Billie Girl

Chapter Twenty Eight

Kelly Williamson was a 19-year-old aspiring opera singer. She had already played Carmen in a major production with the Grand Rapids Opera and had received rave reviews from The Grand Rapids Press. She was the youngest singer ever to play Carmen in our city. Kelly was the middle child in a family of talents. Mostly musicians. She was an avid jogger, and here is where the eerie coincidence with my life came in.

I had, sometimes seen her jog by on my street. And she was quite noticeable, because she wore expensive running outfits that were designed to stand out as she ran in the street. She often wore bright fluorescent greens and yellows. She was one of those die-hard, rain, snow, sleet or 100- degree-in-the shade runners. In other words, she was the real thing. I had never spoken to her, but I had seen her classic face right next to her raving review of "Carmen" in the paper. My mother had pointed it out to me as a way of motivating me to take up the piano or voice, modern dance, medicine, science, or anything for that matter, rather than always working on an endless journal of my experiences which she felt were minimal. I had remembered seeing Kelly in school and I heard she only had to go a half day because she had to be at rehearsals at the Opera house. That's when I learned that special girls sometimes get to play legal hooky.

In fact, in some ways Kelly Williamson had been my inspiration for ditching school to pursue my own individual interests...mine being to write. It didn't take much to convince my mother, since she had been rather despondent for months. She was easy to coerce into almost anything, like going out to dinner at the Outback or Ruby Tuesdays, or she could be easily maneuvered into sometimes catching a flick. She watched movies with a dazed look on her face. She did not laugh on cue. There was a delay to her laughter, like she was just copying the audience and did not find anything truly funny. But at least she liked indulging in movie theater nachos, hot dogs, or a large popcorn with cheese sprinkled on top, and I was grateful for anything that brought my mother pleasure during that difficult time. In fact, once we saw Kelly Williamson at a late night "cult favorite" showing of Pulp Fiction. The cinema offered tickets for just three bucks. Kelly was there with her mother who looked like a very conservative, uptight type lady with her stiff posture and her hair pulled up in a very tight bun. How could they not know what sort of movie they were in for? In any case, the two of them walked out after hearing the "N" word about a zillion times.

I had overheard Kelly saying, "it's not right to use the 'N' word like that. "

At least her heart was in the right place. But now there would be no more seeing Kelly run by across the street. I was starting to connect the dots, and I thought that maybe the killer preferred girls that wore bright colors. And that was why Detective Stanley had asked me to buy the bright yellow north face jacket to lure him out. I then imagined that the killer might have been in his forties and had his formative years in the eighties when everybody wore bright colors. I figured something had gone wrong in his head during that era and color triggered his sickness.

But the scariest thing was that Kelly was found dead over at the track of East Grand Rapids High school at about 6:00 PM. The killer had been pretty darn brazen to attack her at twilight. How was it that nobody saw this? So far, no witnesses had come forward. My mother and Leslie both felt that maybe there might have been a witness, but they were too scared as shit to come forward and speak out.

The detective called me on my cell that afternoon when local news broke the story about Kelly's murder and he said, "I am sure you heard already."

"Yes, I have. My mother is pretty religious when it comes to the local news."

"Is she...I mean, was Kelly Williamson a friend of yours?"

"I knew of her. She was kinda famous around town and super talented. It's really a terrible thing."

"That is why I called. I wanted to make sure you were OK. Billie, you have to think about yourself most of all at this time. I know it sounds selfish, but the most important thing is that you hold yourself together. I have only known you a short time, and from what I have seen you are a very strong person. One of the strongest I have ever met. And I have been around the block and been some places. You rank up there with the bravest. I want you to know that if you should decide not to carry through with our operation, I will understand, and I will not hold it against you. The prerogative is yours. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do.

I didn't want to tell him, but the truth was that I was feeling more secure since I had decided to work with him. At least I was in touch with the police force and had someone keeping tabs on me. I felt totally sorry for other girls who were just having to look after themselves. It was far more scary as far as I was concerned to be footloose and fancy free. That was a phrase my father often used. He was a big fan of Rod Steward's raspy voice, and he liked the album by that name. And Dad had no problem calling me "Hot Legs" all the time. He said that "Hot Legs" would always be our song. And I saw nothing wrong with that. My legs shot up when I was ten years old and never let up since. It was the one part of me that set me apart from other girls. My legs were my greatest asset, and if I were to run away to New York with Blake, the most prudent thing I could do would be to approach the Elite or Ford Modeling agency and see what they would say about me and my hot legs. I remembered how my dad also used to sing the words, "I love you Honey." I always felt that Leslie was jealous because he never sang it to her.

But Leslie had always openly admitted that I, being the baby of the family, was always closer to Dad, while Leslie had always been a mama's girl. Those two were like toast and butter. And I suspected that she had flown out to be near my mother rather than to be with me.