“Well—yeah, it upsets me that she—” He sniffed and rubbed his nose hard with the back of his hand. “Oh, God! Oh my God! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe that she’s… that she’s—my Debbie! Oh, God! My wife! How can she be dead?”
He slumped forward and, burying his face in his hands, sobbed loudly. He stayed like that for a long while, pretending to try to speak but choking his voice off as though he were strangling with this outpouring of emotion. He kept it up long enough, hoping that the detective would begin to feel uncomfortable watching him fall apart like this. In truth, the only clear thought in his mind was that he had to be careful; he couldn’t let the cop trip him up; he had to be sure to keep his story consistent. Every detail, every word he said would be written down and thrown back at him if the cops ever decided to press charges against him.
“I work real hard for my money,” he said after a while. His face felt slick with tears as he looked back at the detective.
Shit!
What was his name? Detective Murray. Yeah! Pete Murray. That was it!
“I busted my ass at work that day, and—yeah, maybe I’d had three or four beers with my friends, so I guess I was a little buzzed and might have flown off the handle a bit. Hey, what married couple doesn’t go at it now and then?”
“But you said earlier that you patched things up right away after you let some angry words fly, right? That you and your wife exchanged heated words for—what? Less than five minutes?”
“Not even,” Alex said. Then he covered his mouth with one hand and nodded agreement. He had to bite down hard on his forefinger to keep from crying out or shouting with joy.
Jesus Christ! I can’t believe it! The bitch is finally through fucking up my life!
“When we first got married, you know, one promise we made to each other was we’d never go to bed angry at each other. No matter what problems we were dealing with, we promised to stay up—all night, if we had to—so we could work it out. So—yeah, I was pretty mad there for a moment, but once I calmed down and apologized, we made up.”
“And that’s when your wife went to get some wine glasses from the cupboard? That’s when she fell?”
Again, Alex nodded. He thought back on how he had arranged everything in the kitchen before calling the rescue unit and the police: the flipped-over chair, the broken wine glasses, the skid marks on the floor, and the position of Debbie’s body. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything he had overlooked, some tiny, telling detail which the cops, with their high-tech investigation equipment, would eventually discover.
She had… had heated up some pizza for me. In the microwave. And we were going to have a glass of wine together, to—to—”
He covered his face with his hands and once again feigned deep, wrenching sorrow. His shoulders shook as he wailed and uttered nearly incoherent words about how horrible things had turned out, how while he had sat at the kitchen table and started eating the pizza she had cooked for him, Debbie had dragged a chair over so she could reach down her special crystal wine glasses, which she kept on the top shelf in the cupboard so the kids wouldn’t get them. He told Detective Murray—again—how Debbie had leaned too far forward and had started to lose her balance, how the chair legs had skidded on the linoleum, and she had started to fall; how he had jumped up from the table and tried to catch her, but he had dropped his pizza on the floor and had slipped on it and fallen down, missing her; how she had fallen and banged the side of her head hard against the counter top; and how by the time he had gotten to her and cradled her head in his lap—
See? There’s a big splotch of her blood here on my pants!
—he had known she was already dead.
By the time he had finished sputtering out these details again, he was shivering with forced tears and faked emotion. He wiped his eyes viciously on his shirt sleeves and stared long and hard at the detective, letting his vision shimmer with tears.
“So can I go home now?” Alex said in a voice that was soft and trembling, twisted with emotion. “I… I want to be with my kids. I have to… be there to… to tell them… to explain to them why… why their mommy… isn’t… coming… home… anymore…”
Suspicions
T
hroughout Debbie’s funeral, Cindy Toland sat next to Harry, her husband, leaning against him and grasping his hand so hard that at times he had to shake off her grip and flap his own hand to restore the circulation. The cloying smell of flowers and the somber organ music were stifling her, choking her with tight waves of claustrophobia bordering on panic. There was a heavy, muffled pounding deep inside her head, and she knew, tonight, once this was all over, it would blossom into a full-blown headache. Since first learning of her sister’s death, she had cried so long and hard, day and night, that today, the day of her funeral, a typically humid June afternoon in Nebraska, she felt as though she no longer had any tears left to cry. She felt wrung out, as dry as a creek bed in August. She was grateful that Dr. Stott had prescribed a mild tranquilizer for her. It was just barely taking the edge off what otherwise would have been a completely unbearable situation.
The worst aspect of the whole thing for Cindy—apart from missing Debbie and trying like hell to process the thought that her sister was gone and never,
never
coming back to her—was this feeling of utter loneliness, of complete desertion. It gnawed at her mind like a bloated worm. This same cold, utterly hollow feeling had been with her for three full days, now, ever since that early morning phone call from the police station, informing her of the accident that had claimed her sister’s life. And in all that time, whenever Cindy even thought the word “accident,” which the detective had used repeatedly to describe the incident, she would mentally correct herself and substitute the word “murder.”
Yes, goddamnit, murder!
Cindy thought.
That’s exactly what that son of a bitch did to her!
