Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “Oh, it’s okay—I understand he has to help out. Who had the accident?”

  “Dearie…Cliff had the accident; that’s what I’m calling about. His truck went over the ravine—out your road, actually. They just found him this afternoon, when a driver saw the tire marks—”

  I dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom. Dry heaves wracked my body. I couldn’t think what to do. I poured a deep bath and climbed in. Drowning had never occurred to me as an option, but it seemed an attractive way to go.

  Underwater, I instinctively held my breath and watched strands of long blonde hair float and tangle over my face. But it only took a couple of moments for my mind to clear. I jerked my head up and took a gasping breath.

  Paul had killed Pastor Cliff—I had no doubt he’d run him off the slick road. I imagined he’d probably made sure Cliff was dead somehow…maybe he bashed him in the head with a rock. Maybe he held his jacket over his head when Cliff was too weak or injured to struggle. How could anyone know what happened in a car wreck?

  Well, I knew. And I knew something else. Paul would pay with his life.

  ~*~

  I hand Miranda the picture, then decide to play the pregnancy card.

  “Paul, it’s been so lovely. I’m just feeling a little chilled and sick. Probably pregnancy stuff, but would you mind taking me back to The Haven? And do you have some kind of jacket I could borrow?”

  Paul scurries off to find a jacket, while Miranda fixes me with one of her intense stares. She knows I’m up to something. Thankfully, she says nothing and rolls her wheelchair toward the front door.

  Once Paul hands me the old jean jacket, I grab my stomach and rush into the bathroom. I stick my finger in my throat to generate several convincing gagging noises, then flush the toilet repeatedly. The jacket buttons up a little loosely, but I stick the two books underneath, holding them to me while gripping my stomach. Pretty stinking resourceful, Tess Spencer.

  Miranda’s already in the van by the time I get back. The thought of Paul lifting her down the steps and into the van makes me angrier than the thought of him leaving the job for me.

  A few coughing and sighing spells later, and we’re at The Haven. I thank Paul again and help Miranda into her chair, wheeling her toward the porch before Paul can walk around to say goodbye. I can’t handle watching him kiss her.

  We zoom past the Rec room, where the residents turn from the TV to watch us. I have a feeling they weren’t entranced with Dora the Explorer, anyway.

  Outside Miranda’s room, her neighbor Nettie stands in the middle of the hall, wearing nothing but a snap-up cotton robe. She’s clutching a worn baby doll. Nettie will probably be downgraded from this assisted living facility to an actual nursing home soon. I go over and squeeze her hand, though the smell of her unwashed body makes my stomach lurch. She looks at me with agitated, watery blue eyes and says, “Have you seen Laura? Where’s Laura?”

  I glance at Miranda, who ever-so-slightly shakes her head. Does that mean there isn’t a Laura? Or that I’m not supposed to play along and encourage Nettie?

  “No, honey, I haven’t seen her,” I finally say, patting her hand. If I were an old woman, looking for my baby or mother or whoever Nettie’s looking for, I’m sure I’d want someone to acknowledge that the person existed.

  Nettie nods and shuffles off. Miranda fumbles to turn the lock on her door with the one key on her keychain. “Poor Nettie, her mind was gone a long time ago. It’s a wonder they let her stay here this long…why doesn’t this thing ever work right? Wait a minute, was it already unlocked?”

  I pull Miranda back, then walk in ahead of her to survey the suite. After throwing a quick glance under the couch, I toss the jean jacket and books onto a cushion. Then I check under Miranda’s low four-poster bed. Everything looks okay, until I get to the kitchen.

  There sits another handwritten note. No envelope. I read it before passing it on to Miranda.

  Dear Miranda,

  I did warn you to stop seeing Paul Campbell. Now you’re even more involved. I’m afraid I’ll have to stop this.

  Because I am, and always will be, a FRIEND.

  This note seems more personal. A friend. Miranda’s talking to someone in the hallway. I peep out—it’s the Good Doctor. He must do rounds here twice a day. I wait until he’s gone, then I walk over to the Grande Dame, dreading my mission. She holds a hand up to me.

