Sticking a napkin end into my water glass, I proceeded to dab at the small globs of marinara sauce that had dribbled out of my chicken parmigiana sandwich, landing like large blood drops down the front of my baby blue sweater, not once but twice. Once when I took my first bite—the second when my lunch compan-ion made her startling announcement.
“I think my son is the Blond Bomber” was what she’d said.
Yep, I’m sure of it. Positively, absolutely, and without a doubt sure that the elegant and lovely older woman sitting across from me had said those exact words.
“Odelia, did you hear me?”
I kept dabbing at the now rust-colored pattern of stains dot-ting the blue sky of my bosom and tried to think of something else. Anything else.
Have you ever noticed that small-breasted women almost never have food stains on the front of their clothing? Maybe Shout or Spray ’n Wash should have plump women with big breasts tout-ing their products on TV. Tiny women with big boobies wouldn’t work. After all, no one in their right mind would believe they eat anything worth spilling. Yep, plump women with big, drip-catch-ing boobs—that would sell the product to me. I might even audi-tion for the part.
“I said, my son might be the Blond Bomber, the serial killer.” This was said just a tiny bit louder and with more conviction than the first time. “You know, the one in the news.”
“I heard you the first time, Lil.”
My response was gentle, not snappish or impatient. I forgot about the stain on my chest and my marketing plan for stain-removing products and looked up at her just so she’d see I wasn’t cross.
Lillian Ramsey sat across the table from me, the picture of grace and propriety. She was about seventy years of age, with ramrod posture and impeccable manners. Her hair, a very pale silver blond, was cropped into a soft, wispy hairdo that accented her crystal blue eyes and perfect, yet lined, complexion. Her makeup was flawless, her choice of lipstick perfect. I should look so good at her age. Hell, I’d be happy to look that good at fifty, which was in one year and four months. But who’s counting?
“That’s a pretty serious assumption, Lil, for anyone. But for a mother?”
As tears started welling, she lifted her napkin and dabbed at the inside corners of her eyes. “Do you think this was a conclusion I came to easily? It’s not a joke.”
Lillian Ramsey was originally from Teaneck, New Jersey. She had been widowed twice: once when she was young, the second time a few years ago. Her second husband, Cecil Ramsey, had left her extremely comfortable. Brian Eddy, her son from her first mar-riage, is a doctor, a plastic surgeon living and working in Orange County. Dr. Brian Eddy had developed a technique that allowed such surgeries to be done with less pain and recuperating time, making it perfect for actors needing a quick tuck between proj-ects. While other plastic surgeons might be considered tops in the field, Brian Eddy was the top of the top, the surgeon’s surgeon. His boobs were perkier, his noses straighter, his fannies tighter. He was the Orville Redenbacher of implants and liposuction.
But the Blond Bomber?
The Blond Bomber was the nickname given to a serial killer who had been plaguing Southern California on and off for the past year. So far, four women had been murdered. While they were from different economic stations and varied in age, all the mur-dered women had one thing in common: they were considered blond bombshells—women with killer figures, long light-blond hair, and even longer legs. Except for the physical attributes, the women seemed to have no other connection.
The latest murder had occurred just three weeks ago and had been too close to home for my comfort, even though I am hardly a blond bombshell. Now, if the killer was looking to off a short, two- hundred-plus, cranky, middle-aged woman with medium-brown hair and freckles, I was his gal.
His last victim had been a nurse who worked at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach. She had disappeared following her shift and was found three days later in Laguna Canyon, naked, tied to a tree, and dead. According to the news, the word whore had been printed on her torso in black, just like all the others.
My friend Dev Frye, a Newport Beach homicide detective, had been called in to assist on the case since the victim had lived and worked in Newport Beach. This past
Tuesday, in celebration of Greg’s birthday, Greg and I had invited him over for dinner with a few other friends, and he had arrived late, with a bottle of fine wine in hand, his face haggard and distressed.
“No, Lil, I’m sure it’s not a joke. Not to you, not to anyone. But to suspect your own son of such a heinous thing, it’s so … so …” Search as I might, I couldn’t think of the right word.
Bingo. “Yes, Lil. So unspeakable.”
Lil took a sip of her coffee and dabbed at the corners of her mouth before continuing. “I’m sure Jeffrey Dahmer had a mother.
And Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. Monsters are born into this world just like everyone else, Odelia.”
