Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  Petey gives me the lowdown. “Kelsey has a tattoo on her neck. And a tongue ring. Mom said, ‘Hope she’ll wear a turtleneck and keep her mouth shut in church on Sunday!’”

  I laugh. I’m sure Nikki Jo didn’t want that comment spread around. The Baptist church here tends to look down on jeans, long hair, and body art. Andrew and his girlfriend will probably knock it out of the ballpark in terms of looking like total heathen.

  Petey looks pensive. “Still, she seems nice. I showed her all my traps—at least, where they used to be. And she plays Xbox.”

  I frown. “Hey, I play Xbox too, little bro.”

  “I know you try to. But you don’t get out there and shoot people! You just—”

  I flick my dish towel, shooing him out of the house. “Hey, no hating on my game-playing skills.”

  Petey and I have been known to while away an entire afternoon on one of his shooter video games. I’ll hide somewhere on the game-board, waiting for him to come to me. He’ll taunt me to come out in the open. Usually, once the clock ticks down far enough, he gets desperate to rake up some kills and I pick him off with my sniper rifle.

  “Stalker!” He grins, walking backward up our pathway.

  “Good-night, you foolhardy young ‘un! Good things come to those who wait!”

  “Or they just get old!” He shouts this parting insult.

  God knew what He was doing when He put me in the Spencer family. I turn our creaky doorknob, filled with affectionate warmth for my in-laws. The day I said yes to Thomas was the day God restored my hopes of having a normal family.

  In a routine that’s getting way too familiar, Thomas doesn’t call to let me know when he’ll be home. I give in to my cravings for the luscious-smelling sub and dig in. At 9:20, when Thomas finally opens the door, I’ve also gone through a bag of popcorn and a Fudge Round, and I’m on my third episode of Star Trek. Doesn’t anyone notice some of those outfits are totally impractical for exploring the universe?

  Thomas heads straight for the fridge, rummaging around even though he’s still wearing his dress shirt. Not a good sign. I really want to hear about Rose’s will.

  “Meatball sub’s on the stove. There’s some pasta salad in the fridge.” I turn the volume up on the TV again. It’ll take him a while to decompress. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Nikki Jo, it’s the importance of man-cave and chow time before I start peppering Thomas with questions.

  But he volunteers information while he’s heating his sub. “About Rose’s will. You’re never going to believe it.”

  I jump up, dropping some errant popcorn kernels. “Wait, wait!” I run into the kitchen.

  He takes the sub out of the microwave, bows his head for a quick prayer, then takes a bite. Being of the gentry class, he fully chews it before speaking. Amazing. I hold my stomach, as if the baby might drop out with any shocking news.

  “Okay.” He wipes his lips with a paper towel. Really?

  “Just talk already.”

  He winks. “Patience, my dear. Rose did indeed leave everything to Miranda. However, there was a stipulation clause. If Rose had a child, the money would be left untouched until the child’s twentieth birthday. Strange, huh?”

  “Yeah, especially since Rose didn’t have children. Why would she put that in there? Did you ask Royston?”

  “No way, Tess. I was totally covert about this research. Under the radar, if you will. Black Ops.” He grins conspiratorially and takes another bite.

  I smile. Thomas and Petey have both thrown themselves into helping me out with this case. Case? What am I, Nancy Drew? Ah, well, it’s nice to have some masculine backup. Even Nancy had her Ned.

  Thomas spreads his fingers over my stomach. “Any movement yet?”

  “I think not. But I do feel like this babe is taking up more space.”

  We’ve barely talked about my first doctor’s appointment. I feel silly admitting I cried when I heard the heartbeat. Maybe next time I’ll drag Thomas along and see how he reacts.

  Rain starts pattering on our metal roof, putting me in a snuggly mood. I set out my éclairs and crème puffs for tomorrow’s grand feast. Then I whip up some decaf in the French press and hang out with my very best friend until midnight, when we finally trudge upstairs for bed.

  Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve been having the most intense dreams. But my dream tonight takes the cake. Rose stands in her garden, long red-blonde hair blowing in the wind, looking completely ethereal. She’s pregnant—hugely pregnant. She bends to touch a flower with purple bells, one I know instinctively to be foxglove. I scream at her, waking myself up.

