Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  “So what’s going on?” he asks, waiting for me to get to the point of my visit.

  I can’t delay any longer, even if I’d rather just stay here all night rather than head to the station.

  I spit it out. “I have to go away for a while, and I was wondering if you could keep some of my things for me.”

  “What do you mean, you have to go away for a while? What’s going on, Ryan?”

  “It’s complicated,” I say. I don’t want to get him involved in my mess.

  “Kids, go inside and play for a minute. I’ll be right there.”

  He watches in silence as they head into the house. They don’t even look disappointed; it’s clear, even to me, a relative stranger, that they love and trust their father unconditionally. ‘

  “Okay, spill it,” he says.

  “My life is a mess right now.”

  “You need to tell me the whole story,” he says.

  I’d prefer not to, so instead I tell him the abbreviated version.

  “I’m being accused of something I didn’t do. I don’t really want to go into it. If you’re curious, just go online or watch the news tonight; you’ll hear all about it. I just need you to keep some of my things while I’m away.”

  Casey rubs his face. “Of all my friends, I never thought you’d be the one to have things go wrong.”

  “Yeah, well things don’t always work out the way you think they will, ’cept maybe for you.”

  “I shouldn’t have let life get in the way of our friendship, and I did,” Casey says. “I’m sorry about that, and for whatever is going on for you.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You’ve got your hands full. You won’t want anything to do with me now.”

  “I’ll always be your friend. You’ve helped me out plenty of times. Do you need anything—some money?”

  That was true; I had helped him. In college, I took the fall for him when he cheated on a test. When he was still a wild child and I was working my way through the ranks, I’d made a few tickets disappear. It’s nothing cops don’t do every day for their friends. I don’t say any of that now. There’s no comparison.

  “Money’s no good where I’m going.”

  “Jail? You’re going to jail?”

  “Technically it’ll be prison, unless I’m released on bond, which I can’t pay, so yeah, it’ll be prison. I didn’t do it, though,” I say, knowing I sound like a crazy person, a typical common criminal. “I need you to know that I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t, buddy. You need an attorney?”

  “That would be good,” I say. “And I need you to keep my stuff.”

  He agrees, and I go on my way with the promise that he will obtain an attorney for me.

  As I’m driving to the station, a place I’ve driven more times than I can count, I realize I don’t really care any longer. I’m facing a losing battle. I know I’m not guilty, but no one else does. While I’m not exactly giving up, I’m not feeling hopeful, either.

  At least for now, the desire to prove my innocence keeps my mind off Tracy. Once I’m in jail, I’ll have plenty of time to think about how I should have protected her, and what might have been had she still been alive.

  Chapter 16

  Margaret

  Beth and I never really saw eye to eye growing up. You’d never even know we were sisters unless we told you. We don’t really look alike, and I swear we don’t have a single passion in common.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love Beth, and I always have, but I feel like she’s always been the darling of the family, and I’m the outcast. I don’t really like being the outcast, but I’ve built walls around my life, so it’s always been fine.

  Until all of this happened. With Lana and Detective What’s-His-Name.

  To think people actually believe I killed my daughter. I am an innocent, suburban housewife. I’ve barely gotten any speeding tickets, let alone killed a person.

  When I needed Beth, though, really needed her, she came to my defense. She wooed the detective, even slept with him—not that that was much of a hardship for her. She always wanted a break from Devin, and she got one, with his permission to save her darling sister’s life and all. She didn’t tell him she’d already started sleeping with the man, but what Devin doesn’t know won’t kill him. One death in the family is enough.

  All of this business of me having killed the detective’s fiancée—that’s outrageous. First he thinks I killed my daughter, and now he thinks I killed his wife, or girlfriend, or whatever she was. I mean, really, why would I do that? I’ve been asked to go back in for further interrogation today. Bet they got the DNA back. Bet it’s not Dave’s. I’m so looking forward to all of those questions.

  I have nothing to worry about. I am innocent. Clearly that detective killed his girlfriend, and they are trying to place the blame on me.

  I have to give that woman credit for the whole blackmailing scheme she ran on him. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do that. After she was dead, I grabbed my opportunity. The detective was going to be accused and charged with or without me, so I just sped up the process—with Beth’s help, of course. I think she’s rather disappointed I took her boy toy away. Oh well, she’ll live. Just like Devin. At least now they have something in common.

  I’m slightly nervous about my trip to the station today. Typically, they’ve come to me. Maybe that was all the boy detective’s idea, and now that the girl is in charge, she means business. It’s fine. I’m sure it will be fine.

  I can tell Detective Hutchinson is in a mood today. Her hair is all messy like she had sex this morning. I didn’t know she had a boyfriend; I need to learn more about him.

  “I want your daughter’s killer behind bars,” she says, leaning on the table between us, as though that’s barrier enough.

  “But my daughter killed herself,” I moan.

  “Mrs. Moore,” she says, hands on the cold metal table, her face closer to mine than I would like, especially with her garlic breath, “we’ve already established this is a homicide.”

