Tracie Peterson (36 page)

“How could this have happened? They were so happy.”

“Apparently there’s more than we know,” Harry offered, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “It’s hard to tell, Mattie. Who knows why a person decides that they can’t go on?”

“But he’d just won his case. They had everything they needed,” Mattie said, shaking her head. “Maybe it was the disappointment of canceling their trip. Maybe Dave felt really bad about it.”

“That hardly seems like the kind of thing a person would kill
himself over. Seems a whole lot easier to just reschedule the trip.” Mattie looked at him and saw him grimace. “I didn’t mean it to sound so flippant,” Harry added.

“Oh, Harry, I know you didn’t.” She felt her eyes fill up with tears again. “I don’t know what I’m going to do or say, but I’m so grateful you were able to come with me. Harry, I hope you know what you mean to me.”

He nodded. “I think I do, Mattie, because you mean the same to me.”

Chapter 31

Morgan’s shrill screams broke the otherwise silent room. She fought against the grasp of strangers while Deirdre, equally terrified, struggled to try to reach her daughter. So far Deirdre’s experience with the local authorities was turning rather ugly. It was bad enough to have to come to the station to answer questions, but to be separated from Morgan in order for the officers to question her daughter in private was too much.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is the way things are done,” a black-haired police officer told Deirdre.

“You aren’t taking my child away!” Deirdre screamed and reached out to take her hysterical daughter back into her arms. The policewoman holding her moved back a pace while two detectives physically restrained Deirdre, forcing her to sit in the chair they’d provided for her. “She’s only a baby!”

“Mommy! Mommy!”

The terror in her voice was like nothing Deirdre had ever heard. “Let me go!” Deirdre screamed, trying again to get up.

One man leaned down and whispered in her ear, “This is already hard enough on your daughter. Your screaming isn’t helping her any. Just cooperate and this will all be over in a short time.”

Deirdre looked up at the man, the same man who’d been at her house. “Detective . . .” she paused, unable to remember his name.

“Stanford,” he replied.

“Detective Stanford, this isn’t going to be over for either one of us for a very, very long time. You can’t just expect me to let you take my daughter off to be with strangers when her father has just died.”

The tall, brown-haired man knelt beside her chair. “This is how it has to be,” he stated sympathetically. “Resisting isn’t going to change anything. Now, please make it easier on all of us and tell your daughter that it’s okay. Either way, she’s going into another room down the hall. You can send her there calmly and sensibly or continue being irrational.”

Deirdre felt her cheeks grow hot. How dare he come to her with his mock sympathy and soft words. He was insane if he thought she’d let them take Morgan away. But then her eyes caught sight of Morgan. Her beautiful, golden-haired child was fighting for all she was worth, crying—sobbing hysterically—and reaching out for her at every chance. There was absolute terror in her expression, and Deirdre had never felt more helpless.

“Morgan.” Her tone was calming, reassuring. “Morgan, look at Mommy.”

Morgan, wild-eyed with fear, looked at Deirdre as though her only hope for rescue would come from her hand.

Deirdre drew a deep breath. “Go with them, Morgan. Go with them for a few minutes so that Mommy can talk to the police about Daddy.”

Morgan said nothing, but she stilled in the arms of the policewoman who held her. The look on her face cut Deirdre to the heart. Betrayed! That was what her daughter’s expression suggested. She had just been betrayed by the only trustworthy person left to her in all the world. The policewoman walked out the door talking softly to Morgan and promising her a can of soda.

Deirdre turned to the detective. “Are you satisfied? Is this how the law works? You terrify young children who’ve just lost their fathers? Is that what my tax dollars are paying for?”

“Mrs. Woodward, I understand how you feel,” Stanford began, “but you have to understand how our procedures work.”

“I don’t care a hoot about your procedures,” Deirdre replied coldly. “I only care about my child. Are you going to pay for her counseling bills when she’s unable to get over this trauma? Her
father is dead and you rip her from the arms of her mother in order to talk about funeral arrangements. How do you sleep nights?”

“We aren’t here to question you about funeral arrangements,” Stanford said, loosening his tie. “We need to know why your husband is dead.”

“Offhand—and this is only a guess,” Deirdre said snidely, “but I’d say it was the bullet in his head that killed him.” Despite her anger, once her words were out, she could barely hold back her tears.

Stanford nodded solemnly. “I understand that you’re upset. You have a right to be upset. God knows you’ve been through a lot in the past few hours. In fact, maybe some coffee would help. Simpson,” he said to his partner, “why don’t you go wrestle us up some coffee.” The thirty-something woman smiled and nodded.

Deirdre couldn’t believe the man’s suggestion. Coffee? Why in the world did he imagine coffee would help anything? She said nothing, however, and leaned back into her chair and crossed her arms, looking at the stark room. The table she sat at was one of those cheap army-surplus-styled monstrosities, and other than two chairs, one of which she was sitting on, the room was empty. It reminded her of one of those late-night police shows. This was the kind of room where the murderer confessed to his crime. And now they wanted her to tell them why Dave was dead. What manner of nightmare had she fallen into?

When Detective Simpson had gone, Stanford sat down at the table opposite Deirdre and took out a pencil. Flipping open a notebook, he began to jot notes.

“I need to know what happened leading up to your husband’s death.”

