Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  Love you forever,

  Lana

  I let out a yelp. Or a hiss. A scream. I’m not really sure. I do it because I want Dave to come back into the room. I want him to save me. Release me from my prison. Release me from Lana’s room, a room in which I no longer want to spend a single second more. Perhaps even more, I want to be released from her grasp. By reading this note, I have relinquished my power, the power I thought I’d gotten back when she died.

  The fun and hope I’d found since her death is gone. Just the way she wanted it. Those words, saying that she wants us to move on—they’re lies. Deep, nasty lies, meant to make us regret every decision we ever made for her, and us, since the day she was born. Words meant to cut so deep that we’d wish we had never met each other and created her.

  Words that will make us want to die.

  She wants us to see her everywhere we turn. She wants us to remember her at every moment of every day, not move on, not have fun. She can’t do those things, so why should we be able to?

  She’s right, though. We raised her. From the moment Dave and I created that little embryo to the moment she killed herself, we were responsible for her. And we fucked up. So now we’ll pay. Just like Lana wanted.

  Finally, after several minutes—what feels like hours of crying loudly, writhing in emotional pain on Lana’s bed, channeling the drama queen she was—Dave finally comes in. He lies next to me on the bed, the teddy bear between us, a physical separation just like Lana would have wanted.

  Once I have calmed down enough to see things a little more clearly, I realize Dave is still, his breathing steady, his eyes completely clear. He’s not so pale, and he doesn’t seem like a hunched-over old man.

  “So the letter gave you the closure you needed?” I ask, knowing there could be no other explanation for the marked change in his demeanor.

  “I just needed to hear from her one last time, and I did. I didn’t think this would be your reaction.”

  “I guess I couldn’t hold it together any longer,” I say.

  “You don’t have to hold it together at all. It’s okay; let it out.”

  “She blames us.”

  “I know,” Dave says.

  Why is he so calm? This should be tearing him apart.

  “But I don’t,” he says, looking at me. “I blame you,” he says, with a hint of smile.

  Chapter 9

  Ryan

  I knock on Beth Cambridge’s door. Officially I’m here to ask some follow-up questions. Unofficially, I felt some kind of spark between us, and I want to see if she felt the same way. I’m not going to come out and ask her if she’d like to fuck me on her kitchen counter, even if I can’t stop thinking about it. Asking her would certainly lead to her reporting me and another investigation, and I don’t need that right now.

  Beth answers the door, one of her children standing behind her, hiding from me. I kind of forgot about the kids, but maybe she can occupy them with a movie or something.

  “Detective, what can I do for you?” she asks with a smile, her voice soft, smooth, and comforting.

  “I just have a few more questions for you,” I say, realizing I don’t actually have any questions prepared.

  “Anything I can do to help,” she says, moving away from the door so I can come in.

  She looks at the little girl, hiding behind her back. “Daisy, go watch the movie with your sister. I’ll be there shortly.”

  Daisy runs off without a word.

  I am relieved to be alone with Beth.

  “Have a seat,” Beth says, leading me into a formal sitting area that seems far away from where the kids are entertaining themselves.

  “Thank you.” And, after a pause: “Did your sister talk to you much about Lana?”

  I’m unable to come up with anything better to say. It’s a pretty good question, though, and one that could tell me a lot about the mother–daughter relationship at the center of this case.

  “She mostly just complained about her, which I never understood.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “I’d talk to Maggie and she’d tell me how lost Lana was. How she had no life, no friends. How she wanted to kill herself. And then I’d talk to Lana and she’d say she had to sneak out of her house to meet her friends and her boyfriend. I asked her once if she wanted to kill herself, and she laughed at me. She actually joked that she wanted to kill her mom.”

  She pauses.

  “I shouldn’t have told you that,” she says. “Obviously she didn’t want to kill her mother. I think Maggie may have been the needy one, but it’s hard to figure out what’s true when two people you love and trust have completely different stories. You know?”

  “Yeah, that must be tough. How are you holding up?” I ask, trying to exit the professional mode I’m supposed to maintain at all times.

  “My niece is dead and my sister and brother-in-law are apparently persons of interest in the case. I don’t know who to trust.”

  “You can trust me,” I say, and then immediately regret it. It sounds like a cheesy pickup line, which, in essence, is what it is.

  “Thank you,” she says, looking away from me, smiling, perhaps a little embarrassed.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Not really. Figure out how Lana died once and for all, I guess.”

  “Yes. Of course. I meant, is there anything I can do to help you.”

  She looks at me. Our eyes lock. I know now that we both want each other. I stand. She does the same. I take a risk and put my hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t push it away. I lean in to kiss her, stopping just short of her lips. If she meets mine, I know I haven’t taken things too far. She does. We kiss. It’s not sloppy or even that passionate, but it is enough for me. It satisfies me, yet makes me want more.

  Her lips are so soft. Softer than Tracy’s. And she doesn’t try to stick her tongue down my throat. She’s a classy lady, and I wish she was mine instead of Tracy.

  “Mooooooom!” we hear from the other room.

  We pull away from each other, but my hand remains on her shoulder.

