Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

  Dave slams his hand on the banister.

  “Goddammit, Maggie, I know what your handwriting looks like. I know you wrote the fucking note. That was some pretty stellar acting you did when you read it.”

  I knew I should have typed it, but I didn’t have time. Dave needed a note, and if he didn’t find one, I didn’t know what might happen. So I gave him a note. That doesn’t make me guilty; it makes me compassionate.

  “What about you? All that closure you got from it?”

  “I got closure because then I was certain she didn’t kill herself.”

  “What else were you two hiding from me?”

  I’d spent practically every waking moment with Lana for the past few months, but apparently I knew nothing about her. I didn’t even know when she’d had time to tell Dave all of this, let alone go for job interviews.

  “Well,” Dave cautiously begins, “her boyfriend was pretty nice.”

  “You met him? I don’t understand. When did she see him? When did you meet him?”

  “She’d sneak out or tell you she was taking a walk or going to an appointment.”

  “But why?” I ask, trying to catch my breath. “I don’t get it.”

  “She knew you’d get mad.”

  “I wouldn’t have been mad,” I interject.

  How could I have gotten mad if my daughter wanted to go out and have fun? That’s not a motherly thing to do.

  Dave glares at me, unconvinced. He looks down and silently shakes his head with a look on his face that makes me question whether or not he’s ever loved me.

  “So who do you think killed her, assuming neither of us did?” I ask, filling the awkward silence, both of us suspended in time, both loving and hating each other, believing and distrusting our words, wondering if we’ve already discovered the truth, or if we ever will.

  “That’s an assumption I’m not willing to make.”

  Chapter 12

  Margaret

  I have to get out of the house, so Beth agrees to meet me for dinner. It’s tough to get her to tear herself away from her kids, but I guess she has enough pity for my situation that she’s willing to hire a sitter, or saddle Devin with them.

  I’m waiting for her at a restaurant that would have been better suited for us at least twenty, if not thirty, years ago. Half of me feels really old looking at all these gorgeous young people who have their whole lives ahead of them. They’re drinking and they probably won’t even have a hangover in the morning. They’re eating burgers and fries and dessert and they don’t have to worry about chaining themselves to the treadmill tomorrow.

  The other half of me feels young just being around them. Sitting in the same vicinity of the in-crowd makes me feel hipper. Of course, I wore my tightest black dress and highest heels, never mind the fact I stumbled on my way in. These youngsters make everything look so effortless, like they just put on a little makeup in the car instead of spending an hour in front of the mirror. Not that I did that.

  Dave’s at home. I don’t know what he’s doing. I told him he should meet some buddies from work now that he’s finally going back into the office, but he said no. Came home to a crappy frozen dinner, ratty sweatpants, and guilty-pleasure TV.

  Beth walks in, late as usual. She’ll say it’s because of her kids, but I’d say it’s because she took even longer than me to get ready. She looks hot. And now I feel old again just looking at her. She’s wearing a red dress and strappy sandals; her hair blows just the right way when she walks in. It’s as though she had a team of stylists to help her get ready, and now an assistant is holding a fan to be sure she has the sexy, blowing-hair thing going for her at all times. She must want to pick up a guy tonight. That actually sounds like a pretty good idea. I’m not too fond of the idea of Dave waiting at home for me, most likely asleep on the sofa, television blaring, a melted, half-eaten pint of ice cream in his lap.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Beth says, sliding into her chair.

  “It’s fine. I was people-watching.”

  We go through the motions of making conversation. You know, all the boring things: How are you? How are the kids? What have you been doing? After a while, we both grow weary of it, and silence falls upon the table. It’s fine with me, actually. To be in someone’s company and not have to talk, yet not be in an awkward silence, is nice. We’re eating and enjoying the food despite its overly trendy presentation. The music’s loud but has a good beat. And there are still plenty of people to watch.

  Beth breaks the silence. “So, do you know much about the investigation?”

  “Not really. They’re waiting on the autopsy. Apparently it takes forever. Figuring out which one of us did it.”

  There’s a painful sarcasm in my voice.

  “Can we talk about something else? Anything else?” I say, desperate for a reprieve, for something interesting to talk about.

  “Well, I’m cheating on Devin,” Beth says calmly, like she’s just told me she bought a new pair of shoes.

  I nearly choke on my bite of sous vide salmon, and half of it comes out of my mouth when I say “What?” like the sophisticated lady I am.

  “I know,” Beth says, nodding her head. “It’s crazy, right?”

  “It’s beyond crazy. Don’t you love him anymore? Are you going to break up? What about the kids? Are you in love with this guy? Who is he? Do I know him?”

  I’m so hungry for juicy gossip, something that makes me totally forget about my situation, that I can’t stop spewing rapid-fire questions at Beth without allowing her to answer a single one. I will not leave this restaurant until I am satisfied.

  A flash of sadness hits me when I realize that under normal circumstances, I would go home and tell Dave all of this, and together we’d bad-mouth Beth and her behavior. We’d get a good laugh from it all and feel better about our lives in comparison to hers. I wonder if Dave could put our differences aside for a while so we could enjoy dishing about this secret.

