Deadly Cool (17 page)

Caitlyn sniffed, her face showing what I would swear was genuine emotion.

“Kaylee and Courtney were my best friends in the whole world,” she told the camera. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without them.” She did a little sob, a single tear rolling down her face. Though I noticed it wasn’t actually enough to mess up her mascara in front of the camera. Cool trick. I wondered if she’d practiced it in front of the mirror or if it was a natural talent of Color Guard girls.

“What can you tell us about the other Color Guard members’ reaction to Kaylee’s brutal death?”

“We’re scared, Diane,” Caitlyn said. “It’s clear that a serial killer is targeting members of the Color Guard.”

While two people hardly qualified as serial, I had to admit that Caitlyn might have a point. It had to be more than coincidence that both Kaylee and Courtney had been killed. Was someone targeting them because of their abstinence beliefs? Was this less a personal vendetta than a moral one?

And, if it was, did that mean the killer wasn’t done? With both Courtney and Kaylee gone, there was one obvious target left.

And apparently she knew it, as she looked straight into the camera, her eyes shining with tears.

“I implore the police to find the persons responsible for these murders,” Caitlyn choked out. “Because if they don’t”—short pause for another sob—“I fear I may be next!”

SIXTEEN

I HAD TO ADMIT THAT IN CAITLYN’S POSITION, I’D BE A
little scared, too. As the lone purple clone left, it was entirely possible that Caitlyn was a sitting duck.

Which is why, as the bell rang, I decided that I had to talk to her. If someone did have a Color Guard grudge, she was the one person who might be able to shed some light on it. Unfortunately, Caitlyn spent fifth period in the grief counselor’s office. Then she had sixth period lit in the west wing while I had trig in the east, meaning that by the time the final bell rang and I was free to stalk my prey, she’d already left campus in her cute little Volkswagen Rabbit. (At least that’s what Ashley Stannic said when I caught up to her in the parking lot.) Luckily, according to Chris Fret, Caitlyn worked at Hollister in the Oakridge Mall after school on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. The mall was a ten-minute ride down Blossom Hill Road if you had a car. Or a half-hour bus ride with the homeless and mentally challenged if you didn’t.

Needless to say, fifteen minutes later, Sam and I were pleading our case to Kevin.

“Look, we just need to borrow the car for a few minutes. An hour, tops.”

He lifted his head from the sofa where he was lying, totally engrossed in a rerun of
Meerkat Manor
.

“I dunno,” he hedged, licking brownie dough off a plastic spatula. A bowl of mix sat in front of him, an empty box and bottle of water beside it on the coffee table. Apparently the munchies had hit before Kev could bake his brownies.

“We won’t go far,” I promised. “The mall is practically down the street.”

“The mall?” He looked up, a small glob of fudgey stuff clinging to the side of his mouth. “That’s the epitome of our capitalist materialistic society. I can’t even begin to tell you the horrors of the environmental and humanitarian crimes that are committed in the name of the almighty dollar at the mall.”

Seriously? It was a Cheesecake Factory and a couple of department stores. It wasn’t like they were killing puppies.

“We won’t buy anything,” I promised. “We just need to talk to someone there.”

“Who?” he asked, shoving another spatulaful into his mouth.

“Caitlyn Calvin. She works at Hollister.”

“Hollister? Dude, they, like, employ monkeys to sew their clothes!”

Sam put her hands on her hips. “Monkeys? Really?”

Kevin wrinkled his forehead. “Or maybe kids. Some workers that are really not cool.”

I vaguely wondered if those brownies were the “funny” variety.

“Look, we just need to talk to her,” I said, “about the deaths at the school. Both girls were her friends.”

“Dude. I heard about that. You found them. Both.” He gave me a long look.

“I had nothing to do with it!” I protested.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You sure?”

“That I didn’t kill two people? Yeah, kinda.”

Luckily, his brain was too full of holes to detect my sarcasm. “Okay. If you say so, I trust you, dude.”

“So . . . the car?” Sam asked. “Can we please borrow it?”

Kevin nodded, spooning more brownie goo into his mouth. “Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out. But she needs fuel.”

Uh-oh.

“You mean veggie oil?” I asked.

He nodded.

