I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty

Fess stops playing mid-strum.

He turns down the volume on his guitar to listen to the noise outside his window.

A girl’s voice sings, “…I feel pretty, oh so pretty…”

“Bet it’s the neighbor’s kids spying on me again.”

Fess rests his guitar against the couch, then goes to shut the window.

“You kids stop prankin’ me or I’m callin’ the cops!”

He jumps back, startled by the sight of a petite masked intruder peering through the window. The white mask looks festive yet threatening. Black and golden curls are painted where a girl’s hair would be, and long, exaggerated eyelashes frame the eye slits. Large, prominent black teardrops mark both cheeks, and the mask’s lips are painted blood red.

The mask may cover the girl’s face, yet fire burns in her dark eyes.

“…What the?”

The girl sings, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty..."

                                               ***

Detectives Tobin Burkhardt and Swanson “Swanie” Morell limbo under the police tape at the house’s front door, making a beeline for Dabbs Dernier, Mount Joy’s coroner.

Tall, debonair, mustachioed, blue-eyed, with a handsome, matinée-idol look, forty-three-year-old Tobin has been on Mount Joy’s police force for more than two decades and attributes his ninety-five percent clearance rate to his no-nonsense attitude. He leaves the frivolity to his thin, balding partner, thirty-eight-year-old Swanson, whose usual broad smile puts everyone at ease. His long neck and aquiline nose earned him the nickname “Swanie.”

Tobin studies Fess Finger’s body, slumped on a couch, cradling an electric guitar.

He gives Dabbs a narrow, questioning glance. “An electrocution? That’s an accidental death. Do you mind telling me why we’re here?”

Dabbs cautiously lifts Fess’s head. His face is blistered and red, with some of his damaged skin dangling off his face. The back of his head is bloodied.

“Asked and answered,” Swanie comments.

“Staged to look like an electrocution to delay us,” Tobin says.

Dabbs reports, “It appears he was standing with his back to his assailant, who picked up his guitar and hit him in the back of the head... repeatedly until he was dead.”

“Ah, the old El Kabong routine,” Swanie says.

“The what?” Tobin asks.

“Didn’t you watch Quick Draw McGraw cartoons when you were a kid? His alter ego was El Kabong. He used to subdue the bad guys by bashing them in the back of the head with his guitar. It was a scream.”

“I doubt Mr. Finger found it funny.”

                                               ***

Remington Valise cruises along the back roads of Slippy Rock on his prized vintage Harley motorcycle, happy to trade the pressure of making money for others and the monotony of life with his wife and two kids for the serenity of the open road.

A blue SUV appears, racing dangerously close behind him.

“…Back off, you reckless idiot!” Remington mutters, signaling the SUV to pass him.

Instead, the SUV draws closer.

Remington accelerates. Within seconds, he and his pursuer are speeding along the winding dirt road at seventy miles per hour.

“BACK THE HELL OFF!”

The SUV bangs into the bike’s rear. The bike wobbles, but Remington regains control.

The SUV’s engine roars as Remington braces for another hit.

“I’m not a thug! I’m just a financial planner out for a ride!” Remington shouts.

The SUV slams into the back of the Harley. The bike and Remington are catapulted over a guardrail.

The SUV pulls onto a nearby shoulder.

Two undersized figures step out. They walk to the railing to look at Remington’s twisted remains.

“Do you have the bottle?” the man asks.

The girl holds up a bottle of acid.

“Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” the girl in the mask answers. “Can’t you see I’m smiling? He deserves a few last words before we get to work...”

“Yeah, cuss words,” the man replies.

The girl begins to sing.

“I feel pretty, oh so, pretty…”

                                               ***

Swanie leans back in his chair, exhaling heavily.

“If it weren’t for the acid burns, we might not have linked Fess Finger and Remington Valise to the same killer. But they don’t seem to have anything in common. Valise was thirty-four. He lived in Slippery Rock, forty miles north, and was a financial planner for Ameriprise, with a wife, two kids, and a triple-figure salary. Fess Finger was forty-six, twice-divorced, with no kids, rented his hovel, and barely scraped by playing in bars.”

