by Pamela Crane
Toxicology: Blood and vitreous fluid positive for alcohols; blood positive for acidic, basic and neutral drugs (alprazolam)
Cause of Death: Poisoning
Manner of Death: Homicide
The cops had questioned the roommate, who led them to the boyfriend, but with his alibi confirmed, the suspect list was at a standstill. But I wasn’t.
That afternoon I decided to visit Whitney at their apartment to see what I could dredge up from her caffeine-befuddled brain. Two empty Starbucks cups sat on the glass-and-chrome coffee table between us, and one shakily in her hand.
Her rear perched on the edge of a hot-pink sofa that would make Bathhouse Barbie envious as she talked animatedly with her hands, every bit the Italian from the over-gesturing to the teased black hair framing an olive face that had seen one too many tanning booths. Her luxury pad was a pastiche of all the lofts and apartments I’d seen in home mags. With easily 1,000 square feet of open gourmet kitchen, a formal tiered-ceiling dining room, and kitschy chic living room space, I could only imagine how much more glitz hid behind the scattered closed doors.
“Me and Clarissa, we were besties since kids. Inseparable,” Whitney chattered, her line of sight exiting stage left as if reliving bygone days. A moment later, she returned to Earth fiercely. “I can’t believe someone would want to hurt her.”
“Any idea who?”
“No, not really. I’m assuming it was some psycho bum or something.”
Wow, this girl never ceased to amaze me with her absurdity.
“You think a homeless man followed her home and killed her?”
“Sure, it happens all the time on the news.”
Rampant homeless murderers, much like Bigfoot and Elvis sightings. Her conviction about this version of the truth was unwavering, so I decided to let the idiocy slide. But I was still curious about the men in Clarissa’s life.
“What about her boyfriend?”
“You mean her ex, Trace Eriksson? God, he was a hottie but a real douche bag. Treated her like he owned her. But killing her—why? He was rich and handsome, could get any girl he wanted… even with that temper of his.”
Who names their kid Trace? A frazzled pill-popping soccer mom with her sidekick nanny burst into my head, next to her frat-boy, baseball-playing son with his clean-shaven chiseled jaw and Abercrombie polo.
“What kind of temper?” I asked.
“Just slamming doors and stuff. Hard to ignore, y’know? But they always made up—I could hear it from my bedroom. Ugh. But at least he made her happy… in his own twisted way. But hey, a guy who looked like that could make any girl happy, if you know what I mean. The boy worked out.” Whitney followed this with a mischievous Groucho Marx eyebrow pop.
I chuckled politely, hoping to stave off further innuendo. “I’m just curious, but what would Clarissa do to make him mad?” My memory ventured back to my parents’ fights—how my mom’s rampant mood swings would send my dad crawling into a vengeful bottle, where he’d stay crocked for days. Fights about nothing—a surefire relationship killer.
“Not really sure,” she replied with a shrug. “Mostly they blew up when she was having a bad day, I guess. It’s like he expected her to be happy all the time. But no one is happy all the time.”
It sounded like my memoir. I considered my own struggle with depression, a cycle of frustrated hopelessness revolting against me, waging war on my psyche. Day after day I would be lost in no-man’s land, yearning to get out, but too mentally drained to surface to the happy-go-luckys around me. It tossed every relationship I ever had overboard. “Do you think maybe Clarissa was depressed?”
“How would I know?” Whitney gave a halfhearted frown and glanced at her cell phone. “Anyhoo, sorry I can’t help you more, but I got yoga in an hour. Gotta get prettied up.” She winked, coupling it with an exaggerated playful smile. “Cute instructor I wanna impress.”
What kind of live-in bestie didn’t know—or care—if her friend was depressed? Perhaps I shouldn’t regret my unpopularity if this was what true friendship consisted of—nothing more than sharing Jimmy Choos and sipping chocolate martinis at hotel bars.
Whitney squeezed me in a brusque hug, my cue to make myself scarce. But I needed something first.
“Do you mind if I use your powder room?” I figured a little snooping wouldn’t hurt, though I didn’t expect to find anything worthwhile.
