Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

Stop lying. My God, I should have divorced you years ago.”

“Maybe you should have just killed both of us,” I say, wishing that’s what had happened.

“I didn’t kill her. I did not kill Lana!”

“But you’re so sure she didn’t kill herself,” I say, wondering if he has some secret stash of evidence. “What about the note?”

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