“Electric Avenue” spilled out of the open gymnasium doors. I started bouncing to the familiar beat. A guy dressed in a powder-blue tuxedo, sporting an A Flock of Seagulls-style hairdo, including spiked sides and a long swath of bangs down in his face, stood outside the doors. He was talking to a woman in a white suit jacket with huge shoulder pads, a black and white polka dot chemise with a black pencil skirt, and white patent leather pumps. Definitely more stylish than anyone I went to school with in the ’80s. Her medium-length hair was styled in big, bold curls, making her more Joan Collins than Joan Jett.
“I think I’m underdressed,” Ezra said.
“You’re perfect.”
Next, we saw a jock with a mullet, two cheerleaders—a blonde and brunette—along with a man in tan slacks and a cardigan, congregating on the other side of the corridor. The cheerleaders wore white cheer sweaters with a big green C on the chests and short green skirts. The man who’d shoved past me walked through the double doors blocking off the opposite hallway. He joined the group and put his hand on the brunette cheerleader’s arm. She tugged away, and the jock leaned in and said something that made the older man scowl.
“Interesting,” I whispered to Ezra. “I bet those are the actors.”
“They seem tense,” he noted.
“They could be rehearsing. Or it’s opening-night jitters, maybe.”
He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Maybe.”
The woman with fancy hair smiled at us and gestured toward the open doors. From a distance, she’d looked young-ish, maybe late twenties, early thirties, but up close, I noticed that her unlined forehead didn’t have much movement—a classic sign of Botox. Even so, she looked great.
She gave us a stern smile and said, “Go on in, students. Enjoy the dance.”
The woman was playing the role of teacher chaperone, and even though it was pretend, for a second, I felt like a schoolgirl. I grabbed Ezra’s hand and dragged him inside to what can only be described as an arts and crafts winter wonderland. In other words, it was delightful. The gym ceiling was covered with white and light blue crepe streamers dripping with paper snowflakes. In the center was a mirror ball reflecting white light across the polished wood floor. There were about thirty other guests out on the floor in full ’80s regalia, dancing to the funk-reggae hit.
A punch table was set up on the right side, covered in a white tablecloth with blue plastic cups stacked near three large see-through drink dispensers. It was a bit too modern for the ’80s, but I let it slide because the containers were definitely more hygienic than an open punchbowl. Centered on the back wall of the gym was a DJ dressed in a bright yellow and electric-blue nylon jogging outfit finished off with a yellow fedora. He had a pair of headphones on as he danced behind his stand.
Gilly, wearing the cutest puffy-sleeved, ruched red dress, waved at us. If my bangs were gravity-defying, Gilly’s were orbiting the moon.
“Oh, my gawd!” I squealed. We did an old handshake we’d come up with during our junior year of high school that ended on a fake joint toke. Not that we did a lot of drugs in our teens. It was just something that we thought made us look cool at the time. “You are totally bitchin’.”
“No doy,” she responded with a twirl and a hair flip. She was wearing red pointy-toed pumps with low heels.
Scott Graham, Gilly’s date, wore a white blazer with a scooped-neck blue t-shirt, white pleated pants, and a slick pair of blue and silver penny loafers. Scott was a local surgeon in our hometown of Garden Cove. Gilly had been going out with the hot doc since the fall, and I had a feeling it was getting serious between the two of them.
Pippa and her husband, Jordy Hines, who were both born in the ’80s, ahem, joined our group. The thirty-something-year-olds had embraced the decade, though. Jordy wore a red leather jacket with tight black and red color-blocked leather pants. He had his long brown hair down around his shoulders, and frankly, his vibe screamed big hair band. Pippa wore a fabulous curly wig that reminded me of a perm I had through most of the ’80s, even into college. Her dress was made from fuchsia-colored satin with a lace neckline like Molly Ringwald’s dress in Pretty in Pink.
“Wowza, Pips. That’s freaking awesome.” I whistled. “Did you make that yourself?”
She laughed. “I wish I was that talented. I got it from an online shop. It’s good, right?”
I nodded. “It’s totally boss.”
“We’re going to start a drinking game,” Jordy said. “Every time one of you says ‘totally,’ we take a swig.”
“That’s an excellent way to end up with alcohol poisoning,” Scott said. “I’m in.”
Gilly tilted her head sideways. “Totally.”
Pippa and I snickered. We knew Jordy was joking. He didn’t drink. Ever. He’d been in Narcotics Anonymous for over twelve years, and while he wasn’t an alcoholic, he’d told me once that alcohol lowers inhibitions, making it easier to justify doing drugs. That was something he wasn’t willing to chance. There was too much for him to lose. He’d been looking at Pippa when he’d said it.
