Marriage Made Me Do It Read online

  I could tell she’d run from her house to mine, though I had no idea why. If something was so urgent, why didn’t she just call?

  Out of breath, Liz held up a finger. “Hang on. Let me catch my—”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  “No. No time for that,” Liz muttered, followed by a huge breath. “You need to leave. Right now.”

  The sirens were closer.

  Shit! Did the cops find Benny’s body already? I should have taken five minutes to check the newspaper online! Maybe I was wrong and someone else was out at the cemetery yesterday and saw me bash his head in and called the police? “What? Why? Is someone hurt out there? Did one of the neighbors get hit by a car or something? Did Mrs. Goldberg have another heart attack?”

  “Roxy! Listen to me. You need to leave before the press and possibly the police arrive. I dropped my cell and busted the screen, but right before that happened, I called Carol. She’s on her way home. You two need to go someplace in the mountains or something.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “Coco’s dead.”

  The room went black, but I forced the darkness away, concentrating my gaze on the busted picture frame near the door. “Come again?”

  Face flushed but breathing finally under control, Liz grabbed my arm. “Coco’s dead. Elaine found her body about an hour ago, along with the words I’m a home-wrecking whore scrawled on her headboard in blood. Elaine freaked and called a friend at the police station, trying to keep things under wraps. I was outside trimming my roses and heard her crying, so I went to check on her. She was a mess, holding Coco’s dead body against her chest, sobbing like a lost kitten. She kept saying she didn’t want people to know her daughter killed herself and that she’d rather say Coco passed away from a botched abortion.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” I moaned.

  Hello, darkness. Please swallow me up now.

  “At first, it looked like Coco overdosed on sleeping pills after an unsuccessful attempt to slit her wrists.”

  Afraid I’d pass out any second as images of me stuffing the pills down Coco’s throat reappeared, I wobbled to the couch. “But, now it doesn’t?”

  “No! The police searched her room. I mean tore it apart just minutes ago. I was inside, sitting with Elaine, when one officer came out, holding her laptop. They found numerous saved online video chat conversations between her and Carl, including the one where Coco told him she was pregnant with his child last week. Guess he didn’t realize she was recording them. One cop said that was motive, and then the coroner came out and told Elaine it was murder. Said Coco’s arm was cut after she died, and bruising around her neck, cheeks, and arms suggested someone held her while forcing her to swallow.”

  “This isn’t happening,” I whispered, trying to keep from passing out. My blurry vision made Liz’s face look like a jumbled mass of colors. My bestie’s countenance was now a suburban Picasso. “Poor Elaine.”

  “Mr. Shock came home and started yelling, saying he was going to kill Carl. The cops had to restrain him. You know how news travels around here—it won’t take long for the TV cameras to show up, and if either of the Shocks mention Carl’s name, they’ll head over here for an exclusive. God, I’m stunned, so I can’t even imagine how you must feel. Do you think—I mean, is it even possible—Carl did this? No, no way. The evidence with Coco is gone! If he was going to try and cover up his transgressions, he’d have gone after the one still carrying his kid.”

  Liz kept talking, but I tuned her voice out.

  Coco died exactly how I’d written it in my journal.

  Exactly how the dream played out.

  The soreness in my muscles wasn’t just from the fight with Rebecca and wrangling Benny’s dead weight into the grave.

  I’d killed a human being last night or early this morning.

  Again.

  My beloved Moscato betrayed me! The yummy, fermented sweet grapes unleashed the dormant, sadistic killer inside my screwed-up head.

  Fuck!

  Without saying a word, I stood and raced to the kitchen, stopping short when my gaze landed on the Damascus knife block set.

  The 8” chef’s knife was gone.

  I tried to think, make my mind engage, but it was gridlocked. Shaking, attempting to comprehend I’d crossed the line and acted out my demented fantasies, tears burst out and rolled down my cheeks.

  God, my sick actions, twisted fantasies, just destroyed Carol’s life.

  “Roxy, why are you just standing there? You need to get going. Go, pack, and I’ll wait here for Car—” Liz’s words dried up as she followed my gaze. The energy level in the room spiked. “Oh, my God. Roxy?”