  Probably not.

  I turn my full attention back to Beth.

  “That’s a lot of questions,” she says.

  “This is a lot of news,” I reply. “So start spilling.”

  “He’s a good guy. We get along, and he doesn’t make things too complicated, but I’m not sure how I feel about him.”

  “Do you know how you feel about Devin? Did something happen between the two of you?” I say, leaning into the table, remembering we’re sitting in the middle of a restaurant.

  “Nothing happened, really. I love him. He’s a great father—everything I could ever want in a husband, really.”

  “So why are you fucking all of that up?”

  Beth looks at me as though she’s never considered that she’s ruining her life with these actions. She’s only thought about how she could benefit.

  “It just happened. The moment presented itself, and I went with it.”

  She pauses, looks at me, and then closes her eyes for a good ten or fifteen seconds, breathing deeply, seemingly looking inside herself for answers.

  “And then it kept happening, and now I don’t really want it to stop, and I don’t think he does either. He just got engaged. We avoided each other for a few days, but . . .”

  She trails off.

  “So who is he?” I ask. “Someone from the kids’ preschool? Do I know him?”

  Beth has taken a drink of wine and she’s still trying to swallow when she says, “Maybe.”

  I don’t break eye contact with her, waiting for more information. How do I know him? Possibilities cross my mind, but I can’t really think of anyone other than the couple of guys from Dave’s work I remember from Lana’s funeral.

  She finally opens her mouth, chuckles a little first.

  “Actually,” she says, “it’s kind of funny. Well, not funny, really, just . . . kind of weird.”

&nb
sp; “Okay,” I say, confused.

  “It’s Detective Ryan Kirkpatrick. I think he’s working on your case. Lana’s case,” she corrects herself quietly, after redirecting her gaze from the table to me.

  “I . . . what? I don’t understand,” I manage to mutter.

  “I know, it’s insane. If you want me to end it, I can.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” I say, downing the rest of my glass of wine. I grab my things, get up from the table, and walk out, getting to the parking lot with no recollection of how I ended up there.

  I bend over and put my hands on my knees, trying to catch the breath that I swear has been sucker-punched out of me. I feel sick.

  I walk over to the bushes and throw up. Sweat is dripping down my face, and I’m shaking too. I can’t stop. I can’t see. My head hurts.

  Suddenly a hand is on my back. I turn around to find Beth standing there. I stand up and wipe my mouth. I stumble, nearly falling over. Beth steadies me.

  “I need to sit down,” I say.

  She leads me to a bench, and we sit. She gives me a Kleenex and a mini bottle of water from her large handbag. I wipe my mouth and take a small sip. It’s warm, so I swish and spit over the side of the bench.

  “I didn’t mean to tell you,” she says. “It just came out. You needed something to talk about and I needed someone to tell and it just came out. I’m sorry, Mags.”

  I feel like I’m a kid and Beth is my mom. Like she’s apologizing for ruining my first date or something. But this is worse. Oh so much worse.

  Why is this bozo detective sleeping with my sister? I can only imagine it’s to get information about me so he can charge me with Lana’s murder. He wants to weave a complex web out of the lies I’ve told, my presumed motive, and hatred. For some reason, he thinks Beth knows something. I’ve got news for him: not even Dave has the full picture.

  We all have secrets, the things we barely admit to ourselves, let alone outsiders. Yes, Beth is my sister, and Dave is my husband, but they are both outsiders in my world, as I am in theirs. Each of us peeking into a window to catch a glimpse, allowing us to better figure the other person out, not realizing that it’s not at all possible.

  “What have you told him about me?” I ask, no longer angry, mostly because my energy has been zapped. I wonder if I’ll even be able to drive myself home.

  “I try not to tell him much. I know anything I say could be used against you. He did find some eyedrops you gave me. Said they were glycerin or something weird like that. I don’t know. Just glad I didn’t use them.”

  I didn’t give her weird eyedrops. I don’t even use eye drops. I’ve always had a thing about them, have to be pretty much sedated for someone to squeeze them into my eyes. Hate needles, too, and the sight of blood. I’m a very squeamish person, actually. And I’m being accused of killing someone. Okay, nearly accused, but still.

  “I didn’t give you any eyedrops,” I say.

  “Yeah, you did. Don’t you remember? What do you have, early onset Alzheimer’s or something?”

  “No,” I say as sternly as I can manage. “I didn’t give you any fucking eyedrops.”

  “Whatever you say, Maggie.”

  She thinks I’m wrong. We often have long, drawn-out arguments about things like this. She thinks she’s right when actually, I am. Most of the time we have to drop the topic because we can’t come to an understanding. The rest of the time, she talks to Devin or looks up the answer on the Internet and finds out I’m right after all. Not that an apology ever follows; more likely a muttered “You’re right,” as though it’s literally killing her to admit such a thing is even possible.

  “You can’t see him anymore. You know that, right? This has to stop,” I say, the thought suddenly so obvious to me, even though it may not be the right one. Perhaps old Ryan thought he could get evidence against me by sleeping with my sister, but what if she protects me, turns him on to another suspect? Won’t seem so clever then, now, will he? It’s probably not worth it; he’ll never believe her, and one destroyed family is enough for our lineage.

