The Widower and His Web
Chapter Four
I paced back and forth, drink in my weary, shaking hands. Approaching Elizabeth was hardly advisable, but the nausea that her behavior had given me was driving me to believe otherwise. She and Andrew had been gone for several hours, allowing me to consume a fairly significant amount of whiskey. The sour taste that it had left on my tongue was not comparable to the sour taste of my discovery. Intoxication was the only escape that I knew.
The door opened and I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself as I walked in to see both Elizabeth and Andrew. She looked rather irritated and his eyes were averted towards the ground. Rarely are fathers supposed to have sympathy for their daughters' boyfriends, but I could not help but to feel sorry for the young man. In the short period that I had seen the two of them together, Elizabeth treated him so poorly that I was tempted to discipline her. However, she had never listened to me in the past and it was unlikely that she would listen to me during her grieving period. I opened my mouth to confront her in regards to the cocaine, but no words were emitted. I closed my mouth again.
“Hi, Paul. I thought you would like to know that it's going to cost you probably around ten grand. We're going to bed--”
“Elizabeth, can you please call me 'Dad' at least under my roof?”
“Whatever. We're going to bed,” she retorted. “Goodnight, Dad.”
She began to walk away, Andrew at her heels, when I asked, “H-how are you doing, honey?” It was my hope that she would come forward about her problem, but my efforts were to no avail.
She turned on her heel, raised her eyebrow, and said, “Sobriety isn't your forte, is it, Paul?” Andrew offered me a sympathetic expression before she grabbed his hand firmly and pulled him with her towards the guest bedroom as though he were her disobedient toddler in a department store.
***
My head ached when I awoke. I cringed as I pawed at my nightstand for a glass of water. I drank it greedily and pushed myself to stand up, rubbing my temples with one hand. Slowly sauntering towards the kitchen, I realized that it seemed extremely quiet for there to be other people in the apartment. The walls were thin and even the slightest movement was audible. I narrowed my eyes and though it was fuzzy, I was able to read the clock. It was noon.
My body craved coffee more than usual, thus I began brewing a pot. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a piece of paper. I picked it up and allowed my blurry vision to focus enough to read the note.
Paul,
We went out for breakfast and to send out invitations for the funeral. Enjoy your hangover.
-Beth
“When did she start calling herself Beth?” I asked myself aloud. I sighed and decided that it was nothing worth pondering.
I retrieved the newspaper, unsure whether or not I wanted to read the headline. Upon seeing it, I realized that it was something I would have preferred not to read. In large, bold print, the text read, “Suspect of Woman in Suburbia's Murder on the Run.” Unfortunately, after reading it, my curiosity peaked and I was unable to ignore it. I sat in my recliner, sipping a coffee with Irish cream, reading the article that I knew would scar my very psyche.
...The killer is believed to have murdered other women in the greater Newclasure area. A case on a woman in Moressee has been reopened due to the recent murder of Molly Linden. Agatha Likavek, age sixty-one, was thought to have committed suicide with a handgun, but police now suspect that these two murders are connected to thirty-eight-year-old Matthew Stanley. With a criminal history including distribution of marijuana and public intoxication, Matthew Stanley was seen twelve hours after the murder when he delivered a package for Molley Linden to her neighbor...
Irritation enveloped my being. Matthew Stanley, the friendly postal service worker, simply was not responsible for Molly's death. I had spoken to him on multiple occasions, and from my professional perspective, he was harmless. I was aware that he was a legal caregiver with marijuana and he was arrested briefly for dealing to a woman whose medical marijuana card had expired. My anger was my drive when I made a rash decision.
I was going to find Molly's killer.
The door opened and I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself as I walked in to see both Elizabeth and Andrew. She looked rather irritated and his eyes were averted towards the ground. Rarely are fathers supposed to have sympathy for their daughters' boyfriends, but I could not help but to feel sorry for the young man. In the short period that I had seen the two of them together, Elizabeth treated him so poorly that I was tempted to discipline her. However, she had never listened to me in the past and it was unlikely that she would listen to me during her grieving period. I opened my mouth to confront her in regards to the cocaine, but no words were emitted. I closed my mouth again.
“Hi, Paul. I thought you would like to know that it's going to cost you probably around ten grand. We're going to bed--”
“Elizabeth, can you please call me 'Dad' at least under my roof?”
“Whatever. We're going to bed,” she retorted. “Goodnight, Dad.”
She began to walk away, Andrew at her heels, when I asked, “H-how are you doing, honey?” It was my hope that she would come forward about her problem, but my efforts were to no avail.
She turned on her heel, raised her eyebrow, and said, “Sobriety isn't your forte, is it, Paul?” Andrew offered me a sympathetic expression before she grabbed his hand firmly and pulled him with her towards the guest bedroom as though he were her disobedient toddler in a department store.
***
My head ached when I awoke. I cringed as I pawed at my nightstand for a glass of water. I drank it greedily and pushed myself to stand up, rubbing my temples with one hand. Slowly sauntering towards the kitchen, I realized that it seemed extremely quiet for there to be other people in the apartment. The walls were thin and even the slightest movement was audible. I narrowed my eyes and though it was fuzzy, I was able to read the clock. It was noon.
My body craved coffee more than usual, thus I began brewing a pot. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a piece of paper. I picked it up and allowed my blurry vision to focus enough to read the note.
Paul,
We went out for breakfast and to send out invitations for the funeral. Enjoy your hangover.
-Beth
“When did she start calling herself Beth?” I asked myself aloud. I sighed and decided that it was nothing worth pondering.
I retrieved the newspaper, unsure whether or not I wanted to read the headline. Upon seeing it, I realized that it was something I would have preferred not to read. In large, bold print, the text read, “Suspect of Woman in Suburbia's Murder on the Run.” Unfortunately, after reading it, my curiosity peaked and I was unable to ignore it. I sat in my recliner, sipping a coffee with Irish cream, reading the article that I knew would scar my very psyche.
...The killer is believed to have murdered other women in the greater Newclasure area. A case on a woman in Moressee has been reopened due to the recent murder of Molly Linden. Agatha Likavek, age sixty-one, was thought to have committed suicide with a handgun, but police now suspect that these two murders are connected to thirty-eight-year-old Matthew Stanley. With a criminal history including distribution of marijuana and public intoxication, Matthew Stanley was seen twelve hours after the murder when he delivered a package for Molley Linden to her neighbor...
Irritation enveloped my being. Matthew Stanley, the friendly postal service worker, simply was not responsible for Molly's death. I had spoken to him on multiple occasions, and from my professional perspective, he was harmless. I was aware that he was a legal caregiver with marijuana and he was arrested briefly for dealing to a woman whose medical marijuana card had expired. My anger was my drive when I made a rash decision.
I was going to find Molly's killer.