The pair of detectives spread the victim’s belongings out on a table.

Tobin picks up a pack of matches found in Fess’s house, bearing The Stumble Inn’s logo on the cover.

Swanie picks up a pack of matches found in Remington’s jacket pocket with The Stumble Inn’s logo on it.

                                               ***

Shotzie Glass looks at the photos of Fess Finger and Remington Valise.

The face of the double-chinned, moo-moo-attired owner of The Stumble Inn’s screws into a frown.

“They don’t look so good.”

“That’s because they’re dead,” Swanie replies. “Have you ever seen them together?”

“As a matter of fact, I have, about six months ago. I remember them because they seemed like such an unlikely pair... A long-haired musician in jeans with a businessman with a hundred-dollar haircut and a tailored suit…They were with a girl who works at Kohl’s, a real man trap, a Suzanne Somers lookalike with a healthy dose of attitude. All three of them were shook up… They looked intense, sad. They drank like fish for a couple of hours. I remember carding the girl because she was such a wisenheimer and looked so young, but she had proof she was twenty-one. They argued a bit, then split up. Fess has played here a few times since, and the girl has come in here on weekends with her girlfriends, and the Fancy Dan still comes in here again for business meetings…”

“Did you hear what they were talking about?” Tobin asks.

“I bent an ear in their direction because I was curious, you know? I didn’t get much, but I do remember Fancy Dan repeating, ‘We should have done something.’”

“You said you got a look at the girl’s license,” Tobin says. “What are the chances you remember her name?”

“I do. It seemed like a weird first name, but it fit her… Star.”

                                               ***

Gilda Mayhem, Kohl’s zaftig customer service manager, takes one look at Tobin, pats her mountainous bouffant hairdo, and happily glides toward the two detectives.

“Welcome to Kohl’s. Can I help you pick out something for the misses? How about you, smiley?”

They show her their police shields and ask for Star.

“Yeah, and she acts like one. She got a job at a Circle-K closer to home a couple of months ago.”

“Which one?”

“It’s the one near Highway 41 in Punxsutawney. It’s funny. You’re the second guy to ask about her today. Some pale Pee-wee Herman-looking guy was in here about an hour ago… Say hello to Punxsutawney Phil for me.”

“Now, who do you suppose asked about Star before?” Swanie asks Tobin.

“Someone carrying a bottle of acid.”

                                               ***

Still feeling queasy from binge drinking the night before, Star Starkey sticks her head back in the toilet, gagging.

She staggers to her feet, turns on the sink, and sticks her head under the tap, gulping down the unpleasant, metallic-tasting water.

Star looks up in the mirror and sees two people standing in the doorway.

The small man looks sickly and haggard. The girl he’s with is perhaps five feet tall and wears a decorative mask.

“What’s up with you, you freak? It ain’t Halloween.”

The girl hums, then begins to sing, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty…”

                                               ***

Tobin and Swanie storm up and down the aisles of the Circle-K, calling out Star’s name.

“Not good. The place is as deserted as an Eminem concert,” Swanie says.

A loud banging noise and a muffled cry for help send them running toward the storeroom.

Swanie throws his shoulder against the door, breaking it open.

An anxious pimply-faced teen bursts out.

“Thanks! I was stacking boxes when somebody locked me in. I thought Star was playing a joke on me. Some joke, I’ve been in there for twenty minutes.”

                                               ***

The Crown Victoria screeches around a sharp bend on the deserted dirt road leading to the highway.

Tobin confidently declares, “They’ve got a head start, but we’ve got an advantage.”

“Well, it sure isn’t your driving. What is it?”

“We can speed. They can’t.”

“Yeah, I guess not. Not with a body in the trunk,” Swanie replies.

“The tread marks near the spot where Remington Valise was killed indicated we’re looking for an SUV.”

“Like the one ahead of us?”