  Turning, I looked into Liz’s wide eyes. The way she stared at me, full of shock and fear, the few steps backward she took, like my murderous rampage was contagious, broke my heart. It was a foreshadowing taste of what I’d see behind Carol’s eyes later.

  Our lifetime of friendship, laughter, special moments, love—poof! Gone, baby. Gone.

  ***

  Lost in a world neither of us wanted to be in, we didn’t hear someone come inside the house until right behind us. “Mrs. Davenport? I’m Detective Tuck. We need to talk.”

  “I’ll … go take care of Carol,” Liz whispered.

  With those words, I knew the lifelong friendship was kaput. It is one thing to be wine buddies, childhood friends, and neighbors with a crazy person, but quite another to say: “Hey, I’m best friends with a killer!”

  Boy, next month’s book club topic wasn’t going to be about a novel. No doubt. Maybe even the entire next year.

  Carol burst through the front door, those lovely green eyes I’d passed along through DNA wild with fright. “Mom? Liz? What’s going on? Who the hell are you?”

  Ignoring Carol’s question, Detective Tuck grabbed my elbow. A slew of people dressed in blue stormed inside the house. “You’ll need to come with me, please. Don’t make a scene in front of your daughter, or your neighbors. Agree to come with me peaceably and I won’t put you in cuffs.”

  A line from one of the mysteries I’d read at some point popped out of my mouth. “Not unless you’re arresting me.”

  “If that’s the way you want to play this, fine. Roxanne Davenport, you’re under arrest for the murder of Coco Shock, Ginger Holloway, and Carl Davenport. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you—”

  Carl? Ginger?

  Well, at least he didn’t include Benny Rogers.

  Oh, crap. The dreams weren’t dreams at all—they were memories of my drunken rampage. How many demerits does one acquire for killing their cheating husband and two of his whores in one night?

  A shitload.

  My fate would be sealed once the CSI team found the journal. My OCD habit about writing things down would nail me to the freaking wall.

  Thanks for passing along your mental issues onto me, Mom. I said a silent prayer that the tainted DNA ended with me.

  Staring at my precious child, my legs started to tremble. My little Carol. My reason for living. I’m so sorry, sweetie. I never, ever meant to hurt you. I failed the most important rule in The Suburbia Handbook:

  Do whatever necessary, including hiding your own pain and troubles, to raise your children to be well-adjusted, productive members of society.

  I didn’t hear the rest of Detective Tuck’s words. They were drowned out by Liz and Carol yelling.

  “Are you crazy? My mom wouldn’t hurt anybody! Let her go!” Carol sobbed.

  “I’ll call Reginald Greenwood and then Rebecca,” Liz added.

  A last act of kindness from my bestie?

  I tried to open my mouth and say something to assure Carol and Liz everything would be okay, but nothing happened. The buzzing in my head was back, and then, my beautiful teak hardwood floor came toward me in a rush of color. The impact of my head slamming into the floor didn’t even register.

  Dammit. My house is dirty and I’ve got company. Demerit.

  C
HAPTER 10

  Fun Q&A At The Police Station

  By the time Detective Tuck pulled into the police station, three TV vans were already waiting for us.

  Joy.

  Once parked, he turned around and handed me a jacket. “Cover your head.”

  Even suburban cops are nice. Thanks, Detective.

  The second the door opened, the hungry reporters shouted questions. The noise level was deafening. Tuck wrapped an arm around my back, using his own body as a shield from the throng of people. We shuffled through the masses, finally making it inside the glass doors.

  Jesus, I rode in the back of a cop car and now I’m in a police station! Yet more firsts in my life. Never, even during my wild, younger days, had I been arrested or received a speeding ticket.

  I’d never killed anyone, either, so there’s a first for everything.

  Hmm, life really does begin after forty!

  Like a mute rag doll, I let the detective lead me to the booking room, never flinching when my fingerprints were taken or blinking when the mug shot was snapped. Good Lord! No makeup, hair a mess, a shiner and busted lip. My friends and neighbors would have a field day when the picture splashed across the headlines.

