by D E Dennis
“Malia.” Monica leaned forward as Malia’s eyes fell to her clasped hands. “I know this is difficult, but we need you to tell us the truth. Did he have a violent side? Is there even the slightest chance Charles Cadal had a hand in Beauty’s death?”
Slowly, Malia lifted her head and met their gaze. “No,” she said clearly. “There is no chance Charles had a hand in this.”
“Okay, thank you for—”
“At least,” she went on like there was no interruption. “Not the Charles he is now. Not the Charles who gave up drinking, built a successful business, and has been a devoted husband and father for the last twenty-three years. That Charles could never have hurt a soul.” She took a deep breath. “But the Charles he used to be. The one who was loud, drunk, and possessive. The one who picked fights in bars and punched holes in walls.” Her lips trembled, the sunny disposition finally deserted her. “If Beauty met him on the stairs that night. I can’t... I can’t say for sure what could have happened.”
Monica and Michael’s silence filled the room. It was almost as loud as Malia’s soft cries.
MICHAEL WOKE BEFORE his alarm the next morning. One moment he had been asleep and the other he was not. He lay there as it hit him.
Today, he had to accuse a father of murdering his own daughter.
He and Monica argued about it the entire ride home. They had taken separate cars, but that didn’t stop Monica from calling him up and telling him they needed to go to the Cadals first thing in the morning to confront them with what they knew.
Michael didn’t disagree. He was the one who said they had to look at everyone as suspects, no matter how grief-stricken they seemed, but still something inside of him hesitated.
He was no stranger to strained fatherly relationships, but how could this one have gone so wrong?
MICHAEL WAVED TO THE Cadals’ guard, Dave, and drove through.
“You ready, bro?”
“Yep.”
“You able to handle doing all the talking?”
He cracked a smile. “I think I can manage.”
“Alright, then you distract the Cadals while I take another look around the house.”
“Sounds good.”
“Then let’s go.”
Without another word, they hopped out of the car and knocked on the door. Nico let them in and led them straight into the living room before disappearing.
Charles and Claudia rose from the couch.
“Monica. Michael. Come sit,” Charles said. “We are choosing photos of Beauty for the funeral.”
Michael made for the couch but Monica stayed put. “Actually, do you mind if I go to the bathroom?”
“Go right ahead,” Claudia said. “Do you want us to call Nico to show you where it is?”
“Not necessary.” She slipped out of the room and it was just the three of them.
They made small talk for a bit. Michael asked them how the funeral arrangements were going and how they were holding up, but soon the conversation drifted back to what was truly weighting on their minds.
Claudia gave Michael a tentative smile. “I know you said three days, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.”
“What so soon?” Michael asked distractedly. He was studying Charles’s every twitch, wince, scratch, and blink for the last half hour. That didn’t leave enough presence of mind to listen to her words too.
“You know who the killer is.” Claudia sniffled. Reaching down, she picked up a photo of Beauty and lightly traced her face. “You don’t have to hold back. Tell us who it is.”
The ferocity in her voice jolted him back to reality. He took his eyes off Charles to focus on her. Reluctantly, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m not here with a name. I’m here with more questions.”
“More questions?” she asked. “About what?”
“Claudia, you gave the security tapes to the police, so they could review what happened the day of the party. Do you remember what was on those tapes?”
She frowned. “On the tapes? I’m not following you.”
“Claudia, clear enough for everyone to see is you getting into an argument with your daughter and then striking her.”
She reeled back in shock and Charles jumped to his feet. “Now, hold on. Why are you asking about that? It had nothing to do with—”
“What did you fight about?” he asked Claudia. “And why did you not mention it before?”
“Because it wasn’t relevant,” she burst out. Then she gasped. The hand clutching a used tissue flew to her mouth. “You can’t possibly think that I—”
“No, Mrs. Cadal,” he interrupted. “I do not think you killed your daughter. I simply want to know what you fought about.”
The defensive fire slowly melted from her eyes and she relaxed. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit on edge.” She took a deep breath. “The fight was silly really. Beauty did not like her mask. She said it itched and told me to go and get her another one. I told her I couldn’t. The one we got her was custom-made and took days to make. If she wanted another, I would have to get one from a party store.”
Claudia lowered her fist. “She did not like that option either. She got angry. Yelled. Saying ‘fine, then I won’t wear the stupid thing at all. I don’t know why you’re throwing me this lame masquerade party in the first place.’ Then she threw her mask in my face.
“I lost my temper. We had spent so much time and money trying to make her party perfect and she appreciated none of it. Before I knew what I was doing, I hit her.”
“Is that how she usually was?” Michael asked. “Demanding. Ungrateful.”
“No!” Charles sputtered, turning red. “Beauty was—”
“Yes.” Claudia gave her husband a hard look. “The fact is we spoiled her. We gave her everything she wanted and we were lax about disciplining her when she acted out.”
“Claudia, what are you saying?” Charles’s eyes were popping out of his head. “We loved her! We did our best by her.”