  Thomas snorts, then reaches over and absently puts his hand on my head. I lie awake, eyes wide open in the blackness. I feel like Rose is watching me, moving me to help.

  What can I do? I close my eyes and relive the dream. Someone else was there, someone I could barely see, peeking from behind the arbor. The dark hair, the red lipstick…Miranda. Is she holding out on me?

  22

  ~*~

  I celebrated Thanksgiving alone. Paul had to haul coal down in Mercer County. Miranda had made it clear I wasn’t good enough for her. Bartholomew had flown to Arizona to visit his sister.

  My turkey sandwich on rye seemed a poor substitute for a feast. Still, I used the time to make notes on the red book I’d kept from the library for about half a year. It probably showed up on Miranda’s account as a missing book. To her credit, she’d never mentioned it. Maybe she paid all the fines herself.

  I turned to one of my dog-eared pages. Belladonna. Italian for “beautiful lady.” Better known around here as “devil’s berries.” How odd that the most poisonous plants also had some of the strongest benefits. They used it in the 1900s to put women into a “twilight sleep” during childbirth. And yet eating just a few berries could be toxic.

  The phone jangled my senses. I felt as if my nerve endings were scraped raw. “Yes?”

  “Rose. It’s Claire Hogan.”

  Cliff’s mother. Why was she calling me again?

  “I…I don’t know how to talk about this on the phone. Would you mind if I came to visit sometime? I know you don’t get out much, dear. I’ll bring those hot cross buns you used to love as a child.”

  I closed my eyes and almost smelled the yeasty, glazed goodness of Mrs. Hogan’s raisin-filled rolls.

  “Please do. How about tomorrow?”

  ~*~

  Since I stayed up half the night dreaming and worrying, Thomas offers to pick up the Grande Dame for the Thanksgiving meal. I finally acquiesce, determined to take a shower, curl my hair, and put on my favorite clothes. Why shouldn’t I enjoy family time with the only family I have?

  Once I’m all fancied up, I scrounge around the kitchen for something to put my pastries on. Shoot. The only fancy tray I have is a silver-leaf number that might have been purchased at the Dollar Tree. It’s entirely possible that Nikki Jo will re-plate the éclairs and crème puffs if she deems the tray subpar. I should probably take offense at this, but I really don’t. Anyone who owns enough china and crystal to fill four china cabinets should get first dibs on her table accessories.

  Halfway up the path, dessert tray in hand, I find myself wishing I’d donned a coat. My brick-red turtleneck covers me thoroughly, but it’s not thick enough. Thor runs down the path to meet me—all the more reason to keep moving. I don’t want this tray to go flying, any more than I want his black hair rubbed all over my pale chinos.

  I almost lose my footing on the porch steps when the little dog starts circling my heels. “Get out of the way, you crazy runt!” Holding the tray aloft, I use my elbow to ring the doorbell.

  Roger opens it immediately, as if he’s been told to keep post by the door. He’s wearing a royal blue pullover and a muted-check oxford shirt. There’s not a wrinkle in his clothing, unlike mine.

  The smell of homemade yeast rolls fills the house, along with the heavier smell of brined turkey.

  A huge smile spreads across his
face. “Been waiting for you! Thomas said he’s on his way with Miranda. I’ll take those. Let’s head to the kitchen.”

  Roger’s gentlemanly manners have always impressed me. He’d never let a woman who was carrying anything walk by him without asking to carry it for her.

  Petey slides halfway down the stair railing, until Roger’s death glare stops him short. He hops off and runs the rest of the way down. Unlike his father, his plaid shirt is crinkled, like he pulled it off the closet floor.

  “Tess! Andrew and Kelsey are playing chess in the living room. I told Andrew you could kick his hiney. I don’t think either one of them knows what they’re doing. They’ve been in there for an hour.”

  I wonder if the door’s been shut while they were in there? Suspicious mind, Tess. Knock it off.

  “I’ve got to help your mom with the food first. I’ll play him later if you want.”

