Killing America's Sweetheart: A Natalie Miller Mystery

Chapter 1

Monday, 11:45 P.M.

When I was little, I never dreamed my life would be what it is today. I had grand illusions of being someone important, making a difference in the world. I remember going through phases where I envisioned myself as a fashion designer, actress, author and finally something more realistic, a school teacher. When you’re young, it seems like the world is ripe for the picking. People tell you, “Anything is possible, if you put your mind to it.”  Bullshit.

Ah, to be young and innocent. You don’t know better an
d you put your faith in all the wrong people.

M
y name is Natalie Miller and I live in the small town of Treeville, California. It’s located about 15 miles northwest of Sacramento. So, while the town may be small, we are by no means cut off from civilization. It’s situated in a great spot, especially since San Francisco is an hour away (on a good traffic day). We can live a somewhat quiet life, without the traffic and congestion, but never be too far from the action.

I
recently had a birthday. I’m now another year older (32!) and divorced. I feel like I need to put this out there, as it helps set up my backstory. My life appeared to be pretty perfect until three years ago. I had a decent paying job as an eligibility worker for the Department of Social Services, a nice car, a new house and a good looking husband. By all appearances, I was living the good life. But in reality I was miserable. I hated my job so much that I started abusing prescription pills and alcohol to forget the day. It wasn’t the kind of job for someone who is sensitive. By that I mean I have
psychic
abilities. I cannot foresee my own future or predict winning lottery numbers, but I can sense a lot about virtual strangers. Especially when said people are bullshitting me, which as you can imagine, happened to me a lot by working in social welfare. Since I was unable to deny anyone solely on my senses (and lack of proof), I was forced to grant many cases to individuals I knew didn’t need the help. It really ate away at me and my conscience. While there were those who were honest and sincere, the lies and corruption of the job slowly began to wear me down.

That’s when I started popping pills and drinking myself to sleep. Around this time is when my husband
Matt Ramirez started carousing with the town slut Carrie Marks. (Okay, maybe in all honesty she wasn’t “the” town slut, but for a small town, we sure had a bunch!) Their relationship first started up as a “reignited friendship”, which was okay with me, as I’ve never been the jealous type. I knew she had a reputation, but Matt reassured me that she was just an old friend, who needed a shoulder to lean on. (What’s that old saying? A shoulder to cry on becomes a dick to ride on?) Yeah, well after helping Carrie and her children (a boy and a girl from two different deadbeat fathers), loaning her money, our couch and my husband at all hours of the night, I started noticing how much I was alone. That’s when the gossip began, which was brutal. People started asking if Matt and I were separated, and of course I laughed it off, blaming it on a backwards town with traditional expectations. As if a man and woman were incapable of being friends! They didn’t know my husband. He was loyal and Carrie was simply a misunderstood worldly woman. Hell, when she couldn’t afford one, I bought her a car seat for crying out loud! Oh, but sadly, the joke was on me.

I soon found myself served with divorce papers
(at work no less), and drowning deep into a depression filled with pills and booze. Not long after I was fired from my job, divorced, had my car repossessed and found myself living with my mom. It’s strange how quickly life can change.

But that was then and
this is now. Fast forward three years; I’m no longer living with my mom, but in a shitty studio apartment. It’s cheap, relatively safe and meets my immediate needs, which is that it contains a bathroom, kitchen and futon. Other than that, it’s kind of bland. I do have a new car, but it’s a used hand-me-down given to me by my mom. She recently upgraded to a new Toyota Corolla, so she gave me her older model. I can’t complain as it runs and gets me to and from work. After getting fired from social services, I went into rehab and got clean. I was told my addiction stemmed from my unhappiness and lack of control that I had on my life at the time. Which I guess makes sense. I needed to numb myself from the emotions I was feeling. Plus, I’m willing to bet that being sensitive and knowing things about others, just made for the perfect storm. I think what really sent me overboard was when I realized Matt was cheating on me. I remember being so angry that I hadn’t seen it coming and of course just sank deeper into addiction. I don’t know why I can know things about complete strangers, but can’t see what’s coming in my immediate future. Over the past few years I’ve gotten a lot better at blocking people’s emotions and thoughts. I’ve even been able to quiet the voice in my head, aka Gilles my spirit guide. (Yes, I assure you I am not crazy. We all have guides, so don’t judge me so harshly!) Sometimes being psychic sucks, but I guess it does come in handy.