“When is this thing getting started?” Ezra asked.
I quirked up a brow. “Eager for murder, huh?”
He shook his head then winked at me. “I’m eager for something else, darling. It’s been a very long two weeks.”
The opening guitar licks to “What I Like About You” by The Romantics poured out of the speakers. “This is my jam,” Gilly said excitedly. She grabbed Scott’s hand. “Come dance with me.”
He willingly went with her, which put points in his column for me. Gilly had a troubled past when it came to men. See: asshole ex-husband. So, I was thrilled that Scott was turning out to be the nice guy he had seemed from the beginning. Gilly whipped her hair around to the new wave jam, her face a beacon of pure joy. It was times like this that I thought my BFF was possibly the most beautiful person I knew. By the look on Scott’s face, I was pretty sure he felt the same way I did.
A couple stood near the punch bowl. The attractive woman wore a lime-green tank top with a pink and yellow tutu, pink leg warmers, and clear Jellies. She had a multitude of colorful bangles adorning both her wrists. She tugged at her side ponytail. The guy she was with wore black jeans and a jacket that looked like it had been bought at a Michael Jackson memorabilia sale. His hair was styled in a Rick Astley pompadour. They looked late thirties to early forties, and I was impressed with their commitment to looking commercially ’80s.
Pippa sucked in a noisy gasp of air. “That’s Nellie Lox.” She pointed to the Rick-and-Madonna-looking couple. “I have her channel saved on my Pinstabook account. She does these great makeup tutorials while talking about raising three kids. Her show is called Child-Proof Lox.”
I nodded. “Clever.” I’d never been interested in having children of my own, but Pippa had an eleven-month-old at home, so she had a stake in the ins and outs of raising kids.
“You think I’ll be able to get her autograph?” Pippa asked.
“Probably.”
“Oh. My. Gawd. I am wigging out!” I heard a woman shout. “It’s Nora. Nora Black.”
I turned at the sound of my name. Two women dressed in poofy, ankle-length prom dresses, one purple, the other orange, hurried in my direction.
Pippa grinned. “It seems Nellie Lox isn’t the only one with fans here.”
My Pinstabook channel, Scents and Scentsability, named for my shop, had a modest following, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been recognized by homemade soap crafters while I’d been out and about.
“How are you?” the woman in purple asked. “It’s been ages.”
Okay. She acted as if she knew me. Probably not a fan.
The excited woman had a Princess Diana hairstyle, and I couldn’t tell if it was a wig or her natural hair. She looked around. “Is Shawn here? I heard you two tied the knot.”
Shawn Rafferty had been my high school sweetheart. Shortly after we’d started college, we’d gotten married. Five years after that, we’d divorced. We’d loved each other, but we’d wanted different things from life. Now, Shawn was the police chief in Garden Cove and married to a lovely woman who’d given him two handsome boys. And…he was my current boyfriend’s boss.
“We’re divorced,” I told her, still trying to piece out who she was.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Orange said sympathetically. Her hair was styled similarly to her friend’s, and there was something about the two women that seemed familiar. Even so, I couldn’t place them.
“Don’t be. The divorce happened over twenty-five years ago.” I laughed, feeling awkward at the reunion with two women who were practical strangers. Ugh. Strangers who had known Shawn and me when we were a “we.” Had they gone to Garden Cove High? I’d graduated in a class of forty-eight total students, and while I’d known all their names at one point, I barely remembered a handful of them now.
I looked toward the dance floor where Gilly and Scott were rocking their moves, and I wished she was next to me. Her mind was a vault when it came to our teens. She remembered everything from those years.
Ezra draped his arm around me in a casual but meaningful way. “How do you two know Nora?” he asked the women.
I cast him a grateful glance.
“We were her sorority sisters,” Purple exclaimed. “Kappa Nu!”
Orange cupped her ear, leaned in toward me, and added, “Kappa, who?”
I reluctantly responded with a weak, “Kappa, you, too.” I pinched Ezra on the ribs when he chuckled, and it made him squirm.
“Fun,” he said. “How long were you all sisters?”
Orange giggled. “Daffney and I have been sisters our whole lives.”
A light bulb went off over my head. The Graves twins. Velma and Daffney. Even then, Velma dressed in orange and Daffney in purple. They had been in the same sorority rush class as me. I couldn’t visualize what they’d looked like back in the ’80s, but I did remember them getting asked about their names. It turned out their parents had been fans of Scooby-Doo the year the cartoon had started airing. Hence, they were Velma and Daffney. I guess they were lucky they hadn’t been boys. One of them could’ve been Fred and the other Shaggy.
