Until Death

by Alicia Rasley

  I rang off and shoved the phone back. “They arrested Murdoch. We have to get to a TV set.”

  “Only if you promise that you’ll leave that cell phone in the car next time we make out.”

  “Come on,” I pulled him towards the car. “We can stop at Gillie’s and watch their TV.”

  It wasn’t happy hour yet, and Gillie’s was almost empty, so no one objected when I clicked the TV from the billiards semi-finals to the early news. There it was, the lead story—video, obviously taped through a telephoto lens, as Detective Armstrong, his partner, and a couple of men in blue windbreakers and automatic rifles took Olen Murdoch away in handcuffs. A phalanx of children lined the trailer park road, waving at the police car as it passed.

  “You think Armstrong called the reporter before or after he got the arrest warrant?” Mike asked, but I shushed him because the reporter, her face flushed and her words rushed, was standing in front of Murdoch’s trailer and intoning into the microphone.

  “Local farmer Olen Murdoch is being arrested on federal and state charges of illegal possession of explosive chemicals, similar to those used in the Oklahoma City bombing.”

  “What?” I cried.

  As if in answer, she added, “The police had gone to Murdoch’s trailer earlier to question him about the mysterious auto accident that befell Netmore founder Will Bowie during the storm last night. They found nothing to implicate Murdoch in the accident, but noticed bags of restricted-access chemicals in the back of Murdoch’s pickup truck. Detective Joseph Armstrong told me that these chemicals require a permit for purchase, as their only legitimate use is agricultural. Mr. Murdoch owned a farm once, but lost it in a complicated deal with Bowie and the late real estate developer Donald Ross. Now back to you, Dave.”

  Hastily, I switched to another station, but they were discussing the environmental impact of this latest flood. I turned in some confusion to Mike. “What do you make of that?”

  He shook his head. “Ironic that he got arrested for his big obsession. You said he was involved in inventing a new fertilizer, so he must keep chemicals like that around for research.”

  It was chilling to imagine Murdoch mixing his toxic chemicals in the middle of a trailer park full of children. “What does it mean for me, though? This isn’t an arrest for murder, or even attempted murder. I mean, he’s off the street—he won’t be trying to kill Will again—but I was aiming for more than that.”

  “They’ll search his trailer and maybe find what you need.”

  My mood brightened at the thought. They might find the sawhorse road barrier, or maybe Don’s cell phone number would be in his address book, or something incriminating. Something the police could use to connect him to Don’s death. “They’ll probably take that trailer apart panel by panel.”

  “When are you meeting with the insurance company?”

  “Tomorrow. Too soon. But maybe we can ask for a postponement.” The thought of postponing my reckoning made me feel anxious, however. I wanted to get it over with, and Murdoch’s arrest gave me the first real hope I’d had in weeks. I grabbed my cell phone. “Maybe they’ll decide there’s reasonable doubt. I have to call my lawyer.”

  So on the way back to the hospital, I advised the attorney of this latest development. She was not particularly impressed once she ascertained the arrest was for something other than murder. But I put that down to her professionally requisite gloom. I was feeling a bit giddy, sensing the end to my long quest, hoping that soon everyone would know the truth. And so, as soon as Mike pulled into his parking slot, I kissed him. Relief, exhilaration, fueled by lust. A potent combination for even the most ambivalent of women.

  “You know,” he murmured into my neck, “if we ever manage to make it into a bed, it will seem anticlimactic after this.”

  “I doubt it.” I was about to suggest we adjourn to my car, where the back seat folded down, but the vision of five years’ worth of candy wrappers Tommy had stuffed into the upholstery stopped me. I should have the car detailed, I thought dreamily, and then we could do it.

