single-family homes near the freeway. Big houses, small lots, spindly little trees tied to stakes amid square patches of lawn just big enough for a golden retriever to do his business.
We thanked Mrs. Brackenridge and climbed back into the Volvo, crossing our fingers that we had enough grease to make it.
After navigating through Orange Blossom Drive, toward Citrus Blossom Court, and down Blossom Breeze Avenue (Gee, think maybe someone had a thing for agriculture?), we finally spotted Andi in front of a large, two-story beige stucco house. While her hips were a little more generous than I remembered, there was no mistaking her dyed red hair and triple layer lips. She was wheeling a small, pink suitcase behind her and had a small, pink baby strapped to her chest in a snuggly carrier. Chubby little arms and legs were sticking out from her front like a starfish.
Sam pulled to a stop across the street.
“Hey, Andi!” I called as we got out.
She paused, putting one hand up to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun as she squinted at me.
“Do I know you?”
“Hartley Featherstone,” I supplied, jogging across the street to meet her. “From Girl Scouts.”
“Oh. Sure.” Though I could tell from the blank look on her face she didn’t really remember me. Or just didn’t care.
“Listen, I’m glad we caught up with you. I wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
Andi tilted her head to the side. “Questions? About makeup?” she asked. “Because we’re running a special right now on moisturizing lip balms. Two for five bucks.”
Hmmm, tempting . . .
“Actually, we were wondering if we could ask you about Courtney Cline.”
Andi’s face did a quick change from friendly saleswoman to PO’ed victim. “Courtney Cline was a total hypocrite, not to mention a complete bitch.”
“I take it you weren’t chummy?” I cleverly deduced.
“Chummy? Ha!” She tossed her hair over one shoulder, narrowly avoiding whipping the cooing baby in the face. “Look, I’m not gonna say anything bad about the dead—”
Too late.
“—but Courtney was definitely no friend of mine.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I said.
“I know. I heard the rumors.”
Fanflippintastic. Did the whole town know?
The baby strapped to her front started to wiggle, causing Andi to rock from foot to foot. I had a feeling the little creature wasn’t one for long conversations, so I got right to the point.
“We saw the text you sent Courtney on the day she died. The one where you threatened her.”
Andi narrowed her eyes at me, sizing up my trustworthiness. Lucky for me, apparently our mutual dislike of all things Courtney did the trick.
“What about it?” she said. “I was offering her a little proposition.”
“It looked like you were blackmailing her,” Sam pointed out.
Andi shrugged it off. “Semantics.”
“Tell me about the proposition,” I said.
“Well . . .” She paused, looking over her shoulder as if the beige stucco might have ears. “I had proof that the chastity queen wasn’t all she pretended to be.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Video. Of her pulling a Paris Hilton, if you know what I mean.”
A sick sensation bubbled up in my stomach, warning me that I shouldn’t ask this next question. But somehow there was a disconnect between my brain and my mouth because it came out anyway.
“With who?”
Andi bit her lip, then gave me a sympathetic head tilt that was an exact duplicate of the grief counselor’s. “Josh DuPont.”
I concentrated very hard on breathing in and out for a full ten seconds before I trusted myself to speak.
“That craptastical, gutless, son-of-a-cactus-humping butt monkey!”
Maybe I should have taken twenty seconds.
“Sorry,” Andi said. And she looked like she meant it. If anyone was acquainted with getting screwed over by a guy, it was her.
“Where did you get this video proof?” Sam asked, sending me a look from the corner of her eye as if she expected me to go
We thanked Mrs. Brackenridge and climbed back into the Volvo, crossing our fingers that we had enough grease to make it.
After navigating through Orange Blossom Drive, toward Citrus Blossom Court, and down Blossom Breeze Avenue (Gee, think maybe someone had a thing for agriculture?), we finally spotted Andi in front of a large, two-story beige stucco house. While her hips were a little more generous than I remembered, there was no mistaking her dyed red hair and triple layer lips. She was wheeling a small, pink suitcase behind her and had a small, pink baby strapped to her chest in a snuggly carrier. Chubby little arms and legs were sticking out from her front like a starfish.
Sam pulled to a stop across the street.
“Hey, Andi!” I called as we got out.
She paused, putting one hand up to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun as she squinted at me.
“Do I know you?”
“Hartley Featherstone,” I supplied, jogging across the street to meet her. “From Girl Scouts.”
“Oh. Sure.” Though I could tell from the blank look on her face she didn’t really remember me. Or just didn’t care.
“Listen, I’m glad we caught up with you. I wanted to ask you a couple questions.”
Andi tilted her head to the side. “Questions? About makeup?” she asked. “Because we’re running a special right now on moisturizing lip balms. Two for five bucks.”
Hmmm, tempting . . .
“Actually, we were wondering if we could ask you about Courtney Cline.”
Andi’s face did a quick change from friendly saleswoman to PO’ed victim. “Courtney Cline was a total hypocrite, not to mention a complete bitch.”
“I take it you weren’t chummy?” I cleverly deduced.
“Chummy? Ha!” She tossed her hair over one shoulder, narrowly avoiding whipping the cooing baby in the face. “Look, I’m not gonna say anything bad about the dead—”
Too late.
“—but Courtney was definitely no friend of mine.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I said.
“I know. I heard the rumors.”
Fanflippintastic. Did the whole town know?
The baby strapped to her front started to wiggle, causing Andi to rock from foot to foot. I had a feeling the little creature wasn’t one for long conversations, so I got right to the point.
“We saw the text you sent Courtney on the day she died. The one where you threatened her.”
Andi narrowed her eyes at me, sizing up my trustworthiness. Lucky for me, apparently our mutual dislike of all things Courtney did the trick.
“What about it?” she said. “I was offering her a little proposition.”
“It looked like you were blackmailing her,” Sam pointed out.
Andi shrugged it off. “Semantics.”
“Tell me about the proposition,” I said.
“Well . . .” She paused, looking over her shoulder as if the beige stucco might have ears. “I had proof that the chastity queen wasn’t all she pretended to be.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Video. Of her pulling a Paris Hilton, if you know what I mean.”
A sick sensation bubbled up in my stomach, warning me that I shouldn’t ask this next question. But somehow there was a disconnect between my brain and my mouth because it came out anyway.
“With who?”
Andi bit her lip, then gave me a sympathetic head tilt that was an exact duplicate of the grief counselor’s. “Josh DuPont.”
I concentrated very hard on breathing in and out for a full ten seconds before I trusted myself to speak.
“That craptastical, gutless, son-of-a-cactus-humping butt monkey!”
Maybe I should have taken twenty seconds.
“Sorry,” Andi said. And she looked like she meant it. If anyone was acquainted with getting screwed over by a guy, it was her.
“Where did you get this video proof?” Sam asked, sending me a look from the corner of her eye as if she expected me to go
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