  Thank God, my mother had no clue who I was or she’d die of a heart attack or stroke when reading or watching the news.

  The entire process was over rather quickly and the detective asked me standard questions, like my full name, birthdate, social security number—none of which I answered. For some odd reason, all I could think about was Liz sitting in her gorgeous living room, tissues in hand, watching the drama of my life unfold in real time.

  Court TV at its finest.

  How many times over the years had we watched real-life drama on television? Good grief, way too many times to count. Like everyone else in the world, we’d been glued to the screen, spewing out our collective disgust at the awful acts of other criminals, like O. J. Simpson. The Menendez brothers. Betty Broderick. Lorena Bobbitt. Jeffrey Dahmer. Ted Bundy.

  Now, Roxanne Davenport’s name would be added to the list. Headlines like “Suburban Housewife Goes on Killing Spree” or “Killer Roxanne Davenport Claims Suburbia Made Her Do It” or best of all “Raging Roxy’s Rampage Leaves a Trail of Death Across the ’Burbs.”

  Detective Tuck led me through a maze of hallways. The polished, shiny floors were slick, so I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Once inside an interrogation room—holy shit, I’m in an interrogation room in my tattered jeans, old T-shirt, and flip flops!—I sat, grateful to be off my feet. I prayed Liz followed through and called both Rebecca and Reginald Greenwood, because I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my mouth shut. I’d watched enough crime drama shows on television and knew the questions were about to come pouring out of Tuck’s pursed lips. I also knew I didn’t have to answer them, and just one little sentence—“I want a lawyer”—would make him stop.

  Unfortunately, I was afraid of what I’d say if I opened my mouth. Instead, I kept my lips sealed.

  Sitting across from me, Detective Tuck opened a thick binder. For dramatic effect, he flipped through several pages, grimacing with each flip. His friendly, dark brown eyes glanced up, staring at me. I’m sure he was making mental notes of my appearance, whether I was sweating, shaking, biting my lip, or wringing my hands.

  I didn’t move a muscle. I wondered which mask he’d put on first: Good cop or bad cop.

  “Before we start, would you like some water? Coffee?”

  Got any Moscato? I know it’s early morning but I sure could use some. Oh, and a pack of smokes and a lighter. Um, make it two packs. I have a feeling I’ll need them.

  “No? Okay. Just let me know if you change your mind. So, Mrs. Davenport, want to tell me what happened last night?”

  I didn’t blink. Detective Tuck seemed to be straddling the fence—he was mediocre cop at the moment.

  “Roxanne, it’s okay. Just tell me your side of the story. From what information we’ve gathered, you’ve experienced some very stressful situations during the course of the last few weeks. Oh, may I call you Roxanne?”

  Well, hello good cop! Nice segue from mediocracy. Call me what you like, I don’t care. Your little act isn’t going to work. Stressful situations? Really? That’s your opening line? Pathetic. Obviously, you need to watch some episodes of Law & Order! Your interrogation skills suck, sir.

  “Let’s start by answering easy questions. How did you sustain the injuries to your face?”

  Hmm, well, it’s like this, Detective Fuck—er, Tuck. I have this wretched sister who screwed-up my life. You should arrest her too because she pushed me down this murderous path. Charge her as an accessory. You think I look bad? Ha! You should see her face.

  “Come now, Roxanne. The judicial process will be easier if you are open, honest, and forthcoming with answers. I’m giving you a chance to explain your side by telling me how you felt after finding out your husband of nearly twenty years had been unfaithful and left you for a pregnant, younger woman. How did the news make you feel when you discovered an underage neighbor had also been sleeping with him and also was carrying his child before she aborted it?”

  How the fuck do you think I felt, idiot? Angry. Humiliated. Jealous. Hurt. Royally pissed off. Pick one or all! Wouldn’t you be?

  The friendly demeanor shifted. I could tell my lack of any response irritated Tuck. Any second, he’d jump ship and swim over to the dark side, releasing the bad cop.

