Homecoming Homicides (9 page)

Flippy had looked at her own picture in the booklet, above her title, “Homecoming Pageant Director.” Remembering it now, that picture had her looking a lot less frazzled than she felt at the moment. More in control. And in light of Crystal Ball Kate’s latest premonition, less frightened.

Then she had skimmed the ads purchased by the families, sororities, and fraternities who had sponsored the ladies, many of whom were in the audience, she knew.

The ads had been the worst: Alpha Chi Omega supports our sister... The Ladies of Delta Zeta proudly support... Congratulations, we are so proud of you... Phi Mu is proud to sponsor our sister... You ladies look beautiful tonight. We wish you the best of luck and love you dearly.

Shaking off the memories, Flippy looked around the bleak room and turned to Luke. “There should be flowers,” she whispered.

“You see, that’s why we need you. You know exactly the right thing to do.”

Luke turned and took his position, flanking his fellow officers.

In the crowd, Flippy saw the frantic faces of Traci’s parents, whose eyes met hers in question. What was she doing here? Did she know something? More to the point, did she know where Traci was? Flippy looked away. But not before she had registered the helplessness in their eyes.

“I want to introduce Philippa Tannenbaum, who is consulting with us on this case now,” began Chief Bradley. “Philippa, as you know, was the director of October’s homecoming pageant. In fact, she was first runner-up for homecoming queen in the previous year’s pageant and then became homecoming queen. She worked with all the girls during rehearsals. Many of you have already met Philippa. She is our crisis management expert. And she is Victim Services Advocate for the campus police department, which is partnering with us on this case. So feel free to come to her or to Jack and Katherine Hale with any questions, leads, concerns, anything whatsoever—”

“Is there anything new to report, Chief Bradley?” one father interrupted.

“Not at this time. But I will let you know as soon as we’ve heard anything.”

“Have you found the missing girl?”

Chief Bradley cleared his throat.

“Not at this time. Traci Farris is still missing.”

Chief Bradley was turning out to be the proverbial broken record—
No, no, we don’t know
. And he was painting Flippy and the psychic detective agency as miracle workers. Saviors. Holding them out as the last hope for these distraught parents, brothers, sisters, and boyfriends, when Flippy knew she was anything but that.

The chief looked at her expectantly and stepped aside. “You’re up,” he whispered.

Clutching the makeshift podium, Flippy dug her nails into the battered wood and turned toward the sea of anguished faces. She saw the placards carrying the names of the dead and missing girls, saw the hands caressing cherished photos of the deceased. It was reminiscent of 9-11, only on a much smaller scale. But this time there were no gaping holes in the ground, only a festering crater in the hearts of these devastated people standing before her.

They were expecting something important from her. What could she possibly say to them? What could she possibly contribute that would comfort them? She wanted her words to have some meaning, but would mere words be enough?

Usually quick on her feet, Flippy hesitated for a minute and opened the homecoming pageant booklet with trembling fingers.

Adjusting the microphone, she called out their names clearly.

“Meredith Henning.”

“Montana Rountree.”

“Natasha Hemmingway.”

She read the names until she finished the list of dead or missing girls. Tripping on Traci’s name, she bowed her head respectfully, wrested her clenched hands from the wooden platform and clasped them together.

The room went quiet as the mourners soaked up the tribute.

“I know you want answers. I can’t give you answers. But I
can
make you a promise. I think I speak for the University Campus Police and the City of Graysville Police Department and the entire Task Force when I say we won’t rest until we’ve found the person who is responsible for these horrendous crimes. We won’t rest until we’ve found Traci Farris, and we pledge to protect the girls you’ve entrusted to us for protection. They are in our care, and you are in our prayers.”

Flippy gave them her office number and her cell phone number and told them to call any time, day or night, if they needed her or if they just wanted to talk, that she was always available to them and for them.

Suddenly she and the Hales were surrounded by families. The girls who were left whispered the names of the dead girls, tentatively, entreatingly, like a prayer, as if they were on sacred ground.

“Meredith is such a beautiful girl,” said one mother, her voice breaking into a sob, speaking of her daughter in the present tense, as if she were just in the next room.