  Roger marches us through the dining room. Nikki Jo has set the table with her favorite Spode china. The plates have peacocks in the middle, with swirling blues, oranges, and golds around the rims. Classy but loud. In your face but pretty. Much like my mother-in-law.

  Nikki Jo turns as we come in, a hand-mixer dangling over the mashed potatoes. From her taupe-pink lipstick to her kitten heels, she’s the picture of the hostess who inspires jealousy in many. But I know this perfect woman. She’s willing to dig around in dusty bookshelves for me. She’s ready to take on the fiercest OB receptionist to make sure our baby gets proper care.

  I walk over and give her a hug, unexpected tears welling in my eyes.

  She looks at me closer. “You feeling okay, honey? Everything good with the baby?”

  “Everything’s just right, Mom. What you need me to do?”

  By the time everything’s on the table, from the rice pilaf to the green bean casserole, Thomas opens the door and rolls Miranda in. I run over and cling to her neck like she’s going to vanish right in front of me.

  “Oh my word. I thought…I saw you—”

  She puts a finger to my lips. “Hush up. I’m here now, thank the Good Lord above. Now, where’s that delicious food I’m smelling?”

  After joining hands for prayer, we arrange ourselves at the table, according to the gold-edged place cards Nikki Jo set out. I’m on one side of Mom, with Andrew’s girlfriend directly opposite me. Nikki Jo probably wants to keep an eye on her.

  Thomas and Andrew, their back-slapping hellos out of the way, sit across from each other, still talking at top volume across the table. It’s quite possible they’re trying to one-up each other.

  Andrew, charming in a navy striped sweater, grins at his big brother. “I’m getting an internship next year with Glaxo. Clinical trials; all that.” Andrew’s gearing up to be a doctor. We all wonder if he’s realized how many years of school that entails.

  Thomas, equally charming in his gray turtleneck, fires back. “I just closed a deal for the Kanawha County Public Library.”

  Ooh, really—Charleston, West Virginia? That’s all you got, Thomas? Andrew doesn’t have to speak; the thoughts are written all over his face.

  I smile at Kelsey, thrilled I’ve remembered her name. “So, Kelsey, what are you studying in college?”

  She looks at me, apparently shocked a married woman is speaking to her. “Art History.”

  Wonders never cease. One of my favorite electives in college. “So, who’s your favorite artist?”

  She leans in toward me. “I’m crazy about Klee, but Andrew hates him.”

  “I’m okay with Klee. I like Redon and El Greco better. But my favorite would have to be Chirico.”

  “Oh, I know—the shadows! So mysterious. Reminds me of that Hopper—have you seen it? The one of the house by the railroad? You know they based The Addams Family house on that one?”

  We’re still passing foods around the table, but my plate’s already overflowing and so is my side dish. I smile at Nikki Jo as I hand her the butter, and she winks.

  “Sounds like you gals have lots in common. Glad to see that. Tess is like the daughter I never had.”

  No pressure there.

  Miranda chimes in from her place next to Thomas. “She’s the most determined, protective little lady I’ve ever met.” She elbows Thomas. “You’re one lucky fella.”

  I pick up my fork, playing with my fruit salad. My cheeks flame.

  Andrew notices. “Thomas, you don’t compliment your woman enough. Here she is, as gorgeous as a Victoria’s—um, as a model, and Mom tells me you’re working all the time.”

  Thomas’ smile fades. I turn to Nikki Jo, blocking out my husband’s response.

  “The turkey’s perfect—melts in my mouth! I don’t know how you get it that way.”

  We literally talk turkey for a while. Nikki Jo shares that for some mysterious reason, in 2007, Marie O’Dell drenched the church Thanksgiving turkey in lemon juice. “Honey, ain’t no one wants lemonade turkey, I can tell you that.”

  By the time the conversation moves around to Miranda, I’ve sampled about ten different dishes. I force myself to stop eating so I’ll have room for dessert.

  “How you feelin’ these days, sweet gal?” Nikki Jo shouts down to Miranda.

  Miranda dabs her lips with the linen napkin, losing some of her lipstick. “Pretty much back to normal. Switch-up with the pills, they said. Happens all the time, I guess.”