  They did. I’m still not buying what they are selling. They got themselves into this mess with bringing Dave and me down to the station that very first visit, and now they need to show the public they did it for a reason.

  “Well, what about those friends of Lana’s, and that boss who came out of the woodwork? Have you spoken with them? Considered them as suspects?” I ask.

  “I think Lana was hiding them from you, afraid you’d flip out if she abandoned you.”

  “Now, why would my daughter pretend like she never wanted to leave my side just for my benefit? I always wanted her to spread her wings and fly, Detective,” I answer.

  I’m getting offended by her tone, and her questions. It’s almost as if I’m not going to walk out of here a free woman, which is making me sweat. I feel like I should start pleading the Fifth and call an attorney, or at least Dave. That must mean I’m desperate, since I know he’s not on my side.

  “See, I don’t think she was pretending.”

  “I’m confused,” I say, “and it sounds like you are too. Can I go now?” I start to get up.

  Detective Hutchinson slams her hand on the table.

  “Sit the fuck down!” she yells. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I carefully sit back down and smile at her slightly, trying to warm the heart I know is lurking in there somewhere.

  “Your daughter left New York because you had a nervous breakdown, ma’am. Isn’t that true?”

  I don’t know what to say. I thought that had been removed from my medical records. I was a little upset about Lana leaving and Dave threatening to leave me for another woman. I had a lot going on. I felt like my life was falling apart, slipping through my fingers, so I had to stop it. I had to do something. I’m not crazy, I swear, but I wanted my family back, and
I knew if they thought I was in trouble, they’d run to my side. No one wanted me to die; they just didn’t want to be around me anymore, and I was not okay with that. I did the only thing I could think to do without hurting someone. I did all of that to keep my family, so why would I kill them?

  “How do you know that?” I say.

  “Nothing can be kept hidden forever. And your husband, he had filed divorce papers at the time, isn’t that right?”

  “He did?” My jaw drops, and I lose all composure.

  “He never told you?” she asks, eyes bulging.

  “No.” I clear my throat and move around in the hard steel chair that is hurting my bottom. “Was it when I was in the hospital?”

  “Just before. I guess he changed his mind.”

  “I guess he did,” I say. “Are you investigating Dave, too, or just me?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “I can’t tell you whether or not your husband is a person of interest.”

  “What about me?”

  “We got the DNA results back.”

  I sit up a little straighter, ready to jump up and scream “I told you so” when she finishes talking. I already know what she’s going to say. It was Dave’s DNA. Maybe that boyfriend’s. Or DNA not yet in the system, and we will have to fight every day to find Lana’s killer.

  “Your DNA was under Lana’s nails, and there was a lot of it,” Detective Hutchinson says. “And it didn’t end up there through happenstance,” she adds.

  Oh.

  “How do you know that?” I ask coyly.

  “Training at the academy and years on the job.”

  “What are you waiting for? Just get it over with,” I say, dramatically holding my hands out, wrists together, practically begging her to cuff them.

  “It doesn’t work like that. I do things by the book.”

  “As opposed to your partner,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  “He killed his girlfriend or his fiancée, whoever she was.”

  “He didn’t. And just like I’m going to find the truth in your daughter’s case, I’m going to find it in his, too.”

  “If he just would have stayed away from my sister,” I say, nicely recovered from the bombshell that my husband had been prepared to divorce me, and possibly still has the papers squirreled away somewhere in our house.

  The detective stares at me. No, she glares at me with the fire of a hundred suns. She wants me to spontaneously combust, but I will do no such thing.

  “He’s right, isn’t he? You had his fiancée killed just to get him out of your way.”

  I stand up, ready to leave, mentally having checked out of this conversation.

  She walks over to me and blocks me from moving anywhere unless I push her, something I have far too much decorum to do.

  “My, my, Detective,” I say as calmly as I can, “you are making awfully big accusations there, aren’t you?”

  “You thought he was your main adversary, didn’t you?” she says.

  She’s in my face; I swear I even felt some of her spit spritz my cheek.

  “Boy, were you ever wrong. He’s nothing compared to me. Nothing. You have no idea how hard I’m going to fight for the truth.”

  I don’t say a word. We just stare at each other, in a stalemate.

  I’m just about ready to shove her gently out of my way when she starts talking again.

  “Margaret Moore, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  Well, I didn’t see that coming.

  She pulls cuffs from her pocket and grabs my arms one at a time to cuff them together. I can’t move.

  I underestimated girl cop here, but there’s one thing I wasn’t wrong about: Dave.

  What a sneaky, lying jerk, thinking he could ever leave me.

  He and I need to have a chat. I don’t think it’s going to end very well for either of us.

  But first I have to get out on bail.

  Chapter 17

  Margaret

  Jail really wasn’t fun. It was dirty and cold. The people smelled and seemed rather dangerous.

