Rogan was the one who broke the news. “When you called us about your mother’s blog, we were completing a search of Julia’s computer to see if we could get a better idea of the circumstances that might have led to her death. Those offensive comments on your stepmom’s blog? Well, it turns out that Julia’s laptop was used to post one of them the night before she died.”
“That’s impossible. She didn’t even know about my mother’s blog. I just found it today.”
“You may not have been aware of it, but Julia apparently was. We searched her computer.”
“You can’t know that she’s the one who posted it, though, right? It just means it came from her laptop. So whoever’s still posting those threats against my mom somehow knew Julia?”
“That’s right,” Ellie said. “We’re trying to figure out who that might be.”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t even seem possible.”
“This might be hard to talk about, but if there’s a simple explanation for this, we need to know about it. Ramona, is there any chance that maybe you were having some kind of tension with your stepmother? If Julia was aware of a fight between the two of you and stumbled upon the website-”
“No. No way. I mean, I know you keep saying she’s my stepmother, but I call her Mom. I always have. And, I love my dad and everything, but you met him. He’s-well, he’s, like, you know, lucky to have found her. And so was I. That’s why I was so freaked out when I saw those comments. We’re, like, really close. I couldn’t believe she didn’t tell me. No way would Julia do something like that to her.”
Ellie still didn’t know what to think about the possible connection between Julia’s death and the comments on Adrienne Langston’s blog, but she was convinced that, if there was a connection, Ramona certainly didn’t know about it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Katherine Whitmire threw yet another dress on Julia’s bed. The pile of clothing was now three garments wide and at least ten deep, its own weight threatening to pull it from the comforter to the floor, a heap of imported fabric, designer labels, and cedar hangers. Never mind, she would stand here all day building a wardrobe tower if she had to. You only dressed your daughter for her coffin once.
She reached for another dress at the back of the closet. This one wasn’t a candidate for the burial outfit, but Katherine remembered buying it three years earlier.
Bill had promised to take Julia and Ramona backstage to a Justin Timberlake concert. Not the dime-a-dozen backstage passes, he had boasted. The real passes, for insiders. The ones that put you right next to the artist-not just for a quickie photograph and a shuffle to the nearest exit, but for however long the after party lasted.
It had been a big deal for the girls. Sure, Julia and Billy were both used to being carted around to industry events with Bill. There were some months when that was their only time with their father.
But the Justin Night, as they’d called it, wasn’t about Julia being in tow just so Bill could multitask parenthood with work. Justin Night was Bill going somewhere he’d never otherwise choose to go, just because it meant something to his daughter. On Justin Night, Bill’s professional identity-instead of taking him away from his family-would actually work to Julia’s advantage for once.
The day had started well enough. It was summer. Katherine had gone back to the city in the car with the kids in the morning. Bill was scheduled to meet one of the long-term artists on his label for a casual lunch at Cyril’s, then planned to take a helicopter in time for the concert.
She started worrying when she hadn’t heard from him by five o’clock but tried to hide her concern from the girls as they practiced their dance moves to “SexyBack” in the foyer. She started calling Bill’s cell phone at six. By seven, the girls were worried they wouldn’t have time to buy T-shirts from the stadium vendors before the opening act started. And by nine, Julia had locked herself in the bathroom to cry. They all knew he wasn’t coming.
Bill had all his excuses prepared when he finally showed up at eleven, wearing a fresh shirt and still smelling of soap. That drama-king of a singer-songwriter had shown up drunk at lunch and continued to get drunker as they dined. He had to drive him out to Montauk to make sure he made it home in one piece. Then the man’s latest wife had bent his ear about the crappy sales of his last album. Then he missed the last helicopter.
None of it explained why he hadn’t answered his phone. None of it explained why he’d broken his daughter’s heart.
But as angry as the Whitmire girls had been that night, Bill had somehow managed to get himself back in their good graces the following day. He woke them both at eight a.m., declaring it Julia Day-“Trust me,” he’d said, “Julia Day kicks Justin Night’s skinny white ass.”
The driver was already at the curb, waiting to take them to breakfast at Norma’s, where the kitchen had Julia’s favorite banana-macadamia flapjacks all ready to go. Bill even let thirteen-year-old Julia have a mimosa, though when Katherine balked, he assured her the drink was heavily orange-juiced.
From there it was on to Bliss Spa, where even Bill participated in the mani-pedi-facial-mudbath combo. When Julia laughed at the sight of her father sticking out his pink tongue from a mask of green clay, it was a childlike belly giggle like Katherine had not heard from her daughter since grade school.
And then the crowning moment of Julia Day had come with this dress. This crazy, beaded, one-shoulder-strapped, hot-pink monstrosity.
Bill had led Julia through the Nina Ricci department at Barneys, covering her eyes with his palms.
“Bill, what did you do?” Katherine had asked. “Where are we going?”
As futile as it was, Katherine did try not to spoil the children. When it came to clothing, it’s not like Julia was shopping at the Gap, but Katherine had so far managed to keep her Vogue — obsessed little girl away from the adults-only couture that she so desperately craved.
