Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

“You have Frosted Flakes every morning?”

“It’s my fave,” Jasmine said. “What are we gonna do for breakfast?”

“We could go to Denny’s.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I feel like a treat. How about you?”

“Yeah! I’ll get my school stuff, you can drop me after we eat.”

“Do I drive you everyday?”

“Is this one of the things you don’t remember?”

“Yep.”

“You drive me, then after you go to your school.”

“Thanks, kiddo.” But she was talking to air, because Jasmine had flown to her room to get ready.

Alone in the kitchen, Maggie rinsed out the coffee cup, dried it. She was surprised at how steady her hands were, because she was more nervous than she’d ever been on a first date. Very soon she was going to be stepping into Margo’s life, meeting her classmates. Did she have special friends at school? Favorite professors? Someone she flirted with? There were so many ways she could be tripped up, so many mistakes she could make. And on top of all that, there was the killer to worry about.

“I’m ready.” Jasmine came into the kitchen wearing a pink jumpsuit and pink tennis shoes.

“What, you don’t wear jeans to school?”

“You wanted me to dress like a little lady, remember?”

“That’s one of the things I think’s gonna stay forgotten. What do you say we go shopping this weekend for some new stuff for you? Jeans, T-shirts, running shoes, stuff like that?”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I borrow some stuff from Sonya till then?”

“Sure.”

“Be right back.” Jasmine flew from the kitchen.

Maggie put away the cup, plucked what looked like car keys off a key holder by the refrigerator. She studied them. Probably the last thing Margo had done in this kitchen was to put the keys on that key holder.

She went out to the living room to wait for Jazz. She was wearing the Levi’s and sweatshirt she’d worn yesterday. She was going to cut Margo’s first two classes and go by the police station in Long Beach, but she was going to school after and no way was she going to college dressed for the boardroom.

Jasmine burst in the front door. “How do I look?” She was wearing brown shorts and a faded Avatar tee shirt with white sneakers.

“Perfect.”

“Really?”

“You’re my girl. Let’s go.”

“You forgot the clicker.”

“The what?”

“You know the clicker for the top.” Jasmine picked up a small remote from the top of the bookcase. “Oh, I get it, this is one of those things you don’t remember. Well, you need this to put down the top before we get to the car.”

“A remote control for the top?” Maggie smiled. She couldn’t help herself.

“Yeah, neat, huh?”

“Neat,” Maggie said.

But a minute later, as they approached the car, Jasmine said, “Mom, you left the top down.”

“I must have forgot.” Maggie shivered. The killer must have grabbed Margo right here. How’d he get by the security guard?

“And look, you forgot to bring in a bag.”

Maggie looked at the bag of groceries in the passenger seat. That was the proof of it all. Margo had brought in two bags. The killer must have followed her in and snatched her when she came out for the last one.

“Good thing it’s only cans.” Jasmine stuffed it behind her seat as if she were used to her mother being a scatterbrain, then got in.

Maggie ran her hands over the driver’s door. It was red, like her Mustang. It was beautiful. She opened the door, slid into beige leather seats. The car still smelled new. Maggie closed her eyes. Her Mustang was only six or seven months old. She must have bought it about the same time Margo got the Porsche. They were both sports cars. They were both red. Had there been some kind of psychic connection between them?

“Come on!” Jasmine said.

“Okay.” Maggie started the car, felt a charge ripple through her as the engine sprang to life. Did Margo feel that same charge?

“Let’s go!”

“You don’t have to say that twice.” Maggie put the car in gear.

“So, can I have strawberry waffles?” Jasmine said.

“What?”

“You know, at Denny’s. Strawberry waffles. It’s my fave.”

“I thought Tony the Tiger was your fave,” Maggie said.

“At home it is, but in a restaurant it’s strawberry waffles.”

“If that’s what you want, then that’s what you get.”

“You’re not gonna make me eat oatmeal? Lately whenever we go out for breakfast you make me eat oatmeal. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“That’s okay,” Maggie said. Then, “Do we go out to breakfast a lot?”

“Only on the weekends.”

“Ah. Well, we’ll still do that, but no more oatmeal, you can have whatever you want.” Going out to eat was supposed to be special and oatmeal was anything but that. Maggie shook her head. Why would Margo take her daughter out to eat, then spoil it by not letting her have what she wanted?

Jasmine bubbled all through breakfast. Maggie doubted she’d ever seen anyone so happy. She almost wished she didn’t have to take her to school. It would have been nice if she could have spent the whole day just getting to know her. But she’d have time for that later, now it was important for her to get on with Margo’s life.

Maggie had promised Gay she’d go straight to the police station after she dropped Jasmine off at school and describe Ferret Face to the cops, but she wasn’t ready. Besides, nobody was going to kill her in class and by the end of the day she’d have her story down pat.

She found a spot in student parking, found the bookstore and got a map of the campus. Margo’s first class, Creative Writing, started at 10:00. American Government at 11:00. An hour for lunch, then Psych 1A at 1:00, Spanish at 2:00 and Biology at 3:00. A very full load.

She settled into the writing class. She may have come in at the middle of the semester, but she’d have no problem in the class. She spent the time listening to the professor drone on without taking notes. He wasn’t very good. Maggie thought back to when she had been in college, remembered her creative writing professor. He’d made fiction come alive, not like this guy. As an instructor, he was a wet noodle.

She gasped when she walked into the next class. The redhead she’d seen with Nick at the Lounge was talking to the professor at the front of the classroom. How could that be? What were the odds? Then she remembered Nick said she was a student at Cal State.

The girl looked up as Maggie took a seat at the back. They locked eyes for a second, then the redhead turned back to the professor, a smallish man in a cord jacket and slacks. She hadn’t recognized her. Didn’t have a clue. And she was a journalism student. What kind of reporter could she ever turn out to be? Maybe it was the new hair, or head job as Gay called it.

Maggie wondered if Nick spent the night with her, wondered what Nick was thinking right now. Did he have to go to the morgue to identify the body? Was he grieving? Could she find out from the redhead how he was handling it? Would that be smart? Probably not.

She saw the albino on her way to her third class.

“Mrs. Kenyon.”

“Officer — ,” she let it linger.

“Norton,” he said.

“That’s right.” She had to play it cool. It was a good thing Gay told her about the cops.

“We’ve missed you this last week.”

“Sorry.” She couldn’t think of what else to say. “Where’s your partner?” She remembered Gay saying he had a partner.

“He’s on his way to England.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He put in for a transfer a couple of years ago, kind of a cop exchange program. He found out he got accepted this morning. He’s on his way to the airport as we speak.”