  “I . . . I . . . I have to go,” she says, and starts walking toward the front door.

  “Can I come back sometime?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Give me your phone.” I do as she asks and watch as she puts her number into my address book. “Call me.”

  She opens the door and ushers me out. I watch through the window as she walks farther into the house to wherever the kids are watching their movie, jumping back into mom mode without flinching. I will call her—mostly because I want to, but because she wants me to as well. Unless it’s a fake number. Wouldn’t be the first time that happened.

  “Harder, harder,” Beth is screaming.

  Ordinarily I don’t like women screaming at me when I’m fucking them, but she’s such a sexy animal compared to Tracy that I don’t mind at all. I wasn’t expecting her to be so raunchy.

  Apparently everyone in this family has secrets.

  I’m on top of her and bracing myself on her pillow. Beth says it makes her uncomfortable when I touch her with my hands. She feels like when we touch, we’re making an emotional connection, one she doesn’t want to make. She says it just makes things messier. I don’t think rubbing her breasts or caressing her face does that, but what she says goes.

  I’m not really sure how much messier things can get. If we got caught, her husband wouldn’t give a damn whether our relationship was just sex or something more. He’d be pissed simply because we’re fucking. Unless they have an open marriage. Beth mentioned something about that, but I’m not buying it. Beth’s picky about the men she cheats with, she told me. I don’t think Beth’s a liar, but you never can tell. She doesn’t think her sister’s a liar. I say that’s crazy talk.

  I t
hink Tracy senses I’m cheating on her, but I don’t think I can be blamed, and honestly, I don’t care. The other day she brought up the M-word: marriage. She’s brought up moving into a neighborhood like this one, similar to Margaret’s, only nicer, with bigger houses and faster cars, and starting a family. She’s not so much suggesting marriage as practically demanding I propose, with a ring I can’t afford. That’s a new one.

  She thinks “it’s time” after all these years. Don’t ask me how it’s been almost ten years since we started dating; I have no idea. I think it’s time, too, but for something else entirely.

  Beth’s pushing me off of her suddenly. It seems we’re done; more accurately, she’s done. I let her be in control. I have enough things in my life I’m responsible for. Letting Beth take the reins is a relief, a break from the stress and decision-making I deal with every moment of every day, whether I’m at work or at home or at the nursing home, visiting my mom.

  She gets out of the bed and puts on her robe. She grabs her cell phone and starts playing with it.

  “Devin’s gonna be late tonight and the kids’ll be at their grandma’s for the rest of the day. Wanna stay for dinner?”

  I think about it for a minute. It’s my day off, and I’m trying to give Tracy her space, or maybe it’s Tracy I need space from. Going home and eating a frozen TV dinner alone while absentmindedly watching some crappy show on TV sounds depressing, so I say “Sure.”

  “Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” she says.

  Tracy would have phrased it like a question, giving me the perceived option. Beth doesn’t do that; she doesn’t play games. There is no option, and I know that. Beth knows it, too. So does Tracy, for that matter; she just plays her hand differently. Not necessarily better or worse, just differently.

  I pull my Rolling Stones T-shirt over my head and put on my jeans. I poke around Beth’s room for just a minute, since I’m in here alone for the first time since our relationship began. Relationship. I’ve never called an interaction with a woman besides Tracy a relationship.

  I think I hear her coming back up the stairs, though it could just be my imagination. Still, I hustle out of the room, not having found anything very interesting.

  Just like I thought, she is standing on the top step.

  “Thought you got lost or something,” she says.

  “Nope. I’m coming.”

  I follow her down the stairs and into the kitchen. She’s already got a bunch of ingredients lying on the counter. I don’t mind helping her, but she’s going to have to give me some guidance. I don’t cook. Ever. I’ll do dishes and clean, even do laundry, but don’t ask me to cook. I’ve learned over time that takeout and fast food are good enough for me because I prefer not to burn the house down or give anyone, including myself, food poisoning. Once I met Tracy, I had to add in some chain restaurants and even some fine-dining establishments once in a while. I shudder at the thought of dropping three hundred dollars on a dinner for two; that, and having flowers delivered to her office on her birthday. My God, florists charge an arm and a leg. The things I do for love.

  Beth puts a knife in my hand and instructs me to chop some onion and garlic. The only time I hold knives like this are to eat steak, and then there is also a fork involved. Right now my fingers are too close to this sharp blade. My hands shake, and the onion ends up looking like I tore it apart with my bare hands. I’m afraid I’m going to cut myself. Before I can finish that thought, I notice blood on the cutting board.

  “Shit!” I yelp, instinctively putting my finger in my mouth.

  Beth runs over to me, transitioning quickly into mom mode. I’d be pissed if Tracy ever treated me like her child, but with Beth, it’s different. I like that she runs to my aid and is going to take care of me. Maybe she’ll even kiss my boo-boo . . . and then some other places, if I’m lucky.

  “You really aren’t good at cooking, are you?”

  “We all have our strengths.”