“We did love her, and we still do... but we did not do our best.” She shook her head as tears sprung to her eyes. “Maybe if we did, none of this would have h-happened.”
Charles quickly sat and put his arms around her. “Come on, Claudia, don’t do this to yourself,” he said fervently, his own eyes getting glassy. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened. It was no one’s fault but the trash who attacked her. Beauty was sharp-tongued and strong-willed, but she also stayed up late and watched old movies with us on the weekends. She donated old clothes to women’s shelters, even if they cost her hundreds of dollars. She let Donna live in her apartment rent free, when her business went under and she lost her house.”
The tears were coming in earnest. “Beauty was spoiled and temperamental, but she was also funny and smart and there for people when they really needed her. She was our little girl! She was our everything, and this was not our f-fault.” Claudia buried her face in his chest as she sobbed. “This can’t be our fault. We can’t be the reason she’s g-gone.”
Michael lowered his eyes. Watching Charles break down once was hard enough but witnessing both fall to pieces was unbearable.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” He stood. “I should go.”
“We can’t go, Michael.”
Michael jerked his head toward the door. Monica stood in the doorway, looking more serious than Michael had ever seen her. Her jacket was off and balled up in her hands.
“Monica? What’s wrong?”
“We can’t go,” she repeated, walking into the room. “I’ve called Samira and the police are on their way.”
The Cadals lifted their heads, their hiccupping sobs slow to fade.
When Claudia had herself partly under control, she asked, “The police? I don’t understand. I thought you didn’t know who the killer was?”
“We didn’t when we came. We do now.”
Charles roughly scrubbed his face and scowled. “What does that mean? Stop talking in riddles and tell us who i
t is.”
Monica looked back at him, gaze steady. “It was you, Mr. Cadal.”
“What?” he whispered, blood draining out of his face. “What are you talking about?”
Monica lifted her jacket, and with a closer look, Michael saw two cellphones resting within the fabric. “I found Beauty’s phone. It was hidden right next to this one. The one you used to communicate with her... as James Spindle.”
Shakily, Claudia got to her feet. “I-I don’t understand.”
“There was only one person outside the ballroom at the time your daughter was pushed,” she said calmly. “The only problem was your husband had no motive that we could see... until now. Our theory was right, Claudia. James Spindle was at that party and he asked your daughter to come to the top of the staircase, so they could finally meet in person. Beauty came and he pushed her down the stairs.” She held out her arms. “It’s all here. I’ve read the messages. Beauty had a lot to say about the two of you. Mostly that you treated her like a child, and she was desperate to get out from under your thumb and live her own life.
“She says now that she’s in the sights of companies like Mirror, Mirror there was no reason for her to stay in Castle Rock. She told Spindle she was planning to drop out and move to Calchester to be near Mirror, Mirror headquarters, but most importantly, to be near him. That’s when the tone of James’s texts changed. He gets more and more insistent as he tells Beauty not to run away. At the very least, she should finish her degree. But Beauty’s mind is made up... that is until Spindle says she should hold off until after her birthday party. He tells her he’ll be there. He is going to surprise her.”
Claudia was shaking, pale as a ghost, while Charles just stood there. His jaw working but he remained speechless.
“B-but that’s not...” Claudia whispered. “Charles wouldn’t—”
“I found these phones in your husband’s office. Tucked deep in the drawer of his desk. I’m sorry, but it’s all here. The conversations, the texts... the nude photos.”
“N-nude—” She clapped her hand over her mouth as she gagged.
“Spindle is Charles. He killed your daughter.”
Slowly, painstakingly, Claudia faced her husband. She was unsteady on her feet, swaying, and for a second, Michael thought she was going to collapse.
He moved to catch her just as Charles finally found his voice.
“Claudia,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “It’s not true. I swear it’s not tru—”
“Argh!” Claudia screamed. A deep primal, guttural scream that made Michael’s hairs stand on end. He rushed her, but it was too late.
Claudia launched herself at her husband.
Chapter Seven
“It’s not true!” Charles bellowed as the uniforms struggled to get him into the police car. “I swear, honey, it’s not true! I didn’t do it!”
His “honey” screamed obscenities at him from the doorway. Claudia fought ferociously in the hold of two cops, trying to finish what Monica and Michael had stopped her from doing when they pulled her off Charles.
She smacked one of the women holding her in the face and Spencer hissed. “Ouch,” he said from their place in the driveway. “I can’t believe I ever thought she was meek.”
“She certainly isn’t that,” said Samira as she carefully took the phones from Monica and placed them in evidence bags. “Good job not touching them directly, Mo. We need clear prints off these, and we can’t have any of them being yours.”
“My P.I. course did teach me a few things,” she replied, eyes fixed on Charles and Claudia. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I,” Samira said. “I would like you to explain this to me again. You were rushing on the phone.”
“Huh, what?” Monica tore her eyes away. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. So it started when James Spindle asked to move their conversation to text...” Monica filled them in on everything she had found.
Spencer shook his head. “So he was obsessed with her. An obsession that went past normal fatherly love, but he knows it’s the ultimate taboo.”
