Newlywed Dead (17 page)

“The fact of the matter is that Ashley died from taking too much Xanax and then drinking alcohol.” Detective Murphy's voice was gruff. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk pad he had on top of his desk.

“According to my sources, half the people at the country club take Xanax,” I pointed out. “Any one of them could have slipped the drug into Ashley's drink. I mean, maybe they didn't intend to kill her. Maybe they meant to make her sick.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Detective Murphy asked.

“I don't know, maybe they were mad at Ashley. Take
Clark Fulcrum, for instance. He was upset that Ashley wouldn't serve him alcohol. I distinctly heard him say that he was going to tell his mom that Ashley was being insubordinate and that his mom would do something about it.”

“It sounds like a childish threat,” Detective Murphy said.

“That's what I thought at the time,” I said. “But I've learned that Ashley had a history with Clark and his girlfriend Samantha Lyn.”

“Besides meeting them at another event where Ashley bartended?”

“Well, no, at that event. You see, that was the only time Samantha Lyn admitted to anyone that Clark was not a good guy.”

Detective Murphy straightened. “What did she mean by that? Has Clark abused Samantha in any way?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not that she's said, anyway. But Samantha Lyn told me she doesn't really love Clark, but her mom and his mom are dead set on the union. Samantha is young and wants to please her parents. She told me that Clark was being horrible to her that day and she confessed it all to Ashley. Ashley left the event early, missing out on tips and wages she clearly needed just to take Samantha Lyn home and see that the girl was okay.” I paused for a moment to let that information sink in. “I think the mothers found out and were out to get Ashley.”

“Why?” Detective Murphy asked. “Why would they see a protective bartender as a threat?”

“Because Ashley made friends with Samantha Lyn. Everyone knows that peers are hugely influential when you are Samantha Lyn's age. The moms must have seen Ashley as a threat to their plans. They could have wanted her out of the picture. You know, a little Xanax slipped into a drink and Ashley would have gone home, leaving the kids alone. Both Mrs. Fulcrum and Mrs. Thomson have a prescription for the drug. With Clark complaining about Ashley yet again, it wouldn't have been hard to slip her something to get her out of there.”

“Do you know how crazy that sounds?” Detective Murphy said. “Like I've said, Pepper, you get too emotionally involved in your couples. You are there to facilitate the proposal. You aren't their life coach or their counselor.”

“I know that,” I said, and sighed. “But I can't rest thinking that Ashley killed herself accidentally. From what you've told me, she's been through a lot. If she were going to hurt herself—accidentally or not—she would have done it years ago. Right?”

“Maybe,” Detective Murphy hedged. “Sometimes these things lie dormant for a while. We don't know. Something could have triggered her that night.”

“If it did, then I have to know what it was,” I said. “Tell me what you know. Please. I can bring in more scones.”

He gave me a long look. “You are not going to leave this alone, are you?”

“No.”

“Fine,” he said, and took a folder out of a pile on his desk
and opened it. “I've been looking into Ashley's apartment. She lived alone, renting a room from a Polish woman near Lincoln Park. Her landlady told me that Ashley insisted on staying in the attic bedroom. There's a full-size one-bedroom apartment in the basement, but Ashley was—and I quote—too scared of sleeping on the first floor.”

“That's something,” I said, and studied the papers in the folder. I was pretty good at reading upside down. “Wait. Is that Ashley's mom's name and address?” I asked, pointing to the left-hand paper that listed a Mrs. Pamela Klein.

“Yes,” Detective Murphy said.

“It's a Chicago address,” I pointed out. I knew because I once went to a friend's bridal shower in that area. “I thought you said Ashley's family lived in Michigan.”

“No,” he said. “She went to college in Michigan, and that's where she was almost killed, but she was born and raised here in the city.” He closed the file and frowned at me. “You aren't supposed to see confidential stuff.”