  “Let me see it,” she requests in a soothing voice, while tugging my arm to release my finger from my mouth. I don’t really want to see what I’ve done. For a detective, I’m rather squeamish. I prefer not to see blood, which is pretty hard to avoid in my line of work. I hope I never get shot, even though I know it’s always a possibility—probable, even. When it’s my own blood, I get queasy at the mere thought. I don’t want to have to go to the hospital. In fact, I’ll refuse, especially since there’s no way Beth could go with me and risk being seen by someone she knows. It’s more likely we’d be seen by someone I know, since Kate and I are always there, asking questions about cases. And I don’t do hospitals alone. I just don’t. I’ve never broken a bone or had surgery. I still have my wisdom teeth. I was destined for another line of work, clearly nothing to do with cooking, but I stuck with my police academy legacy, and I don’t regret it. Not for one minute. Just don’t ask me that question right after I get shot or stabbed fleeing from a scene. I bet I’d have a different answer then.

  Beth is examining my finger, squeezing it gently, forcing blood to gush out. I’m pretty sure everything’s still attached. I could still need stitches, though, and I don’t want those either. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth is starting to make me feel sick, and my finger hurts.

  “It’s not that bad,” Beth says.

  I don’t believe her. “It seems pretty bad,” I say, looking away from the scene of the crime.

  “Don’t be such a wimp,” she says with a chuckle.

  I’ve apparently tensed up. “Relax,” Beth says, stroking my arm with her hand. I wonder if she should put on gloves. I guess since she has kids, my blood doesn’t alarm her. Besides, if she thought anything was seriously wrong with me, she probably wouldn’t have had sex with me, protected or otherwise.

  I try to relax, taking a deep breath with my eyes closed. When I open them, they land on her first-aid kit. I poke around in it for a minute. It gives me something to do while Beth blots away the blood, trying to stop the stream, then wraps my finger tightly, a little too tightly, and kisses it, just like I wanted.

  “Why do you have glycerin drops?” I ask as she finishes up.

  “I don’t. What are glycerin drops anyway?”

  “I can assure you, you do have glycerin drops. They’re what they use in movies to make it look like you’re crying.”

  “Let me see,” she says. I put them in her hand and she examines the bottle, holding it far away to read it because she doesn’t like to wear her reading glasses. They make her look and feel old, she says, no matter how much I assure her nothing could make her look old.

  She makes a noise, then hands them back to me.

  “So where’d you get ’em?” I ask.

  “I thought they were just regular eyedrops. I have dry eyes, and when I visited Maggie last week she gave them to me.”

  “So your sister had them?” I ask.

  “Yeah. What’s the big deal?” she asks somewhat defensively. I assume she’s figuring out exactly what the big deal is, but maybe I’m wrong.

  “It’s weird to have these just lying around in your medicine cabinet. People don’t typically stock these in their house, Beth. Did you use them?”

  “No. What would have happened if I did?” Beth asks, growing upset.

  I forget about my finger and how much it hurts. Beth walks away and I follow her and put my arms around her. “Nothing. They’re harmless, but every time you blinked, you would have looked and felt like you were crying.”

  Beth calms. I don’t accuse Margaret of anything. That wouldn’t help my cause, and I’d like to stay close to Beth, just in case I need her assistance in the future, or someone to talk to . . . or fuck.

  Tracy texts me first thing the next morning. She wants to meet me for dinner at some fancy steakhouse downtown. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m just glad the evening won’t involve any cooking; I’ve had more than m
y fill of that for pretty much the rest of my life.

  I can’t help but wonder what’s on Tracy’s mind. More talk about marriage? She’s beautiful, always has been since I first set eyes on her in high school. Long brown hair, bronzed skin, big boobs, tiny waist, the perfect smile. She was captain of the volleyball team and even got reasonably good grades. She was a catch by any standard. It’s been a long time, though. Being high school sweethearts sounds great and all until you’re in college and entering the workforce and want to see what other fish are in the pond but already have one on your hook you can’t shake off.

  After all this time, it should be simple. We should be married and living together. Should have kids and one of those stupid fancy houses. We should be like one of those perfect families on TV and it’s driving us both crazy that we aren’t, and yet, we don’t do anything about it. I don’t do anything about it. Tracy would never propose to me. Her mentioning marriage is meant to force my hand, and for some reason, it hasn’t.

  I didn’t sleep last night. Sure, my finger was bothering me, but the real culprit was those glycerin drops. Why did Margaret Moore have glycerin drops? And why’d she give them to Beth?

  I fill my travel mug to the brim with coffee and hit the road to the station. It’s a nice drive. I skip the expressway in favor of the longer, more-scenic route. Sometimes I do this when I have a lot on my mind and need to sort through things. I’ve solved more than a few cases along this road.

  That big maple tree. Right around there, I figured out a decades-old homicide my dad had worked on. Over by those rosebushes, that’s where I thought through a not-so-accidental car crash. Ah, and my favorite—up by the school. That’s where I caught a kidnapper. Locked that asshole up for life. I’m not necessarily expecting a moment like that this morning, but it can’t hurt.

  Kate runs to me the moment I walk in. It’s like she was watching the door, just waiting for my arrival.

  “Lana’s friend is here,” she says.