  “Just a second, dear. Thank goodness Doc Cole was around. He just brought me my new heart pills. I’ve been having the flutters since I saw Rose’s house again. Could you get me a little glass of water?”

  I nod, stuffing the note in my side pocket as I turn away from her. She shouldn’t read it now, in her state. Once I bring her water in a juice glass, she sips at it daintily and swallows her pill. I glance into the hallway, hoping to flag down a caregiver.

  I turn back to wheel Miranda to her bed, but she’s clutching her chest, gasping for breath. Her lips look stiff.

  “HELP!” I scream. Good God in heaven, if you’re there, help my best friend now!

  17

  ~*~

  Miranda came to visit me the day after Cliff’s death. She didn’t know I’d been seeing him, but she knew the accident happened near our house and wanted to talk about it. I did not.

  As she ate a piece of the gingerbread I’d never touched—the gingerbread that should’ve been for Cliff—she rocked Charlotte. The baby had the softest-looking cloud of dark hair I’d ever seen, a regular swirl of loose curls. Miranda offered to let me hold her.

  “No, I honestly don’t know how,” I said.

  “Of course you do! What’s the worst she can do? Cry? She does that all the time for me, and I’m her mother!”

  I let Miranda snuggle the powdery bundle into my cradling arms. Lake-blue eyes looked up and took a moment to focus on my face. Then Charlotte pursed her rosy little lips and blew a bubble at me.

  Something inside me stirred, something deep and maternal. Something that whispered my mother had loved me all along—every time she fixed my hair and got me ready for church. Every time she defended my willfulness to my father. Every time she had to tell me Father wouldn’t be home that night.

  Gratefulness for Miranda filled me. I knew what I had to do, but I would never forget her calm faith in me.

  ~*~

  The ambulance comes so quickly, I suspect it routinely circles The Haven, waiting for emergencies.

  I half-sit on the blue couch, unsure of what to do. They wouldn’t let me join Miranda in the ambulance, since Paul’s the one listed on her paperwork. I pull out my phone and dial Thomas.

  “Hey, hotness, looking for a good time?”

  I sure hope he’s in his own office.

  “It’s Miranda. I saw her…they took her to the hospital. Something’s wrong and I think someone may’ve poisoned her but the only person who could’ve done it was the Good Doctor and what if he comes back here?”

  “Whoa. Slow down. Miranda’s in the hospital? And some doctor is trying to kill people?”

  I explain things, slower and in more detail. While I talk, I hear a small clicking in the background. Finally, it dawns on me what it is.

  “Thomas, are you typing while I’m telling you all this!?”

  “Yes, but I have to—”

  I hang up. No way is he ignoring me when something this traumatic just happened. My best friend’s in the hospital. I can’t think what I need to do next.

  I pull the wrinkled note out of my pocket. Blast you, whoever you are. Guess what? I’m not even going to share your little warning with Miranda. Because I am going to hunt you down first.

  The jean jacket and Rose’s flower books lie scattered where I dropped them on the couch. I pick everything up and head for the door. I’ll wait for news of Miranda at home, where I can think. And where I don’t have to worry about the Good Doctor showing up.

  I leave my name and number with the young caregiver at the desk, promising Christmas goodies for all if th
ey call me immediately with any news. The girl, twenty at most, pops her bubble gum and shoves her blue-streaked hair behind her ears. “Well, you could ask that dude right there,” she says, pointing behind me.

  I sense him before I see him. The spicy scent, the intense gaze…the Good Doctor.

  As I turn, I have the impulse to knock him to the floor and punch him in that classically proportioned face. Instead, bluntness overtakes me.

  “Miranda’s in the hospital. You gave her those pills. I saw you.”

  The Good Doctor takes a step forward, clasping my shoulders. If his eyes weren’t so earnestly confused, I’d probably yell.

  “I have no idea what happened. I picked up her Digoxin refill from the medical closet here. The pharmacists send the refills directly to The Haven. Maybe someone tampered with it? Or they refilled it incorrectly? I’ll get the bottle and send it for testing. I want to know who did this, too, Tess.”

  My gut tells me he’s not lying. But I’m not ready to let him off the hook that easily. “Too late. They already took the bottle—to the police. I told them to.”

