The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  “Damn it, Mel. How did this happen?”

  He shakes his head, grimly. “Her house was under surveillance. But we couldn’t follow her everywhere. We need to catch this guy. And quick.”

  Darby peers into the car. Mia’s body leans back in the driver’s seat which had been angled downward so that she lies as if in repose. Only her startling green eyes, wide open, reveal the terror she faced. Red hair cascades around her head and shoulders. Her arms are folded across her chest. Tucked beneath her carefully manicured hands is a yellow rose. Beneath it a deep round hole surrounded by blood, stains Mia’s melon-pink dress.

  What was she doing out here in the country? The murderer must have let the seat back. Hopefully he left prints. Leafing through the glove box Darby finds only a BMW manual, registration and insurance, a package of gum and a pair of sun-glasses. The car is as pristine as its late owner. The white leather seats, tan rugs, spiffy dashboard. . . All are immaculate.

  Darby turns to look up at Mel, who stands behind her. “Let’s go talk to the husband,” she says.

  AS THEY STAND ON THE steps waiting for an answer to the door-bell, Darby looks around the yard. Carefully tended flower-beds, lush green grass, perfectly placed trees and bushes convey an air of normalcy. Who would guess, walking by, that the owner of this lovely place had just been murdered? Finally, the door opens a crack and a pair of gunmetal grey eyes appear. Mel shows his badge, and the door opens a little wider. There stands a middle-aged man of medium build wearing a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He is smooth-shaven, sophisticated-looking, even in his obvious despair.

  “Mr. Buckingham?” Mel asks.

  “Yes? He glowers at them, noticing their uniforms. “Are you the police that promised to protect my wife?” His mouth twists into an ugly snarl.

  Darby feels her gut clench. Yes! And we failed miserably. “I know words are useless now, Mr. Buckingham, but we feel terrible about what has happened to Mia. And we do feel responsible.”

  The man glares a moment. Then, seeing the crestfallen look on Darby’s face, he grimaces, biting his lip. He stands there, shuffling his feet, looking at the floor. “It’s more my fault than yours,” he mumbles. She told me you’d offered her a safe house until this was over, and she refused. We thought our alarm system, her being careful and my presence after work would be enough . . .” He shakes inwardly, clamping his mouth, his eyes filling with tears.

  Darby touches his shoulder, squeezing it a little. She speaks softly. “Mr. Buckingham, we all feel we failed her. And we did. But she didn’t want anyone hovering over her constantly. You did the best you could. She was being vigilant. I don’t know how they got to her, but I promise you we will not rest until this fiend is behind bars.”

  They follow him down the hall-way to the family room where they saw Mia less than a week earlier.

  “We’re so sorry for your loss,” Darby says, her eyes glistening with tears.

  Robert Buckingham nods, and crumples into a large arm-chair, beckoning them to sit. “Thank you. I can’t believe this is happening. It hasn’t sunk in.”

  “When did you discover Mia missing?” Mel asks.

  “The school called my office. Mia hadn’t picked our daughter, Sara, up from school. I left work to go get her, and the police called shortly thereafter.”

  “Did your wife have any enemies that you knew of?”

  “No! She was highly respected. She had many friends and acquaintances through the golf club, her work as an interior designer, the PTA. . . I can’t imagine who would want to kill her.” As he says these last words his shoulders shake. He weeps silently.

  “Did she mention meeting with any of those friends today?” Darby asks when he’s gathered himself together.

  He closes his eyes, in deep thought, for a few moments. “I think she mentioned she was going for lunch with a friend she golfed with regularly. I just can’t think of her name.”

  “Did she say where they were going?”

  “I believe they were having lunch at the club. She was hoping to get in a round of golf this morning, but hadn’t booked so she wasn’t sure . . .” His voice fades away and his eyes take on a haunted look.

  Darby nods at Mel. Her eyes convey a, ‘Poor guy. Let’s leave him be for now’ look.

