Cause of Death

by Laura Dembowski

“You act like I’m some common criminal, Stan.”

  “You are,” he says.

  We approach the doors. I can hear the media clamoring for someone, anyone to talk to. The mass of protesters, hating on me, clashes with the professional journalistic voices. I don’t hear any police sirens, but I sure as hell hope they’re out there to protect me from the crazies that lurk, ready to kill me, forgetting the fact that that kind of behavior will make them no better than me.

  “You got that face ready?” he asks.

  I plaster a phony, uncomfortable look on my face, certain I look like a wax figure. Stan looks at me and nods his approval. At least I’ve done one thing right today. Stan puffs out his chest and takes on this insanely confident air. I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in court. I’m drawn to it. I’m drawn to him.

  I know he said to lay low and all, but I can’t help but wonder if he’d be interested in a quick fuck after this is all over. We could meet up at his office tonight, the darkness to protect us, his little worker bees all at home, working, sleeping, plotting their rise to the top. It would be sexy and steamy.

  He grabs my arm again, firmly, shaking me out of my horny reverie. We’ve reached the door. One of his underlings opens it and we walk out. The sun is bright in my eyes, and since apparently I’d be hanged in the town square if I dared to wear sunglasses, I’m at the mercy of the bright star. I squint, but then remember that squinting is almost as bad as wearing sunglasses. Stan didn’t have to tell me that one either. Look how much I’m learning!

  He guides me over to a set of microphones. He stands right in front of them; I am to stand next to him and not move a muscle, my feet glued to the ground. Cameras are pointed at us, flashes go off. The hundreds of sets of eyes, all fixed on us, more realistically, me, make me nervous. They are boring into me, convicting me, even though the twelve people, whose opinions really mattered, didn’t.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. We are so pleased with the verdict sent down by the jury. Margaret is an innocent suburban mother who unfortunately lost both her daughter and husband in a very short period of time. While her suffering has been tremendous, the jury gave her a little comfort with justice today.”

  He says a few other things, but he’s really just repeating the same thing over and over again, with different words. The mark of a great attorney, I’m sure. I bet he had an entirely different spiel memorized had things gone the other way. Always prepared, that Stanley. Once his statement is complete, the swarm of media shouts questions at him all at once.

  “No questions today. Thank you,” he says, and whisks me away into a large black SUV waiting to carry us somewhere. I’m fine with anyplace, as long as it’s not a courthouse, police station, or prison.

  Soon, the car stops in front of my house. It wasn’t at the top of my list, but it’ll do for now. It feels late, but the sun is still shining, so I know it’s not.

  “I’ll walk you in,” Stan says. Some press surrounds my house, but most of the journalists are still back at the courthouse, reporting live and wondering aloud to viewers how I could possibly have been found not guilty.

  I open the door and walk to my front door with Stan and a few of his minions trailing behind, keeping the press away from me. The hands that shook so badly they could hardly lock the door earlier are now steady and deal swiftly with the lock and key. I open the door and wait for Stan to come in. His assistants wait outside.

  “You’ll be fine, I trust,” he says. It’s not really a question, so I’m not sure what to say, kind of like when people would tell Lana and me that we looked alike.

  Lana . . . now why’d I have to go and think about Lana?

  “Are there other options?” I ask.

  “Not especially.” He looks around a little, probably marveling at how good the place looks compared to the crime-scene photos he spent hours analyzing.

  “When will the other trial start?”

  “A couple months, probably,” he says.

  “Will we win?” I say, fanning myself while I turn up the air-conditioning, not entirely sure why it’s so hot in the house.

  “If we won this case, I’d say that one will be a breeze,” he says.

  “Could you at least stay the night?” I ask.

  He smiles at me and walks close. He’s right in my face. I feel this intense romantic tension. I want to kiss him and I’m close enough to do so, but I resist.

  “I could,” he says, “but I know what you’ve done, and I don’t want a single thing to do with you personally.”

