder -- Every Wife Has A Story (A Carol and Jim Andrews Baby Boomer Mystery) Page 20