Get
ting back to my current job, I’m a cashier at Super Thrifty. It’s a grocery store in the older part of Treeville. I guess you can say that it’s in an “ethnic” area, which is just another word for what the locals call “little Mexico”. I happen to feel right at home here, as I am half Mexican from my mother’s side, while the other half is a mix of English/Scottish from my late father. I don’t speak Spanish, but I can understand a lot of what is being said. That being said, a job is a job. I don’t hate it, or love it. However it does pay (a little) and money is good.

Which is where I find myself
tonight, (light years from my lofty childhood fantasies) working the register to a very dismal crowd with a royal headache. Monday nights are always slow, but tonight seems even worse. It’s a quarter to midnight and I have fifteen minutes left until I can clock out. That’s when I notice Mr. Hollywood coming down the frozen food aisle. Mr. Hollywood, aka Simon Bellamy is a real bonafide actor from Hollywood, by way of England. No one knows why he chose Treeville of all places to settle down, but he did. He apparently moved from L.A. after his nasty divorce from famed author Bebe Gloth. The divorce was supposedly caused by his affair with fellow dystopian co-star Hannah Gold. Speaking of which I happen to see the infamous Ms. Gold standing next to him, with an arm around his back, trying to nuzzle his neck. I shake my head because my spidey sense is telling me she’s trouble. There is an immense feeling of dread that I feel toward her mixed with something else, danger? It’s unusual for me to feel such hostility toward someone. Negativity is not uncommon, but the bright neon sign in my mind kept flashing the word danger. I’m not sure what to make of this. So, I turn my attention to Simon, who I feel is a bit agitated with Hannah. It’s almost like he’s disgusted by her. I find it odd, but quickly toss the thought aside as they come into my line to be checked out.

“Hi,” I say softly.

“Hello,” he responds quietly with a slight accent and a piercing look.

Wow. Did
I mention that he’s incredibly hot? Like tall, dark and handsome? He has long hair for a guy, but not hippy long. His dark brown hair comes down just past his ears, coupled with brilliant hazel eyes and full pouty lips. The English accent also sends him into super-hot territory.

Down girl!

My reality comes crashing down when I notice Hannah giving me a dirty look. Yeah, I know what world am I living in? Hannah Gold has me beat hands down. Tall, pixie features with short dark hair and alabaster skin, not to mention legs that go on for miles. In comparison with me at 5’5, with a toned pear shaped build, long brown wavy hair and light skin. No contest, whatsoever.

I start
ringing up their items and noticed a lot of meat and vegetables.

“
That’s an interesting combo, are you thinking about making a roast?” I ask gesturing toward the items, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

I see
Simon about to answer, but Hannah cuts him off.

“Don’t be so nosy!” she said to me with displeasure in her voice.

Simon gives her a look embarrassment, as she stands her ground glaring at me.

“Sorry,” I mumble, feeling like an idiot
.

I decide
it best not to even ask if they want paper or plastic, when I notice Simon moving to the end of the check stand with reusable bags. Of course they have cloth bags! So fancy and Hollywood. Most people around Treeville take the plastic bag and are on their way, it’s rare that we get the type who brings their own bags with them.

“Simon, let
her
bag them. That’s what
she
gets paid to do,” Hannah barks at him.

I feel
increasingly uncomfortable and clearly it’s intentional. I guess my spidey sense forgot one crucial piece of info, she’s also a giant bitch.

