Ella Barrick - Dead Man Waltzing

“That I killed her?”

I nodded, taken aback by the grief in her voice.

“We buried my best friend today, and you show up here accusing me of causing her death. I didn’t think you were so callous, Stacy.” Before I could respond, she asked, “Have you ever experienced betrayal?”

An image of Rafe in bed with Solange, of her red hair splayed across my pillows, of pale skin, gasps, and the scent of sex, overpowered my mind. I nodded.

As if reading my thoughts, she said, “Oh, men. Men don’t count.” Finally putting down the wine bottle, she walked to the table and gathered up our bowls and spoons, transporting them to the sink. The sound of rushing water played over her next words. “I mean betrayed by a friend. By someone you trusted, someone you shared secrets and dreams with, someone you thought believed in you, supported you, loved you.”

I thought of Danielle, my mom, my good friends from high school and beyond. There’d been the usual sniping and making up, the waxing and wanings of friendship, but no scar-making betrayals. Unless you counted my mom deciding she would rather hang out with her horses than with us. “No.”

She nodded, as if I’d confirmed something. “No. So you can’t possibly hope to understand how I felt when Corinne told… When I discovered that she paid someone to hurt me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“No one could understand who hasn’t been through it,” she half whispered, and I wondered whether she was thinking of juries.

Part of me wanted to comfort her, and part of me wanted to snap, Get over it already. We all have to deal with betrayals of one kind or another, with disappointment, with tragedy. So I stood there like a dolt, not knowing what to do or say.

“Corinne helped me come to terms with the loss of my foot. She set me up in business. She held me while I cried, got me to AA when I took to drinking to deal with the disappointment of never dancing again.” She saw me glance at the wine bottle, and half laughed. “I don’t think I was really an alcoholic-just headed that way. I’ve drunk socially for decades now with no problem. So it was like finding out that my whole life was built on quicksand when she told me. I knew how old-time explorers must have felt upon learning the world was round; their whole worldview was called into question, everything they believed turned overnight into a lie, a falsehood.”

She slid a cutting board and knife into the soapy water, and her hair swung forward as she scrubbed them, hiding her face. “I think I could have forgiven the attack,” she said, her voice little more than the rasp of an autumn leaf against a window. “It was the lying. The years and years of lying. The friendship I believed in, counted on, was a big pile of lies, no more substantial than clouds seen from an airplane window, seemingly so thick and soft they look like they’d cushion you when you jump into them. But when you make the leap, you fall straight through them. To the ground. To death.”

The intensity in her voice creeped me out a bit. “So you ground up some cold tablets and put them in her heart medicine. You were her friend-you knew what kinds of meds she was on. I’m sure it wasn’t hard to find an opportunity to slip the bottle out of her purse and doctor a few pills. Or maybe you did it on a visit to her house, sneaking the bottle out of the medicine cabinet.”

“There was no guarantee it would kill her.”

That sounded perilously close to an admission of guilt. My brief flash of elation was cut short when she turned to face me, a large chopping knife in her hand. My gaze froze to it and I stumbled back a step. Lavinia looked confused for a moment, then startled. “I’m not a murderer! I wouldn’t hurt you.” She laid the knife on the counter and I breathed again, conscious of my heart still going thumpity-thump against my ribs.

I needed to get out of here. I’d pushed as much as I could push, and Lavinia hadn’t cracked. I was completely convinced she’d killed Corinne, but I didn’t have any more solid evidence to offer Lissy than I’d had when I walked in here. “Maurice shouldn’t have to pay for what you did, Lavinia. He’s going to trial, and there’s a good chance he’ll be convicted.”

“The evidence is only circumstantial,” she said, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

“It’s the painting,” I improvised, playing on that uncertainty. “It’s motive. He was with her when she died, he could have substituted the poisoned pills for her heart medicine anytime over the weekend, and she left him a painting worth millions. Means, opportunity, and motive, as the cops say. He’s screwed.”

I waited a beat, hoping… for what? That she’d leap in a taxi and drive straight to the nearest police station to confess? After a moment, it became clear she wasn’t going to say anything more. Feeling tears start to my eyes, I hurried to the door, glancing back when I reached it. Lavinia stood by the sink, tugging her robe around herself as if she were cold, and tucking her hands into her armpits.

I left.

A rude pounding on my door woke me early Saturday morning. I glanced at the digital clock on my bedside. Six twenty-eight. Who in the world was at my door at this ungodly hour? My mind leaped to my mom, my dad, Danielle. Something had happened to one of them. Swinging my legs out of bed, I grabbed my robe and shrugged into it as I made for the door. A peek out the slit of a window beside the door showed me Detective Lissy. Oh, no. A homicide cop on my doorstep at this hour wouldn’t be good news.

Fumbling with the lock, I jerked the door wide, anxiety making my heart pound in my chest. “Is it my sister? My mom or dad? What’s happened?”

Lissy showed me an irate face, not one pulled down by having to impart tragic news. He was immaculately turned out, even at this hour, in a dark suit, crisp shirt, and patterned tie. “Your sister? What? Oh. No, your family is fine.”

I pulled the door wider, silently inviting him in, still coming to terms with the fact that nothing had happened to my family. Breathing easier, I faced him in the hallway. “What happened?”

“I need you to come with me. Throw some clothes on and let’s go.” His face, impassive, told me nothing.

I was half-startled, half-curious. “Where? What? Are you arresting me?” Suddenly conscious of the sheerness of my nightgown and robe, I crossed my arms over my chest. Lissy seemed totally unmoved by my state of partial undress, his eyes staying on my face seemingly without effort.

“Have you done something I should arrest you for?”

“Of course not!”

“Just get dressed, Ms. Graysin. We’re wasting time.”

Confused, sleepy, but relieved that my family was okay and that he wasn’t arresting me, I closed my bedroom door and scrambled into a summer skirt, peasant blouse, and sandals. Brushing my teeth and running a brush through my hair, I rejoined Lissy in less than five minutes.

“Impressive,” was all he said as he gestured me to the door.

I climbed into the front seat of his brown Crown Victoria and buckled up. “Can we get coffee?” I asked.

For answer, he pulled into the nearest fast-food drive-through, and we both ordered extra-large coffees, black. I shot him a glance; it felt weird to have something in common with Lissy, even something as minor as how we liked our coffee.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we headed out Route 1 toward D.C. There was virtually no traffic this early on Saturday, and we sped along above the speed limit.

“In due time, Ms. Graysin, in due time.”

I relaxed back into the seat, sipping my coffee, but after a few moments the silence got to me. “Did your grandson win his game?”