Sarah was attired in a lacey black dress that Catherine’s mother had had delivered by phantom express or some such means. It showed up on our doorstep in a plain brown box, taped with duct-tape, on the day we were permitted to move back home. It came with a pair of dull black flat shoes and a pair of dark grey socks and a black sun-bonnet with a grey ribbon. I battled my instinct to pitch the clothes into the trash receptacle out of spite; but truth be told I was too exhausted with grief to assemble an outfit for Sarah on my own, so I set my ego aside and I succumbed to Catherine’s parent’s wishes. Sarah looked awkwardly cheerful in her bleak ensemble. When Catherine’s parents arrived Sarah smiled as she ran to them.
“Gramma!” Sarah hugged Rita with delight, as if she were greeting her at a wedding.
Rita, Catherine’s mother, glared at me as she hugged Sarah. Rudy, Catherine’s father, averted my eyes and hung his head low. I had had a pretty good relationship with Rudy before Catherine’s death and I wanted to talk to him, to explain to him that I had not killed his precious little girl. But I could tell by the droop of his head that he was not permitted to talk to me; that such an act would be considered treasonous and punishable by emotional banishment; a sentence that Rudy was not willing to risk.
My boss, Tom Mills, followed Rita and
Rudy into the parlor and the usual condolences followed along with an obligatory reassurance and support for me. To my surprise a line of visitors soon formed and the parlor was filled with the low muffled murmur of mixed conversations; hearty greetings between parties who, lost in the moment, had forgotten that they were at a wake; subtle sniffles of grief from friends of Catherine’s as they recounted childhood memories with thick southern accents; whispers of murder and suggestions, spoken too loudly, of the probability of my guilt. There were, of course, the obligated guests who whisked in and out as quickly as they could sign the guest register. The truth is that the evening could not have ended soon enough for me. Sarah flitted about like a sprite, too joyful for the occasion; but I was want to admonish her - happy for her that she was not in the throes of grief. I overheard Catherine’s brother Tom, who bumped around in a battery- powered chrome wheelchair, mention to Marianne that Sarah “did not appear to miss her mother too badly”, but rather than reprimand him as I would have liked I opted instead for peace.
Later after the family priest, a portly balding piggish man by the name of Father Johns, had conducted a solemn service and all of the guests had gone home I watched as Sarah glided up to Catherine’s casket, with her all too gleeful demeanor, stop and stare for the first and last time at her mother. She looked at Catherine quietly and after a few moments she started to cry, and then to sob. She turned and ran to me leaping up into my arms and continued to cry on my shoulder in subdued sniffles.
The next morning a small crowd gathered at Catherine’s grave and Sarah and I both tossed a handful of dirt onto her coffin after it was lowered into the ground. As we walked back to the limousine I heard Rita yell “You killed her, you bastard!” I stopped without turning, and then decided to ignore her rather than confront her, and I continued my stroll to the hearse.
* * *
Catherine had not been in the ground long enough for the worms to begin circling her casket when the blue plague showed up at my front door in the form of Detective Bergant. I parted the mini blinds and peered into the yard at the dark blue Crown Victoria parked in my driveway. At least he had waited until after the funeral I supposed.
I told Sarah to go to her room and play and then I answered the third repetition of relentless raps upon my front door and I showed the good detective into my living room.
I forced a smile, “What brings you to my home this morning detective?” I was sick to my stomach at his mere presence; at his representation of more misery in my life. He had not come to console me, but rather to separate me from Sarah. Or at least that is what I suspected, or more accurately, feared. He had no empathy for me. No sympathy for me. He had only his own selfish desire to solve the case no matter the consequences; for his fifteen minutes of fame, or the promise of a promotion. I loathed the man, who despite my obvious innocence, had decided to pursue me like a hound to a fox, or more likely a fox to a rabbit. His face bore a snide expression, much like the one he wore when he pulled his ridiculous and transparent stunt: Amber in the next room. I could not find it in my heart to forgive him for such a crude assault on my intelligence.