  I don’t know what to say. I’m flabbergasted. I just look at him and watch as he pulls away, turns around, and heads for the door.

  “I’ll see you in trial prep,” he says. “You should expect this kind of reaction from people, as I was telling you earlier. Life is not going to be a cakewalk for you, but maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to kill your daughter and your husband.”

  “Uh . . . but . . . I . . .” I stumble with my words, not that it matters, as he has already walked out the door and shut it behind him.

  He acts like I’m some serial killer. I’m not. I never meant to do those things. I’m not crazy. I’m no psychopath. I’m just a normal lady who got caught up in a couple of strange situations. That’s all. Right?

  The room is spinning. Everything becomes fuzzy. I kind of feel like I’m going to pass out.

  I walk through the house, supporting myself on whatever piece of furniture is within my reach to get to the bedroom, where I prepare myself to leave the house: a wig, heavy makeup, and some clothes from Lana’s closet that I’m able to squeeze into. Then I grab my purse and keys and head for the garage, and my car.

  Once I sit down and start driving, I’ll be fine. I need some fresh air, the wind blowing through my hair. I need to get out of this house, drive down an open road, fast, slow, it doesn’t matter. Just something, anything, to take my mind off the mess that lurks around every single corner in this house.

  Sitting in the car doesn’t help anything. My brain is still fuzzy, like static scrolling across a TV. Still, I continue; I start the engine, put the car in reverse, and start to drive. I realize only millimeters from the garage door that I’d neglected to open it. I do so now and pull out into the street. I start driving, slowly, being sure not to kill anyone else . . . not today, anyway.

  I lose control of the car briefly, and swerve. I graze a parked car. A car I’ve never seen before, so I don’t fret. They’ll never know it was me. Once I’m on the road, I do start to feel better. I’m just driving along to nowhere in particular. For now, that’s just fine with me.

  Finally I stop at a bar in a nice area, far enough away from where I live that I hope I can blend right in.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” a guy a couple seats down from me at the bar asks, before I’ve even had a chance to get comfortable. I thought the place might be a little more hopping, full of guys not quite as middle-aged and out of shape as this crowd, but the guy vying for my attention is wearing a Rolex, so he can’t be too bad.

  “Sure,” I reply, sliding one seat over to be closer to him and batting my eyelashes just a little.

  “What’re you drinking?”

  “Vodka soda,” I answer.

  He looks at the bartender, a young guy, a few tattoos, gelled hair. He’s more what I was hoping to nab tonight, but he’s certainly not rocking a several-thousand-dollar watch.

  “Vodka soda for the lady and a Manhattan for me.” I swoon over him calling me a lady.

  “Ron,” he says, sticking out his strong, masculine hand. That’s something that always bothered me about Dave; he had feminine hands, and he always wanted to hold mine, intertwining our fingers. I constantly felt like I was holding my mother’s hand.

  “Jessica,” I coo, surprised at how comfortably the name falls out of my mouth. I figured it would be hard
to shake Margaret, but it turns out, not so much. I stick my hand in his. It is big and cradles my hand just right. By far the nicest hand I’ve ever shaken.

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica.”

  “Likewise.”

  The bartender sets our drinks in front of us. I’m about to guzzle half of mine for some liquid courage, to make sure I don’t blow this, when he holds out his glass.

  “Cheers,” he says.

  “Cheers,” I repeat.

  Our glasses clink. We each take a drink. I’m trying to remember if this is how it should be. Picking up guys, dating. It’s all rather foreign to me, since I’d been with Dave so long. Dave was actually one of my very first loves, the guy I knew I’d spend the rest of my life with the moment I met him—at least, that’s what I told people most of my life.

  Not so sure what I feel about Ron here, but I’m open to the possibilities. Perhaps he is, too. He’s definitely curious, looking at me, trying to figure me out, not knowing he can do no such thing.

  “What’s your story, Jessica?” he asks in a polite yet pressing manner.