I nodded, speechless for a change. I studied Lil. We’d met online several years earlier in an Internet game room and soon found our-selves meeting online once or twice a week to play backgammon. Increasingly, the online meetings had less to do with the games and more to do with sharing our lives and exchanging ideas. We finally thought it silly not to meet in person, especially since I lived in Newport Beach and she lived in Laguna Hills, which aren’t that far from each other. We started meeting every few months after that for lunch. Lil had even attended my wedding, and even though I now live in Seal Beach, which is a bit further up the coast from Laguna Hills, we still make time for our occasional lunches.
I had yet to meet the talented Dr. Brian Eddy, even though I’d heard quite a bit about him.
“Of course, I know you’re right, Lil. But still, it’s so creepy and bizarre. How on earth did you come up with such an idea? I mean, do you have any proof?”
She held the napkin up to her nose and sniffed gently. “No, no hard evidence, just a lot of coincidences. And some things I’d rather not talk about right now.” She looked around the restaurant. It was a pleasant and airy café near her home—a place frequented by a lot of her neighbors from Leisure World, the retirement com-munity where she resided. “At least not here.”
Stealing a glance around the restaurant, I noted many well-heeled elderly couples and pairs of ladies enjoying their lunch, several of whom had smiled and waved when we first came in. At forty-eight, I was easily the youngest person in the place, outside of the restaurant staff.
Glancing discreetly at my watch, I wondered if Lil expected to continue this conversation back at her condominium after lunch. It was almost two o’clock, and Greg and I were meeting our close friends, Zee and Seth Washington, for dinner and a movie tonight. Still, my curiosity was heightened, and I wanted to know more. I also felt that Lil needed to say more but wasn’t sure how to begin outside of blurting out her initial suspicion.
I looked down at my forgotten, messy sandwich. Lil had resumed nibbling on her chicken salad, so I followed suit by removing the top piece of the roll and eating the chicken parmigiana sub with a knife and fork. After a few bites in thoughtful silence, I turned my attention back to Lil’s hot topic.
“Why are you telling me this, Lil?”
She didn’t look up from her salad but instead studied the mixed greens and chopped chicken when she spoke.
“I didn’t know what else to do.” Her voice was small. When she did finally look up, her eyes were not the eyes of a twice-widowed mother but the confused, wide eyes of a lost child. “I’ve had my suspicions since the third girl was …” Her voice drifted off as she went back to examining her meal.
I still clearly remembered the third victim of the Blond Bomber because she had, indeed, been a girl. Her name had been Gabby, Gabrielle Kerr. A precocious sixteen-year-old from Pasadena, she had naturally and prematurely developed like a Playboy Bunny centerfold. It had come out in the investigation that Gabby had been talking to someone new on the Internet several weeks before she disappeared. Like the others, she’d also been found naked and bound to a tree, with the word whore etched across her young stomach. She’d also been the only victim under twenty-one. It had happened just three months ago, and it made me wonder if Gabby had been a mistake—if maybe she’d convinced the murderer that she was older than she was before they met. I also wondered if she hadn’t been in such a rush to grow up, would she still be alive?
“Why didn’t you tell someone sooner?”
“I kept hoping something would turn up to prove me wrong… something that would show me I was just a silly old woman with an overactive imagination.”
I had something harsh to say, something that would only make Lil feel worse, but something that had to be said. I chose my words as carefully as I knew how.
This time when the tears threatened to flow, Lil made no attempt to stop them. In short order they pooled, dripping down her cheeks slowly. She looked stricken.
There was food for thought—food that didn’t drip down the front of a sweater as much as it dripped down the inside of my brain like hot wax. It made me wonder how much of my own quirky behavior could be attributed to my mother abandoning me at sixteen and her emotional abandonment long before that. Still, I hadn’t turned to taking innocent lives to act out my issues. At least not yet.
“Oh, Lil, I’m so sorry, but I’m sure you’re wrong. Would you like me to contact one of the detectives on the latest murder? He’s a friend of mine. His name is Dev Frye, and I’m sure he could put your fears to rest.” Or confirm them, I thought but didn’t dare say.
Holy crap, I thought to myself, what if Brian Eddy is the Blond Bomber? What then?
I reached over and patted one of her hands as it rested on the table. “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m so glad you asked that, my dear. I was hoping you could help.”