“Sure, it’s next to the office. I’m going to get a shower, but lock the door as you leave. I don’t want to end up next on some hobo’s kill list.” She pointed a bejeweled fingernail and we parted ways, me treading one way and Whitney sashaying to her private quarters.
As I passed the office, I stepped back in a double take. Several framed pictures of Clarissa sat crookedly on a modern computer desk, a light dusting of grime coating the black glass. Peeking over my shoulder into the empty living room, I wandered in. Her father’s cartoony smile and her mother’s freakish Chicklet teeth were fodder for an awkward family photos meme. A collage of memories, all vanished in a last breath. But there was nothing phony about the candid photos of Clarissa. A preteen riding a camel at a petting zoo. Clarissa at nineteen or twenty, mugging it up at a bachelorette party. A bikini-clad Clarissa on spring break in Key West with her friends. She was happy in all of them, but—call it a mother’s intuition—there was a shadow of sadness behind the smiles.
Then an overturned frame, facedown in shame. I flipped it up, my assumptions about Trace spot-on. His hair combed tidily to one side, overpriced collared shirt, handsomely arrogant smile. Almost too good-looking—and he knew it, too. Possessively clutching an adoring Clarissa, her eyes gazing up at him while he modeled for the camera. The perfect murderer—the classy Brazilian killer Tiago Henrique Gomes da Rocha, or America’s charismatic Ted Bundy. Charm oozed from him, the kind of elegance that would reel an unsuspecting girl in for the kill, dare she step out of line.
What line had Clarissa crossed?
As I set it down, I noticed a crack spidering out from the corner of the glass, like tiny legs crawling in search of prey. Slammed down in rage after a fight? I’d never know.
I skimmed through the remaining pictures, until I came upon one that felt truer, more honest. Just Clarissa, somber and serene. Black and white, gazing sorrowfully at something behind the lens, somewhere beyond space and time. It captured her perpetual beauty… and ultimate sadness. I would know, for I recognized myself in that picture.
It was the image of depression.
And no one knew but me. I heard my own silent scream.
**
REM’s “Everybody Hurts” played through my car’s CD player as I read Clarissa’s flowery prose on the front of Clarissa’s Pity-Party Playlist. Adorned with morbidly cutesy broken-heart drawings and skull stickers on the homemade case, I had swiped the CD from her room while rummaging through her belongings, looking for something personal that was small enough to fit into my purse. Just something to know her by. A mixed tape—or CD, in this case—seemed as personal an item as any, so I shoved it in my peeling faux leather Goodwill-bought handbag before rushing out the door, lest I get caught.
The opening song surprised me. Clarissa Beatty, rich and popular party girl, seemed more the bubble-gum music variety. Lady Gaga or John Mayer, even. Alternative and grunge rock, though, I hadn’t expected. But as I hummed along to the lyrics—for the words had long escaped me—I remembered REM from my own adolescence. An oldie but goodie. Many nights I spent crying into my tear-stained pillow over my latest breakup as Michael Stipe sang the woes of my heart.
Skipping ahead, the next song was Soundgarden’s “Like Suicide.” The hypnotic drumbeat and growling guitars enveloped me as Chris Cornell spat out the lyrics describing the gilded cage trapping the girl—was this Clarissa? My fingertip tapped the next one in, “Suicidal Dream” by Silverchair. Then Papa Roach’s “Last Resort.” By this point the theme was catching up to me, and my heart squeezed wildly, as if keeping pace with a hummingbird’s wings. Song after
song of death and despair, cutting and chaos.
Had Clarissa suffocated under the loss of herself?
Was her death a murder… or suicide?
Part 4
Wednesday
I’m a bad, bad girl.
I do terrible things.
Like framing an innocent man for murder.
Well, let’s not get carried away. Trace Eriksson was no victim. An abuser, that’s what he was. And like a mama bear—albeit an absentee one—protecting her cub, it was my responsibility to avenge my daughter’s death because of what he did to her.
Sure, I knew he hadn’t put the pills in her drink. But the cops didn’t know April Beatty had just filled a prescription for the same drug that killed Clarissa—something as readily accessible as Xanax. And they didn’t know that Clarissa suffered from undiagnosed and untreated depression. Sure enough, they caught the bruising and battering on the autopsy report, my perfect segue. I may not have graduated high school, but I knew what a hematoma was. My fascination with CSI: Miami paid off.