  “My story?” I repeat. I don’t have a story prepared. I’m not ready to share a life story, true or false, with anyone after just meeting them. “Just a woman scorned by her husband . . . ex-husband. Abandoned by our child. Wanting to start fresh. What about you?”

  “No kids. Had a wife for a while, but I was really married to my job—and sleeping with women whenever I wanted.”

  “Well, that so makes me fall in love with you,” I say with a chuckle.

  He laughs too. “Yeah, but that was the old me. I’ve settled down. I’m ready for a relationship.” He slides over the seat in between us so now we are sitting right next to each other.

  “Whoa, there, slow down a little. Relationships are nice, but sometimes a fling is just as good.”

  “We’re too old for that. Unless you’re one of those middle-aged college students.”

  “I am not. Please—I couldn’t handle one child let alone a whole college full of them.”

  “You know,” he says in thought, “I never really wanted kids. Are you close with yours?”

  “Haven’t seen her much lately,” I answer. “Not my ex either.”

  The lies are just falling out of my mouth. Although, technically those aren’t lies. I haven’t seen Lana or Dave in a while. With each word I speak, I feel more confident, I feel more like Jessica. I am losing myself . . . my old self—a self I am more than happy to see go by the wayside.

  “That’s sad,” he says. “Unless it’s not.”

  “Life’s sad,” I say.

  It’s the truest thing I’ve said maybe in my entire life. I am sad about how things have turned out. I am sad when I sit here and even briefly look back on my life so far. I don’t think I’m the only person who feels this way. For some inexplicable reason, we, as people, are expected to deal with heartbreak, illness, death, and more, without thinking life sucks. It’s not worth it. Without wanting to kill ourselves or think the dead are the lucky ones. Who came up with this thing called life?

  Behind all the lies I’m telling my new friend here is the raw truth, as despicable as it may be.

  “It’s complicated and messy, and sometimes it goes in all kinds of ways we don’t want it to. Then again, maybe sometimes we just think we don’t want it to,” I add.

  “I like you, Jessica.” His hand brushes against mine. I grab a finger just as it is about to return to its position around his drink.

  “I like you too, Ron.”

  He downs his drink. I do the same.

  “You wanna go somewhere else? Maybe back to my place . . . or yours?”

  “Sure, yes, all of the above, any of the above.”

  My hormones are firing like I am one of those crazy college students. I am in lust. If I had a little less decorum and wasn’t afraid of causing some kind of major scene, I’d kiss him right here. We’d make out and throw each other against the bar, before stumbling back to the bathroom and having sex.

  Going back to his place sounds nice. I bet it’s a decent dwelling, and certainly less trashy than having sex in a bar bathroom.

  “Harder, harder,” I yelp. I haven’t had sex in a long time, and I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Ron is much more skilled in the bedroom than Dave ever could have dreamed of being. He’s strong, yet tender; he knows what he’s doing, but let’s me have control. He wants to please me as much as I want to please him.

  This is actually our second go-round. The first was a little sloppy, our alcohol buzz fresh after having a few more drinks in his kitchen, standing in the shadows and soft light from the moon. We fumbled our way through his house, taking our clothes off. I was terrified my wig might come off no matter how much the woman at the store had assured me it wouldn’t, as long as I affixed it correctly and wasn’t too rough. Too bad; I think I might like it rough.

  I thought about taking it off, then realized that would probably scare him away. Plus, he might recognize me. He’s a well-read businessman, his finger on the pulse of society, and even more so, the area. We don’t have to get married; hell, we don’t have to take things any further than tonight, right now. Regardless, I don’t want to give this moment up.

  We’re finished. I’m too tired to go again, so cuddling and falling asleep wrapped in his arms, his intoxicating scent surrounding me, just like his body, sounds nice. In fact, that sounds better than another fuck.

  “That was amazing,” I say, catching my breath and laying my head on his chest, not even caring that it’s a bit sweaty.

  “I’ll say. I didn’t think anyone could beat my wife, but you, my dear—I’m pretty sure you just did.”