He wore the same type of inexpensive white shirt and if not the same, a replica from a closet filled with many in a series of plain inexpensive suits, grey with a simple thin black tie absent a clip, and on his feet a pair of shiny black military style low-quarters.
“Have a seat.” I pointed to a chair and he walked over to it and waited until I was seated before declining to sit himself choosing instead to tower over me.
“No thanks.” He said, “This will only take a minute.”
“Have you brought Amber along for the ride?”
He laughed and his face blushed with embarrassment. “No, she was not available.” He retrieved a package of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and leveraged a single white stick from the pack with the shake of his wrist. He pursed it between his lips and lit a match.
“I prefer that you don’t smoke in my house.” I smiled, this time in earnest. My stomach was still threatening to evict my breakfast, but I felt the need to establish to this want-to-be Dick Tracy that I would not be bullied. I had too much at stake.
He kept his cigarette in his mouth but waved the match about until the flame was extinguished. “I’ll get right to the point. Your wife was poisoned and I think you did it.” His eyes seemed to gauge me, scanning me for a giveaway.
“Then you think wrong.” I felt my throat swell at the blunt of his words and I resented my body for it’s’ betrayal.
“Your daughter, Sarah, right?” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed to a school photograph sitting atop the mantle,
“Is she yours?” he said as he walked over to the picture to have a closer look.
“Who else’s would she be?”
“What I mean is, did you get your wife pregnant, or did the doctor work some kind of magic?” He feigned an attempt at a conjuring wave of his hands.
“No. I got her pregnant the old fashioned way; missionary style.” I felt my face flush.
“Did you ever wonder how your wife got pregnant after all those years of trying? I mean, does that sound likely?”
“Just lucky I guess. Persistence. We fucked round the clock you know.”
“Sure you did.” He smiled. “She was a pretty girl, your wife.” He sighed as though it brought him pain to ask the next question. He forced a grimace, “Is it possible that Sarah’s father is someone other than you?”
“Fuck you.”
“What?” He stepped toward me as if to intimidate me but I stood instead and stepped toward him and poked my finger into his chest.
“Fuck you! Fuck you for asking such a question.” I gave him a little shove. “Sarah is my flesh and blood. Don’t you go trying to make this into something it’s not! The
deceitful- husband
approach didn’t pan out, so you’re working on the
unfaithful-wife/jealous husband
argument? Go fuck yourself. Sarah is my daughter.” I could feel the heat of my own breath as it reflected off of his face.
“Really?” He flared his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I got somebody who says that the kid is not yours. Uncle Henry says that
he’s
the proud papa.” He seemed to take sincere joy in his revelation, as though he’d solved the case.
“Then maybe he killed Catherine. Arrest him! Is Uncle Henry in the next room? …like Amber I mean?”
“No, unlike Amber, though, this guy is real.” He put the cigarette back into his mouth. “Never had a clue about ole Uncle Henry?” he smirked as he struck a match and lit his cigarette.
I stepped backwards and sat back down in my chair. My knees had grown weak.
“I don’t know an Uncle Henry.” His attempts were getting more pathetic with every pass. Sarah was my flesh and blood. The resemblance was undeniable. My wife had said so on many occasions. The good detective was fishing again, but in the wrong pond and with the wrong bait.
“Why don’t we ask Sarah?”
“Why don’t we leave my daughter out of this?” I stood up again, the blood rushing to my head and all thoughts of fear gone, replaced in the time it takes for a flame to ignite gasoline, by anger. I took a step toward him and staggered him backwards into the soft folds of the blue leather recliner. He looked up at me, cigarette smoke trailing across his face, with a mixture of fear, shock and confusion.
“I’m only suggesting that…”
“Sarah is my daughter. Anything you do to try and take her from me might result in your untimely death!”
He stared back up at me. His eyes studied my face. He looked puzzled. He couldn’t seem to figure out how our positions had reversed. He had such a perfect plan, how had it backfired, I could see him wondering? I felt completely empowered for the first time since I found myself inside of his interrogation room. He looked into my face and I could tell that he knew that I was innocent. But he didn’t like getting shown up.
“Have a seat Mr. Derrick.” He had regained his equilibrium, if not his sense of power.