“It’s fine
Hannah. I’ve got it,” he replies to her as he begins putting a package of ribs in a cloth bag.

I look over at him and offer
a weak smile.

As I continue
scanning their items I hear the office door open which is directly behind Simon.

“Here sir, let me
bag these for you,” says a low feminine voice. I look up and see it’s Debbie Perez, the store bookkeeper as she adjusts the red scarf around her neck. Debbie is in her mid-thirties with shoulder length curly black hair, acne scars, (that she tries in vain to cover with heavy foundation) and eerie blue eyes. She’s what my mother likes to call a “handsome” woman. She’s also a little thick in the trunk, but as we all know that’s an asset to many men.

“I can do it
, really,” replies Simon.

“Oh
, for fucks sake! Let the mouse bag our shit!” cries an impatient Hannah.

Simon steps back and makes
room for Debbie to take over.

I make
sure to give Hannah a surly look. I don’t care if she’s famous and a rich, she had no right to talk to either of us in that tone.  The pain in my head agrees as well, which means I’m about to be rewarded with a wonderful migraine. Ah, the blessings of being sensitive and picking up on others feelings and thoughts!

I finish
ringing up their items in record time and have them off with a minute to spare before closing.

“Man, she
’s a bitch,” Debbie says with color flooding her face.

“No kidding,” I agree
, walking over to the phone to make a final closing announcement.

After doing a walk thr
u of the store to make sure everyone has left, Debbie goes over to lock the automatic doors.

“Natalie, if looks could k
ill, Hannah Gold would be dead. The look you gave her frightened me.” Debbie says with her eyes wide, slightly bewildered.

“She’s just so phony
. I love how the tabloid’s try to portray her has a saint. When in reality we all know she’s a total asshole.”

I pick
up the latest copy of Hollywood Rag and show the cover to Debbie. “Look how her PR team is working overtime to make us all forget about the breakup of Simon and Bebe.”

“No one actually caught
them red-handed,” Debbie replies glancing at the magazine.

“Yeah I know
, but trust me, she had something to do with it,” I say with confidence.

“Have you
been reading blind items again? Or is this coming from your third eye?” Debbie asks with a raised eye brow.

I had been reading blind items. I lived for them. They were stories about t
he rich and famous that were so scandalous, they had to use descriptions and pseudo names to tell the torrid tales. I was pretty good at nailing them too, if I do say so myself.

“Both. Didn’t you read that blind item about the two co-s
tars hooking up after hours? The writer dropped tons of clues about them. Like the English accent and the wholesome good girl act? Also, I get this icky vibe from her. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s a bad feeling,” I reply.

“No, I haven’t read any of them
. They’re usually too confusing for me to figure out,” Debbie says with a shrug.

We finish
closing the store, gather our things and head out the employee door to our cars in the back of the building.

“Good night,”
Debbie calls happily as she slides into her late 90’s Geo Metro and gingerly readjusts her scarf. For as long as I have worked with her, she has always worn some kind of scarf or turtle neck. I suspect there must be a scar or birthmark she’s insecure about showing.

Lost in
my train of thought, I wave back a slight reply and get into my Corolla.  I watch Debbie drive off in a different direction than normal. Maybe she’s finally met someone? She’s been in Treeville for nearly a year and I’ve yet to hear of any men she’s favored. Well, it wasn’t my concern and I was too tired to care as I start my car and drive home.

Treeville is by all accounts a
farm town, situated about fifteen miles from the state capital of Sacramento. If you go by the last census poll there are about 60,000 people in this town. However, it felt larger. The town was once outnumbered by Caucasians, but that has changed over the years. Now I would have to say at least sixty percent of the population is Latino and the Caucasians are the new minority. Of course as you can imagine there’s a bit of racism which stems from situations like these. While the majority of people are very accepting, there are still a surprisingly large number of those who resent the shift in power. It mainly comes from the upper middle class, who try to refrain from socializing with those outside of their socioeconomically bubble. God forbid the gene pool is contaminated!