  “Am I supposed to say thank you?” I ask, not angry, or even frustrated. I don’t care; instead, I’m only making playful conversation.

  “I should stop talking about my ex-wife, shouldn’t I? Or at the very least, comparing your sexual prowess.”

  “That would be good,” I say.

  “Your ex was better than me, wasn’t he?”

  I laugh. “What’s so funny?” he wonders aloud.

  “You’re much better than my ex. This whole night. It’s been so stress-free. I can’t remember ever feeling this alive.”

  “Well, I would hope I don’t make you feel dead,” he jokes.

  He has no idea how much being around death has made me feel like I am also six feet under. I secretly adjust my wig and before I know it, I am fast asleep.

  I wake with a start. A glance at my phone reveals that it’s noon.

  I roll over to find that Ron is gone. Where is he? Did he figure out who I am? Is my wig okay? I briefly feel around my head and believe everything to be fine.

  I get up, put on my clothes, and look around for a note or some sign of Ron himself.

  I walk down the spiral staircase. His house is lovely, with a nice foyer and a large chandelier. Last night, with few lights on, to maintain the ambiance, a few drinks in us, and other things on my mind, I’d noticed little more than the kitchen. When I walk into it, I examine details I failed to notice last night.

  I also find Ron, hovering over his coffeemaker.

  “Good morning . . . or afternoon,” he says.

  “Yes, good afternoon. Don’t you have to work?”

  “My schedule is flexible.”

  “Okay,” I say, not sure what to make of that. Perhaps now I’ve traded my mundane life and husband for some white-collar criminal. A mobster. A Ponzi schemer. A drug lord. He doesn’t seem like any of those things, but something’s up, and I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out what. Although it is tempting to become a real-life Bonnie and Clyde.

  “I was trying to make coffee for us,” he says, pushing some buttons on the machine, “but the truth is, I usually go to Starbucks, so I’m not really sure how this thing
works.”

  I laugh. If Dave had done this, I’d have wanted to kill him. It’s rather endearing with Ron.

  “Here, let me show you,” I say, walking over to him and the rogue coffee machine. I successfully get it to make coffee, using my years of experience as a boring suburban housewife.

  Ron turns his back to me while I work on the coffeemaker, the newspaper occupying his attention. He seems zoned out, in his own little world, so as much fun as last night was, I know this is my opportunity. I carefully grab a heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack hanging over the island. To my relief it doesn’t clang against the other pans.

  I brace myself, planting my feet on the hardwood floor, and lift the skillet over my head. Thwack! I hit Ron square in the back of the head. He falls instantly to the floor. I take a moment to admire my handiwork, but know I need to return to business quickly, because he’s not dead yet.

  I retake my stance and whack him a couple more times with the skillet. When I believe him to be sufficiently dead, the skillet falls out of my hands and I stand there a moment, trying to catch my breath, both the physical and mental activity having worn me out. Once I can breathe again without feeling like I am going to pass out, I lean down and check for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  Chapter 24

  Kate

  I go for a drive after Margaret Moore’s verdict is read. I’d already called in sick, so why head in now. Of course, now I do feel sick. I haven’t said a word since hearing the verdict. There’s nothing to say.

  I’m not surprised, necessarily. She’s a psychopath, but looks like the nice lady you randomly strike up a conversation with in line at the grocery store, so we, particularly the twelve people sitting in that jury box, believe she didn’t do it. If I didn’t know better, wasn’t so closely entwined with this case, I’d have agreed with them.

  But I do know better. I’ve seen the real Margaret Moore. I’ve seen the look deep in her eyes that tells a completely different story than the one coming out of her mouth. Those people didn’t see that, thanks to the high-powered lawyer that will hopefully bankrupt her. That’s the least karma can stick her with. It would also be okay with me if she got hit by a bus, car, semi—whatever. That’s mean, I know, and I’m not a mean person. To think that she’s free in this world, though, that’s scary. It scares me personally that she is free, but I guess I need to try to move on with my life. Why would she give up her freedom to come after me?