I stepped backwards and sat back down on the sofa and glared at the menace who had dared to threaten my life.
“The fact remains that your wife was poisoned. Your fingerprints are on the carafe of wine where the poison was found. You’ve got some splainin to do Mr. Derrick.”
“I poured her a glass of wine. Of course my fingerprints were on the glass.” I could feel my jaw clenching, “And what sort of poison is it that you found?”
“A household product. Something you put in your car every so often.” Again he was trying to read my face. He drew a long pause, “Antifreeze.”
“Antifreeze?”
“Your fingerprints were also found on a bottle of antifreeze in the garage.”
“Yes, I’m sure they were, along with the cap to the radiator. Why don’t you dust that for prints as well?”
“What would that prove?”
“It wouldn’t prove a thing, just like my fingerprints on a carafe of wine and a wineglass doesn’t prove a God-damned thing. My prints were on the bottle as well. Did you get that too?”
“No. We couldn’t find an opened bottle of wine.”
I shook my head. I looked him in the eye. “I didn’t kill my wife. Now why don’t you get up and leave me and my daughter alone to grieve the death of my wife and go find her real killer?”
Detective Bergant pulled the half burnt cigarette he had been lipping from his mouth and he drew a deep breath. “If you’re innocent then you won’t object to a paternity test for your daughter, will you?”
“Yes, I do object! I won’t dignify your request with that option. You insult my wife’s integrity while she lies in her grave, unable to defend herself? Well who’s going to defend her if I don’t?”
“Well then, how about we start with a lie detector test then?”
I weighed the question. “I thought those tests weren’t reliable?”
“Reliable enough to get me off your ass if you pass.”
I paused, pondering the ramifications of such a test. What did I have to lose? “Then fine. I’ll take your lie detector test. But you lay off when I pass.”
“How does tomorrow at nine in the morning sound?”
“Where?”
“Down at the station.” “I’ll be there.”
As I watched the Crown Victoria pull out of my driveway I had a flash-back to an evening a few nights before Catherine died. It nearly buckled my knees. Sarah and I were in the kitchen doing a science project for her second grade class. We were testing antifreeze to see at what temperature it began to freeze. It was a simple enough project. We poured some antifreeze from the container in the garage into a coffee mug and put a small thermometer into the solution and placed it in the freezer. Then we checked on it every few minutes. The antifreeze began to freeze at minus forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. While I was pouring the antifreeze into the coffee cup Sarah asked me, “Daddy, what does that mean?” as she pointed to the skull and crossbones on the back of the container. I told her that it meant that it was poison. “If I drink it will I die?” Yes, I said. She said, “If
you
drink it will
you
die?” Yes, I said. “If
mommy
drinks it will
she
die?”
Hearing Sarah’s voice in my head asking the last question sent chills down my spine.
She couldn’t have done it. She wouldn’t have done it. She loved her mother too much. She was just your typical sweet little girl, incapable of such evil thoughts or actions.
But, Sarah had the knowledge to accomplish the task. And, she knew that the wine in the decanter in the refrigerator was mommy’s wine.
I closed the door slowly and made my way back to and fell into the couch. I was in a mild state of shock. I had to ask Sarah if she had done it, but I didn’t want to know the answer to the question; not if she had actually done it. I felt sick to my stomach for even considering that Sarah was capable of murder.
If she had killed Catherine, deliberately, what would I do? I couldn’t turn her in. I couldn’t stop loving her. I was trapped, and I suppose the easy thing to do would have been to pretend that the notion that Sarah might have murdered Catherine had never occurred to me. But what if the police went to her school and inquired and the teacher told them about the experiment? They would come for
her
. I had to know if Sarah had killed her mother.
“Sarah, can you come here honey?”
I listened as Sarah fumbled with whatever toy she was playing with and then sauntered into the living room with her head down. She had tears in her eyes. I wondered if she was feeling guilty. But my paternal instincts made me want to erase her tears.
“What’s the matter honey?” I pulled her to my lap and I hugged her.
“I heard what the policeman said.” “Did what he said make you worry?”