Swanie reaches for the beacon light on the floor. He opens the window and attaches it to the roof.

The driver sees the flashing red light and pulls over.

Drawing their weapons, the detectives approach the vehicle.

Tobin shouts, “Stick your hands out of the windows!”

Tobin inches toward the driver’s side, while Swanie heads to the passenger’s side of the SUV.

“Exit the vehicle… Slowly,” Swanie advises.

A short girl wearing an elaborately decorated mask slips out.

“Okay, Phantom of the Opera, move toward the back of the car.”

The pallid-looking driver offers no resistance as Tobin handcuffs him.

Tobin searches his pockets for the key fob. “It’s simple. You move, you die.”

He opens the trunk by pressing the key fob.

Keeping a watch on the pair, Tobin and Swanie help Star out of the trunk and untie her.

“You all right?” Tobin asks.

“Yeah, I’m cool. Wednesday and Gomez Addams got the drop on me. Otherwise, I could have taken their puny butts out. I’m gonna have a real good story to tell the kids at work.”

The girl mumbles despondently, her words muffled by the mask. “I never got to go to parties or proms... I never had a boyfriend kiss me.”

 She slowly lifts her hands up toward her face.

“I may be smiling, but inside I’m a volcano ready to erupt,” Swanie cautions. “So don’t do anything rash.”

The girl takes off her mask.

“Does this qualify?” the girl asks.

Her face is blistered, red, and scarred. Her cheeks are burnt and pitted.

Her sharp, high-pitched tone mirrors the anger in her eyes. “…I feel pretty, oh so pretty…"

“Cuff her, Swanie!”

The girl’s deformed features slow Swanie’s movements.

The girl reaches into the pocket of her windbreaker, pulling out a small bottle.

“Blaze! Don’t!” the man screams.

“I’m pretty, aren’t I, Dad?” Blaze asks, drinking from the bottle.

A white foam spews from her mouth. Blaze gags and moans, falling to the ground.

                                               ***

Swanie enters the interrogation room. His grim expression tells the story before he speaks.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Woods. The acid burned Blaze’s internal organs. She died.”

Walker Woods seems to shrink before their eyes as he fights back his tears. “So, she died in agony, burned inside and out.”

Tobin coolly replies, “My condolences. Tell us how you and your daughter became serial killers.”

“Blaze was the only good thing to come out of my marriage to Winter Storms. I was twenty-two, just getting started. I landed a good job as an engineer. One night, my friends and I went to a…Gentleman’s Club…”

“And you fell in love with the featured act,” Swanie says knowingly.

“Yeah, I was green. I hadn’t figured out that the women in those places only pretend to love you. But I was smitten with Winter. As long as there were gifts, credit cards, and cash, Winter seemed as much in love with me as I was with her. Then she got pregnant. Blaze was a blessing to me, but a burden to Winter. We fought over her buying a Mercedes, even though she had a Mustang barely a year old. We fought over jewelry, clothes, and Winter’s absence, but argued most about her returning to work. She needed the admiration, liked the wild lifestyle, and loved the cash. She walked out on us during Blaze’s eighth birthday party. The only time I saw Winter after that was when she needed money. Then, a few days before Blaze’s fourteenth birthday, she caught up to us at Kohl’s…”

                                               ***

Star snickers at the couple fighting at the checkout counter. The fiery redhead in a tight leather skirt and a revealing leopard top picks up a box, slamming it onto a meek man’s head.

Behind her, a short teenage girl screams, “DON’T MA!”

Star elbows Gilda so hard that her bouffant shakes.

“Check this out. It’s better than Netflix!” Star exclaims.

The pair lean over the customer service counter to listen.

“You’re still getting alimony, yet you’re not spending a dime of it on Blaze when she visits,” Walker says. “That should be enough.”

“Well, it’s not! I’ve got needs!”

“Drugs and Jell-O shots don’t count,” Walker replies as he and Blaze head to the door, their heads bowed in shame.