“I want to talk to Ashley's mom,” I said. “You know, pay my condolences and such.”

“I don't think that's such a good idea, Pepper. That woman has been through enough.”

“Really?” I asked. “What if something happened to Emily? Hmm? Wouldn't you want to talk to one of the last people she spoke to? Wouldn't you want to know about the efforts to save Emily's life?”

“She isn't me,” Detective Murphy said softly.

“No, she's a grieving mother,” I agreed. “Look, I won't
tell her where I got her address. I promise. I'll take her a casserole. I know that would mean something to my mother.”

“Fine,” he said. “But I don't want to know about it.”

“Cool,” I said, energized. “Thanks, Detective Murphy.” I bussed a kiss on his cheek. “You're the best.”

He scowled at me. “Don't do anything stupid.”

I winked. “I'm taking a casserole to a grieving mom. How is that stupid?”

“The days spent waiting for Ashley to wake up were a nightmare,” Mrs. Klein said. “I thought those were the worst days of my life. I was wrong.”

I patted her hand. We were sitting in the small living room of the two-story flat that Mrs. Klein owned. Inside it was decorated like a 1990s Pottery Barn advertisement. The couch was blue and white toile with spots of yellow in the pillows and accessories. Mrs. Klein looked like a less thin, older version of Ashley with long blond hair and beautiful expressive eyes. There were wrinkles bracketing her thin lips and worry lines around her eyes. She wore a black, long-sleeved sweater and a pair of yoga pants. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted in neon blue. She had told me it was a tribute to Ashley. It seemed that
Ashley had loved to paint her toenails in crazy outrageous colors.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, and passed a tissue box to her. “Ashley was a good person. She didn't deserve to die like that.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Klein said, and dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. “She had lived this wonderful charmed life until she went away to college. Did you know her in high school?”

I had wormed my way in by saying that Ashley and I were fast friends and that I was missing her. Which wasn't exactly a lie. Plus the lasagna, loaf of garlic bread, and bottle of wine had helped ease my way into the Kleins' home. “No, I went to Fenwick.”

“Oh, well, your high school plays hers in sports. She was the head cheerleader. You might have seen her at basketball games,” Mrs. Klein said. “I have her scrapbook right here.” She reached over and pulled out the book.

I just smiled and nodded. I was a band geek. If I was at a basketball game at all in high school it was because I was assigned to play for band. But I wasn't going to burst her bubble.

“Here she is her sophomore year,” Mrs. Klein showed me a picture of a gorgeous, fit Ashley smiling while flying in the air and doing perfect splits. “She made the varsity team that year. She was so talented.”

“Wow,” I said, and listened to her talk about Ashley's high school years.

“She was prom queen her senior year,” Mrs. Klein said,
and showed me the picture of Ashley wearing a gorgeous Tiffany blue gown and a crystal tiara. “She was so smart. Did you know she got a full scholarship to Morduray? She was going to teach kids with learning disabilities. She always wanted to give back.”

“Ashley never told me she had a full scholarship,” I said honestly. “She was so different than the Ashley you are showing me. But I really liked her. She was so personable and kind and she had this quality about her that made me want to be her friend.”

“Everything changed that night,” Mrs. Klein said, and turned the pages of the scrapbook. “When they found her just barely holding on to life, I prayed and prayed. She was in a coma while we buried Kiera. The police interviewed several witnesses who saw the girls at the parade and then the bonfire after. It seems the girls left the bonfire early. No one saw them go, but they were shot in a nearby park sometime during the bonfire event. The police never solved the crime. I think that was the worst part of it for Ashley. She was here and alive but unable to help the police understand what happened. She couldn't remember the parade, the bonfire, or even why they left. In fact, she had no idea she was even in that park where she was shot. She lived with a lot of survivor's guilt over Kiera's death. She felt as if she should have died that day, too, but she couldn't tell anyone why.” Mrs. Klein paused. “Whatever happened, Ashley suffered terribly.”

