Drop Dead Gorgeous Page 9

  Spencer thought about it. “I don’t remember.”

  “What color hair did she have?” Delia asked him.

  He thought again. “I don’t remember.”

  I could see that Delia was desperate to know who visited Winks. But Spencer wasn’t being very helpful.

  “Maybe I didn’t see her,” he admitted. “Maybe I only heared her.”

  “It just doesn’t make sense,” I said again. “You know that Winks is crazy about Spencer. He loves coming here every week. He told me. So . . . he wouldn’t just run away with some girl. And leave his car behind.”

  “Then how do you explain it?” Marie asked, her voice cracking with emotion.

  Delia raised her phone. “I’ll try calling him again.”

  We all stared as she punched Winks’s number. After a few seconds, she lowered the phone from her ear and sighed. “It went right to voice mail.”

  “I tried calling his mother,” Art said. “First thing I did when I couldn’t find him. I woke her up. She didn’t have a clue.”

  “Probably too trashed to even recognize Winks,” Marie muttered.

  “Marie!” Art snapped. “Don’t talk like that in front of Spencer.”

  “Don’t tell me how to talk,” Marie shot back.

  Spencer laughed. “Too trashed.”

  Art placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t say that, Spencer.”

  “Too trashed?” He laughed. “Too trashed? What does that mean?”

  “Let’s get you back in bed,” Art said, giving Spencer a little push toward the door.

  “No. I want to see Winks.”

  Art and Spencer started arguing about getting Spencer to bed.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Delia said. “Maybe something has happened to Winks.”

  “He left with a girl,” Marie said. “That’s what happened.”

  “But he wouldn’t leave his car,” I insisted. I started toward the kitchen door. “Maybe he and the girl went outside for a moment to talk. Maybe he’s nearby.”

  Delia grabbed my arm. “What girl?” she whispered. “Who was it?”

  “How should I know?” I snapped. Of course, I knew it had to be Morgan Marks. But why get Delia even more upset?

  Did Winks really leave with her? I wondered. Sure, she’s hot and everything. And sure, Winks is an idiot when it comes to a seriously pretty girl.

  But even Winks couldn’t be so irresponsible to abandon his cousin on an impulse, just to be with Morgan.

  Maybe he and Morgan stepped outside so they wouldn’t wake Spencer up, I thought. But he wouldn’t leave the front door wide-open. And they both would have seen Art and Marie’s car pull up the driveway.

  It didn’t make sense. My head was spinning and my cheeks were burning hot, even in the cool night air. A bright half-moon made everything appear silvery and unreal. The shrubs, the lawn, the trees all shimmered, as if in a dream.

  Delia and I made our way down the driveway, our shoes crunching on the gravel, along the tall hedge that separates Art and Marie’s yard from their neighbors.

  Without thinking, we both began to shout Winks’s name. Our voices rang out through the silent night. A dog began barking somewhere down the block. But no reply from Winks.

  We were near the street when Delia stopped suddenly. She grabbed my wrist tightly. “Is that . . . ? Is that . . . ?”

  I followed her gaze. At first, I thought someone had piled some shoes and old clothes at the bottom of the hedge. But then I saw an arm. And the figure sprawled on his side in the grass beside the hedge came into focus.

  Delia lurched across the driveway and dropped down beside him. “Winks? Winks? Winks?” Her shouts rose until they became a frightened shriek.

  She grabbed his shoulder with both hands. She shook him hard.

  My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to join her but my legs wouldn’t cooperate.

  “Winks? Winks? Winks?”

  Still holding on to his shoulder with both hands, Delia turned to me. “He’s dead. He’s dead, Julie,” she cried. “Winks is dead.”

  25

  Julie Continues the Story

  One hour later. We were all still there, tense, horrified, not believing what was happening. To me, everything seemed unreal. The lights were too bright. Everyone was talking too fast and moved as if on fast-forward. Nothing was at the right speed.

  And my thoughts couldn’t keep up with what I knew to be true.

  Winks was dead. My friend. A guy I had known most of my life. Dead. I would never see him again, never laugh at one of his crazy schemes or stupid jokes. Never see his goofy smile or hear him laugh.

