Chapter Thirty-Two
Thirty-two
When I was through with my interview, Gleason called Tony into the room. Spike was still waiting. “How did it go?” Spike said.
“It went,” I said.
“That good, huh?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said. “Where’s Melanie Joan?”
“She and Charles left to get something to eat,” Spike said, explaining that, since the two of them hadn’t been charged with a crime, yet, they took full advantage and cut their interviews short.
I was pretty sure that by get something to eat, Spike meant find the best defense attorney money could buy. At least, I hoped so.
I texted Melanie Joan: I need to talk to you two ASAP.
She replied: Driving back to Boston.
I typed: Turn around!
For several seconds, there was no reply. Then those three dots, which pulsed for much too long a time. And then: OK.
I asked when they’d be back and Melanie Joan replied: About 15 mins. Which was good. That gave me just enough time to use the ladies’ room, grab a much-needed cup of coffee from the vending machine (Mr. Personality hadn’t even thought to offer me one), and get my gun back from security.
“You mind heading back with just Tony?” I said to Spike.
“I’ll miss your backseat driving,” he said, “but I’ll survive.”
I smiled. We said goodbye.
“Never a dull moment for us,” Spike said.
“We should be so lucky,” I said.
—
Somebody must have alerted the press or posted about Leila Donnelly’s murder on social media.
Because by the time I left the police barracks, there were three news vans setting up in the parking lot, plus dozens of amateur sleuths and/or fans milling around, some commiserating with one another, others trying to capture the moment—any moment—their phones up and recording.
I searched the lot for Melanie Joan’s limo.
I checked the parameters in particular, assuming that with this type of crowd forming, she’d want to keep her distance.
No sign yet.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I half-expected Melanie Joan, but instead I found myself inches away from a young woman with flushed cheeks and wild eyes, her hair done up in a messy bun with a tiara shoved into it.
I took a step back. She wore cargo shorts and a stained T-shirt that said Happily Ever After.
Oh, and she was also sporting angel wings.
If the look she was striving for was “fairy princess after a weeklong bender,” she’d nailed it.
“Do you know anything about what happened to Leila?” the young woman said.
“I don’t,” I said. “Sorry.”
“I heard it was whatshername. Melissa Joan Hart. She killed Leila.”
For some reason, I felt the need to correct her. “Melanie Joan Hall.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Did you see her on that TV show? The morning thingy?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a clip online. She’s psycho.”
“I watched the whole thing and I didn’t think so.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope. A little tired, maybe. Upset. But otherwise, sane.” You, on the other hand…I gave her what I hoped was a polite smile and took a step away.
She didn’t take the hint. “You want to know what I heard?”
“Not really.”
“I heard that Hart shaved Leila’s head after she killed her, and wove her hair into a shawl. That’s how they caught her. She was wearing the shawl.”
I stared at her for a few seconds. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a real thing that happened,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Um…It isn’t shawl weather?”
“You just don’t understand psychos,” she said.
“I suppose I don’t.”
“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “Leila’s books saved me.
Mr. Forever got me through the worst breakup of my life.
It taught me that there’s a special plan for everybody.
That there’s a Mr. Forever out there for me, and to trust my feelings and never settle and my Mr. Forever just might be Timothée Chalamet.
Leila showed me this, with her beautiful, beautiful words. ”
I glanced around the lot again. What was taking them so long?
“Now there won’t be any more Leila books,” she said. “No books, no messages. Do you even get how fucked-up that is? Do you?”
She was starting to genuinely scare me. I inched away some more, wondering if it was fair to judge an author by her fans. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I tried.
“If Melissa doesn’t get the death penalty, then someone else will do the job.”
I shuddered. Would it help to explain due process? Probably not.
My phone pinged with a text. Saved by the bell. Literally.
It was from Melanie Joan: We’re across the street.
I looked up. Melanie Joan’s limo was parked against the curb, the hood shielded by a maple tree. “My ride’s here,” I told the fairy princess. Then I took off.
—
Charles hit the button, unlocking the doors. I slid in back, next to Melanie Joan, and slammed the door behind me.
“Who was that you were talking to?” she said.
“A lunatic,” I said.
“I guessed that from how fast you got away from her.”
“And maybe her outfit gave you a clue?” I said. “It’s a police station. Not Comic Con.”
Melanie Joan narrowed her eyes. “What was she saying?”
“Nothing important,” I said. “But promise me you will keep a low profile until they clear you.”
“Why?”
“Listen to her, Ms. Hall,” said Charles.
“Hire a bodyguard, too,” I said.
Melanie Joan peered out the window. The deranged fairy princess stared after us with her big, unhinged eyes.
“Thank God for tinted glass,” I said.
“Amen,” said Charles.
“I’m starting to get scared,” said Melanie Joan. “You’re scaring me, Sunny.”
“Better scared than dead,” Charles said. He pulled away from the curb slowly, his shoulders tensed, his face serious. “There’s a lot of fuckin’ weirdos out there. Pardon my French.”
I waited until we were away from the station and on the road to ask why the hell they drove back to Leila Donnelly’s house yesterday afternoon.