  We could, I reminded myself, act like normal adults and go to one of our homes. I could actually have a nice, mature relationship, with a nice, mature man. There was no one more mature than Mike Warren—though I wouldn’t precisely have called him nice. And I was pretty mature myself. I paid my bills, and I blamed my parents for only half of my assorted neuroses, and I remembered the birthdays of every single one of my nephews and nieces. Surely, a nice mature woman like me could manage a relationship that was safe and responsible and sensible.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing safe and responsible and sensible about what I felt—a hot wanting, as if his kisses had set something free within me. I hadn’t felt that way when Will had wanted me. No, this was Mike’s alone, this desire, this need. If I could just give in to it, just once, revel in the sweetness of it, I could sleep again without those hot chaotic dreams that had awakened me last night.

  Maybe we could just once, before Tommy came home and ended my holiday. Maybe just once Mike could spend the night, keep me warm, kiss me delirious. Just once . . . before he realized I didn’t want any more, before he decided he wouldn’t settle for less—

  I was thinking like a man. Get him into bed and get what I wanted, and then cut him loose.

  This was not what equal rights was supposed to be all about. Then again, those Gossip Girls weren’t letting Betty Friedan’s strictures keep them from having a good time.

  I opened my mouth to say something bold and yet vulnerable and a little raunchy. Then I noticed his eyes. He was tired. He had to go to work at midnight, and I’d kept him hostage all day with my problems. “I should let you go home and sleep.”

  He let me go and glanced at the dashboard clock. “I’ll just stay here and commandeer an empty room. Are you going to be all right tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I said with a bravado I didn’t feel. “Piece of cake.”

  “I’ve got some consults out at the state hospital, or I’d go with you.”

  “You’re too good to me.”

  “Nah. If I were, you’d let me take you home to bed.”

  Say the word, I almost said. But I already asked way too much of a man I wasn’t ready to need that much—or maybe it was a man I couldn’t have needing me.

  So, with one last lingering kiss, I left him, retrieved my abandoned car, and went home to go over, one more time, my arguments against suicide.

  ChapterTwenty

  MURDOCH’S ARREST was the lead story in the morning newspaper. I stuffed it into my briefcase so I could show the insurance committee the highlighted portion which connected Murdoch to Will Bowie and Don Ross. It made me feel hopeful to see it there in black and white, especially with that photo of Murdoch in handcuffs, staring coldly at the camera.

  As soon as I met my attorney in the glassed lobby of the United Guaranty building, she started in on the warnings. This was just the first level. Internal-review committees seldom overturned the decisions of their investigator. But I waved her off. “Let’s go get ’em.”

  Then I entered the room and saw the bored bland men sitting at the table in front and understood. They weren’t going to listen. They didn’t even ask questions. They just nodded and took all the evidence and nodded again, and then shook their heads. Appeal denied.

  The attorney patted me on the shoulder and headed out into the bustling downtown world. I walked to my car and sat there with the door propped open. After all my work, after all my anguish, it came down to this—three bland, blind men, stamping denied on my son’s inheritance.

  I should call Barb. She would sympathize with me and come up with a list of more aggressive, younger, cheaper attorneys from our contact list. I could call Vince, who might cheer me up with some vignettes of gossip about United Guaranty’s CEO’s former-stripper trophy wife. I could call any one of
a number of friends who could be counted on to murmur comfort at the right moments and tell me how life was unfair .

  But I wanted to call Mike. I needed to call Mike. The nerves in my fingers were twitching to dial his phone number. I longed to hear his voice. I didn’t even care what he said. I just wanted to hear him say something gentle and generous, and I wanted to hear the smile warm his voice, and I wanted him to come and get me and take me somewhere safe and secure.

  I put the phone back in my purse. Closed the door. Turned on the engine and pulled away from the curb. I wanted him too much. In less than a month, I’d come to need him more than any friend I’d ever had. Being without him now left me bereft.

  This was weakening me, just when I needed to be strong.

  I drove by the office and found Barb at the file cabinet, shoving papers into her attaché case. “You’ll never guess,” she cried when she saw me. “Will’s been released from the hospital, and he’s heading to the islands to convalesce. And he wants me to come with him.”

