Jex Malone (22 page)

“Of course, Mummy didn't think it was funny when I casually asked, ‘Do you think Brad and Angie would adopt me?'” Deva snorts.

I stop myself from staring at a picture of Deva's mom and Oprah sharing cups of hot tea in a hut. Then I remember the look of true sorrow on Billy's dumb face and the words that harsh Melissa said before she walked away.

“Don't bug my Billy,” she informed us. “You should check out that nutty neighbor guy. He always gave me the creeps. Used to stare at Patty and me all the time when we would walk by his house. He was always muttering under his breath. It gave me nightmares.”

“Mel,” Billy said, cutting her off. “It wasn't Mr. Foster who hurt Patty. It was her father. Anyone who was around back then knew it. They just couldn't prove it.”

So Billy and Melissa told us what they apparently could remember, which was simply a lot of background. Of course, we're not sure whether to believe them or not. But they had an actual alibi for the night Patty disappeared.

“And guess who could corroborate their stories? Yes, they planned to vouch for each other!” Deva says, stopping herself mid-sentence.

“Wait, just a moment. Yes, I'm using words like
corroborate
now thanks to Nat. Who says I'm not spending the summer improving my mind? Corroborate that one, Daddy!” Deva announces to no one in particular.

“Let's get back to the case,” Nat insists.

The night of the block party, apparently Mr. and Mrs. New Romance were off on a little make-out session. This means when they answered my dad's questions about if they knew what happened to Patty, they could honestly answer “no” without adding that uncomfortable little detail that they were with each other in a five-hour lip lock. They both said they were in their rooms at their respective homes … all alone.

Just a little white lie times two.

“I didn't tell the cops about Melissa,” Billy admitted to us. “I didn't want people to think she had anything to do with anything.

“And she didn't,” he said, staring hard at me for some reason. He wasn't finished.

“It's not illegal to go make out with your girlfriend—or your girlfriend's best friend,” Billy said, his face turning a deep crimson as he finally admitted, at least, to being a bad boyfriend—if not a killer. “And my friends told me that there wasn't even evidence on me, so I didn't see why I should drag Mel into it during a delicate time in her life. No, not
that.
Her parents were thinking of moving to Atlanta and this trouble might have sealed it.”

“The cops did come to my house to ask me when I last saw Patty,” Melissa said with a tiny sniffle.

Even I couldn't wait for that answer.

“I lied,” Melissa said. “I told them I saw her that morning at her house but not after that.”

“But we did—we saw her later,” Billy said. “Somehow she found out about us and followed us to the parking lot where we'd been, uh, parked.”

“We didn't mean to hurt her feelings,” Melissa said. “Honest. It wasn't about her. It was about us being in love. We were kissing and then we heard a noise. I turned around and saw it was Patty and she was crying. Hard.”

“She said that she hated us, hated everyone and never wanted to see us again,” Billy said. “And then she turned around and ran away.”

“I thought she walked back to her house and after she found us I made Billy take me home,” Melissa said. “I thought I'd see her the next day and we'd talk and get over it, eventually. I needed to explain to her that I really loved Billy, but I loved her, too. She was my best friend. I didn't want her to hate me forever.

“So I really didn't lie to the cops—I was home alone thinking about what I was going to say to her. The next thing I knew, she was gone. Vanished. I never got a chance to say I was sorry,” Melissa said.

“We never really lied,” Billy jumped in, still wanting to protect his true love. “We never knew what happened, which still isn't easy because the last thing I'll always remember is Patty standing there crying and screaming, ‘I hate you. Both of you! I just want to die!'”

Now, I'm looking at Deva and waiting for her to say something, but she keeps her trap shut.

“I hate to say this, you guys, but I don't think either of them did it. I sorta believed them when they said they were with each other that night,” I jump in. “Yeah, it's crummy, but it doesn't make them murderers.”

“I don't know,” Nat says, slowly. “It just doesn't make sense. If they really wanted to help find Patty from the start, they would have told the cops everything. Especially if Patty had a reason to run away, wouldn't her discovering they were cheating on her be important information to share?

“I think they wanted to be together and were smart enough to not say anything about their relationship, but just keep it a secret until enough time had passed. If it were me in the situation and I really wanted my friend to be found, I'd hold nothing back,” Nat concludes.

Cissy and I look at each other and shrug. I saw how mad Melissa could get, but that doesn't make her a killer.

“That leaves us with two biggies. You got the father and the neighbor. Two guys who were seriously demented, if you ask me,” I say.

“I think it could have been either of them. And we still don't know who this Lillian is … maybe she's a suspect, too,” Nat says.

“Most people think it was the dad who killed her,” I begin to think out loud. “And then he felt so guilty that he drove his car into a ditch on purpose. Case closed. Wrapped up like a nice little present with no loose ends. But it's too neat and tidy—a messy life like Patty's doesn't end up with a nice, pat conclusion.”

“There are three things you can never have enough of in life, Lieutenant: chocolate, friends, and the theater.”