  Mel rises to leave. Darby follows. “We’ll let you mourn in peace. Don’t get up. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  THE COUNTRY CLUB IS a long, low-lying building finished in brown Italian stucco with stonework trim. It’s surrounded by gently rolling hills, thick green grass, fat evergreens and a small pond. An elegant restaurant faces the officers as they enter.

  Darby speaks to the tall, dark maitre d, dressed in a tight-fitting black dress. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about one of your patrons, Mia Buckingham. Do you know her?”

  The dark woman nods, her eyes curious.

  “We understand she had lunch here today.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to have a surveillance camera in your dining room?”

  “No.” She pauses, and looks apologetically at the detectives. “We have a very well-behaved clientele, and haven’t felt any need for one.”

  “Can you tell us, then, about who Mia had lunch with?” Darby asks.

  The woman slides her a guarded look. “She golfed with a friend that she often golfs with, and they had a very congenial lunch. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “I’m sorry. We can’t say right now. Who was this friend?” Mel lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug.

  “Her name is Kristin Harmer.”

  “Can you describe her?” asks Darby.

  “She has long, blonde hair, very beautiful, early thirties . . .”

  “At what time did they leave? Did they leave together?”

  “They must’ve left around 1:30. They left the restaurant together. I didn’t look to see if they were in the same car.”

  “Do you have an address and phone number for Kristin Harmer?” Mel asks.

  The girl peers at her computer, scrolling through. “Yes, it’s 3639 – 51 Street. The phone number is 403 – 742 – 4567.” Her eye-brows knit. “Are they okay?”

  “Thank you very much.”

  As they leave the building Darby’s phone rings. It’s Jill. “Darby? You were at the Buckingham scene?” Jill sounds anxious.

  “Yeah. What a fuck-up,” Darby moans. “I feel like that’s on us.”

  “Ah, Honey. What more could you have done?”

  Darby takes a deep breath, suppressing a sob. “She asked for help and now she’s dead.” Her voice is a mere squeak

  Chapter 17 ~ Jen

  Thursday, May 10

  I’m standing in the school-yard on after-school supervision soaking up the sun. A soft breeze ruffles my hair. There’s not a cloud in the sky. All around me the I hear the high-spirited voices of children, excited to be facing their freedom on a beautiful day. They scurry off in all directions. I lift my face, close my eyes and breathe in, willing all my troubles away.

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Cox!” A trilling voice. It’s Corrie, smiling up at me. Behind her Sean stands with his hands on her shoulders. I feel a flush rise from my neck to my cheeks.

  “Bye, Corrie. See you tomorrow,” I say. He smiles and suddenly I’m like a teen with a crush. I feel tongue-tied; off-balance.

  “How have you been?” Sean asks me.

  I’m overcome. Shaky. I feel tears welling up. “I can’t do it,” I blurt.

  He sets his jaw, and looks down at his daughter. Beckoning to me he says, “Let’s go to the playground.”

  I follow meekly. It’s where I should be supervising anyway now that the students have disbursed. A few stragglers are there, climbing and swinging and running. Corrie joins them, and her father turns to me.

  “Lillia apologized and retracted what she’d put on Facebook.” I look at him entreatingly. His expression is gentle; non-judgemental. Thank God!

  “But we haven’t gone to the f
amily or to the police.” I look at the ground, at my foot kicking bits of quack-grass.

  He stands beside me, and I’m so aware of his closeness I can feel my heart skittering. “It’s a hard choice,” he says.

  “Do you think the retraction on Facebook is enough?” I ask.

  He ponders that a while. “I don’t know. Will that be enough to end it all?”

  My mind is a-whirl. I haven’t looked at any comments recently. Is Felicity still being slut-shamed? Have the police been investigating? They’re bound to find out, and it could be even worse for Lillia then. Does Felicity need closure? All the questions pour out of me. Sean listens, nodding occasionally, his eyes intense.

  “Can you do it?” he asks when I’m finished venting. And he hugs me. A platonic gesture that sends heat coursing through my veins. Does he feel it too?

  With a gentle pat on the shoulder he says in parting, “It’ll be okay.” I watch him as he collects Corrie and, hand-in-hand, they stride away, turning to wave at me.