  “The coroner found traces of type AB negative blood on Coco Shock’s upper torso, and according to Mrs. Shock, Coco’s blood type is O positive. Your husband and Ms. Holloway were both O positive, so that rules out either of them as suspects. AB negative is the rarest blood type, only present in 1 per cent of Caucasians. What blood type are you?”

  Hello, blurry vision, thanks for stopping by.

  Shit.

  No doubts now.

  I’m AB negative.

  Visions of struggling with Coco hit me. Though I was stronger and bigger, the little whore did put up a good fight. A flailing arm connected once with my lip, hard enough to make it bleed again. Damn you and your left hook, Rebecca!

  “A team of forensic specialists is tearing up your house, Mrs. Davenport. They’ll find evidence, like the bloody clothes and knife. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Oh, it’s Mrs. Davenport now? Uh-oh, here comes bad cop.

  “Mr. Davenport had quite a few marks on his body. Older ones, not from when you killed him. Specifically, he sported some nasty cuts and bruising to his backside. We didn’t find any evidence in Ms. Holloway’s apartment of bondage equipment. Is that something you two enjoyed? S&M?”

  Not until recently, sir. Well, at least, on my part. Apparently, Carl enjoyed being tied up and submissive. I tried the whole dominatrix thing, but just once. Long enough to bend my husband to my will! It was quite exhilarating. You should try it sometime because you look a bit uptight. How long’s it been since you’ve taken a vacation?

  Detective Tuck looked annoyed. Really annoyed. Bet he wasn’t used to someone clamming up.

  Just as he started to rummage through the binder, someone knocked on the door. “Excuse me.”

  Rising to his feet, Tuck opened the door. A young cop handed him another bulging folder, whispering the entire time. Tuck nodded. A wicked smile appeared.

  Uh-oh.

  They found my journal.

  Did they find the clothes and empty pill bottle, too? The knife? Think, Roxy, what did you do with them? Push past the murky memories and think! Shower. Yes, I took a shower, the clothes and bottle wadded up inside several plastic grocery sacks. (Aren’t those things handy for just about anything?) But, what did I do with it? I didn’t see it in the bathroom earlier. Shit! I can’t remember anymore.

  A bucketful of demerits hovered above my head.

  Closing the door, Detective Tuck lingered, perusing the contents of the folder. My stomach clenched when he removed the journal. He opened
it, going to sections marked with yellow Post-It notes.

  Damn.

  Returning to sit across from me, he set the journal down between us. “Is this your handwriting, Mrs. Davenport?”

  As a matter of fact, it is Detective Tuck. Notice the difference from one page to the next? The ones that are written in nice, loopy cursive I penned when sober. The ones that look like ramblings of a mad housewife were written when I was drunk. Alcohol turns nice penmanship into the scribblings of a child, doesn’t it?

  “Looks like from your entries the deceased died exactly how you envisioned. Isn’t that interesting? Either you’re clairvoyant or stupid enough to kill three people the same way you wrote it down. I don’t believe in clairvoyance, Mrs. Davenport. That leaves us with you being the killer.”

  Ding, ding, ding! We’ve got a winner! Give the detective a prize. Oh, wait. You missed one—the actual number is four, not three. Awww, no prize for you.

  Detective Tuck extracted several pieces of paper, pushing them toward me. Glancing down, it took a second for me to process what they were.

  Statements.

  “Several of your friends and neighbors told us you’ve exhibited odd behavior lately. Drinking too much, dressing seductively, saying hurtful, hateful things, and even becoming physically violent with your sister, Rebecca Wilson. Seems there was a nasty confrontation at her office, resulting in Mrs. Wilson suffering a broken nose. The altercation does explain your injuries, but it also shows a pattern of irrational behavior culminating with you committing multiple murders.”

  It sure does, sir! Wow, you’re really putting the pieces of the puzzle of my fucked-up life together fast. I retract my earlier thought about you needing to watch more Law & Order. You’re on a roll.

  Shit, how much longer will it be before Reginald arrives? I’m not sure I can keep my mouth shut. It’s really hot in this room. And stinky. Doesn’t anyone ever clean this place? Ever heard of air freshener or scented candles, Tuck? Is the city so broke it can’t afford a cleaning crew at least once a week?