“So he creates a fake persona, and has a relationship with her through Spindle,” Samira continued. “But when she starts talking about leaving and saying she wants to be free of her parents, of her father, he snaps. He can’t be with her, and he can’t let her go.”
“So he pushes her down the stairs,” Monica finished. “We’ve had some difficult cases, but this must be the worst.”
Spencer nodded. “You were amazing tonight, Mo. You caught a killer and got a young woman justice. It’s hard right now, but this was a good day.”
Monica cracked a smile. “Since when do you call me Mo?”
He grinned. “Since you started kicking butt as an investigator.”
“Detective Gutierrez! A little help, please!”
Spencer jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I should help them restrain Mrs. Cadal before we have another murder on our hands, but seriously, Monica, great job.”
Spencer turned to go but was pulled up when Monica caught his sleeve.
“Thank you”—she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his cheek—“Spencer.”
Spencer stumbled away, hand clutching the place her lips had been.
Samira rolled her eyes. “Thanks for that, Mo. He’s going to be insufferable for the rest of the week now.”
Monica laughed.
“I have to go too,” Samira said. “Get Cadal back to the station and start processing him and the evidence, but I also want to say good job. I’m glad we can put this one to bed.”
She walked off and Monica and Michael were left standing on the front porch.
Monica looked up at him. “You okay, Michael? You’ve been quiet, and that’s saying something.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About what? How you are going to celebrate me finding the slam-dunk evidence and closing this case?”
“No,” he said simply. “I’ve been thinking we have a big problem... because Charles Cadal is innocent.”
“IT DOESN’T ADD UP!” Michael yelled. “There are still too many questions!”
Michael heard a groan followed by a slammed drawer.
“What questions?! The question was who took the phone and we found out! That’s the only question that matters!”
Ella watched the exchange from her desk, sipping her tea nonchalantly. Michael and Monica had been arguing nonstop since the night before, with no signs of letting up.
“What about the stalker boyfriend?” Michael called into the kitchenette. “What about Emma French? What about all the accidents? What about—”
“What about the phone? What about James Spindle? What about the fact that the only person who could have done it was someone who was outside the ballroom?” Monica appeared in the doorway, hand on hips, eyes ablaze, and hair flying in a way that made her look like an avenging angel come to strike down irritating big brothers. “What about Samira calling you this morning and telling you the prints on Spindle’s phone matches Charles’s prints? What about that?”
“I-I...” He threw up his hands. “I don’t know how to explain any of that yet. I just know he didn’t do it.”
She stalked toward him. “How do you know that?”
“I just do,” he said firmly. “I can feel it. He’s innocent. He didn’t hurt Beauty; he would never hurt her. He loved her, and not in a creepy, incestuous way. She was his little girl and losing her broke him.” He grasped her shoulders. “He did not do this. Please... partner... you have to believe me.”
He could tell he was wearing away at her stubbornness as the tension slowly leaked out of her shoulders
“You’re saying the perfect suspect with the motive, means, and opportunity is the one person who couldn’t have committed the crime?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Monica sighed. “Then what do we do? It’s day three. Beauty’s funeral is in an hour. We got Claudia’s husband thrown in jail, a
nd we still don’t know who the killer is or how they did it.”
He straightened, squaring shoulders. “We have to start over. From scratch.”
She slumped. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
THE SIBLINGS LEFT ELLA to hold things down while they took off for the Fairy Tails Funeral Home and Cemetery. It was a short simple service, but Michael fidgeted the entire time. Every time he looked at the framed photo of Beauty on the stage or heard her mother’s heartbroken wails, he was filled with shame at not having found the real killer.
The worst part was the word was already out. Michael could tell from the hushed whispers and half-pitying, half-suspicious looks thrown at Claudia, that everyone knew the famous owner of the one and only Kingdom Films had been hauled away from his home in cuffs. Disgraced and denounced as a sick man who murdered his own daughter. They knew all the horrid gossip, but they did not know what Michael did, what he saw. Charles did not do this.
He shook his head. Charles sits in jail, missing his own daughter’s funeral, while the actual killer is most likely in this very room.
Michael’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the sea of familiar faces.
“One of you,” he whispered.
“What was that, bro?” Monica asked as she stood.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“It’s time to go to the cemetery and say goodbye to Beauty.”
They joined the line of people leaving the home and stepped out into the sun. Michael blinked in the glare even while he clutched his jacket tighter. It was that time of year when the sun battled the chill in the air for dominance.
The crowd stood around Beauty’s grave, all clenching shawls, jackets, sweaters, and tissues. Emma French cried into her mother’s shoulder. Next to her, silent tears rolled down Gabriel’s cheeks and dripped onto blades of grass.
Michael did not cry, neither did Monica, but he did step forward when called and placed a rose on her casket.
I’ll find your killer, he thought. I promise.
The ceremony soon ended, and people began to depart. Claudia approached them and grasped his hands. “Thank you for coming,” she said to them, her voice raspy from screaming half the night. “I want you to know I am not angry with you. You did your job and found my d-daughter’s k-killer.”