  But I know it won’t be okay unless I do something. Both Lillia and I live in dread. Who knows what Felicity and her family are going through? I’ve been a wimp long enough. Afraid of censure; avoiding conflict; in need of approval. Enough! I set my shoulders, grit my teeth and head back into the school to collect my things and head home.

  AS I PULL INTO THE garage, Logan rides up the driveway on his bike. “Hi, Mom!” he says.

  “Hey, buddy.” I ruffle his hair as we enter the house. It’s dark and quiet. Lillia isn’t home yet. “How was school?”

  “Good,” he says, kicking off his shoes in the back porch. “Can Ben come over?”

  “Sure. But it’s a beautiful day. You guys need to play outside, okay?”

  I wander into the kitchen, pour a cup of coffee, sticking it in the microwave. Lillia walks to gymnastics after school. I’ll pick her up at 7:00. I hold my hot coffee, open the fridge and pour a little milk into it. I take a deep breath, building my resolve. When I pick her up I’ll tell her that we must call Felicity and check to see that her parents are home. If they are, we’ll go to their house and tell them what Lillia has done. I can picture Lillia’s panic-stricken face, and Felicity’s parents’ fury. My pulse races, and I feel my breath coming in rasps just imagining it. But there is no other way. On wobbly legs, I take my coffee into the family room and crumple into a chair, grabbing the remote. The five o’clock news will be a diversion.

  A dark green BMW sitting in an open field flashes onto the screen and I hear the announcer as if through a tunnel. “The body of a woman was found in her car this afternoon near Highway 12, east of Rockydale. Anyone having seen this car and its occupants is asked to call . . .” I rewind to see the photo again. I can’t tell exactly, but Sean’s farm is off Highway 12 east of town. My heart gives a little lurch. Another murder.

  My cell phone rings, and I slowly rise to grab it from the island. “Alberta” is all the caller ID says. It’s not Darren saying he won’t be home for dinner. I don’t’ answer. I’d better get dinner going.

  I’VE JUST TURNED THE pork chops when Darren walks through the door followed by Logan who’s been kicking a soccer ball around with his friend in the back yard. “Dad’s home!” Logan calls.

  “Dinner’s almost ready. How was your day?” I ask my husband as he opens the fridge and pops the top on a can of beer.

  “Aaaah,” he drops into a chair at the table, “It was long. Lots of tire-kickers.”

  I turn off the TV, and the three of us sit down to eat. I struggle to focus. My mind plays and replays the ordeal Lillia and I must go through in an hour or so. But I maintain an interested look as Darren tells me about the prospective buyers he saw today, and the new listings. I push my food around on my plate, and manage a few bites. No one notices. Logan chatters away, telling us about the tricky moves he made when he and Ben played soccer. Darren seems truly interested and proud, and I feel a spasm of guilt over my silly crush on Sean; a man who only listens to me out of sympathy. Yes, Darren and I are going through a rough spot. I think everyone does from time to time. But he is my husband; the father of my children. The last thing I want to do is to rip our family apart.

  By 6:50 the dishes are cleared away and ‘my men’ are busy looking over Logan’s homework. Darren is patiently helping Logan with a math problem, and once again I’m charged with a fondness for this man who can be so patient, so connected to his son.

  “I’m going to get Lillia from gymnastics,” I call to them as I head out the door.

  LILLIA JUMPS IN THE car full of energy and joy. “I made three different saltos in my routine today, Mom!”

  We high five, and I pull the car into a parking stall. “Lillia, we need to go and talk to Felicity and her parents now.”

  Her mouth drops open and her eyes bug. “Mom! No!”

  A steely resolution overtakes me. “Lillia, we must. The police will find out anyway, even if they have to question every girl that was at that party. And you owe Felicity the truth.” I take a deep breath. “I made some very big mistakes when I was a kid. I bullied other kids and I’ve regretted it every single day. You need to face this, fix it and put it behind you. It’s the only way.”