Now it was Trace’s turn to pay.
The plan was foolproof, and I was already knee-deep. Seducing him was simple enough. After looking up his address online, I dolled myself up in a classic black micro-dress, silver hoop earrings, and enough makeup to pass for a twenty-eight-year-old. Okay, a twenty-eight-year-old chain smoker with a smoker’s cough to match and telltale wrinkles and crinkles no amount of foundation could disguise. As long as I appeared MILFy enough to grab Trace’s gaze, I still had enough hotness to win him over—if it was a slow night for the playa. Weren’t all Tuesday nights slow at the bar?
I tailed two car lengths behind him from his ritzy Skyhouse Raleigh apartment all the way into downtown Durham, where his bar of choice left me poleaxed: a townsy bistro called Alivia’s, a step above a dive. Passable fare and a low-key hipster vibe, but nothing as fancy as Trace was dressed for in his black slacks and button-down dress shirt. I admired his ingenuity—a big fish in a small pond. He was out for easy prey.
I’d make sure he hit pay dirt.
The place was packed with a mix of Sorority Sues slumming it, frat house playboys on the make, respectable townies just there to kick back a few, and a handful of rowdies from the sticks. A pathway separating two outside sitting areas led to the open front door. Strings of colored lights hung over metal chairs and tables on one side, and laughing patrons idled around fire pits on the other. I waltzed through the door, threading my way up to the counter, and wedged myself between Trace and a bleach-blond grandma whose pleated bosom deflatedly poured out of her cinched, sequined top.
“Hey, cutie,” I said, resting my hand on Trace’s arm. His sleeve was rolled halfway up his forearm, revealing taut muscles and a dusting of hair. “I’m Patty. You are?”
“Trace. Nice to meet you, Patty. Can I buy you a drink?”
I giggled, my hands flirtily gripping him. “I’d love one. Surprise me.”
He ordered me a Cosmo and himself a Scotch. Typical choice.
“You come here often?” I probed. I needed to know where he had been Sunday night if I was going to execute my plan, but I needed to apply the pressure evenly.
“Yeah, but I’ve never seen you here.”
“I was just here on Sunday. You missed a good time,” I teased, my palm squeezing his thigh.
“Sorry, that night I was at the Person Street Bar. Ever been there?”
And it was that easy—Trace had no idea how easy a mark he was.
Three hours and four mixed drinks later, I tossed my black lace thong under Trace’s bed, far enough back that he’d never notice but that a police investigation would turn it up easily. Tiptoeing out his apartment door with my stilettos in hand—damn, those shoes were torture!—I skipped through the wee-morning coolness, adding an air kick of my heels, exploding with the first semblance of pure joy I’d had in a long time. Glancing up and down the silent street, with only a streetlight illuminating my car, no one witnessed my “walk of shame”—or victory lap, in my case—as they slept in pillow-hugging huddles beneath their down comforters. Sleep was something I didn’t anticipate tonight.
Perhaps it was my first foray into the responsibilities of motherhood that gave me such pleasure, or the simple act of eating the rich, but whatever it was, I was addicted. And the game had only just begun.
Part 5
Thursday
“Yes, detective, I can give a statement about the night of Clarissa Beatty’s murder.”
In jumbling detail, I had exhaustively explained to Detective Moody that yes, I had come into the police station two days ago. And yes, I hadn’t been honest about who I was. No, not family but a woman who knew Trace Eriksson. Yes, I had tried to get information about the Beatty murder, because yes, I had a tip about who might have killed her. And yes, I had met Trace at the Person Street Bar that night and we left together for his apartment. No, he wasn’t there all night but left early that evening.
“So,” Detective Moody said, heaving a hefty sigh, “you’re telling me that the night of Clarissa’s death you were with Trace in his apartment. Then he left around 7:00 p.m. to, and I quote, ‘take care of some business regarding his ex.’ That’s what he said?”
“That’s correct,” I affirmed. “I assumed it was nothing, until I saw her name on the news. We had talked about exes during our conversation that night and he mentioned her name.”
