“You okay?” he asked when he answered.
I told him about the text message.
“You’re sure it’s from her number?”
I was acutely aware of the four eyes watching me. “Yes. It’s her number.”
“No one saw a cell phone in the hotel room where she was found,” Tim said thoughtfully.
So whoever killed her and wanted to frame me could’ve taken it and planned this. Or taken it and decided just this very moment, hey, here’s another way to make Brett Kavanaugh insane. As if the blog pictures and Ink Flamingos weren’t enough already.
This really was personal. But who on earth hated me this much?
Or who wanted Tim and the cops to concentrate on who was harassing me and not on who actually killed the poor girl?
I voiced my thoughts, and Tim grunted.
“I need your cell phone.”
Great. I’d had to give up my car in the past, but this was a first. “When?”
“Morning. Can you drop it by for me at the station?”
I thought about the hassle I would have with the wireless company about getting a new number, after all their promotions about how you can take your phone number with you whenever you get new service or a new phone.
I said okay and hung up, Bitsy and Joel still watching me.
“You’re creeping me out,” I said, irritation lacing my tone.
“Like we’re any creepier than that,” Bitsy said, indicating the phone.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Sorry. I’m on edge. I have to bring Tim the phone tomorrow, so I guess we can all get some sleep.” I picked up the phone and shut it off, so I wouldn’t get any more messages from the dead.
They shuffled off to their respective beds, and I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, not sleeping until about an hour before I had to get up.
The three of us were in Bitsy’s car. This was not an easy feat. Bitsy was the only one who was comfortable in her Mini Cooper. Joel had squeezed himself into the front seat, “squeezed” being the operative word. I was in the back, all folded up across the backseat, my knees almost hitting the ceiling, my head grazing it.
It was like a clown car.
Bitsy had fed us bagels and coffee, and we were on our way to pick up more coffee before we dropped off my cell phone to Tim and then went to the shop. The text message from the night before seemed a long way away in the light of day. The only good thing about it was that it pushed Jeff Coleman’s kiss way to the back of my mind.
The kiss. Right. Something else I’d have to deal with. Or not. Knowing Jeff, he wouldn’t mention it. But what if he decided to do it again?
I noticed we weren’t headed in the right direction.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Bitsy and Joel had been mumbling something this morning when I’d gotten out of the shower, but I was afraid they were talking about me and I didn’t want to know. So I’d ignored it. Now, however, it seemed that maybe they’d been hatching a plan.
“We’ve been doing a little thinking,” Bitsy said.
Uh-oh. That might not be the best thing.
“And we thought that we should try to find out a little more about this blogger, you know, the one who’s been…” Joel’s voice trailed off.
He didn’t need to finish the sentence, because we all knew what Ainsley Wainwright had been up to. Except that she wasn’t the one doing it. I said as much.
“That’s why it might be a good idea to poke around a little,” Bitsy said. “Go back to the beginning. See who might want to impersonate her, and then decide to impersonate you.”
It wasn’t a bad idea. I’d been so wrapped up in me that I hadn’t thought about her. It might be a good thing to concentrate on someone else for a little while. It would take the pressure off.
“So what’s the plan?”
“We go to her place. Start there.”
“How do you know where to go?” I asked. Bitsy seemed very sure of the direction we were heading.
“I did a Yahoo! People search. Gave me her address, so then I Google-Mapped her.”
Always thorough, that was Bitsy. But it made me wonder why the cops hadn’t done that. Or maybe they had. Maybe that’s the way they finally found her. That’s right. Knocking on doors, Tim had said.
Ainsley Wainwright lived in an apartment building off Fremont Street, in a rather run-down area. The white stucco, three-story building had faded to gray. The windows were covered with bars, even on the third floor. The parking lot was in the back, so Bitsy turned in and parked. We scrambled out of the car as well as we could, and I was happy to stretch my legs out.
The entrance wasn’t locked, so we let ourselves in. The hallway smelled like old gym socks and cigarettes. I wrinkled my nose and said, “So which apartment?”
Bitsy was already halfway up the stairs. Joel and I shrugged at each other and followed.
The crime scene tape had been torn, and it hung in two pieces on either side of the door. Looked like we weren’t the only ones who were going in uninvited.
Bitsy reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of latex gloves.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“I thought we might need them,” she said, handing some to me and Joel as well before she put her hand to the doorknob and turned.
To our surprise, the door easily swung open. Bitsy looked up at me, raised her eyebrows, and stepped inside.
That’s when we heard the footsteps come up behind us.
“I wish you people would go away,” a voice said.
I turned around to see a young woman with short, spiked, bleached blond hair and wearing extremely short denim shorts and a tank top standing on the landing.
It took me a second, but I finally figured “you people” meant she thought we were cops. Right. The latex gloves.
“Didn’t you get everything already?” she continued. “And when are you going to catch her killer? I mean, on TV they catch the killers right away.” Her eyes flickered at me, narrowing slightly. I felt as though she recognized me, knew about the blog, that she, too, thought I was guilty.
“This isn’t TV,” I heard myself saying, still keeping up the charade that I really was the cops. The girl’s expression changed a little then-maybe she was having second thoughts about me, maybe she wasn’t quite so sure about me now.
Tim would totally kill me for this, and I wondered if they would cart him off to prison or decide it was justifiable homicide.
“Did you know Miss Wainwright?” Joel asked her. Sadness crossed her face. “She was amazing. So nice to everyone.”
Of course she was. All victims were saints after they were dead, weren’t they? Sister Mary Eucharista would say so.
“She was beautiful, too,” she said. “She had red hair, like yours,” she added, looking at me. “But her hair was long.”
I absently ran a hand through my short hair.
The young woman was frowning. “You sort of look like her, though. Weird.”