  “Good.” He looks genuinely relieved. But maybe he’s just thankful I’m not smacking him with a malpractice suit.

  I walk out the heavy oak doors without another word. I’m sick of talking with men today. Paul, Thomas, and Doctor Cole. Men get in my way. I’m going home to be alone with Rose’s flower books and a cup of hot, strong coffee.

  The short drive home turns out to be all the privacy I’m allotted. As I pull down the drive, Nikki Jo bolts out her front door to meet my SUV. I roll down my window, feeling all my weariness weighing on my eyelids.

  “Oh, good lands, darlin’! I heard about Miranda on the prayer chain! Weren’t you with her today? Is she all right?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting to hear. Some sort of heart problem, they thought.” I don’t want to talk about the Doctor or the pills.

  Nikki Jo wrings her hands so hard, one of her manicured tips might pop off. “Now listen, I put a steaming pot of chicken noodle soup on your stove, and a loaf of bread on your counter. You just go home and rest. Let me know when you hear anything about Miranda, okay?”

  A blonde angel of mercy, that’s what my mother-in-law is. How’d I get so lucky?

  I reach out and pat her arm. “I’ll call you first thing.”

  Inside, I slide onto the couch, staring at the gold-flecked ceiling tiles. This has gotten more serious than I thought. Am I making things worse? Asking the wrong people the right questions?

  I don’t know if I need a long bath or a hot meal. What can I do? I can’t help the Grande Dame. So I guess I’ll try to help myself.

  I pull on my favorite bomber jacket, sliding the Glock into one of the deep patch pockets and my phone in the other. On the porch, the air’s pregnant with rain. Thomas says I have extra-sensory rain radar.

  My favorite cliffs lie deep in our back woods. I hope Petey didn’t booby trap those, too. I can just imagine buckets of tar or water falling on some unwitting bear’s head. I’ll have to keep my eyes open.

  I love the tactile experience of walking in the woods. Its muted browns, grays, and greens comfort me. The moss and leaves give softly under my boots. Large, scattered rocks feel permanent and unshakable. The pull of the mountain is like gravity for my soul.

  My cliffs consist of rock overhangs with little hollows underneath. I sit on my favorite: a rectangular rock next to a tree with a long vine trailing from it. I fight the familiar and completely irrational temptation to jump and swing on the vine, Tarzan-style.

  I close my eyes, feet dangling over the edge. The pieces still don’t fit, and I can’t force them to. I don’t think the Good Doctor gave Miranda the wrong medicine—but if he didn’t, who did?

  And the more I know Paul, the more I think he might actually care for Miranda, in his own inept way.

  My Doctor Who ringtone sounds, and I yank my phone from my non-gun pocket.

  “It’s me.” Thomas sounds stricken. “I was listening to you. I just had to finish a document before I could leave early. I’m at the house; where are you?”

  He took off work early for me? I mouth thank you into the phone. But I won’t say it out loud, since I’m still a little ticked.

  “In the woods. But if you come out, watch for Petey’s traps. Oh, and I’ve got the Glock with me.”

  “Good girl. I’m on my way.”

  Sometimes, Thomas comes through for me. Today is one of those days. I pat my stomach. “You’ve got quite a daddy, little one.”

  18

  ~*~

  After Cliff died, I stopped talking to Paul. My hatred grew in tandem with my certainty that Paul had run the Pastor off the road.

  I broke down and asked Miranda to take me to Cliff's funeral. As I fingered the dark wood of his closed casket, I wished light should shoot from the seams, wrapping me in his warmth again.

  On the way home, Miranda asked me point-blank what I’d felt for Cliff. Since nothing mattered anymore, I didn’t lie.

  “He believed in me. I loved him for it,” I said.

  Her bluntness shocked me. “I knew you’d been seeing someone, only I didn’t think it was the Pastor.” She set her jaw, her back rail-straight against the seat. “Does Paul know?”

  “Why are you so upset? He’s not your husband.”

  “No, but if he were, I wouldn’t be running around on him.” She flexed her hands on the wheel.