Katherine remembered the squinty-eyed stares of her annoyed fellow shoppers when Bill had finally uncovered Julia’s eyes. The girl screamed. Literally screamed, that high-pitch squeal that only young girls and certain large birds are capable of making.
“Daddy! How did you know?”
How, indeed, had he known? The previous night-while Julia had been completing another round of bawling in the bathroom, and Katherine had been slamming cabinets in the kitchen-multi-Grammy-winning producer Bill Whitmire had pored through the stacks of fashion magazines on his daughter’s nightstand, noting the dogeared pages, searching for the most extravagant, expensive, completely over-the-top magnet of his daughter’s attention. His wife had no idea Bill even knew that Julia liked those magazines. Or where she kept them. Or had a habit of folding corners on the pages that best captured the look she so longed to have, and which her mother would not allow.
Julia had emerged from that dressing room like a future princess, ready for the offical engagement announcement.
“You look beautiful, Baby J.”
“Amazing, Julia. But, Bill.” Oh, how Julia’s face had fallen with just those two words from Katherine. But, Bill. “Where is she going to wear something like that?”
“I was thinking she’d fit right in at the VMAs next month. I think Justin might even like it.”
Julia’s eyes opened to the size of saucers. To a thirteen-year-old girl, the MTV Video Music Awards were like the Super Bowl.
“I made some calls this morning. We’ll be sitting right next to him. What do the Whitmire ladies think of that? It’ll be all three of us together.” He pushed Katherine’s hair aside and planted a soft kiss on the side of her neck.
“Do I get a five-thousand-dollar dress, too?”
“Whatever you want, my love.”
Katherine had stopped telling those stories to her friends a long time ago, because she knew how they sounded. But at the time, days like that with Bill made her so incredibly happy, that all of the wrongs he was trying to make up for somehow fell away.
Even now, she found
herself smiling as she held that dress out in front of her. She was surprised Julia had hung on to it. The dress had worn out its fashionability long ago, and Katherine was pretty sure it wouldn’t have even fit Julia after that summer, when her chest had suddenly sprouted another cup size.
Julia must have remembered that day at Barneys, too. She must have kept this ridiculous dress because of that memory. Now it was just another item of clothing to go in the charity stack. Onto the pile it went.
Money. It had taken Katherine years to adjust to having this much money. But eventually she’d come around to Bill’s view that money might not buy you happiness, but it sure could solve your problems. Busy? Hire an assistant. Too much traffic to the Hamptons? Get the helicopter. Sick of the city? Build your own recording studio. Stand up your daughter? Buy her a dress.
It wasn’t surprising, then, that the idea of hiring a private investigator had come to Bill last night. And given that her husband gnawed at an idea like a dog with a bone, it wasn’t surprising that he had already made the necessary calls about the big reward before she’d managed to drag herself from bed that morning.
As she understood it, they had a designated number for the tip line. Bill’s PI firm would handle the incoming calls. The head guy-Earl Gundley-was a retired cop, with contacts in the NYPD, but who worked solely for them. Bill had his publicity people put out the press release.
She pulled another dress from the closet. This one was a bone-colored, cotton-lace sheath by Stella McCartney. This would be a nice choice. Simple. Timeless.
She hung the dress on a hook inside the closet door. She’d ask Billy to take it to the funeral home in the morning. He was looking for ways to be helpful, and Katherine had seen more than enough of that place when she’d chosen the casket this morning.
She barely heard the sound of the doorbell above the music blaring from Bill’s office. She heard the stereo volume drop, followed by muted voices three floors below. Then she heard Bill’s voice in the intercom he never used. “Katherine, I think you need to come down.”
“What is it, Bill? I’m busy up here.”
“I know, but I think you’ll want to hear this too. The press release worked. There are two people here who say they know what happened to J.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
But my neighbor is taking me to Small Claims Court. He claims that Peanut scratched up his front door, but Peanut is innocent. Who is going to represent me? Who is going to represent Peanut?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but the district attorney’s office does not defend either individuals or dogs in private, civil matters. Wait. What’s that in your bag? Is that Peanut? You can’t be having a dog in here, sir.”
The receptionist on the fifteenth floor of the courthouse clearly had her hands full. She waved Ellie and Rogan back to Max’s office.
“Hey, you.” He stood to give her a kiss, but she turned her cheek. Even if only in front of Rogan, it seemed inappropriate to share PDA with an assistant district attorney in his office.
Rogan apparently noticed the exchange. “Damn, Hatcher. You’re cold.”
Max offered Rogan a handshake. “About time someone took my side. Turns out it’s your lucky day, guys. Social Circle was pretty cooperative, as far as these Web companies go. We weren’t gonna get the IP addresses for every comment posted without a fight, but we settled on the ones that were obviously threatening.”