More than anyone else in the world, Cindy—with the obvious exception of Debbie’s husband—knew the horrible truth about how Alex had treated Debbie. Even today, she could hardly bear to look at him, all dressed up in his fine, fancy dark suit and looking so sad and serious as he accepted the condolences of his and Debbie’s friends and relatives. Behind the glaze of his tear-filled eyes, she could see the dark curtain that had dropped over what he was
really
feeling, and she sensed—no, she saw and felt the suspicion and hostility he had for her. She knew the truth, and Alex knew that she knew it!
Cindy’s feelings of anger and outrage rose even higher whenever she thought about Debbie’s two children, Billy and Krissy. Cindy and Harry were seated in the front row of the mourners, right next to the grieving family. Every time she glanced up at her nephew and niece, the tight waves of grief swelling up inside her would grip her throat like a fist and squeeze even harder, choking her until she thought she would have to scream out loud to relieve the building pressure in her head.
Oh, those poor children… those poor, poor kids!
Both children seemed to be trying so hard to hold up in this obviously confusing and scary situation. And they were doing a damned fine job of it, too, Cindy thought. Debbie would have been proud of her kids now. Ten-year-old Billy sat ram-rod straight in his just-a-wee-bit-too-small dark Suit, trying hard not to let his emotions show, even though his eyes were red-rimmed and his lips were pale and trembling. And five-year-old Krissy, with her straw-colored hair the exact color of her mother’s, looked so pretty in a prim, white dress and patent leather shoes—the ones Cindy had bought for her to wear to church on Easter Sunday, not so many weeks ago. Small and delicate, she slouched in her chair, her feet not even reaching the carpeted floor. The hanky she clutched white-knuckled in her hands was saturated from her crying and blowing her nose as her gaze darted nervously around the room, trying to absorb everything.
Jesus, those poor, poor kids… It’s just not fair!
Following a beautiful rendition of “Just a Closer Walk With Thee” by the Omaha First Baptist Church choir, of which Debbie was a member, Reverend Philip Rutherford delivered a heart-rending eulogy about how the accidental death of someone as pure and devout and kind-hearted as Debbie Harris can cause anyone—even a minister of Jesus—to waver in their faith and trust in the Lord’s purpose; but that it was exactly these tests of faith, like the forger’s fire, that strengthen our faith and assure us, like Debbie, of a place in Heaven.
Cindy registered less than half of what the minister was saying. She was caught up in her own bittersweet memories of her younger sister… of growing up together in small-town Aurora, Iowa, until their father’s job changed and they had to move to Omaha during Cindy’s senior year of high school; of sharing the same bedroom and, with only two years difference in their ages, sharing late night talks and secrets about boyfriends right up until Cindy graduated and moved away from home to go to college at the University of Nebraska. She recalled all the fun and sorrow their family went through, especially the support Debbie had given Cindy once she and Harry found out, after years of trying, that she would never be able to have children of her own… of drawing together even closer for emotional support just three years ago, following their retired parents’ death in a car accident while vacationing in New Mexico. All of these thoughts and more tumbled through Cindy’s mind as the minister droned on and on, saying what sounded to her like silly, superficial things that didn’t even come close to capturing what a beautiful human being her sister had been.
Had been
… The thought reverberated in her mind like the slow thundering roll of a drum.
Had been… Debbie doesn’t exist anymore, not on earth and, as far as I’m concerned, not in her minister’s Heaven, either. She’s gone. Gone for good.
“Hey! You hanging in there?” Harry whispered. He nudged Cindy’s arm with his elbow as he slipped his hand from hers and shook it.
Cindy bit down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling as she looked over at him and, blinking back a fresh flood of tears, nodded. As soon as they made eye contact, though, another, stronger wave of loneliness rippled through her.
Why does he even bother to ask?
she thought as she shifted her gaze down to the floor.
What the hell does he think, that I feel like jumping up and doing a quick tap-dance on my sister’s coffin?
But it wasn’t just that, and in the dense silence of the funeral, another thought that she had been keeping at bay came forward with a vengeance.
He doesn’t even care! Not really! Oh, he pretends that he does and that he wants to be supportive, but he doesn’t really care. No, good-ole Harry’s keeping a nice, safe distance from all of this.
Cindy shivered at the thought and tried to tell herself that this might not actually be the case, but she couldn’t deny the truth. Now that she was being honest with herself in this moment of grief and weakness, she might just as well admit it, that this alienation had been going on since long before Debbie’s accident—
Murder!
Like so many other couples married better than ten years, she and Harry had been gradually drifting away from each other. They were getting so involved with their own lives and so stuck in their own patterns that they were losing touch with each other and whatever they used to share. Some day—maybe in the not-too-distant future—they would both realize just how much they had become strangers to each other. Perhaps then they would even split…
Stop it! Jesus Christ, stop thinking like that!
Cindy told herself.
She shifted her hand onto Harry’s again and clung to it tightly, desperately seeking the strength she knew she didn’t have right now.
Please… please stop thinking like that!