—Jessica Fletcher,
Murder, She Wrote

Maybe it's the mental overload of discovering Patty's boyfriend cheating on her with her best friend, but I'm totally exhausted. My head is pounding and I can barely keep my eyes open. How weird is this, confronting Billy and finding out about Melissa, and now Deva is sitting here making perfect sense? Stop the world. I want to go on vacation from it.

“I think we need a break,” Deva announces. The others look up from their ice teas and hummus chips and nod in unison.

“Yeah, we're working too hard,” Cissy agrees, and I stifle a laugh because I haven't seen Cissy really do anything other than kind of tag along and remind us when we are treading into dangerous territory.

“Yeah, all work and no play makes us very dull girls,” Deva announces, and I half wait for her to propose a shopping trip to perhaps a more upscale mall than the one we visited earlier today.

“I could use a break,” Nat agrees, and we are a little shocked. “How about the movies? That's an easy one to get a ‘yes' from our parents.”

Deva smiles and says, “Who needs parents! The Drew-Ids are off duty—at least for tonight. We'll pick up all the mayhem and murder tomorrow. Call your parents and ask if you can spend the night here. That way we can stay up late doing facials and talking.”

“Ooooh, there's that new movie I've been dying to see,” says Cissy, who actually bounces like a human pogo-stick at the idea of a night out. “What's that actress' name with the really light blonde hair? She's such a tough girl. She'll inspire us.”

“Really? An actress. That's your role model,” Nat says, making a face. “That's who inspires you?”

“No, not really—she's a little over-tattooed and skinny, but I do like it when she kicks boys around, and the popcorn will be good,” Cissy confesses.

I pick up my cell phone to call my dad and ask him permission for my first official sleepover I need his permission to go on … ever. He answers in a predictable way.

“Hi Jex. What's wrong?” he demands.

“Nada,” I say, and moments later, he gives me a surprisingly easy “yes” and weirdly sounds all sappy and giddy not to have disappointed me again.

“I'd like you home tomorrow night,” he says.

“Sounds righteous,” I say.

“There's twenty bucks in that jar by the fridge for pizza. You can take it. For snacks and a ticket.”

“Wow, thanks Da … ” I begin, but can't finish the sentence. My voice becomes a little stiff when I reply. Could that be guilt? I did just ask him for permission to do something benign like go to the movies after running around all day confronting potential murderers and really bad boyfriends.

“That's really nice of you,” I blurt.

What follows is one of those weird silences, which my father ends by saying what he can only say.

“Please be at your little friend's house by ten. Or I'll send out a squad car. Lights on, sirens wailing. Or come back home, I mean to our house, if you feel like it.”

“I'll be back at your house by ten—tomorrow morning,” I respond. For a minute, I feel a little bit bad, but his house isn't my home. It's my runaway father's house. No more. No less. Then it dawns on me that I screwed up.

“Sure, honey,” Dad says. “I'll miss you. Lvya.”

Silence.

“K, bye,” I say in a hurry and focus on the night ahead.

It's so much easier than thinking about my own stuff.

Deva waves off my request to go get the $20 from my house and announces this evening's entertainment is on her, brandishing one of her parents' American Express black cards to emphasize the point. Somehow during this negotiation, she rips me upstairs into her spacious bathroom, which looks like a spa I once saw on HGTV.

There are two vanities and enough bright Hollywood naked bulb–style lights to get ready for any close-up. And there's ample makeup on the counter to start a new store.

Deva insists that all of us sit down on the leather stools in her bathroom palace.

Quickly, she puts a little eye shadow and just a hint of blush on each of us. Clear lip gloss is passed around, smeared on, and the excess puffed away with the world's softest powder puff.

“I know Nat won't change. She won't even take off that sweatshirt. Cissy looks okay,” Deva mutters, a one-woman makeover squad giving her soldiers the once-over.

“I want extra credit! I have on my new, totally modern, nonlace shorts,” Cissy says.

Deva ignores her and focuses on the out-of-town victim, which would be me.

“Jex, come with me!” Deva commands and grabs my arm. I am led off helplessly in the clutches of the makeover queen like I'm going to some sort of high-style prison while the other girls wince because they feel my pain.

Deva practically pushes me into a walk-in closet that causes my jaw to hit the plush white rug. Oh no, drool on the rug! (Mine.) Honestly, this closet is bigger than my entire room in New Jersey.

“Let me see. A little white gauze skirt. Size seven. Check,” Deva says, ripping clothes off hangers and talking to herself like I'm not even there. “A chic faded pink fitted T-shirt. Don't smudge your lip gloss while you get dressed, Jex. I'll be in the main room looking for accessories and the perfect big girl shoes.”

She's not done yet, and a moment later she crooks a finger at me to follow her back into the bathroom. In a moment that's out of a horror movie, she whips around holding a large pair of gleaming scissors that shimmer in all of those Hollywood lights above us.

“Jex, we have a problem,” Deva says like she's at NASA style control. Now she's motioning me to sit down again in her personal makeup chair. When I don't move, she puts her manicured fingers on each of my shoulders and shoves me down.

“We know each other well enough now for me to say that you need an actual haircut. You need a real hairstyle. You need … me. Please just sit here and … close your eyes. Breathe. Trust,” she says.

Wait, has the mass of red curls I call a 'do … has it been insulted?