Rogan was the one who broke the news. “When you called us about your mother’s blog, we were completing a search of Julia’s computer to see if we could get a better idea of the circumstances that might have led to her death. Those offensive comments on your stepmom’s blog? Well, it turns out that Julia’s laptop was used to post one of them the night before she died.”
“That’s impossible. She didn’t even know about my mother’s blog. I just found it today.”
“You may not have been aware of it, but Julia apparently was. We searched her computer.”
“You can’t know that she’s the one who posted it, though, right? It just means it came from her laptop. So whoever’s still posting those threats against my mom somehow knew Julia?”
“That’s right,” Ellie said. “We’re trying to figure out who that might be.”
“I have no idea. It doesn’t even seem possible.”
“This might be hard to talk about, but if there’s a simple explanation for this, we need to know about it. Ramona, is there any chance that maybe you were having some kind of tension with your stepmother? If Julia was aware of a fight between the two of you and stumbled upon the website—”
“No. No way. I mean, I know you keep saying she’s my stepmother, but I call her Mom. I always have. And, I love my dad and everything, but you met him. He’s—well, he’s, like, you know, lucky to have found her. And so was I. That’s why I was so freaked out when I saw those comments. We’re, like, really close. I couldn’t believe she didn’t tell me. No way would Julia do something like that to her.”
Ellie still didn’t know what to think about the possible connection between Julia’s death and the comments on Adrienne Langston’s blog, but she was convinced that, if there was a connection, Ramona certainly didn’t know about it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Katherine Whitmire threw yet another dress on Julia’s bed. The pile of clothing was now three garments wide and at least ten deep, its own weight threatening to pull it from the comforter to the floor, a heap of imported fabric, designer labels, and cedar hangers. Never mind, she would stand here all day building a wardrobe tower if she had to. You only dressed your daughter for her coffin once.
She reached for another dress at the back of the closet. This one wasn’t a candidate for the burial outfit, but Katherine remembered buying it three years earlier.
Bill had promised to take Julia and Ramona backstage to a Justin Timberlake concert. Not the dime-a-dozen backstage passes, he had boasted. The real passes, for insiders. The ones that put you right next to the artist—not just for a quickie photograph and a shuffle to the nearest exit, but for however long the after party lasted.
It had been a big deal for the girls. Sure, Julia and Billy were both used to being carted around to industry events with Bill. There were some months when that was their only time with their father.
But the Justin Night, as they’d called it, wasn’t about Julia being in tow just so Bill could multitask parenthood with work. Justin Night was Bill going somewhere he’d never otherwise choose to go, just because it meant something to his daughter. On Justin Night, Bill’s professional identity—instead of taking him away from his family—would actually work to Julia’s advantage for once.
The day had started well enough. It was summer. Katherine had gone back to the city in the car with the kids in the morning. Bill was scheduled to meet one of the long-term artists on his label for a casual lunch at Cyril’s, then planned to take a helicopter in time for the concert.
She started worrying when she hadn’t heard from him by five o’clock but tried to hide her concern from the girls as they practiced their dance moves to “SexyBack” in the foyer. She started calling Bill’s cell phone at six. By seven, the girls were worried they wouldn’t have time to buy T-shirts from the stadium vendors before the opening act started. And by nine, Julia had locked herself in the bathroom to cry. They all knew he wasn’t coming.
Bill had all his excuses prepared when he finally showed up at eleven, wearing a fresh shirt and still smelling of soap. That drama-king of a singer-songwriter had shown up drunk at lunch and continued to get drunker as they dined. He had to drive him out to Montauk to make sure he made it home in one piece. Then the man’s latest wife had bent his ear about the crappy sales of his last album. Then he missed the last helicopter.
None of it explained why he hadn’t answered his phone. None of it explained why he’d broken his daughter’s heart.
But as angry as the Whitmire girls had been that night, Bill had somehow managed to get himself back in their good graces the following day. He woke them both at eight a.m., declaring it Julia Day—“Trust me,” he’d said, “Julia Day kicks Justin Night’s skinny white ass.”
The driver was already at the curb, waiting to take them to breakfast at Norma’s, where the kitchen had Julia’s favorite banana-macadamia flapjacks all ready to go. Bill even let thirteen-year-old Julia have a mimosa, though when Katherine balked, he assured her the drink was heavily orange-juiced.
From there it was on to Bliss Spa, where even Bill participated in the mani-pedi-facial-mudbath combo. When Julia laughed at the sight of her father sticking out his pink tongue from a mask of green clay, it was a childlike belly giggle like Katherine had not heard from her daughter since grade school.
And then the crowning moment of Julia Day had come with this dress. This crazy, beaded, one-shoulder-strapped, hot-pink monstrosity.
Bill had led Julia through the Nina Ricci department at Barneys, covering her eyes with his palms.
“Bill, what did you do?” Katherine had asked. “Where are we going?”
As futile as it was, Katherine did try not to spoil the children. When it came to clothing, it’s not like Julia was shopping at the Gap, but Katherine had so far managed to keep her Vogue-obsessed little girl away from the adults-only couture that she so desperately craved.
Katherine remembered the squinty-eyed stares of her annoyed fellow shoppers when Bill had finally uncovered Julia’s eyes. The girl screamed. Literally screamed, that high-pitch squeal that only young girls and certain large birds are capable of making.
“Daddy! How did you know?”
How, indeed, had he known? The previous night—while Julia had been completing another round of bawling in the bathroom, and Katherine had been slamming cabinets in the kitchen—multi-Grammy-winning producer Bill Whitmire had pored through the stacks of fashion magazines on his daughter’s nightstand, noting the dogeared pages, searching for the most extravagant, expensive, completely over-the-top magnet of his daughter’s attention. His wife had no idea Bill even knew that Julia liked those magazines. Or where she kept them. Or had a habit of folding corners on the pages that best captured the look she so longed to have, and which her mother would not allow.
Julia had emerged from that dressing room like a future princess, ready for the offical engagement announcement.
“You look beautiful, Baby J.”
“Amazing, Julia. But, Bill.” Oh, how Julia’s face had fallen with just those two words from Katherine. But, Bill. “Where is she going to wear something like that?”
“I was thinking she’d fit right in at the VMAs next month. I think Justin might even like it.”
Julia’s eyes opened to the size of saucers. To a thirteen-year-old girl, the MTV Video Music Awards were like the Super Bowl.