Cause of Death Laura Dembowski (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

mother. Instead I find a steely-eyed, cold-faced woman, lips pursed, casually twisting a strand of her hair around her fingers when I walk in. She glares at me.

“More questions, Detective?”

“First, I’d like to go over what you said at your house.”

“Having some short-term memory loss?” she asks.

“No, I want to make sure we have it on the record. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Actually, I do. My daughter killed herself. Dave found her; that’s why the poor thing can barely stand up straight. Well, that, and all the alcohol he consumes. We are the victims here, and should not be holed up in your dingy interrogation rooms.”

“Dave didn’t seem drunk to me.”

“He’s gotten very good at pretending,” she says, rubbing her crimson lips together and swallowing. “He took acting classes in high school and college; some skills stick.”

“I didn’t smell any on him.”

“Did you do a breathalyzer or a blood test? I assume your nose isn’t binding evidence.”

I take a drink of water. She should be the one who’s nervous, drinking water, but instead, I feel like I’m the one on the hot seat.

“What about the funeral? You said it was crowded.”

Margaret puts her hand on her heart and sniffles. “It was really something to see.”

“Your husband disagreed.”

“There you go, taking Dave’s word again. My friends were there, Dave’s colleagues, Lana’s old friends and classmates, as I told you. Do you not realize how difficult it is to relive your daughter’s funeral?”

I start to say something, but she interrupts.

“Of course you don’t. You haven’t lost a child, have you, Detective?”

I sit down in the chair across from her. “I haven’t, and I am truly sorry for your loss, but if you are as upset as you say, you should want us to find the truth.”

She nods.

“You mention Lana’s friends were there, but Dave said Lana was isolated.”

“Have you not heard a word I said? He needs rehab. Isolated is such a strong word. Did I forget to mention he’s been doing drugs, too? I mean, he tries to hide it from me, but I swear I saw him snorting something.”

“What about you? Have you used anything to cope with Lana’s death? Do we need to do a breathalyzer or blood test on you?”

I don’t smell alcohol on her either, but now I’m not sure what’s running through either of their bloodstreams.

“A little Xanax, some Ambien, but you show me a parent burying their child who doesn’t need those things.”

“And I should just take your word on all of this?” I ask, leading her right to the place I need her to go.

“I wouldn’t. My arm’s all yours. Talk to Dave’s coworkers. Our family. Do what you have to do. I just want this to end, so we can all find some peace. Lana. Dave. Me.”

I didn’t need her advice to question her friends and family or to run blood tests, but even with this conversation, it’s going to be hard to convince Sarge to let me do any of it. Just like Margaret said—they are grieving parents, in search of peace.

Chapter 7

Ryan

“Of course I was at Lana’s funeral,” Beth Cambridge is telling me as Kate stands, looking at the photos on the fireplace mantel of her great room.

Great is definitely the right word to describe this room; the whole house, actually. It’s larger than the Moores’ house, and better decorated. Beth’s young twins run around the house, occasionally venturing into the room, dressed in similar floral-print dresses, their hair in pigtails, but she never loses focus answering my questions.

“How many other people would you say were there?”

“Not very many, unfortunately. I was there all day with my sister and brother-in-law. A couple of Dave’s coworkers were there for a bit, but it was actually eerie how empty and quiet the funeral home was. My husband came for a couple hours in the evening, after work. I hired a babysitter because I didn’t want my twins to have to sit there all day. Guess I should have saved my money; they wouldn’t have bothered anyone.”

Beth Cambridge has worked herself up into a frenzy. I believe her. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would lie to the police. She’s got everything going for her. The house. The husband. The kids. The looks. Why would she lie?

“Do you have any proof you were there?” Kate chimes in.

“I wasn’t taking selfies at a funeral, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, of course not, ma’am. I didn’t mean to offend you,” Kate replies.

“Could we speak with your husband?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says. “He’s at work right now.”

“Maybe you could get him on the phone for us,” I say. “That way we won’t have to take up too much of his valuable time.”

She does just that, staying in the room without us having to ask her to do so.

“Hi, honey,” she says. “Two detectives are here with questions about Lana’s death . . . Yeah . . . I know . . . That’s what I thought, too. . . . Could you just talk to them for a couple minutes?”

She holds the phone out to me. “He was in a meeting, so try not to keep him too long.”

“It will only take a minute,” I say, putting the phone to my ear. “Mr. Cambridge, I don’t want to inconvenience you, but I just need to make sure that your wife was at Lana Moore’s funeral.”

“Of course she was,” he says, angrily, “Where else would she have been? Getting her fucking nails done? Jesus Christ, don’t you people have anything better to do with your time than investigate a suicide?”

“We aren’t sure this is a suicide, sir.”

“What?” Beth says breathlessly.

Her husband has the same reaction over the phone.

“We need to make sure this wasn’t a homicide,” I say.

“Anything I can do to help,” Mr. Cambridge says. “But I will tell you that without a doubt, Beth and I were both at that funeral. Lana was a sweet girl, and all of this