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

fair share of alcohol, but I’m not alone in that. In college, I went to parties with every other student I knew. After a hard day at work, we all go to the bar. It’s what people do. I’ve also driven drunk. That, too, is what people do. I won’t be doing that now, though. If I get arrested for even the smallest thing, I don’t think I’d ever be free again.

Beth walks in a few minutes late. I don’t notice until I look at my watch. The wine bar has provided lots of people-watching entertainment. Simply being out of that godforsaken room is more than enough for me.

She waves at me as she walks in the door. Beth is beautiful, but tonight, in the light of the orange, pink, and purple sunset, she is stunning. I want to bang her right now on the table in the middle of the bar. She can’t kiss me; in fact, I don’t know why she wanted to meet me out in public, where the world can see, and judge, us.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly, sitting down and flagging the waiter.

“Shouldn’t we be careful? You know, in public?”

“It’s fine. You’re not going to make out with me, are you?”

I shake my head no. “I’m allowed to be friends with whomever I want.”

The waiter arrives at the table. Before he says anything, Beth blurts out, “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio please, and none of those skimpy pours like the last time. I know what a proper pour should look like.”

The waiter walks away and she bounces right back into our conversation.

“I mean, what are the odds of someone seeing us? Everyone I know is either out of town on vacation or at home with the kids.”

“That’s not possible.”

“You don’t believe me?” she asks with an accusatory tone.

“What about your sister?” I ask.

“What about her?”

Beth looks at me, confused. I thought she might know about my current situation, thanks to her sister. I’m sure Margaret wouldn’t be able to keep her mouth shut with gossip this intriguing.

“I think she killed Tracy,” I say casually, as though I’m remarking on what a nice night it is outside, assuming Beth’s not as innocent and void of information as she’d like me to believe.

Beth stares at me for a moment. I can tell she doesn’t know what to say or do or where to look. While she doesn’t walk out, or slap me or call me names, she also doesn’t immediately jump to her sister’s defense, either.

“Tracy’s dead?” she asks.

I nod. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation in public, but I don’t stop, I don’t shut up; I just keep talking.

“I didn’t do it, in case you’re wondering.”

“I wasn’t really, but I believe you.”

“Why?” I ask. Sometimes I’m not even sure I believe myself. I keep wondering if I could have blacked out and killed Tracy. Or done it in my sleep.

“Because you said you didn’t do it.”

“It’s that simple for you?”

“Nothing in life is that simple. I believe that you didn’t kill Tracy. Now why do you think Maggie did it?”

“Well, I think she killed her daughter.”

Beth almost chuckles. She slugs back her glass of wine and signals the waiter for another, saying, “I’m going to need to keep these coming.” We sit in awkward silence until the waiter refills her glass and asks if we would like anything to eat. I decline. Hungry isn’t really in my vocabulary right now. Food may never sound good to me again. Beth claims she hasn’t eaten all day and orders a hummus plate. I’d rather keep the waiter out of our business, but I can’t ask her not to order anything.

“I’ll be the first to admit Maggie’s behavior has been rather odd since Lana’s death,” Beth says once the coast is clear, “but I don’t think she has it in her to kill another person. Anyway, I thought it was a suicide.”

“It’s not, but now I’m out of the loop,” I say. “I’ve been suspended pending an investigation.”

“I’m sorry about that. If you need money or anything . . .” She trails off. “Devin won’t notice. I do all the bills.”

“It’s not the money,” I reply. “It’s that I’m practically being accused of murder.”

“I imagine that would be difficult.”

“No, you can’t imagine,” I snap.

“Sor-ry,” she says, offended.

That’s how people are going to treat me now. They’re going to be overly nice, patronizing, give me that sad look like I’m a lost puppy. Then they’ll probably go home and talk about me like a vicious dog to their husbands, wives, friends, family, neighbors, perfect strangers—because it’s only a matter of time until the media catches wind of this and I’m the topic of conversation across the country. On the other hand, there will be those who treat me like garbage right to my face. As though I could contaminate them with bad luck, as though being nice to me may reflect badly on them. Because ignoring me just isn’t a viable option, I’ll be given nasty looks, cursed at, maybe even spat upon. Someone might even kill me, though that will most likely wait until prison, where all the guys I’ve put away will be waiting like vultures for my arrival, shivs in hand.

Just when we’re about to continue our oh-so-enjoyable conversation, a camera flash startles both Beth and me. The waiter hustles to close the curtains on the nearby window, keeping our adoring public away for the time being, even though the moment we open the door we will be at the mercy of the photographers waiting outside. If we’re lucky, they’ll be selfish and keep this to themselves. I know we won’t be, so every media outlet within fifty miles will be standing there, just waiting to jump all over us.

This is bad news for Beth. Her husband will realize she’s cheating on him, unless he’s half as obtuse as she says he is. She’ll be the talk of the town for sleeping with a murderer.

The