  Delia was crying hysterically. I knew I should take her home, but she refused to leave. I stayed with her, hugging her, holding her when her crying started to make her whole body shake.

  Winks’s mom huddled with Art and Marie. She had a stunned look on her face, her eyes glassy, kept in a gaze at the floor. Marie brought her a cup of tea, but she asked for bourbon.

  Winks’s dad lives in Kansas City. I didn’t know if he had been called yet or not. “It’s like a bad dream,” Mrs. Winkleman kept repeating. “A bad dream and I’m going to wake up. Rich can’t be gone. I know I’ll wake up.” She asked Marie for another glass of bourbon.

  Art had somehow gotten Spencer to bed. Despite the tension of the night, the little guy had been yawning his head off, and he didn’t put up much of a fight when Art picked him up and carried him to his bedroom.

  There were Linden police officers everywhere. At first, they had demanded we all leave the crime area. But then one of their officers said we could stay. “The crime scene is already polluted,” he told two other uniformed cops.

  I hugged Delia and asked her for the tenth time if she’d like me to drive her home. She was hesitating, wiping her eyes, then crying some more, and I think she was deciding that it was time to leave.

  But a serious-looking gray-haired man in a long blue overcoat, despite the warm spring weather, strode across the living room and stopped in front of Winks’s mom and Art and Marie.

  “I’m the medical examiner,” he announced. “Anderson.”

  Two cops, one in uniform, one plainclothes, stepped up to hear what he had to report. He turned away from Winks’s mom and gave his findings to them.

  “He’s been dead about two hours, give or take. I found bruises on his neck. And then something strange.” Anderson glanced at Winks’s mom. I could see he was deciding whether to tell the next part in front of her. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said. I guess he realized he had been all business and kind of cold.

  He turned back to the officers. “I found something strange. Cuts on the face. And two sets of puncture marks on the throat.”

  The plainclothes officer, an older man, nearly bald, pale with faded gray eyes and a sad hound-dog expression, tapped the medical examiner on the arm. “Two puncture marks or two sets of puncture marks, Sid?”

  “Two sets.”

  The uniformed officer spoke in a whisper. But I could still hear him across the room. “You mean like in a vampire movie?”

  Anderson shrugged. “His throat was definitely bitten. But even in the shaky light from my halogen beam, I could see that the puncture marks don’t match.”

  “He was bitten by two different people?”

  The medical examiner shrugged again, the shoulders of his overcoat bunching up around him. “Don’t ask me if his blood was drained. Let’s not make this a horror movie just yet, okay, gentlemen?”

  The officers nodded.

  “I’ll get him in the lab. Then I can tell you more. But for now, I can definitely say the kid didn’t die of natural causes.”

  Anderson turned back to Winks’s mother and Art and Marie. “Again, I’m so sorry. I’m going to need to examine the boy. There is a strange circumstance here that I need to investigate. And I—”

  “You mean Rich was murdered?” his mother cried.

  The ME ran a hand through
his gray hair. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “It . . . wasn’t natural causes. I’m so sorry. I can tell you more later.”

  Mrs. Winkleman let out a cry and knocked her bourbon glass off the table. It hit the floor and bounced twice but didn’t shatter.

  Anderson lowered his head, turned, and walked out of the house. He had a stooped kind of walk, as if what had happened was weighing him down.

  The plainclothes cop cleared his throat loudly, to get everyone’s attention. “I’m Detective Emanuel Batiste.” He pointed to the uniformed cop. “He’s Sergeant Anthony. We need to hear more about this visitor Rich received. This girl.” He raised his eyes to Art. “Do we need to wake up your son? Did he get a good look at the girl?”

  Art appeared horrified at the idea of waking Spencer. He raised a hand as if signaling halt. “No,” he said. “Spencer didn’t see her. We already questioned him. Spencer was in his room. He says he only heard them. He never saw the girl.”

  I was tempted to tell Batiste that he should talk to Morgan Marks. But I stopped myself. I had no proof that Morgan had been here. It was just a guess on my part.