Lie after lie escalated the story, delving into depths I didn’t know were there. All believably validated and orchestrated by yours truly. Even I was convinced.
“Well, this does line up with his alibi. I’ll check into it. If you could write down everything you’ve just told me, that will help us a lot. Thank you, Miss Childs.”
The detective handed me a yellow legal pad and pen, then left me to spend the next thirty minutes uncomfortably sliding back and forth on my metal folding chair as I wrote the most exquisitely sinister lie of my life.
Clarissa’s bruises.
A witness testimony debunking Trace’s alibi.
And the pièce de résistance: proof—my underwear under his bed.
I had the girlfriend-beating bastard cornered.
Part 6
Friday
April Beatty’s brown eyes swam with tears as we sat cattycorner on matching cushioned wicker chairs under her back veranda. A light breeze from an overhead fan stuck wisps of ebony hair in my lip-gloss, which I pried gently away and tucked behind my ear.
“I’m so sorry about any pain this caused you. I really thought I was Clarissa’s biological mother, but it turns out I’m not.” I had just arrived at the Beatty estate—for an estate was the only proper word to describe the gaudy McMansion squatting on ten acres—with the difficult news.
“Perhaps it’s better this way,” April said. She folded one leg over the other, her navy pumps hidden beneath the hem of her beige linen pants. “I mean, you didn’t lose a daughter after all. I’m suffering this loss alone... well, Eliot and me. But I’m glad for you.” She grinned wearily, a despondent burden that her Mick Jagger lips couldn’t carry.
“Well, it still hurts my heart to think of any mother going through this. But from what I read, they arrested Trace Eriksson. Sounds like her killer may be caught after all. I hope that gives you peace.”
The front-page article in The News and Observer was sprawled open on an end table adjacent to us. A bowl of fruit salad and honey-sweetened yogurt lay untouched next to two china cups of tea on saucers.
The Beatty Murder Suspect Now in Custody
According to the Raleigh Police Department, investigators have arrested Trace Eriksson, ex-boyfriend of 23-year-old murder victim, Clarissa Beatty, of Raleigh.
Eriksson, 28, is accused of poisoning Beatty in her Briar Creek apartment at around 7:00 p.m. on Sunday. Due to witness testimony and undisclosed evidence, Eriksson was picked up by police. After being questioned, he was subsequently charged with murder. He remains in custody in the Wake County Detention Center w
ith bond still pending. He is scheduled to have his first court hearing on Thursday.
With trembling fingertips, April traced the headline that lurked along the edge of her vision. “Yes, yes it does give me peace that Trace is getting what’s coming to him. I hope he rots in jail.” She exhaled the pent-up anger. “But at least we can put Clarissa to rest now. That’s all that matters.”
“You’ll be in my thoughts, April. Take care of yourself.”
As I rose, she sat sadly stoic, a breakdown away from losing herself. So I did something I didn’t know I was capable of doing. Reaching over, I placed my arm around her, drawing her to me and kissing her forehead. My embrace vented the sorrow as she wept into my shoulder. A simple gesture soothed her broken spirit as I held her, letting the pain seep into the tear-stained fabric.
Despite the lies to April, to the police, despite my compulsion to run away and forget everything all over again, right now I would be a convenient shoulder to cry on.
**
The nondescript cream envelope sat on my kitchen table, hiding under two days’ worth of junk mail. LabCorp’s address hung in the top left corner, partially missing from when I had torn open the letter two days ago.
I shuffled the heap aside, retrieving it for a final look. A loneliness etched across my heart as I looked down at the paper. With 99.98% certainty, I was Clarissa Beatty’s biological mother.
Some consolation that was. My daughter was dead.
My deceit had become a nasty four-letter word, everything from the past week a sham. But not without purpose.
I hadn’t planned it this way. I had wanted to tell the truth... but only part of it. It was a selfless act, deceiving April about the DNA test results. With the shared bond of motherhood, I could never hide Clarissa’s true cause of death from her: suicide. What mother wants to discover that her own child killed herself? Losing a child to murder was just as horrifying but somehow strangely preferable. I had to let her believe that, for her own sanity. But to do it, I knew I needed to walk away forever, and bear the burden of this truth alone.
