Motherhood Is Murder

I listened to the ticking of the cuckoo clock.

After a moment she wiped her eyes and said, “Helene never . . . why? How could she do that to me, Kate? How could he do that?”

The weight of the betrayal was stifling the room.

“I also was able to confirm that Helene was indeed poisoned,” I said.

Margaret sat straight up. “Alan did poison her? But why?”

“I don’t think Alan did it. No. I don’t think it was Alan,” I said.

Margaret searched my eyes. “Who else then? Was it Bruce? Did he know about the affair? I feel so stupid. Was I the only one buffaloed?”

I was silent. A car drove by, filling the room momentarily with light. As the car passed, the room was covered in dark shadows again, lit only by the table lamp beside me.

“Do you think Bruce killed Helene?” she pressed.

I opened my palms to her, inviting her theory.

“Why would he kill her?” Margaret asked. “He was barely home—practically never even noticed her. Was it pride?” She rose off the bean bag and started pacing. “Let me guess: Killing her was a cheaper solution than divorce. She would get half of everything and my husband, too.”

She stopped pacing and stood before me. “Why did she do it, Kate? She could have had anyone. She was pretty and desirable and unattached—well, I mean, relatively. I know she was married but they didn’t have any kids. She could have just started over with someone else. Someone who wanted kids. Why did she have to take my husband?”

“You think Bruce didn’t want kids?” I asked.

Margaret nodded. “Well, I don’t know but Helene wanted them so much and he just didn’t seem to be interested.”

“What about the adoption then?”

Margaret frowned. “What adoption?”

“Celia was helping Helene and Bruce coordinate an adoption from Costa Rica.”

Margaret’s face went blank. “She was? Helene wanted to adopt? I never knew—she never said anything to me. I guess she was full of surprises . . .” Margaret’s lips puckered with bitterness. “She never said a word.”

I watched Margaret carefully, not even certain what I was looking for.

She seemed very emotional and was continually wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand.

Could she have known about the affair all along?

How could she not know her best friend was sleeping with her husband? What if she had killed Helene out of retaliation and all this pacing around was just an act?

She was standing directly in front of me—practically on top of me. I realized my shoulders were hiked up to my ears.

Was I expecting her to pounce on me?

I forced my shoulders down and stood, reclaiming my personal space. Margaret took a step back.

She lumbered over to the other wing-back chair and rearranged it to face mine.

I seated myself again and crossed my hands in my lap, trying to look professional and unimposing. She was my client, after all.

After a moment, I said, “These are the facts as I understand them. Helene was poisoned with fentanyl and died on the dinner cruise. Celia was given the same drug. It’s used for extreme chronic pain. It’s a class II narcotic. Do you know anything about this medicine?”

She shook her head.

I watched her eyes. She didn’t fidget or glance around the room. She just stared at me straight on. She didn’t look nervous in the least, only sad.

Finally, I said, “It’s mostly prescribed to terminally ill cancer patients.”

She nodded her understanding.

“Do you know anyone who could have been on fentanyl recently?”

She turned her lips down and shook her head.

“We were all on the cruise, so everyone—you, me, Sara, Evelyn, and our husbands—had access to Helene, including her own husband, Bruce. But only a few people saw Celia on the day she was poisoned—you, me, Bruce, and Evelyn.”

Margaret’s eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. “What about Alan?”

“No. Not that I know of. He says he was at the office all day. So he didn’t have any contact with Celia and also he requested the toxicology screen for Helene from the medical examiner. If he had poisoned her, he wouldn’t have pushed for that.”

Margaret crossed her legs, leaned back into the chair, and contemplated what I’d said. “I was so sure he had done something with those drinks.”

We sat in silence.

“So you say that leaves us with who? Evelyn and Bruce?”

And you!

I watched her nervously swing her foot forward and back, but said nothing.

“Evelyn or Bruce, huh?” she repeated. “It’s got to be Bruce. Evelyn had no reason to kill Helene. I mean, I know she was a little bitter about being kicked out of the group, but that’s no reason . . . she can’t be that petty, right?”

“No. That kind of motive doesn’t make sense,” I said. “And what about Celia? Why would Evelyn try to poison her own midwife?”

Margaret nodded.

“I understand Bruce may have had access to the fentanyl. His grandmother passed away recently from cancer.”

Margaret dipped her head.

“Margaret, did you used to be addicted to pain meds?” I asked.

Her head shot up. “Who told you that?”

“Alan,” I admitted.

She jumped out of the chair. “That no good . . . what else did he tell you?”

I shrugged.

She began to pace again. “So that’s it, huh? You think I killed her because I’m a recovered addict. I’m recovered, Kate. Recovered.”

She stormed out of the room, leaving me sitting in the chair waiting for her. She returned a few minutes later holding a frame that she clutched to her chest.

“I’m sorry for flipping out on you,” she said.

I nodded.

“Five years ago, before the kids, I broke my foot skiing. I got addicted to pain meds then. It didn’t last very long. About six months, but Alan never let me forget. I’ve been reflecting on our marriage these last few days here at my mom’s. I think back to that time and I think he purposely wanted to get me addicted. It gave him control over me and our life.”

She handed me the frame. It was a picture of Margaret, Alan, and a small boy. They were on the beach and Margaret was just starting to show with her second baby.

“This photo was taken less than a year ago. It was our first family vacation. Miami, the same day I met Celia. Look at how ridiculously happy I was. I’ve been crying myself to sleep hugging that photo every single night since Helene passed away. But no matter how hard I cry, I can’t get back to that happy place.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

A car pulled up into the driveway. Presumably, it was Margaret’s mom back with the kids. I hadn’t wanted to leave Margaret alone feeling sad and vulnerable so I was glad to see the car park.