But there was one girl who was prettier than the others. A knockout among knockouts. I recognized her right away. It was Brad’s girlfriend Amber. She stood in the center of the line-up, her blond hair blowing in the wind, like a model in a shampoo commercial.

Out in the center of the field, the cheerleaders picked up their pom poms and broke out into their first cheer:

A ship, A ship, A ship A ship ahoy!

Beverly! Beverly! Oooooooh, Boy!

What a dumb cheer. It made about as much sense as an eye chart. But they belted it out with gusto, secure in the knowledge that girls as beautiful as they were didn’t have to make sense.

I felt like heading back to the parking lot, but I forced myself to stay. I wanted to talk to Amber. And so I sat around for the next forty-five minutes, watching the Beverly High cheerleaders shake their pom poms and flash their panties.

At last, they cheered their last cheer, and were heading off the football field, giggling and tossing their hair. I got up from the bleachers and started walking towards them. Suddenly it was high school all over again. I was The Untouchable approaching the Brahmins. Was it my imagination, or did I hear them suppressing giggles?

I told myself I was being silly. I was a grown woman and would not let myself be intimidated by a bunch of shallow teenagers. I sucked in my gut and walked up to Amber.

“Excuse me, Amber,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

This time there was no doubt about it. The girls looked at each other and smirked, the patented Popular Girl smirk.

“Do I know you?” she said.

“I’m Jaine Austen. I’m a writer. We met at Heidi’s birthday party.”

“I don’t remember meeting you.”

“Actually, we weren’t introduced, but I was there.”

“So? What do you want?”

Friendly little thing, wasn’t she?

“Can I talk to you? Alone?”

“I’m sort of busy right now,” she said, walking away.

“Maybe your boyfriend will be busy one of these days,” I called after her. “At the state penitentiary.”

That stopped her in her tracks.

“You guys go ahead,” she said to her friends. “I’ll catch up.”

She headed back to me.

“What was that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“It means that Brad Kingsley is a suspect in the death of his stepmother.”

“That’s crazy. The police don’t suspect Brad.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“What have you got to do with all this? I thought you were a writer.”

“I am, but occasionally I work with the cops as a private investigator.”

Okay, so it was hogwash. But she fell for it.

“The police think Brad killed SueEllen?”

“They haven’t ruled him out,” I fibbed. “He said he was with his friends at the time of the murder. But we’re not so sure that’s true.”

“He was with his friends,” she said, defiantly. “I was there, too.”