  I was sure the police would get around to questioning everyone Winks knew, including Morgan. It wouldn’t be right of me to send them after her with no proof at all.

  Besides, the whole vampire thing was weird and terrifying. How could I accuse Morgan? She is beautiful and likes to hang out with every guy we know. But so what?

  Who wouldn’t want that kind of attention from a bunch of guys?

  Just because she is a flirt. Or maybe even a total slut. That didn’t make her a . . . I could barely think the word . . . vampire.

  “Maybe your son can remember what Rich and the girl talked about,” Batiste said. “Any clue at all . . .”

  “He’s only four,” Art said. “I’m sure he’s scared already. Tonight was traumatic for him. We’re going to let him sleep.”

  “Can you talk to him in the morning?” Marie suggested.

  Batiste exchanged a glance with Sergeant Anthony. “Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow will be fine. We don’t want to traumatize the little guy. But he seems to be the only witness.”

  “This isn’t happening,” Winks’s mother said, shaking her head. Her cheeks were puffy and tear-stained. A fresh glass of bourbon trembled in her hand.

  Batiste turned to Delia and me. “Do you have anything to add? You came late. You discovered the body. Anything else? Do you know anything else that might explain . . . anything?”

  “Can you give us a list of his friends?” the other cop asked.

  Before we could answer, Delia’s phone rang. Her ringtone sounds like an old-fashioned telephone bell. It made us both jump. The phone slipped from Delia’s hand and bounced onto the couch.

  She bent to pick it up. It continued its steady ring.

  Delia stared at the screen and her eyes went wide. “Omigod!” she cried in a high, shrill voice. “Omigod! It’s Winks! Winks is calling!”

  26

  Julie Continues

  I pictured Winks’s still body, sprawled on its side under the hedge down by the curb. Winks is dead. My brain froze on those words as I watched Delia swipe the screen, accepting the call, and raise the phone to her ear with a trembling hand.

  “H-hello?”

  Fumbling to take the call, she had put the phone on speaker, and we all heard the raspy growling voice at the other end:

  “Who’s next? I’m still hungry!”

  Detective Batiste dove forward and grabbed the phone from Delia’s hand. He raised it to his ear and shouted, “Who is this? Who are you?”

  We all heard the caller’s cold laugh. Then a click. The call was ended.

  “Someone has his phone,” Batiste murmured, gazing at the screen. “Someone took Rich’s phone.”

  “Can you hit redial?” Sergeant Anthony suggested.

  Batiste punched the screen, then waited. “It went straight to Rich Winkleman’s voice mail.” He handed the phone back to Delia.

  Hearing Winks’s voice on the phone message made her start to cry again. I dropped down beside her and tried to comfort her. But it was all I could do to fight back the tears, too.

  Chills rolled down my back, and, even though the room was warm, my teeth began to chatter. Shock, I guessed. Shock and horror and disbelief.

  And then, Spencer’s bedroom door swung open, and the little guy came walking out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He gazed around the room, saw the crowd of strangers, and made a beeline to his mom.

  “Spencer, go back to bed,” she said. She took his shoulders and started to turn him around gently.

  But he stepped away from her grasp. “Did they find Winks?” he asked in a tiny voice. “Is Cousin Winks okay? Can he come tuck me in?”

  Heartbreaking. And now the tears were rolling down my cheeks, and I couldn’t help it. I started to sob.

  I didn’t hear what Art and Marie said to Spencer. But I saw Art pick him up and carry him to his room.

  Detective Batiste stood over Delia and me. “I think you two should go home to your parents,” he said softly. “I want to talk to everyone tomorrow. But for now, I think you need to go home and get some rest.”

  I wiped the hot tears from my eyes with the back of my hand. I stood up and helped Delia to her feet. Some ringlets of her hair had fallen over her face, but she made no effort to push them away.

  “Do you two need help getting home?” Sergeant Anthony asked.

  I shook my head. “I can drive. Thanks.”

  I glimpsed Winks’s mother, sitting so still at the table, frozen like a statue. Her hand gripped her glass, but she made no effort to drink from it. Just stared at the wall, her face a total blank.