Deirdre felt her mouth go dry. “Why?”

“We’re investigating the death and we need all the facts.”

“You found a suicide note. Doesn’t that pretty much explain the facts?” she asked. Why were they doing this to her? She had answered question after question at the house. How long would she be treated like a criminal?

“Mrs. Woodward,” he paused and gave her an apologetic look, “could I call you Deirdre?”

“Call me whatever it takes to get my daughter back,” she said angrily.

“Deirdre, this is being treated like any other suspicious death. You have to understand. The facts are not always what they seem. Now, if you’ll just cooperate with me, we’ll have everything said and done as soon as possible.”

Just then Detective Simpson returned. Deirdre was handed a cup of black steaming coffee, but the thought of drinking it turned her stomach. She put it down on the table and shuddered.

“Ask your questions and let me go to my child.”

“Were you and your husband experiencing any marital difficulties?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” Deirdre answered without emotion. “Dave had been working too hard on a case at his law firm. I complained about his long hours, including the fact that he canceled a much-desired anniversary vacation we had planned to take to Hawaii.” She paused, feeling her anger mount as he wrote in his notebook. “If I go too fast, just let me know.”

“So you weren’t getting along?”

“I didn’t say that. I say there were difficulties. Dave settled his case, but he was unhappy because I had been spending a lot of money.” Deirdre couldn’t believe she was telling him this. “I had gone gambling several times and lost quite a bit. Dave wasn’t happy about that and we argued about it this morning. Otherwise, we had a wonderful life. We were even planning to have another baby.”

The questioning went on and on, and Deirdre began to think it would never end. She nearly tried to bolt from the room when they said her hands had to be tested to see if she’d recently fired a gun, but like an animal caught in a trap, she finally gave up and let them do whatever they wanted to her. She’d always assumed that the police would help her if something bad happened. Instead, she felt defiled and violated.

After two hours and no word about Morgan, Deirdre had reached her limits. She had answered every possible question, telling how she had found Dave, describing what she had done. Over and over again in intimate detail, she told them everything she knew about the last hours of Dave’s life.

Finally it was too much. She had nothing left to give them. Breaking down, she began to sob. She couldn’t stop the tears from coming, and soon she was crying so hard it was impossible to hear anything the detective was saying.

Why, Dave? Why did you have to do this? I know I shouldn’t have spent the money. I know I shouldn’t have lied, but why did you punish me like this? Why? Our daughter needed you. I needed you. You had no right to do this
.

She felt someone touch her shoulders but had no idea who it was. She knew they were trying to comfort her, but there was no comfort.

Oh, God
, she prayed,
help me. I can’t do this alone
.

“Deirdre,” Detective Stanford said, taking hold of her face. “You have to pull yourself together. I can’t take you to your daughter like this.”

“Morgan?” she managed to croak out between her sobs. Her ribs hurt from crying and her throat felt raw. Still, the thought of her daughter helped to calm her overwhelming emotions.

“You’re free to go,” he said softly and let go his hold.

She looked at him for a moment, the words not totally registering. “Go?”

“Your sister Erica has come and she’s assured us that she’ll take care of you both. Your husband’s death seems quite clearly to be a suicide. Everything has checked out.”

Deirdre’s head was spinning, but she knew she had to collect herself. She had to get out of this place. She had to find Morgan.

“There’s just one more thing,” Stanford said sympathetically. “I thought you might want to have a copy of your husband’s letter. It might help you to feel better about things.” He reached over to the table and picked up a photocopied piece of paper. “You understand,
the original, along with the gun, is being kept as evidence.”

Deirdre could only nod and take the paper he offered her. As her thoughts settled and the pain in her head subsided a bit, she realized she was completely numb—stunned from the entire ordeal and exhausted beyond words.

She let them lead her out of the room and down the hall to where the police officer who’d taken Morgan sat trying to interest the child in some cookies. Deirdre walked calmly into the room and lifted her silent daughter into her arms and walked back out. She wanted nothing more than to leave this horrible place. But then an equally horrible thought came to mind. Where would they go? She certainly couldn’t go back to the house. She never wanted to go back to that house again.

Morgan never said a word as they walked to where Erica waited. Deirdre met her sister’s red-rimmed eyes and stunned expression. Poor Erica. She was hardly cut out for something of this magnitude.

“Dee, I’m so sorry. They wouldn’t let me come back.”

“It’s all right,” Deirdre replied. “Let’s just get out of here.”

Chapter 32

Harry knocked on Connie’s door and waited impatiently. He felt jittery inside at the thought of seeing her again. He hadn’t seen her since prior to confessing his interest in her to Mattie, and now, in spite of the trauma they faced, the thought of seeing her made him feel like a schoolboy again. Could there be some kind of future for them? He knew her life-style to be a vast contrast from what he thought acceptable, but it wasn’t her life-style he was interested in—it was Connie herself who drew his attention.

He knocked again for lack of something better to do. All the way to Topeka he’d listened to Mattie talk about how impossible things had become. He listened to her speak tearfully of the family being ripped apart at the seams. Without ever making such a declaration, Harry knew that she was lonely. Lonely and tired and quickly losing her energy to deal with her responsibilities. Harry had hoped that her granddaughters would have seen this as well, but they seemed far too preoccupied with their own troubles to notice.