“I wish I had been here. I wish...” sighed Meredith’s father.

There were undertones of anger, joined by a chorus of despair, then just quiet resignation. Everyone wanted to talk to Flippy and the Hales about their daughters, about the last time Flippy had seen them, about happier moments, personal memories. And she stayed for more than an hour, trying her best to answer their questions, until the last parent was gone and she was totally drained and her head refused to stop pounding.

She had said goodbye to the Hales, who urged her to be careful as they left with Chief Bradley for a private meeting to discuss and dissect the case. The room had cleared except for Luke, who was nodding his approval. Then he closed the distance between them and reached for her hand.

“You helped them, I think,” Luke said. Flippy looked down at their joined hands, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t let hers go.

“Pinch me,” Flippy said.

“What?”

“I want you to pinch me hard, Luke, hard enough so I can feel it.”

“Flippy?” Luke sounded confused.

“Pinch me, Luke, please,” Flippy insisted.

Luke brought his other hand to Flippy’s elbow and squeezed her skin.

“Harder,” she urged.

“Flip, I don’t see how this will help.”

“I need to feel their pain, really feel it. I’m alive and their daughters aren’t. It’s not fair, Luke. It’s just not fair.”

Flippy collapsed against Luke, and he gently cradled her in his strong arms, rubbing her back in a steady rhythm until she pulled herself together.

“I know how you feel,” Luke spoke softly, blowing his warm breath against the side of her face. “I wanted to tell them we were on the trail, like a Canadian Mountie. I always wanted to be a Canadian Mountie.”

Flippy pulled back.

“Really?”

“Scout’s honor.”

“Of course, you were a Boy Scout.”

“An Eagle Scout, as a matter of fact.”

“Dudley Do-Right. Only Snidely Whiplash wasn’t a serial killer.”

Luke scanned Flippy’s face. “You look beat, totally drained,” he observed. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Did you even eat lunch? You look wiped out. You need to put something in your stomach.”

“I’m not hungry,” Flippy repeated. “How can you eat after something like this?”

“Life goes on,” Luke said. “You have to keep your strength up. I hate to admit it, but I think there’s something to what that psychic told you. I always thought you would be on the killer’s target list, but what she said confirms my theory. Besides, you look like you can use a drink.”

Did she have to remind him what had happened between them the last time she’d had too much to drink?

“Look, we have a big day ahead of us tomorrow,” Luke said. “I want to take you around to all the places where they found the bodies. But now we’re officially off the clock. Let’s go. The chief said to tell you how much he appreciates what you did for the families.”

“I didn’t do anything, really. I had no answers.”

“But you let them talk and grieve. What you did was important,” Luke insisted.

“I’m glad. I think it helped the families to see the Hales here. They’re putting a lot of faith in Crystal Ball Kate.”

“I’m going to reserve judgment,” said Luke. “I’m a believer in old-fashioned police work. But if it gives the families hope, then I don’t see how it can hurt.”

It was starting to rain, so Luke opened an umbrella and held it over Flippy’s head until he managed to maneuver her into the passenger seat of his sporty red BMW.

“Nice car,” Flippy said, veering away from the subject of the murders.

“It gets me from Point A to Point B.”

“Where exactly is Point B?” she asked.

“How about The Zone?”

“That sounds nice.”

“They have great gorgonzola burgers with Vidalia onions,” Luke offered, “unless you’re one of those vegetarians or vegans. You’re not, are you?”

Flippy was actually starving, but the thought of eating a hamburger in the middle of a messy murder case made her stomach turn.

“I guess I could go for a salad.”

“Rabbit food.” Luke laughed. “You’re a cheap date, anyway.”

“This is not a date,” she insisted, as Luke pulled into a parking space right in front of The Zone.

“Suit yourself. I’m still paying for your meal. It’s on the department. The chief said I could expense it. And besides, my mother taught me manners. The guy always pays.”

“That’s old-fashioned.” Jack had never had a problem with letting her pay.

“What can I say? I’m an old-fashioned guy.”

The Zone was alive with students, and Flippy felt like they were all staring at her. Like they all knew about her recent breakup with Jack. Luke led her to a booth and signaled the server.