  This took a moment to sink in. “Did you get a nursing degree when I wasn’t looking?”

  “No, but I can hand him his aspirin as good as any RN. And I’ll be more fun for him.”

  “I’m sure you will. What about Dane?”

  “He’s got his three summer weeks with his dad. So I can stay away as long as I like.”

  This I had to see. Last summer, when the three-year-old Dane stayed with his father, Barb stopped by every evening with his favorite macaroni-and-cheese, the same smother-mother tendencies I’d fought unsuccessfully for fifteen years. Maybe in the islands, she’d manage not to worry about her baby . . . but I wouldn’t bet on it.

  “Well, it’s probably a good time to get Will out of town anyway. Just to be safe.”

  “He’s got a friend with a private villa. So I don’t think that old farmer can track us down.” She added hesitantly, “It is okay with you, right? You did have your chance with him.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked. So yes, this is okay. Really.” I even felt a little benevolent. It was every day I could bequeath a friend a billionaire. “He’s a good guy.”

  “But not your type. Good. He’s my type. Rich and funny. And just think how much business he’ll give Lynn and O’Brian now.”

  Until they broke up, when the business would all dry up . . . but maybe not. Will wasn’t much of a grudge-holder as far as romance went. “You have fun. And don’t get too much sun.”

  “Hey, how’s it going with the handsome doctor?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. “It’s scary. He’s very . . . compelling.”

  “I’ll bet. Those eyes just destroy me. Like he can see right through to my inner needs. Yum. I’ll bet he’s great in bed.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said haughtily.

  “What are you waiting for? Come on, Meggie, you don’t have to make some big commitment. You’re not twenty-two and looking for a wedding ring. Just do it!”

  “Well, now that my partner is running off to the islands for some sun and sand and sex, and sticking me with all the work, I won’t have time for love.”

  “Yeah,” she said enviously. “And I bet he’s the sort who takes his time. Like all night long. But you can find time for that. And I’ll be back in a week. Maybe two.”

  I didn’t want her coming back prematurely, since Will would follow and walk right back into danger. “No. Take all the time you want. I’ll be fine here.”

  “I’ll email you,” she called back as she barreled out the front door.

  They’d be back in a week or two. And then what? Would Murdoch be out on bail by then? I called Detective Armstrong and asked for the scoop.

  “Feds took it over.” His grievance was muted but evident. “I knew that’d happen as soon as I saw the chemicals. Had to take the ATF guys with us, and they ended up sharing the bust, and it’ll be a federal count. He’s on his way to federal court for arraignment now.”

  “What about the Bowie incident?”

  “Huh.” He sounded even more disgusted. “That got reassigned to Homicide. Martelli.”

  Oh, great. Just the man for the job. Detective Skeptic. “So can you tell me anything? I’m worried that Will Bowie might still be in danger, and I was hoping you’d have enough to hold Murdoch for a while.”

  “Nothing much beyond the chemicals. And he says he’s just using them to experiment with new fertilizers. Still dangerous as hell, but if the judge believes him, they’ll drop the conspiracy to bomb charge down to illegal storage of chemicals and let him out on minimal bail.”

  “Homicide won’t be adding on charges?” I asked without much hope.

  “Nothing to go on at this point but your statements. And they’re discounting Bowie’s because of the concussion and all, and he comes across as a rich flake, according to Martelli.”

  Whatever happened to corruption? I mean, you’d think the police would be bending over backwards for the rich flake. Will was going to have to double his contribution to the police charities. “So there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Ma’am, you got the ball rolling. I got the idea Martelli’s a little worried. I mean, you came to him before and he blew you off. And now this guy is maybe pulling an Oklahoma City? Well, let’s just say you shone the spotlight on him, and Martelli didn’t pay attention before. But he has to pay attention now. So you know, maybe that’s the start.”