“It’s so nice to see the two of you again, Velma.” I tried not to look smug for merely remembering a name, but I couldn’t help but feel like I’d scored points in the game of midlife. “I was only with the sorority for two semesters.”
“Once a Kappa Nu, always a Kappa Nu,” Daffney said.
“Do you all live around here? Or like us, just tourists?”
“We graduated from Button Falls,” Velma gushed. She raised her hand as if shaking a pom-pom. “Go Vikings! We couldn’t resist being first in line when we heard our old alma mater had been turned into a weekend mystery getaway.”
Daffney smiled as she studied Ezra. “Nora, you haven’t introduced us to your charming friend.”
“Ezra Holden,” I told them. “And Ezra, this is Velma and Daffney Graves. They’re twins.”
He looked mildly surprised. I wasn’t sure if it was because of their names or because the two women were twins, but not identical.
“Fraternal twins,” Velma said as if reading his mind. “My last name is Cormack now.” She flashed her wedding rings, a wide platinum band with channel-set diamonds, and the engagement ring had to be at least three carats, also with channel-set diamonds around the band. “It’ll be thirty years in May.”
“Congratulations,” I said. The guy was either well-to-do or in the poor house with the amount of money he must’ve spent on the rings. “Is he here with you?”
“Sisters’ weekend,” Daffney chimed in. “We couldn’t resist an opportunity to reminisce. What a small world, running into you here. I can’t wait to catch up. And it’s lovely to meet you, Ezra.”
“Any friend of Nora’s,” he said with a smile.
“Well, then let’s be friends,” Daffney said. She narrowed her gaze on the two of us as if suddenly finding us very interesting. “I would love to know more about how you guys met.”
The music stopped as a commotion on the dance floor interrupted Daffney’s prying into my personal life. Yay, commotion.
“Stay away from her,” a guy with a light green letter jacket with white sleeves shouted. His mullet would have made Billy Ray Cyrus proud, and the back of his letter jacket had the name Cruise in big letters.
His anger was directed at the dude who wore the powder-blue tuxedo and Flock of Seagulls’ hairstyle.
The brunette cheerleader tugged on the jock’s arm. “Don’t, Biff. Please. It’s not worth it.”
Their voices were loud and clear, amplified by the speakers. Ezra stepped forward to intervene, but I stopped him. “I’m pretty sure this is part of the weekend.”
He frowned but hung back.
A Flock of Seagulls lunged for Biff, but a man in an ill-fitting brown suit stepped between them to intervene. Even with a bad gray wig, I recognized him as the man who’d almost knocked me over in the hall.
“Both of you, cool it,” he said. “Unless you want to be in detention for the rest of the year.”
“Sorry, Mr. Hughes,” both guys said loudly and in unison.
Hughes waved to a man and a woman dressed like teachers. “Mr. Moore, could you escort Mr. Cruise out for some air?”
Mr. Moore turned out to be the guy who wore the beige slacks. He grabbed Cruise by the upper arm and dragged him out of the gym.
After, the principal turned to the woman channeling Dynasty. “Ms. Nelson, I need you to keep an eye on the other students,” he cast a sweeping glance around at all of us in the gymnasium, “while I go have a talk with Mr. Bender, here.” He marched the blue-tuxedo guy out of the gymnasium.
The names all made me smile. Moore, maybe for Demi Moore, Cruise for Tom Cruise, and Bender, the Judd Nelson character in The Breakfast Club. Hughes, for John Hughes, of course, the writer and director of many movies that graced the eighties. Cheesy? Yes. Did I dig it? Absolutely.
“I’ll never forgive you,” the brunette cheerleader said to the blonde before rushing out of the gym.
“Mary, wait!” Blondie rushed after her friend.
“So much drama.” Daffney clasped her hands. “I love it.”
Ms. Nelson held up her hand as the chattering around the room grew to a dull roar. “Silence,” she commanded. “You students stay in here while I step out for a moment.” She pointed at the drinks table. “And nobody better spike the punch while I’m gone, or else you’ll have Principal Hughes to deal with come Monday morning.”
Gilly and Scott came off the dance floor and rejoined us. Gilly rubbed her hands together. “This is so freaking exciting.”
I noticed Ezra was looking in the direction where Mr. Moore had escorted Cruise out the same door Ms. Nelson was now exiting.
Pippa moved in close to us. “I’m pretty sure all the actors have left the gym,” Pippa said. “When will the mystery start?”
As if to answer her, a scream from the hallway silenced us all quicker than Ms. Nelson had. Next, the gym door swung open, and the brunette cheerleader staggered inside. Her hands were red, and there were bloody prints on her white cheer sweater.
“Biff’s dead,” she cried out. “He’s been…murdered!”
I glanced at Pippa and Gilly. “Race you to the crime scene.”