Winter screams after them, “I’ll get child services after you! I’ll tell them you’re mistreating my baby!”

“It’s you who treats me badly, Ma,” Blaze replies. “And I’m not a baby anymore!”

“This is better than Beverly Hills Housewives,” Star says to Gilda. “I’m taking a break. I’ve got to see more of this circus!”

“Stay away from them,” Gilda warns. “That redhead stinks of cheap perfume and trouble.”

Star follows the fighting family into the parking lot.

Remington Valise arrives early for his luncheon meeting at The Stumble Inn. He deliberately parks his new Tesla Roadster at the far end of the parking lot, near Kohl’s and away from the other cars, to keep it from being scratched. He regrets it when he sees a screaming woman chasing a harried man and a girl heading toward him.

Nearby, Fess Finger nearly drops the speaker he’s carrying into The Stumble Inn when he hears a woman cursing a blue streak. Once inside, he says to Shotzie Glass, “You want a good laugh? There’s a fight nastier than the Thrilla in Manila goin’ on outside.”

“If I want a good knockdown and drag out, I’ll just go home to my lazy husband,” Shotzie replies wearily.

Standing side by side, Fess, Remington, and Star trade smiles and stupefied expressions as they watch Winter assault Walker with her handbag.

Star takes candid shots of the energetic argument.

Walker speaks in a conciliatory tone, hoping to calm Winter’s explosive temper. “You’re not getting any more money. You’ll just drink it, smoke it, or snort it away. Get it from one of your boyfriends.”

“Are you calling me what I think you are?” Winter shrieks.

“If the G-string fits…”

Winter reaches into her pocketbook, pulling out a small bottle of clear liquid. She throws her pocketbook aside, barely missing Star’s head.

Star laughs so hard that she lets out a pig-like snort. “I should’a brought popcorn!”

Fess turns to Remington. “…You think we should…”

“Get involved? I’ve got one word of advice… Lawsuit.”

Winter takes the top off the bottle. “This’ll give you fits!”

“No, Ma!” Blaze shouts.

Blaze steps in front of her father. The acid hits her in the face.

                                               ***

“And that moment of madness ruined all three of our lives,” Walker says to Tobin. It disfigured Blaze. But it wasn’t the scars on the outside that killed her; it was the ones inside. Three people witnessed Winter’s attack and did nothing. Those cowards were called to testify at Winter’s trial. All three said Winter’s back was to them and that they never saw her throw the acid on Blaze. Winter was found innocent. She ran off the day the trial ended.”

“So, you decided to dispense your own brand of justice,” Tobin says.

“Do either of you have children? What would you do?”

Neither man can bring himself to answer.

“They stood by and did nothing, watching us as if they were watching a movie. Then they ran away. I swore they’d pay for Blaze’s ruined face, and I’d be the one who did nothing to help them as I watched them die. So, I came back to the parking lot and waited… Remington Valise and his co-workers came in one afternoon for lunch. I knew it was him by the fancy car and the guilty way he looked around as he walked into the inn. Fess Finger played at The Stumble Inn soon after. It wasn’t hard to track down a young lady wearing a Kohl’s shirt. I followed all three of them to their houses to find out where they lived… I studied their schedules and struck when I knew they’d be alone…”

“I can understand your being angry with the three witnesses, but I’m surprised you didn’t take it out on the misses,” Swanie says.

“What makes you think we didn’t?”

Tobin looks Walker in the eye. “You said Winter ran away. You caught up with her, didn’t you?”

Walker looks away.

“Where is she, Walker?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You mean you don’t want to remember. Someone must have loved Winter. There must be someone who cares enough about her to want to see her laid to rest.”

“You have better odds of being killed by a vending machine than of finding someone who cared for that selfish con artist.”

“You’ll have the rest of your life in jail to reconsider and do the right thing,” Tobin says. “There’s a price to pay for what you did.”

Walker manages a weak smile. “And I’ll pay it soon. I’ve got cancer. I’m going to be dead in a few months.”