  Then Delia and I were out in the night, the ground shiny and wet with dew, the air carrying a chill, the trees black against the purple sky and still as death.

  An ambulance stood at the bottom of the driveway. I grabbed Delia’s arm as I saw two white-uniformed medics trying to slide Winks’s body into a big black plastic bag. A body bag.

  A cry of horror escaped Delia’s mouth. I gripped her arm tight in case she started to faint or something.

  “He’s going to sit up,” Delia whispered, to herself more than me. “Watch. He’s going to sit up and say it was all a joke.”

  But no. The medics were having trouble. Winks’s body slid out from the bag and hit the ground heavily.

  Headlights swept over the whole scene, putting the two medics in a spotlight so that their white uniforms gleamed brightly and their troubled faces came into focus.

  A car, one of those tiny, square Fiats, stopped sharply and edged to the curb. The driver’s door opened, and a girl climbed out. She left the headlights on and the motor running and came running toward the medics.

  In the yellow circles of light, I recognized Morgan. She ran hard toward the medics by the hedge, her hair flying behind her. She was nearly there when she spotted Delia and me.

  She stopped. “What’s going on?” she cried. “Is someone hurt?”

  Before I could answer, she turned and saw Winks’s face, saw the two uniformed men trying to slide him into the bag again. Saw him. Saw his closed eyes. Saw his legs disappear into the long body bag.

  “NOOOOO!” her shriek pierced the deep silence of the night. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and turned away from the sight of the dead body. Turned to Delia and me. “Omigod! It’s Winks? It isn’t Winks—is it?”

  Morgan burst into loud, body-shaking sobs. She dropped down beside the hedge. “No. It can’t be. No. No. No. Not Winks.”

  Delia and I hurried over to her. She raised her face to us, already swollen with tears. “He . . . he was the only one . . . ,” she stammered. “He was one of the only ones to be nice to me.”

  She covered her face and sobbed.

  Delia and I exchanged glances. I knew what Delia was thinking.

  Either Morgan was an extremely emotional person—or she was putting on quite a show. After all, Mo
rgan had only known Winks for about two weeks.

  Had she really felt that close to him so quickly?

  Delia had no idea that Winks and Morgan had any kind of relationship at all. We all kept it from her.

  We knew Winks wanted to win the bet he had made with Zane and Liam. We knew he had seen Morgan a few times. And we knew Winks had planned to break up with Delia.

  But none of us wanted to be responsible for bringing the bad news to Delia. And here was Morgan, acting heartbroken, as if she had lost the love of her life.

  Or was I being unfair?

  Her tears were real. And her chest-racking sobs seemed real, too.

  I heard footsteps on the gravel driveway and turned to see some others leaving the house. Batiste had Mrs. Winkleman’s arm, and she leaned on him as they made their way toward the patrol car at the curb.

  Sergeant Anthony followed behind. When he spotted Morgan beside the body bag on the ground, he hurried over to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Morgan lowered her hands from her face and nodded.

  Sergeant Anthony blinked. Maybe he was surprised by how beautiful she is, even when crying. “Did you know him? Are you a friend?” Anthony demanded.

  Morgan nodded. “I was driving home. I saw the ambulance. I . . . I didn’t know.” She turned to Delia and me, and screamed, “What happened? What happened to him?”

  Anthony crouched beside Morgan and placed a hand on the shoulder of her jacket. “We don’t really know,” he said softly. “Your friend . . . I’m sorry . . . Your friend . . . He was murdered.”

  Morgan let out a choking gasp and covered her face with both hands again.

  “We don’t know much more than that,” Anthony murmured.

  I watched Mrs. Winkleman climb beside Batiste in the front of his patrol car. They drove away.

  Something caught my eye at the far side of the house. I turned and peered through the trees that dotted the front lawn.

  “Whoa,” I murmured as I spotted someone hunched against the wall of the house. Someone standing very still. Watching us.

  In the square of orange light from the side window, I caught a good view of him. He was weird-looking. He had white-blond hair, closely cropped and spiked. And in the light, his eyes flashed, and I saw that they were silvery, almost no color at all.