I hated to even ask. . . . “Okay. So, where do we get five gallons of veggie oil?”

“I suggest Burger Barn.”

Oh boy. The bus was looking better and better.

After helping Kevin find his keys (“Dude, like they were just here a second ago . . . oh, there they are. Under the brownie mix. Dude, want some brownie mix? It’s killer.”), Sam and I said a silent prayer to the gods of canola that we had enough fuel to drive the three blocks to Burger Barn.

Luckily, we had just enough, the Volvo giving a surrender cough as we glided into the parking lot and slid into a slot. Inside, three guys manned the registers—a twentysomething with pimples, an Indian guy with a mustache that looked like it needed its own hairnet, and a guy I recognized from my fourth period Spanish class.

“Hey,” I said, catching his attention.

He looked up from his register and squinted his eyes as if he were in denial about needing glasses. A second later recognition dawned on him. “Senorita Gonzalez’s class?”

I nodded. “Hartley.”

“Right. You’re the one that keeps finding dead chicks.”

Of all the things I aspired to be known for . . .

“Anyway,” Sam jumped in, knowing this was a touchy subject, “we were wondering if we could have some of your grease?”

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes darting to the visibly greasy countertop.

“For our car,” she explained. “It’s an SVO-converted engine, and we’re out of veggie oil.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Sure, I guess. I mean, we usually just throw that stuff out.”

Score.

“How much do you want?”

“How much do you have?”

“We’ve got a couple drums outside. Meet me around back,” he instructed.

We did, circling the building to the service entrance where Spanish Class Guy emerged from a minute later.

He pointed to a huge drum sitting near the Dumpster. “She’s all yours.”

The drum was almost as tall as I was; twice as wide; and had white, pus-looking stuff oozing out the top. Like a giant zit.

Lucky us.

“You got a funnel or something?” Spanish Class Guy asked.

Sam shook her head.

“Hmmm.” He stroked his chin where the first wisps of a goatee were trying their darnedest to grow. “Well, we’ve got some plastic gloves in the back. I guess you could just use your hands.”

I tried really hard to suppress a gag.

Two minutes later, Spanish Class Guy returned with a pair of plastic food-prep gloves. He gave one to each of us, then tossed a “Good luck” over his shoulder before disappearing back into Burger Barn.

Sam and I looked at each other.

“I guess we should dig in,” she said.

I nodded. “Yep.”

Neither of us moved.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“You gonna move soon?”

“Me? Why should I go first?”

“It’s
your
boyfriend that got us into this.”

“
Ex
-boyfriend. Besides, it’s your brother’s stupid eco car.”

We both looked at the Volvo. Then the drum. Then the teeny plastic gloves again.

“Fine!” I threw my hands up, giving in. “I’ll go first.”

I slipped the gloves on, then closed my eyes and shoved one hand into the vat of grease.

Oh. My. God.

It was soft and squishy, and it smelled like rancid meat. I clamped my mouth shut to keep my lunch down as I shoved one handful of gooey grossness into the fuel converter. That’s it, I was never eating anything cooked in oil ever again.

“Is it totally sick?” Sam asked, scrunching up her nose as she watched me.

“Nope,” I lied. “I’m good. Dig in.”

She looked a little green, but she did, shoving one gloved hand into the vat.

“Oh. My. God. This is so gross!”

“Breathe through your mouth. It doesn’t smell as bad that way.”

She nodded, the two of us panting as we shoved handful after handful into the converter.

Twenty minutes later we had shoved enough goo down the converter to get us to Oakridge and back. We hopped into the car, a stream of cheeseburger-scented smoke trailing in our wake. I prayed no one we knew saw us. Or smelled us.

Saving the environment was so gross.

The Oakridge Mall is home to every possible store you could ever want to shop at. Target, Macy’s, Old Navy, Sears, as well as all the usual mall staples, including Hot Topic, the Gap, and Hollister. It also houses a food court, a full movie theater, a P.F. Chang’s, a Cheesecake Factory, and a California Pizza Kitchen. I could happily live my entire life at this mall.