  From this unexpected source, that slight, hedged-in compliment flowed like balm over my scarred ego. Maybe I’d been right to persist when no one paid me any mind. I’d been invisible to the likes of Martelli, but not anymore. If nothing else, that was worth all the angst. I managed a level voice as I thanked Detective Armstrong.

  I reached for the phone again and stopped. I was like a drunk who responded to trouble by craving a bottle, only my fix was Mike Warren. Before I could decide, the phone rang.

  “Hi.” It was Mike. I wondered if he had been, like me, longing for that fix—the very thought made me weak, that he could want as much as I wanted. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Nothing. My attorney was right. They had no intention of overturning the decision, no matter what evidence I brought. But I can sue. That would take a ten thousand dollar retainer, however. “

  “Do you want to do it?”

  “I—” It hit me all at once, and I had to ward off the tears. “It’s so much money.”

  “Meg—”

  I sensed what he was going to say and cut it off. “Don’t.”

  He didn’t push it, didn’t offer me a loan. I was so weak, I’d probably take it if he insisted. And I couldn’t take it. This was my fight, not his, and maybe I should just accept defeat. “I’ll take a couple days to think about it, but I guess, unless the police actually charge Murdoch with murder, I don’t know if I’ve got enough to interest a judge.”

  He was silent for a moment, evaluating this. “That would mean if they don’t, you’ll be giving up the possibility of all that money. Can you handle that?”

  I thought a bit bleakly of the college years. I could save every cent of Tommy’s Social Security payment until it ran out when he turned 18, and maybe that would pay his way through. I’d already promised him a car, though, and we’d been planning a trip to Florida at Christmas .

  “We’ll have to tighten the belt a couple notches. And Tommy won’t have anything at all as a stake when he gets out of college. But then, most kids don’t. I just don’t know what I should tell him. He knows his dad had plenty of money. It’s going to seem like such an insult when he realizes he ended up without a legacy.”

  “Maybe Wanda will decide to give him the equivalent of the insurance proceeds.”

  That thought made me squirm. “I’d rather do without. I mean, she’s not the enemy anymore—I’m beyond that—but I don’t want her ch
arity. If she ever pays back what I gave to Don’s sister, that’s enough.” I added, “You think I’m too proud, don’t you?”

  “No. I think money matters less to you than other values, and I can’t fault that. However, you can’t make everything right all by yourself.”

  His carefully neutral tone didn’t deceive me. He would be glad if I gave up on my quest to prove that Don was murdered. I knew it was because he was worried I’d get hurt, but I felt again that trap of a man’s expectations. I cared what he thought; I wanted to please him. But that tugged me away from my own inclination to fight on.

  I was too weary now to protest, however. And so I fell back on the hope that another man would rescue me—in the unlikely person of Detective Martelli. “Maybe the police will put Murdoch away for a while on the chemicals charge, and he’ll have to give up the lawsuit. His attorney won’t work for nothing. And then—”

  “It’s kind of strange. Murdoch really blew it, didn’t he?”

  I laughed. It sounded hollow even to me. “You’re a shrink. You’ve probably come across self-destructive behavior before a time or two.”

  “Yeah, but he’s been fairly linear up to this point. He wanted money and vindication, right?”

  “And maybe the land back.”

  “Maybe, but his obsession was never centered on his land. He knew Don wasn’t going to settle—never intended to. I don’t think that was a negotiating ploy. Don probably realized his business would be ruined if he didn’t win this lawsuit.”

  “So Murdoch had a motive then. He figured Wanda would be more likely to settle.”

  Mike said, “Right. But then, just when he might be able to get some serious money from Wanda—much more than he lost—he goes after Will Bowie, challenging him.”

  “Testosterone does that to a man.”

  “But it was just a matter of time before someone caved. All Murdoch had to do was hang on and keep the suit going.”

  “So?”

  “So why try to kill Bowie? It’s bound to draw more attention to the situation.”