  Tears spring to her eyes, and she stares at me. “But I could go to jail.”

  “If you take responsibility for your actions that is less likely than if you just let the police find out. Your dad and I will do everything in our power to help you, and try to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  She gasped. “Dad knows?”

  I shake my head slowly. What kind of wife keeps this from her husband? Somehow I just can’t tell him.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Mom, please don’t tell Dad!” Her voice is panicked, desperate.

  “I can’t promise that, Lillia,” I say, looking at my phone to dial the number I’ve put in it.

  A woman’s voice answers. “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Lang?” I struggle to keep the shakiness from my voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Jen Cox. I’m the mother of a friend of Felicity’s – Lillia Cox.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve heard Felicity mention Lillia.” Does she sound skeptical?

  I feel my heart racing, my breath’s shallow. “Are you and Felicity busy? My daughter and I have something we need to talk about with you.”

  “No.” Now the woman does sound curious, at least. “We’re home.”

  “Could we come by for a few minutes?”

  “Yes. Certainly. We’ll be expecting you.”

  When we’ve said our good-byes I turn to Lillia. Her face is ashen and she’s shaking visibly. I pull her into me and hold her close. “We can do this,” I whisper.

  THE LANG HOUSE IS A well-kept mustard-colored bungalow with a lush green lawn and a few perennials gracing the flower beds. Lillia and I stand at the foot of the side-walk gathering our courage.

  “Remember, Lillia, I’m here to support you, but you will need to tell these people what you’ve done. You’ll need to do the apologizing.” My voice is firmer and more confident than I feel.

  My little girl is white-faced and shaky, her lips trembling but she holds her head high, a look of determination on her face. “Okay.” We march up the sidewalk and ring the door-bell.

  The woman who answers is pleasant-looking; with short brown hair, wearing a dress and apron. . Behind her stands a girl with dark hair, pale skin and a big smile. “Lillia! Hi.” And we’re ushered into a cozy living-room.

  “Felicity hasn’t had an easy time making friends,” Mrs. Lang’s expression is open and frank, “and she is so grateful to Lillia for including her.” She offers us coffee and soft drinks which we decline. I look at Lillia who is practically green. I think we’re both feeling hypocritical and more than a little guilty at the moment.

  When the niceties have ended Felicity and her mother look at us expectantly. I touch Lillia’s hand and look at her. It’s time. She draws a deep breath, her face the epitome of ang
uish. “I – Felicity . . .” and she looks long and hard at the dark-haired girl, her eyes glassy with tears. “Felicity,” and she pauses again, then bursts out with it. “Felicity, I posted the pictures and the horrible words about you on Facebook.”

  It’s as if a bomb has exploded right there in the middle of the living room. Both Felicity and her mother jolt upright, the color draining from their faces, and they stare at us. My heart is pounding, and I feel I might faint on their over-stuffed couch. Lillia is practically gasping for air, and the tears are flowing freely down her cheeks.

  Mrs. Lang finally speaks, her once-kind face, contorted into an ugly mask. “How dare you come into our home and pretend to be our friends when you’ve destroyed our lives?” Her eyes bug out and she stands jerkily, pointing at us and screaming. “You think you can just apologize and everything will be okay? Do you know what Felicity has gone through? What we’ve gone through? You have no idea.” And she pounds the coffee table that sits between us with her clenched fist. BANG!

  Lillia is sobbing audibly now, huddled into herself; a sorrowful mess. I collapse my arms around her, rocking her, crying, holding her limp body into me.

  It’s Felicity that finally speaks. “Mom. Stop. It’s okay.” Her voice is firm. The result is like the sudden calm after a hurricane. We freeze; motionless and stare up at the young girl who stands by her mother’s side, her eyes sparking with passion. She looks directly into Lillia’s face. “I wanted to die because of you.” Her voice is hushed but clear. “What you did nearly destroyed me. It was beyond cruel.” Lillia is transfixed, staring up at the girl standing over her. “But I saw your post saying you’d lied. And I believe you. I believe you’re sorry. I just don’t know if I can forgive you.”