The only downside was that as they built more stores over the years, they ran out of room to build out the parking lot. We circled for fifteen full minutes before spotting a lady with a loaded stroller and two kids exiting Target. We car stalked her to the back of the parking garage (eliciting odd looks as we filled the entire lower section of the parking structure with burger smoke) and waited while she loaded the bigger kid into the back, the baby into the car seat, and the stroller into the trunk of her beige SUV. A truck came down the other aisle, peering at our prized spot, but Sam pointed to her blinker, honked aggressively at him, and he moved on. (I’m sure it was the honk that did it, not the fact that our smoke was starting to cloud the air.)

Once we seized parking victory, we cruised down the main thoroughfare of the crowded mall and made our way to the Hollister store, situated between the Victoria’s Secret and Borders. We paused to enjoy the larger-than-life man-candy image on the front wall of a guy wearing nothing but low-slung Hollister jeans before pressing inside to find Caitlyn.

We spied her right away at a display near the back, folding piles of pink T-shirts with sparkly peace-sign designs on them. (Cute. I wondered if they were on sale. . . . )

The second Caitlyn’s eyes lifted from the crop-sleeved T in her hand to meet mine, she let out a little scream. “You! Stay away from me! You’re the angel of death!” She jumped back, putting one hand out in front of her as if to ward off evil spirits.

Oh, brother.

“Relax, Caitlyn. I’m not armed.”

“That’s not funny. Because of you, two of my best friends are dead.”

“I didn’t kill them!”

But Caitlyn nodded vigorously, still keeping a good three feet between us. “Every time you go near someone, they die. You’re cursed!”

This time I did a real eye roll. “Seriously?”

“I’m not dead,” Sam pointed out. “And I hang out with Hartley all the time.”

Caitlyn bit her lip, digesting the logic of this statement. “You must be immune or something.”

I thought about pointing out that Caitlyn spent a lot more time with the dead girls—and therefore was way more likely an angel of death than I was—but I figured there was no sense in pissing off my prime witness. Instead, I tried to ease her mind with flattery.

“Nice shirt,” I said, pointing to the sparkly purple thing she had on. Honestly, it looked exactly like the one she’d worn last time I’d seen her. I wondered if she bought them in bulk.

But she was vain enough to bite. “Thanks. We’re sold out of these, but we have some in a more”—she paused, giving me an up-and-down look—“generous style near the register.”

I’m pretty proud of myself that I managed to keep a smile on my face. “Great. Thanks. I’ll check those out.” Okay, it was more of a grimace. “We actually wanted to ask you a few questions. About the interview you did this morning.”

At the mention of her KTVU debut, Caitlyn softened a little. “You saw that?”

I nodded.

“How did I look on camera?”

Her grief was touching.

“You looked fabulous.”

She tossed her hair over her right shoulder. “They said they might do a follow-up next week.”

“You said that someone was targeting members of the Color Guard,” I reminded her. “What did you mean by that?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty obvious. First Courtney, then Kaylee. Someone has a problem with us. We’re just too moral.”

I could think of quite a few other adjectives that described Courtney more accurately, but I had to admit that as far as I could tell, Kaylee had been the real deal. Sure, her perkatude was annoying as could be, but as far as I knew she wasn’t anything other than what she’d presented herself to be—a virgin obsessed with the perfect tan and twirling giant colorful flags at football games.

“Has anyone been threatening the Color Guard?” I asked.

Caitlyn nodded. “All the time. We get at least one hate letter a day. Some people just can’t stand that we’re so good.”

Go figure.

“Anyone in particular?” I asked. “Any threats seem especially menacing?”

Caitlyn scrunched up her nose, checking her mental memory banks. “Usually the threats are anonymous. But there was one last week from one of the Goth boys. He yelled ‘bitch’ at Courtney when we were leaving the Jamba Juice.”

Hm. It was a far cry from yelling expletives to strangulation.

I decided to go at it from another angle. “Any idea what Kaylee might have been doing out on the football field at that time of night?”

Caitlyn shook her head. “No. Sorry.”

“She didn’t mention meeting anyone?”

Again with the head shake. “No.”

“When was the last time you talked to Kaylee?”

“Yesterday. After school we went for mani-pedis. You know, to get our minds off Courtney.”

“How did she seem then?” Sam asked. “Nervous or upset about anything?”

Caitlyn put her hands on her hips. “You mean other than our best friend being killed?”