“She told me about the headaches,” I said. “They were awful. She refused to take anything for them.”

“I know,” Mrs. Klein said. “Ashley hated to take any kind of drug. She always did. She wasn't a rule breaker. It's why her arrests were so horribly out of character. I couldn't get through to her. No one could.”

“She told me that she sometimes had flashes about that night,” I said carefully, watching Mrs. Klein's reaction. “Maybe there were triggers of some sort.”

She shook her head. “If there were triggers we couldn't figure out what they were. It was all so maddening for us and for her . . . my poor, poor baby.” Mrs. Klein put the book away and pulled out another, smaller one. “This one is strictly college pictures. I put it together thinking that if she felt comfortable seeing her friends and surroundings like this—and if they were familiar—then maybe it would ease her memory back to her.” She sighed. “But it never worked.”

“Here's Kiera,” she said, and pointed to a couple of the photos. “They were assigned as roommates Ashley's freshman year and they became inseparable.” She turned the page and showed me two photos. “This one and this one seemed to trigger a reaction from her every time she looked at them. But then she'd forget again, until she'd open the book and get startled. I can guess why one might be important, but not the other.”

I looked at the pictures she was pointing at. The first photo was a crowd scene with about a hundred people in it, all cheering or dancing or waving their hands in the air. Behind them was a banner announcing the Morduray homecoming. There was a large group of students around
a bonfire in the foreground and in the far background, a couple of parade floats. “That's a picture from the night Ashley was shot,” Mrs. Klein said. “I included it hoping it would jog her memory.”

Most of the faces in the photo were either blurred or were of people looking away. “Is Ashley in this picture or did she take it?” I asked.

“There,” her mother said. “That's her.”

I followed where she pointed and recognized Ashley. “Of course,” I said. “She was younger then, carrying a little more weight. It looked good on her, though,” I muttered. Her hair wasn't lifeless, her face not quite so worn-looking. “She was beautiful.”

“She was once,” her mother agreed. “The incident took its toll on her.”

“And this picture? “I asked, and pointed at the second one. “Was that taken the same night?”

“That's a picture of the homecoming parade,” she said. “Ashley helped decorate her sorority's float. She took this picture.”

I looked at it carefully but didn't see anything that would remind her of a shooting. The photo was of three sorority floats in a row. You could make out the back of the first float, all of Ashley's sorority's float, and the front of the next float.

“She was so proud to have helped design her house's float.”

The last item in the scrapbook was a large fabric sign, so big that it needed to be kept folded. “May I?” I asked and,
when Mrs. Klein nodded her agreement, I unfolded the fabric. The sign was blue and white with three Greek symbols. “Was this from her sorority?”

“No,” Mrs. Klein said. “Ashley belonged to a different one. I don't even know why she had this. Her father and I cleaned out her dorm and brought everything here after the . . . incident. We didn't want to throw anything away. I didn't know what its significance was, but the moment she came across it, she froze and nearly passed out. I decided it must be important.” She patted it. “So it went in here.”

Xi Omicron Mu. “That sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it.” I folded the fabric back up and made a mental note of the letters and colors. I had no idea what any of the things Mrs. Klein told me meant, but they were small clues that might lead to something bigger. “Thank you so much for sharing your memories of Ashley with me,” I said, and stood. “I wanted you to know that she might not have been the head cheerleader anymore, but she still made a difference in my life and in the life of a young girl she befriended at a wedding.”

Mrs. Klein stood with me and gave me a hug. “I'm so glad you stopped by. I needed to hear about Ashley's last hours. Thank you again for trying CPR. I'm grateful that you were there to try to save my baby.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “But I didn't save her,” I said.

She patted my back. “It's enough to know that you tried,” she said. “Thank you.”

I wanted to tell her that I wouldn't rest until whoever did this to Ashley would be found and prosecuted, but one
look in her eyes and I bit my tongue. At this point I only had suspicions. Giving Mrs. Klein false hope wasn't helping anyone.