  “Because Paul’s so wonderful? Why don’t you come and live with him for a while? And I hardly run anywhere, Miranda. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m not as blind as you think.” Miranda pulled up our driveway too fast, then slammed the brakes. “You watch yourself.” She turned her unwavering blue gaze on me, judging me.

  And with that, I stopped talking to Miranda, too.

  ~*~

  The call comes that night, after we’re in bed. I’m not sleeping, so I throw my slippers on and rush downstairs to grab the phone.

  It’s the negligibly Good Doctor. “She’s stable.”

  “Thank you.” I squint in the dark room, as if I could see the Doctor better that way.

  “Her prescription wasn’t filled as per my orders, as I suspected. The dosage was too high. Thankfully, she only took one pill and they got to her in time.”

  I slide to the floor, letting it sink in. Miranda will live.

  The rich voice sounds on the phone, which I still hold loosely at my ear. “Believe it or not, Tess, I care very deeply for Miranda. She’s always been a bold woman, and I admire that.”

  Bold? I don’t always see this side of Miranda, but the Doctor’s right. Maybe my friend knows more than she’s told me. Or maybe she doesn’t know what she knows.

  “Perhaps we should continue this conversation later,” he says. “I’m booked solid this week, but how about next week sometime?”

  I close my eyes. I’m in a bad place, hunting around for a killer with no backup. But my best friend is inextricably involved, and she can’t afford another accident.

  What if the Doctor is lying? What if I’m next on his list? Then again, what if he’s the best ally I’ve got?

  We’ll meet somewhere public. I wonder if the Doctor has seen Rosemary before?

  “How about the Bistro Americain, in Point Pleasant?” I ask.

  Once we agree on a time, I hang up and flick on the fluorescent light over the cabinet. I can’t sleep. Tomorrow’s my first obstetrician appointment. I put my hand on my stomach, wishing I had Superman X-ray vision and could see what’s inside. Why can’t I get more excited about this baby? What’s wrong with me?

  Thanksgiving is this week, too. Andrew will be in from college, no doubt towing along his latest girlfriend. We’ll have Spencer family-time galore. I wish I could have my family over, but it consists solely of my mom, and she’ll be eating her turkey in prison this year.

  I open the Deadly Blooms book, wondering how Rose got her hands on such a thing. Be
autiful, guileless-looking Rose. What would she want with this?

  No pages are marked, but there’s a coffee stain on the foxglove page and it’s pushed down, like it was referred to often. Maybe Rose just grew foxgloves and needed to know how to handle them. I skim down the page. Even the pollen from the plant can cause hives and allergic reactions. But the interesting thing is that foxglove leaves are used for Digoxin.

  Rose overdosed on Digoxin. Someone just mis-dosed Miranda on it.

  Coincidence? I think not. Digoxin’s our poisoner’s drug of choice.

  By the time I finally close the book, it’s almost two in the morning. I’ll be lucky if I wake early enough to say goodbye to Thomas. I pull my coral faux pashmina throw over my legs, registering that it’s too light for this weather. But I’m too tired to hunt down a different blanket.

  Warped dreams hound me. I’m Gretel, going into the witch’s cottage. Where’s Hansel? I can’t avoid the oven without him…

  Then I’m with Doctor Who, whisking off in the TARDIS. Stars and black holes zip by…until I realize my phone is ringing next to my head.

  I sit up, disoriented by the morning light. The cell rings on the coffee table behind me. I try not to drop it as I pick up.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey baby girl, you ready to go?” Nikki Jo is chipper as Pollyanna.

  Go? Oh, shoot! The appointment! I pull the phone back and look at the time. I have fifteen minutes.

  “Running late, Mom. I’ll drive up in a minute.”

  “Okay!”

  I throw on some dark straight-leg jeans and a flowing pink paisley top. My brown motorcycle boots and purple hobo bag complete the ensemble. I always admire women who are all put-together, from their earrings down to their shoes. I’m most definitely not one of them.

  Nikki Jo is, however. When I pick her up at her front porch, she’s wearing her cherry-red Chico’s sweater, along with her favorite gold necklace and earrings. Her tailored black pants and kitten heels seem to put the “trailer” in my “trailer park.” It’s a good thing I love her so much or I might have to despise her.