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

Lana’s love for her, for a while, but once they began slipping through her fingers, she wanted more, and saw murder as the only way to get it.

“What brought on Dave’s attack?” I ask, taking a seat opposite her, angled so I can make a quick escape through the door if necessary.

“I wish I knew. He came home from work and the next thing I knew, his hands were around my throat.”

“What were you talking about before he grabbed you?”

“His day at work. Finding someone new to mow the lawn. Typical things.”

“Did you talk about Lana?” I ask.

She hesitates. She’s about to lie to me.

“No. I mean, Lana’s spirit is always in the house—it hovers over us and all of our conversations—but no, we weren’t talking about Lana in particular.”

“And then what happened?” I ask. I can’t wait to hear what she’s going to come up with.

“Well . . . umm . . .”

Margaret tugs at her top, trying to pull it away from her neck even though it’s not that close. I notice a bit of blood on her shirtsleeve and wonder why she didn’t ask to change before we left her house.

“He just . . . he just . . . I’m sorry,” she says, “this is all a lot for me to deal with. I can’t believe he attacked me. I can’t believe Dave’s dead. It’s just starting to sink in.”

“I understand that, Mrs. Moore, and I’m very sorry for everything you’ve gone through, but I need you to tell me how you went from having a simple conversation with your husband to him placing his hands around your throat, trying to kill you, to you fatally stabbing him.”

“I don’t know. How does any sane, normal human being go from that to murder? Huh? You tell me, Detective.”

The way she said “detective,” like it was a personal challenge to me. Like I needed to prove that I had earned the title. Like I needed to prove I am in control.

“I wasn’t in the room, so I need to know what happened right before Dave grabbed you.”

“It all happened so fast,” she says, “I don’t really know.”

“Did he grab you on the first floor and drag you up the stairs? Or did you walk up the stairs to him?”

“The first one, I think. I was sitting on the sofa and he just grabbed me in a fit of rage. He started dragging me up the stairs by my neck.”

“At what point did you stab him?”

“Right before I died—at least, that’s what it felt like to me. I swear I saw the light and Lana reaching for me. I told her I wasn’t ready to come to her quite yet, and I grabbed the knife and stabbed him.”

“Where’d the knife come from?” I ask. I can’t speak for Mrs. Moore here, but I don’t typically walk around my house with a knife, prepared to stab and kill someone at any moment. But maybe that’s just me.

“My pocket,” she says.

I can’t help but chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Detective?” she inquires, clearly pissed that I’m not taking her plight seriously.

“You just happened to have this knife in your pocket? I find that hard to believe.”

“Well, believe it. I was eating a peach. The peaches are so good this time of year, so juicy and sweet, right on the cusp of overripe. I was sitting on the sofa, cutting up a peach and eating it. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Actually, it is. Where was the plate? Or at the very least, a napkin? And what made you put the knife in your pocket when Dave grabbed you?”

“I’d already loaded the plate in the dishwasher.”

“Yes, of course, you put the plate in the dishwasher and the knife in your pocket, like we all do when we eat,” I say, growing frustrated. I hate that this woman thinks she’s in control right now. I’m the one in control, despite what she may think. I am the one with all the power.

“I loaded it after I killed him,” she says calmly, correcting my obvious blunder. Obvious to her, anyway.

“You almost died. You killed your husband and then you loaded the fucking dishwasher before you called nine-one-one?”

“Yes, I wanted to clean up. Can’t have the house a mess.”

I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. I forgot to shave them this morning, and maybe a few mornings before that. I stare at the stubble, forcing it out of my mind. I am lead detective on the biggest case this city has seen in years. It doesn’t matter whether or not I shaved my legs or washed my hair or even put deodorant on. What matters is that I lock this woman up.

“And tamper with evidence?”

“What evidence? I admitted to killing him. I would have washed the knife, but once I caught my breath, I ran away from him in case he wasn’t really dead. You know, like in the movies? I just left the knife right by him.”

“And then turned your back on the husband you thought was going to come back to life to load the dishwasher. This all makes perfect sense.”

I flash a bit of a smile. I can’t help it. She’s crafted such a lovely story here, I almost hate to question it.

She says nothing, so I continue.

“See, here’s what I think happened. I think you wanted to kill Dave. Maybe because he’d threatened your life, or maybe because he was going to turn you in with some evidence he had hidden, evidence that proved you murdered your poor innocent daughter who you made out was crazy, when you were the crazy one all along.”

Margaret’s watching me intently, listening to my story as though we’re sitting around a campfire, with interest and detachment, certain this is about someone’s life other than hers. It is almost entertainment to her.

“And then when Dave told you he had something on you, you plotted. You put that knife in your pocket and you followed