*   *   *

I went straight home and turned on my computer and browsed the Morduray College website to see if I could get any of those homecoming pictures from two years ago. After speaking to Ashely's mom, I was certain that somehow the shooting that night had to be connected to Ashley's death. If the person who shot Ashley at homecoming was the same person who killed her at the country club, there had to be a connection between Morduray College and someone at my sister's wedding.

I knew that my sister and I didn't go to Morduray. In fact, no one from my family had gone there, which meant it had to be someone from the groom's side or another one of the servers. Maybe more pictures would give me a different angle or help to clarify the story of what happened to Ashley and Kiera. I had a feeling that if I solved the shooting, I'd know who killed Ashley. I clicked on a link to a photographer. It looked like they had this year's photos up for people to order. I dug up their phone number and made a quick call.

“Morgan Photography, the official Morduray College photographer. This is Kathi, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Kathi,” I said. “My name is Pepper Pomeroy. I'm working on a collage for a friend's mom and I was wondering if you still have pictures from the Morduray College
homecoming from two years ago. My friend was part of the bonfire and in the homecoming parade. She died recently and I thought it might be nice to do something for her mom.”

“Oh, my condolences,” Kathi said. “Yes, we do have all those pictures available. We keep pictures for ten years.”

“Do you have some sort of proof page where I can go and pick out the ones I want?”

“Yes,” she said. “Are you on our website?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Go to the top left and click on ‘Buy Pictures.' When the page comes up, go to the search box and type in ‘Morduray College homecoming' and the year. All the pictures we have will pop up. They are all watermarked so you can't download them, but you can click on the ones you want and order them. Once they are in your shopping cart, you can pay online. We will print them out to the size you request and will ship them to you as soon as possible. Where do you live?”

“I'm in the Chicago area,” I said. “Will it take long to get the pictures? I'm hoping to have this collage for a memorial service two days from now.”

“We can get those pictures rushed to you and you can have them within forty-eight hours.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “Thanks.” I clicked through the steps and up popped one hundred proof pictures of that night. The bonfire, the parade, the game, and the homecoming queen were all there. I chose shots that appeared to be close to the picture that Mrs. Klein had in Ashley's
scrapbook. In the end I ordered fifteen digital copies to be e-mailed to me. Once they took off the proof lettering I could better see what was underneath. The cost set me back a hundred dollars, but it seemed like a small price to pay if they helped me identify Ashley's killer.

Next on my to-do list was to look into Xi Omicron Mu. It turned out it was a coed fraternity. They posted pictures of their members from the last five years. I printed them out, but the pictures were group shots and I didn't have access to facial recognition software, so I stacked up the pictures into a pile to be reviewed with a magnifying glass later tonight.

Finally, I contacted the fraternity.

“Xi Omicron Mu, this is Hanna, how can I help you?”

“Hi, Hanna,” I said. “My name is Pepper Pomeroy. I'm putting together a memorial collage for a friend of mine who died recently. She went to Morduray and I wondered if I could get some copies of your homecoming pictures from two years ago.”

“Was she a member?”

“No,” I said. “Her mother said she wasn't, but she did have a piece of fabric with your Greek letters on it and your colors. So I thought maybe she was at some of your functions? She might even have had a friend or two in the fraternity.”

“I'm sorry, I can't help you,” Hanna said. “Our pictures and activities are restricted to members only. Do you know a member? If so, they could sponsor you and get you access to the shots you are looking for.”

“No,” I said. “I don't know a member.” I frowned. Why did it sound familiar? Did I know a member? Clearly it wasn't Ashley.

“I'm sorry, then,” she said. “Access to party pictures is restricted. With social media and people able to Photoshop people into pictures, we've made it a policy to restrict access to our party pictures. I'm sure you understand.”

“Certainly,” I said.