  She looks at me. I can’t put my finger on it; maybe she’s mad that I think I can tell her what to do just because I’m her big sister. Maybe she’s sad because she knows she needs to end it, too. And maybe it’s one of those evil looks because she knows she can totally fuck me over if she wants to, and I have a feeling she wants to more than anything on earth.

  “It doesn’t have to stop just because you say so. You don’t control me. I want to keep seeing him.”

  “A little while ago, you said you’d stop.”

  “I didn’t really mean that, and you know it. You wouldn’t have meant it either. It’s what people say to appease the other party.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you, Maggie—far from it. Although you don’t make it easy to be liked. My God, you went on a vacation right after Lana died. Who does that?”

  I say nothing. I have nothing to say. She has no idea what I’ve gone through in life. What life was like with Lana—although apparently Lana gave an award-winning performance.

  Beth starts to walk away, but I still don’t feel like I can drive myself home. I’m not even sure I can stand up without assistance.

  “Wait,” I yelp, a puppy needing its mommy. A lost hiker begging for a drink of water. A sister needing help from her family.

  Beth turns and glares at me. “What?” she asks, fire flying out of her mouth, showing the dragon she secretly is.

  “Can you drive me home?” I ask, partly hoping she’ll say no and leave me on the bench, to be found dead in the morning. Oh, the joys of finding out your sister is sleeping with the man who thinks you killed your daughter.

  “Yes,” she says.

  I force myself to get up and walk to her car without assistance. I stumble a couple times, but somehow make it to the car. I hang onto the door for a moment to catch my breath before Beth honks the horn. I jump in the car and we ride home in silence. I wish I had thrown up in her car, but I’m not queasy anymore.

  I wonder how we got here. How I got here.

  I hate myself for letting all of this happen to me, for this being my life. I hate Dave and Lana and Beth and my parents for leading me to this life. I hate the universe for putting me in this situation. I hate everyone and everything. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Chapter 13

  Ryan

  “So, what’s the verdict?” I say to the medical examiner, and regret it the moment it comes out of my mouth. Bob’s an odd guy, quite the character. The type you might guess is a medical examiner.

  Don’t get me wrong; he’s the smartest guy I know. Keep telling him he should try out for Jeopardy! but he’s afraid to fly, so he doesn’t. I can’t be sure, but I think he just goes from his house to work, from work to his house. Maybe he’s a vampire and can’t be in the sun. I don’t know. He’s got this weird sense of humor and can’t handle himself in social situations.

  He likes Kate and me. Well, he likes Kate. So he’s nice to us, and doesn’t look at the floor when he talks to us, something I’m told he does with most people. The one thing I don’t have to worry about with Bob is that he’ll mess up the case. He’s so thorough and doesn’t let anything slip through the cracks. So, if there’s evidence of Lana’s cause of death anywhere on her body, he’ll find it.

  The autopsy took a while, what felt like forever, but they all do. This time it just felt longer because this autopsy will determine whether this is a case. If Bob rules it a suicide, we’re done. We have apologies to issue, might face lawsuits, but will close the case. I can’t speak for Kate, but if this happens, I’ll always feel a little uneasy about it.

  If it’s a homicide—man, do we have a mess on our hands. Under different circumstances, I might have bet Kate on what would h
appen, but today, I just make a mental bet with myself. All my money’s on homicide.

  “You’re gonna have to wait for the jury, and their verdict,” he says, laughing at his own joke. Kate and I chuckle along to keep Bob happy.

  “What did you find out?” Kate asks in her sweetest voice.

  “Well, there was definitely a struggle. Some bruising on her arms, skin under her fingernails. It could be explained in a lot of ways. Parents could write it off as an accidental scratch, which does happen, but my instinct says there was a struggle.”

  “Did you test for drugs?” I ask.

  “Oh, good question!”

  He’s excited to tell us. I like my job, but I don’t think I’ve ever been that excited about it. Ordinarily I might be frustrated by his eagerness, but it’s oddly endearing.

  “I ran blood, urine, and hair tests,” Bob is saying.

  “Did you find anything?” I press.

  “I did not. But your victim here didn’t die from hanging; she was suffocated. She definitely did not kill herself.”

  My mouth gapes open. I thought drugs might have been present in her system, but I hadn’t expected to hear she’d been suffocated. It would be awfully hard to hang yourself after suffocating to death.

  “How was she suffocated?” I ask.

  “I can’t say for certain, but I found trace amounts of a fine cotton in her teeth. Could have been a pillow. But that could also be coincidence. A plastic bag would have done the job as well.”

  “So . . . ,” I say, wanting more information.

  “So you need to figure out who wanted this girl dead.”

  “I already have an idea,” Kate says.

  “Good luck,” Bob says. “If I can be of any further assistance, let me know.”

  We thank him, and then head off to discuss the case and figure out our next step.

  “My money’s on Margaret Moore,” I say.

  “I’m not so sure. It could have been Dave. It’s often not who you think it will be,” Kate replies.