All Rogan had to hear was the word fight, followed by settled, to protest. “That’s some bullshit-”
So much for the male bonding. “Rogan, do you currently know anything about the origin of the other threats on the website? And do you actually need information about the other comments? Because, you know, if tracking down the identity of the Illinois housewife who posted ‘ You go, girl’ three weeks ago is essential to the investigation, then by all means, I’ll drag Social Circle into court.”
Rogan brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his suit lapel and looked directly at Ellie. “I do believe someone has picked up on your tone.”
Ellie flashed a proud smile. “I think that means we’ll take what we can get for now.”
“That’s what I figured. Here’s the deal: the blog’s been up for about seven months. Pretty typical traffic initially for an amateur blog-meaning, zilch. But she kept at it, and apparently people started to find her and to comment. Other bloggers started to cross-link to her site. That all leads more people to the blog. Anyway, she was up to more than ten thousand hits after five months. Twenty thousand as of last week.”
Ellie couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to read someone else’s self-analysis. “Seriously? Reading all that therapy-lite garbage made my head hurt.”
“But get this: since that first threat was posted Saturday night, traffic has skyrocketed. Yesterday, she had seventy thousand hits. The commenters talk more about the threats than her actual posts.”
“Adrienne gave us some mumbo jumbo about wanting her readers to see how people try to silence survivors. She never mentioned it had also been good for business.”
“Very good, in fact. But now let’s get down to brass tacks. Where did these posts come from? We already suspected that the post on Saturday night came from Julia’s laptop. Sure enough, the IP info for that comment comes back to her computer, just as we expected.”
“And the rest?” Ellie asked.
“That’s where things get pretty interesting. The other comments all originated from Manhattan, but not from Julia’s computer. We’ve got a couple that came from Equinox gym by Union Square. Another gym on the Upper West Side. Apple Store in the Meatpacking District. Whoever’s doing this hides their tracks pretty well.”
Rogan sighed. “We can take the times of the posts at each place and see if we get lucky with video.”
“But to what end?” Ellie asked. “We still don’t even know that Julia Whitmire was murdered, and we certainly don’t know there’s any connection between her death and these comments. After getting a feel for the kinds of kids who go to Casden, I wouldn’t be surprised if one of those brats somehow found out about Adrienne’s website and decided to screw with their friend’s mom. Julia might not have even known that someone used her computer.”
Rogan’s phone buzzed at his waist. He held up a finger and excused himself to the hallway.
Ellie plopped down in Max’s chair and stretched her legs out. “Seriously, Max, you should’ve seen this Casden School.” Like her, Max was strictly a public school kid. “Creepy headmaster more concerned with secrecy than education. Spoiled sociopaths drugged up by parents too busy to notice their kids are little monsters.”
“Tell me how you really feel.”
“Trust me, it’s worse than I can even make it sound. After a day on the Upper East Side, even Bill Whitmire doesn’t look so bad. Thank God I’ll never have to deal with any of that stuff.”
“Public schools for the next generation, too, huh?”
“More like the miracle of birth control.”
“Ah, for now, but what about when that biological clock starts ticking?”
“For now and forever. Or I guess until menopause. Then it’s hot flashes, a hairy upper lip, and-oh yeah-still no kids.”
“That’s not funny, Ellie.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. Okay, maybe a little, with the hair thing, but-”
“But someday-”
“No. No someday. No clock. Clock never ticked, never will tick.” She heard Rogan’s voice in the hallway, and then lowered her own. “I mean, you have met me, right?”
Max let out a huff. “Are you kidding me with this?”
“Of course not. You knew that.”
“Um, I think that’s the kind of thing I would have noticed. We’ve been dating for a year.”
“Plus two and a half weeks,” she corrected. She remembered the timing of their first date, because one night later she killed a man. She and Max had celebrated their one-year anniversary by going back to the same restaurant of that f
irst meal.
“And this is how you tell me you’re not interested in children? When you’re venting about yet another run-in you’ve had with people you’ve deemed not quite as morally good as you? Really nice, Ellie.”
“Now who’s the one not being so nice?”
“Isn’t this the kind of thing normal people work out together? Don’t normal people talk about these things and negotiate?”
She swiveled in his chair, fiddling with the documents from Social Circle. “Fine, then, I’m not normal, because, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to negotiate. It’s not like there’s a split of opinion about one kid or three, like we’d meet in the middle at two or something. I can’t have half a baby. It’s a totally different life, and one I’m not at all interested in.”
“You could have told me that.”
“And you could have told me you were all into the idea of babies and diapers and playdates and the exhaustion of having a whole other human being need every ounce of your energy every single day. I just assumed we were on the same page on this.”
“Well, we’re not.”
She heard Rogan saying goodbye to whoever was on the phone. “Can we please talk about this later?” she said.
Max nodded, but in that moment it was clear something had shifted. Since their very first conversation, she had wanted to see only what they shared: commitment to the job, dark humor, and a certain matter-of-factness about life. She had been so proud of herself that, for once, she was in a relationship in which she emphasized only those attributes she should cherish.
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