“Hey, Cathy, I’ll have my usual, and whatever you have on tap, and Twiggy here will have some kind of salad. Flip—, I mean, Philippa?”

“The Caesar salad, please, and hold the croutons.”

“Jeesh. You have to have something else to eat. You eat fries, don’t you? Bring the lady a large order of fries, and don’t skimp on the grease,” he said, without waiting to hear her answer. “It’s dinnertime, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t eat fries. And I already had a big, greasy piece of pizza this afternoon.”

“Not eating fries is un-American. Then I’ll eat them.”

“You look familiar,” Cathy said, staring at her. “Weren’t you almost the NFU homecoming queen?”

Flippy sighed. Did she have a sign posted on her face that read, “Loser”?

“I was the first runner-up.”

“Homecoming queen by default,” Luke added.

“You’re Jack Armstrong’s girlfriend.”

Just keep it up, Chatty Cathy.

“Ex-girlfriend,” Luke interjected.

“Ex-fiancée,” Flippy corrected.

“Boy, you’re moving up in the world, Luke,” Cathy marveled as she sashayed into the kitchen, half her ass on display in her tight black hot pants.

“You must come here a lot, if you know the server by name.”

“Sure. We all do. Actually, this is a big cop hangout. They have big-screen TVs. You can watch sports, have a beer, take a load off. They don’t rush you. Food’s good, too. It’s a great place.”

“Jack used to come here a lot.”

“I wasn’t going to mention he who shall remain nameless, but since you brought him up, I had to drag your ex in for drunk and disorderly more times than I can count.”

“My Jack?”

“I thought it was over between the two of you.”

“Oh. Yeah. Force of habit, I guess. He was drunk?”

“Force of habit,” Luke answered. “The guy stays drunk. I’m surprised you didn’t know. He had to sleep it off in a cell. It wasn’t the first time. It won’t be the last, is my guess. He couldn’t walk on his own. His friends practically had to carry him into the bar. He’s headed down the path of destruction.”

Flippy took a deep breath and leaned back in the booth. Jack had been making noises about wanting the two of them to get back together. He had actually called her the other night, crying in his beer, apparently literally, asking her to take him back. Most likely from The Zone. As if she would ever go back to him! But, glutton for punishment that she was, she just had to ask.

“Was he, um, alone? I mean—”

“I know what you mean. You want to know if he was with a girl? Yeah, you could say that. She wasn’t his usual type, though.”

“Was she—you know?”

“Built?
Au contraire
. She was skinny.”

Jack’s usual type.

“Had a face like a horse, too. But he was too far gone to notice. She must have been some kind of sports groupie, or maybe an athlete. It’s a hell of a thing, too. The guy had everything going for him. Big-time football player. Headed for the big leagues. Dating the best-looking girl on campus. That would be you. He had it made, and he’s blowing it all to hell.”

“It’s his knee,” Flippy explained, as the server delivered Luke’s beer and placed a glass of water on a coaster to the right of the plate she set in front of Flippy.

“It’s always something with these sports heroes. Everything has to go exactly their way. They can’t cope with a bump in the road.”

“A torn ACL is more than a bump in the road, Luke. It’s going to take him a minimum of six months to recover.”

“It’s a tough break, but it’s not a career-ending injury anymore,” Luke pointed out. “His chances of playing again are eighty-five percent. And it’s been way more than six months. He’s still on crutches. The way I hear it, he’s not even keeping his physical therapy appointments.”

“How do you know that?”

“People talk.”

“He knows he’ll never be a hundred percent, and he’s lost his chance in the pros, at least for the foreseeable future. Football was his life.”

That about summed up Jack’s priorities, even where she was concerned, Flippy thought, pulling the paper off the straw and pulling her water glass closer.

“You need something stronger than that. What will you have?”

“I’m not a big drinker,” she started, then colored as she remembered that night a week ago. “I’ll have an amaretto sour.”

“That’s a girly drink.”

“Last time I checked, I was a girl.” Flippy actually managed a smile.

Luke threw up his hands. “Fine. Cathy, bring the lady an amaretto sour on the rocks.”