Chapter 36
Livvy was waiting, and when Felice finally returned to the dorm just after ten that night, she pounced.
“Hey,” she greeted her colleague. “How was work?”
“It was work,” Felice said, dropping down onto the sofa and kicking off her Crocs.
Livvy patted her own lap. “Here. Put your feet up and I’ll rub them like my mom used to do for me before I moved in here and she disowned me.”
“And why would you do that?” Felice asked, her suspicious nature taking over.
“Because I have something I need to talk to you about. And also, I’m a nice person.”
“I’m not that nice a person,” Felice said, but she swung her legs up onto the sofa.
“Be right back.” Livvy went to her room, and when she returned she carried a bottle of scented lotion and a towel. She went into the kitchen and ran hot tap water over the towel.
Back on the sofa, she wrapped the towel around Felice’s feet. “Close your eyes.”
Her coworker did as she was directed. Livvy removed the towel, squeezed a dollop of lotion into her hands, and went to work, rubbing and kneading Felice’s feet, cracking her toe joints one by one, and massaging the lotion into the skin.
“Oh God, that’s nice,” Felice croaked, keeping her eyes shut.
She opened one eye and fixed it on Livvy. “Now. What’s so important you think you have to bribe me with a foot massage?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Yeah. Sure. Spill it, girl, ’cause I gotta get to bed pretty soon.”
Livvy took a deep breath. “I want you to help me figure out who killed Parrish.”
“You don’t know she was killed. Maybe she had a heart attack or something.”
“Come on. The cops obviously think there was foul play. We wouldn’t do anything illegal. Just, you know, look around, ask some questions. Observe.”
“No way,” Felice said, swinging her legs back down onto the floor. “You do you, Livvy, but I am out. Ask one of the guys if you wanna go playing detective. Where are those two clowns, anyway?”
“It’s hospitality night tonight at Pour Willy’s. Two-buck beers,” Livvy said. “And just between the two of us, I think KJ and Garrett are okay, and I don’t really think they would have done anything to purposely hurt Parrish. But I also don’t totally trust them.”
“The answer is still no,” Felice said.
Livvy wasn’t so easily deterred. Her mother used to compare her to a rat terrier when she was after something she wanted. “Hey. Remember that blue composition book Parrish used to carry around with her?”
“I guess.”
“She called it her little blue bitch book. She kept notes in it about all the guest complaints and requests she dealt with. Mrs. E wants to find it. And so do I.”
Felice’s expression remained stony. “I got no idea where something like that would be.”
“But you could help me look for it,” Livvy suggested. She turned and pointed toward the door to Parrish’s room, where the yellow crime scene tape had finally been removed.
“The cops must have finished looking in there while we were out today. So, what would it hurt if we went in there—just to look for the bitch book, which Mrs. E wants.”
“You already said the part about Mrs. E, and I keep telling you, there’s no ‘we,’” Felice repeated. “I am not fixing to become your sidekick, accomplice, or coconspirator.”
“But you could be my lookout, right?”
Felice gave a martyred sigh. “All right. But you’re gonna owe me another foot rub when I get off work tomorrow.”
“You got it.”
Livvy winced when she saw the room’s state of disrepair. Parrish had furnished the room with gorgeous designer linens, monogrammed bedding, even a slipcovered chair that matched the bed’s dust ruffle. The inexpensive dresser held a silver-framed photograph of Parrish, in pigtails, her arms around a brown-and-white dog.
The police search had been thorough; all the drawers in the dresser had been pulled out, their contents tossed onto the thick rug. The tiny closet had been emptied and the mattress pulled off the box spring. Suitcases had been pulled out and sat on top of the bed frame, exposing dozens of pairs of expensive designer shoes.
“Oh man,” Felice said, pointing at one of the suitcases. “Look at all those killer shoes. I bet those Jimmy Choos cost more than my car.”
“Mine too,” Livvy said, as she knelt beside the bed and poked her head beneath it.
“Nothing under here,” she reported, sitting back on her heels. “If you were Parrish, where would you keep something like a notebook?”
“My purse, or my desk at work, or my nightstand,” Felice said.
“I think the cops took her purse, and it’s not in her desk at work, and I checked the nightstand first thing.”
“My car,” Felice added.
Livvy stood up and snapped her fingers. “The Audi. I should have thought of that.”
“Which the cops towed away this morning,” Felice said.
Livvy moved to the dresser and began picking up clothing, carefully folding each item and placing it in one of the suitcases: Parrish’s silk thong panties, the matching bras, shirts, shorts, bathing suits.
“What are you doing, and why?” Felice asked.
“I don’t know,” Livvy admitted. “Someone from Parrish’s family— maybe her dad, or that stepmother of hers or even Mrs. E, is going to want to come in here and pack her stuff up.” She began folding dresses. “And they’re gonna feel so awful, and so sad, when they see this mess.” She gestured at the floor, still littered with the dead girl’s clothes and other belongings.
Felice nodded and silently began picking up clothing, following Livvy’s example.
Within ten minutes, they’d packed everything into the suitcases.
“Give me a hand with this,” Felice said, grabbing one side of the mattress.
Together, they replaced the mattress and by unspoken, mutual agreement, began stripping the bed, folding the high-thread-count sheets, then the quilted coverlet, even folding the down comforter and placing it at the foot of the bed.
Felice pointed to the mound of decorative throw pillows stacked beside one of the nightstands. “That girl sure loved her pillows. Must be at least a dozen.”
“And they’re all so pretty,” Livvy said, picking one up and placing it against the headboard.
“Not like that.” Felice grabbed the smaller pillow and replaced it with a large, square Euro sham. “Parrish always had these big square pink-and-white-striped ones against the wall.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Livvy said, placing the matching Euro on the other side of the bed. “But how do you happen to know how she made up her bed?”
“Some days, after she’d left for work, I’d sneak in here, just to look,” Felice admitted. “She had it fixed up like something from a magazine. Not like our rooms with those crummy Walmart bedspreads.”
“I used to do the same thing. Parrish had such great style. Without even trying.”
“Rich-girl style,” Felice said. “You think she was born with it?”
“Maybe.” Livvy picked up a pair of matching slightly smaller pillows, patterned with green vines and pink flowers, holding one in each hand.
“Hey,” she said, dropping the pillow in her left hand and holding up the one in her right hand. “This one’s heavier.”
She searched the pillow’s flanged seam and found the invisible zipper, sliding it open. As she did so, a slender blue-and-white composition book slid onto the floor.
Both women stood staring down at it, before Felice picked up the book and handed it to her coconspirator. “Looks like the bitch book to me.”