  “Well, that’s scary to know,” Roger says.

  “Doc Cole’s stopped by every single day to check on me, bless him.”

  “Bartholomew’s always been thoughtful,” Nikki Jo says. “My momma said he handled everything when Rose Campbell died. Wasn’t Paul in shock or something?”

  Miranda lightly clears her throat. “Sure was. Grieved something awful for at least a couple years.” She talks like he’s a saint. I suppose she’s still bowled over by the skinny widower’s intentions to marry her. I really want to like him, but something keeps holding me back.

  Nikki Jo and I clear the table. Kelsey sits planted in her seat. She probably doesn’t feel comfortable enough to hang with us in the kitchen yet. Either that or she’s just lazy.

  We take orders for cheesecake flavors and serve it up. I make sure to cut myself a generous piece of my favorite, caramel praline. I brew up some Earl Grey for Miranda, knowing she’s tired and probably ready to go home.

  She rolls into the kitchen, offering to help. I’m surprised when Nikki Jo hands her a dish towel and some silverware to dry. Then I realize it’s the mountain way—at least it used to be. Mountain people didn’t wait around for hand-outs. They took pride in doing things for themselves.

  I ponder those earlier days. Rose grew up same as me, in the mountains. Did she go running in the woods to get away from her life, like I did? Did she learn to shield herself from unhappiness? Or did she have an idyllic childhood in a big house?

  Nikki Jo lounges against the counter, blowing on her black coffee before taking little sips. “I hear the Methodist church is doing a joint service with that little independent church—you know, Miranda, the one Cliff Hogan pastored way back when? You and Rose both knew him, didn’t you? I swan if I didn’t think he was the handsomest thing I’d ever seen, with that fiery hair.”

  Miranda looks up from drying a bowl, a sad look on her face. “Yes, she—we—knew him.”

  That look and those words confirm my dream. Miranda hasn’t told me everything. And for her own sake, she needs to spill it all. Who knows what that anonymous note-sender will do next?

  23

  ~*~

  When Cliff’s mother came the next day, I seated her in the same chair her son had used, all those times he’d tried to help me. We both had a couple hot cross buns, which were as mouth-watering as I’d remembered.

  What I hadn’t remembered from her childhood visits with my mother was her strong personality. Claire Hogan didn’t mince words.

  “It didn’t take much sifting through Cliff’s things to realize he’d been coming to visit you quite frequently.
And then I saw you at the funeral—standing there bawling your eyes out, worse than his own sister.”

  Claire set her coffee cup on the rickety fern table next to her and leaned forward. As she dropped her voice to a whisper, her broguish accent took over. “Ye know, Rose, I’ve helped me mother for years with birthin’ babies. I can tell right off if a girlie is carrying a wee babe, and dearie, ye are.”

  Her clear green eyes, so earnest, and so like her son’s, spurred an unwanted torrent of sobs. She took this as a confirmation of her diagnosis.

  “We’ll get through this together. I know Cliff was always attracted to ye, just like every other man in town. Your husband need never know.”

  My plans started crumbling when she said that. But my mind rushed to construct a new plan, one which could include both Bartholomew and Claire Hogan. Maybe my mother had sent me an earthly angel to save me from my marriage.

  ~*~

  Now’s not the time or place to cross-question the Grande Dame, who’s looking exhausted. I make one more round through the dining room, offering refills with the fresh coffee. Thomas grabs me around the waist and pulls me to his lap, whispering in my ear.

  “Come sit with me. I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”

  Andrew shouts, “Hey, bro, keep it kosher!”

  Petey comes to our rescue. “Aw, man, lay off.”

  Andrew reaches over and rubs Petey’s red hair until it’s in total disarray. “What’s wrong, little bro? Looking out for your girl?”

  “Aw, shut it!”

  Thomas doesn’t budge, keeping me firmly planted in his lap. “Get him, Petey! He’s too big for his britches!”

  In the boyish ruckus that ensues, Kelsey shoots me several desperate glances. I decide to rescue her.

  “Want to play chess? I heard you like to play.”

  “Sure, love to.” As she says love, I notice the tongue ring for the first time.