  Beth contacted her friend Stanley Harmon for me, the best, most expensive defense attorney in the state. For all I know she traded Ryan for Stanley; if she did, he’s not giving me enough of a discount. He’s emptying my 401(k)—well, our 401(k)—but he did manage to get a hearing for me after only one night in jail. It was the longest night of my life, but now it’s over, so I’m trying not to think about it.

  He also got me out on bail. I do have the poor-innocent-victim, mother thing going for me, but still, some people believe I killed my daughter, and there is a fair amount of evidence against me, which Dave must have planted. In any case, after another sizable withdrawal from my 401(k), I am out, and I have a mission.

  Dave’s still at work when I get home. That’s where he should be, so I’m not really surprised, although nothing seems to be going as it should be lately, so perhaps I should be surprised. I pour myself a large glass of wine and sit on the sofa, staring at a blank TV screen. It’s as black as my soul.

  I’m ready for Dave when he walks in the door. He’s been in a bit of a better mood lately, so he’s chipper the moment he greets me. I don’t know what has lifted the weight of the world from his shoulders, but something has. Maybe he got some good antidepressants from his doctor. Or maybe he got something better from a drug dealer he passed on the way to work. Maybe he’s just happy I’ve been charged with Lana’s murder instead of him. Oh, yes, I’ve been officially charged.

  I don’t like Chipper Dave. It makes me think he knows something I don’t, and I like to know what he knows. We run best when we have an equal, open, and honest relationship. Chipper Dave doesn’t agree with that. Chipper Dave wants to shake up the status quo in all the ways I don’t, and none of the ways I do. He wants to be happy and spend the rest of his life remembering Lana and living in her honor. I also want to be happy, who doesn’t, but I want to try to move on from Lana and her actions. I want to move—literally—start over, which I can’t do at the moment, since Detective Bitchy told me I had to stay in town. Plus, Dave doesn’t want any of that. We’re at odds.

  I suppose none of it really matters, since everything’s about to change.

  “How was your day?” Dave asks cheerfully, as though he’s actually interested.

  I find that hard to believe. Does he think I actually had a good day? What does he think I did? Teleported to a vacation in the machine I’m hiding in the basement? Went to lunch with one of my dozens of friends? Spent our millions burning a hole in my pocket on a new designer wardrobe?

  “Not very good.”

  “A night in jail will do that to you,” he says, setting his briefcase on the floor and staring at me, arms folded.

  “And today, I wanted to leave the house, but then I remembered the ankle monitor slowly cutting off circulation to my foot.”

  Stanley’s not a miracle worker. This ankle monitor is a permanent part of my wardrobe for the time being.

  “Oh,” Dave mutters, losing a bit of his sunny disposition.

  “I’m probably going to be convicted, you know.”

  “You don’t know that,” he says, though his tone lacks a single decibel of conviction. “And even if they do, we’ll appeal. Stanley will keep fighting for you ’til you’re back on the streets.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be able to afford an appeal, but thanks for the support.”

  He walks over and sits next to me on the sofa. He grabs both of my hands and nestles them in his. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.

  “Honey,” he says, “I need to tell you something.”

  “Okay,” I say, bracing for the worst, not that I think I can even imagin
e the worst. We’ve been through so many unexpected events lately that anything seems possible. Just as Dave starts to speak I legitimately think he’s going to tell me that he killed Lana, or maybe admit that he filed those damn divorce papers.

  “I met someone,” he says, looking into my eyes with love and sadness.

  “Who?” I ask. I have no idea what he’s alluding to. He met the president? A police officer? A new neighbor?

  “I’m in love . . . with someone else. Another woman.”

  My jaw drops. Did I really think we’d make it through this as individuals, let alone as a couple? Even I can’t be that delusional. We were destroyed by the death of our daughter, and all the lying since. Each one of us thinks the other killed our daughter. The fact that we made it this far together, not lunging at each other’s throats, is unfathomable. Moving on is a natural part of the process. It’s the next stage in our lives.

  “I’m sorry, Maggie,” he says. “And I’m sorry for calling the police with that tip. It’s time I tell you that. I just knew Lana didn’t kill herself, and I need them to find Lana’s killer. Even if that person is you.”

  “So you did call the police? You really think I killed Lana?”

  “I do, but I won’t say that publicly.”

  “Oh, well, thanks for that,” I say, not sure whether I’m more hurt by him moving on from me or finally admitting he thinks I killed Lana. Maybe it’s just the thought that I’ll never be happy or able to move on and he thinks he will. That just can’t be. It won’t be.

  He kisses me on the cheek and gets up, starting to walk up the stairs.

  “Honey,” I say, in a Stepford-sounding voice that makes even me shudder, “why not just leave? Why tell me all of this? Put me through all of this pain?”

  “I . . . umm . . .” He trips over his words like a kid lying to his mother. “I mean . . . why would you ask me that?” He stays on the stairs. I wish he’d come down to me, but I get up and walk toward the staircase, with its old banister, the treads covered with matted, worn-out carpet that needs to be replaced.