But then her gaze shifted from the floor to the coffin at the front of the room. Her sister’s immobile face didn’t look at all real.
This couldn’t really be her, she thought. It’s a shell, a wax figure made to look like her. This is all a bad dream, and I’m gonna wake up soon. The real Debbie—the sister I loved more than anyone else in the world, is someplace else.
And Cindy found herself grateful that, wherever the hell she thought Debbie was, at least she was no longer being brutalized by that son of a bitch Alex. No more “accidents!
Murder!
That single word rang in her mind like steel striking steel, sending sparks flying.
Was she crazy to be thinking like this?
Was she paranoid about Alex simply because she had never liked him, never trusted him? Was she unfairly focusing all of her misery and grief onto Alex because Debbie had confided in her that—yes, at times, usually when he’d been drinking, he slapped her around some?
Slapped her around some?
Jesus, more than once Cindy had seen the bruises on Debbie’s arms and back, and Lord knows they had talked often, especially over the past few months, about how Debbie had to get herself and the kids away from Alex before something terrible happened. Last summer, Cindy had been the one who had driven Debbje to the hospital when she had broken her arm. She had fallen off a chair while trying to hang a curtain, Alex had told the emergency room nurse, when he’d showed up later. Even then, Cindy had known better. No one goes about hanging curtains at ten o’clock at night!
Fallen off a chair! An accident!
—Murder!
Just like what happened three nights ago!
Cindy was certain that this was the lame excuse of a wife beater who, stuck for an alibi, had resorted to the same one he had used the last time he had seriously injured his wife. Wasn’t it obvious from the autopsy that Debbie had been repeatedly abused? Weren’t there traces of other untreated fractures, or unhealed bruises and scars, or signs of head injuries? Couldn’t they see? Wasn’t there any evidence of how bad it had been for Debbie during the last few years of her life?
But that was the problem: other than her dead sister’s say so, Cindy didn’t have any solid evidence. And that’s why, in spite of her growing suspicions, she had said nothing to the police, at least not yet. She figured the situation must look suspicious enough to warrant them to begin their own investigation into the matter. They didn’t need her telling them what to do.
Or were the cops too busy with “real” crimes in the city to give this “accident” the necessary time and attention it deserved? Maybe she should report her suspicions to the police and let them take it from there. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? If she could somehow speak from beyond the grave, wouldn’t that be what Debbie would want?
No, Cindy thought, she wasn’t about to start blurting out unsupported accusations, and then have Alex turn his anger against her! But then again, now that his wife was dead, who would he turn his anger against?
Oh, Jesus, the kids?
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” Cindy whispered, shaking her head from side to side as fresh tears spilled from her eyes. She clung even more tightly to Harry’s hand, wishing to God that it felt firmer, more solid in her grasp. She glanced again at Billy and Krissy, wondering how best to help them through this ordeal and give them the emotional support to—somehow—carry on their lives without their mother. She wished to heaven she could protect them, and her heart ached with worry for their safety, a worry that her dead sister had expressed to her so many times before… a worry so deep that Debbie had planned to leave with her children that very night of her accident.
—Murder!
Although she knew there wasn’t a shred of evidence that would stand up in court, Cindy was positive that Alex had beat Debbie to death and then set it up to look like an accident. It was murder, no matter
what
the police or anyone else said! Debbie had been afraid for her safety, for her life; otherwise, why would she have packed their suitcases and been ready to—
Oh, shit! … Oh, shit!… That’s it!
A cold, prickly tightening gripped her stomach. She let out a low moan and leaned forward, almost falling out of her chair. The minister droned on, ignoring the minor disruption, and Cindy hoped that anyone who might see what was going on would think she was overcome with grief, but she gave that almost no consideration as her vision blacked out for a frozen, scary moment and the thought exploded in her mind.
Debbie had suitcases packed and was ready to go!
“That’s it,” she whispered, turning toward Harry when she sensed that he was leaning over her, trying to comfort her. She felt a warm pressure on her back as he patted her, and he whispered something in her ear, but none of it made any sense; his voice was nothing but a high, winding cicada-like buzz.
“Oh, Jesus, Harry! That’s it! That’s
it
!” she whispered through her teeth as though in great pain. She tried to keep her voice low and steady, but she was afraid that every person in the room had seen her double over and was now craning forward, trying to hear what she had to say.
“The suitcases!”
“What—?” Harry said.
“She had suitcases… packed… ready to go!”
Cindy knew that she wasn’t moving, but she still felt as though she was falling forward in a long, slow tumbling roll. Harry—or someone—was tugging on her arm, trying to get her to sit up straight in her chair, but she couldn’t tell which direction was up. The room was a crazy, spinning smear of colors, sounds, and smells. For a moment, she imagined that she was sitting—no, she was lying down—no, she was rolling over and over in a field of flowers. The heavy-scented air and the hammering heat of the sun were pressing her down, squashing her, strangling her. Her throat felt as if it were coated with thick, yellow pollen that was congealing into thick clots that eventually—
soon!
-would seal off her lungs.