Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  I crawl from the bathroom to the doorway, yanking my purse down from the table near the door. Kleenexes, cough drops, and lip balms scatter around me. I dig until I find my cell phone and call Nikki Jo.

  “Hello?” She always acts like she doesn’t know who’s calling, even though she has Caller I.D.

  “I’m sick.” I barely manage the words before I lay my head on the floor and drift off.

  ~*~

  When I wake up, it’s dark and the curtains are drawn. For a second, I’m completely disoriented, until I realize I’m lying under my own blankets.

  “Nikki Jo?”

  Her blonde head pops in the doorframe, a halo of light behind it. She must have been sitting on the hard step right outside our bedroom door.

  “Yes! You okay, honey?”

  “What’s going on? Was I poisoned?”

  “Poisoned? Law, no! You’re running a fever to beat the band. And from the looks of that bathroom, you have a stomach bug.”

  Good grief, I forgot to flush the toilet?

  “Now I’m going to get you some ice-cold Coke and a couple Motrin to take down that fever.”

  “Tylenol, Mom. I can’t have Motrin.”

  “Good gracious, what was I thinking? Tylenol it is. Now you try and rest, and I’ll be right back. Thomas is on his way home now—his court case ran late.”

  I’m probably a bad wife because I don’t know which court case that is, nor do I care. I hope the Doctor gets this bug, too—serves that killer right…

  I wake with a start, ice cubes clinking next to me. Nikki Jo holds the cold glass to my lips and presses a couple of pills in my hand. “Just sip at it,” she says.

  The next time I open my eyes, the bathroom light is on. Thomas is curled up next to me, his arm draped over my head. He snores lightly, still wearing his suit and tie.

  “Thomas?” I scoot out from under his arm.

  “Mm.” He rolls toward me, then rouses and half-sits. “You okay?”

  “I think so. My stomach seems calmer. Did you know your mom’s an angel?”

  He laughs, smoothing my hair. “I think most angels don’t share her tendency to gossip, but whatever you say, lovely. Now why did Mom say you thought you’d been poisoned?”

  I grin, my dry lips cracking. “I ate lunch today with the Good—with Doctor Cole. I don’t know what to think of him.”

  Thomas sits up straighter. “Tell me you’re not still looking into Rose Campbell’s death? I thought you’d given that up.”

  Given up? My husband doesn’t know me as well as I thought.

  Thomas is on a roll. “Why on earth does Miranda mean more to you than your own safety? Seems like weird things happen the more you get involved with that old lady.”

  That old lady? Time to lay it on the line for my clueless one.

  “Miranda Michaels is more than some old lady, Thomas. She’s my best friend. And I’ll tell you why. She took care of me when I didn’t care if I lived or died. A couple years before you met me, I was ready to do myself in, just like Rose did. Well, maybe not that way. I was going to torch the trailer and jump off a bridge.”

  Heat flames into my face. “Anyway, Miranda stopped me. Back when she could walk, she would go on these do-gooder expeditions with her church. One day, she came to my mom’s jail, where I was bawling my eyes out in the white plastic chair.”

  Thomas positions himself behind my back, rubbing my head. I’ve never told him much about my mom, much less Miranda.

  “I’ll never forget it—Miranda asked me, ‘Now, what would make a young girl like you cry like she’s got the whole world on her shoulders?’ She hugged me, and something in me broke. I told her everything—even how I wanted to kill myself. From that day on, she let me camp in her spare room every time Mom went to jail.”

  I turn. Thomas’ brown eyes glisten, but he says, “Go on.”

  “So you see why I have to help her? She’s marrying Rose’s husband on New Year’s Day. If he’s a killer, I have to stop the marriage. It’s my turn to repay the debt I owe her.”

  I tug at his tie, hoping he’ll get into PJs or something more comfy. I probably look like a wreck, with my sweaty hair plastered to my head and my feverish face. Yet he’s looking at me like I’m a goddess.

  “Thanks for opening up, Tess. I never—I just didn’t know. I mean, I knew about your mom, but not about you…”

  I lean in, ready to stop his unusually awkward speech with a kiss, but stop short as I remember I’m contagious. Instead, I put my finger on his lips.

  “I’d better get a shower. Thanks for listening, honey.” As I pull clean clothes from the dresser, a strange new happiness electrifies the dark corners of my heart. I told Thomas the gritty truth, and he still loves me. Holding my pajama pants tightly against my little baby bump, I know I’ll never be suicidal again.

  28

  ~*~

  When I sent my Christmas cards out, I wrote something extra on Miranda’s envelope: “Come see me.”

  And she did. She brought Charlotte, all dolled up in a red elf outfit. This time, she didn’t have to ask me to hold the baby—I volunteered. I breathed in her clean baby smell, willing myself to say what I had to say.

  I had shared so much with Bartholomew. But Miranda needed to know the truth about Cliff. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “You’ve always been my best friend. I know you thought I was having an affair with Cliff. I want to tell you that I wasn’t. He was counseling me.”

  Miranda’s dark bangs fringed her wide blue eyes. “Okay.”

  Nothing more. No, “Why were you getting counseling?”

  She took the squirming Charlotte and started bouncing her on her knee. Was this real friendship? Leaving things unsaid? Hiding things? I wanted a true friend more than anything, and Miranda was my last shot at one.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  Miranda nodded calmly. “I know.”

  “It’s Bartholomew Cole’s baby.”

  A half-smile played about Miranda’s Clara Bow lips. “I’m not surprised, after the way you two flirted at your dinner parties.”

  Anger washes over me. “You knew all this time? Why didn’t you tell me? Why weren’t you there for me?”

  “You didn’t want me to be, honey. You shut me out long before Cliff came along. I never understood why.”

  I felt ashamed. Miranda’s sharp eye caught my flirting with Bartholomew, but had completely missed the fire in Paul’s eyes every time she came to visit. She was oblivious to her own pull on my husband.

  Not only was she a true friend, she was the most humble person I’d ever met.

  I knew she would guard my secret.

  ~*~

  Weak morning sunlight and the overpowering smell of nail polish wake me around eight. I pull out my bathroom drawers to see if Thomas knocked over a bottle before he left.

  Light boot-steps sound on the stairs, leaving me little doubt as to the source of the smell.

  Nikki Jo opens the door. Her fuchsia blouse and broad smile seem to radiate sunshine. “How are you? I’ve brought you a pot of peppermint tea. Hardly drink it myself, but I’ve heard it does wonders for upset stomachs.”

  “Thanks so much, Mom. I’m feeling better today.”

  “That’s what Thomas said on his way out. Good to see more color in your cheeks. I’ll make you some toast.”

  “Actually, I’m just going to lounge around today. Feel free to go on up to the house—I’ll be okay on my own. I need to call Miranda.”

  “Oh, okay, honey.” She blows on her burgundy fingertips. “I’ll send Petey down when he gets in from school, just to check on you.”

  This translates into: “I’ll send a meal down with Petey.”

  I wave at her, trying not to spread my germs around. “Thank you…and thanks for being there last night.”

  Nikki Jo walks gingerly down the steps, holding her wet nails out at arm’s length. I go back and scrounge around until I find an outfit that makes me feel somewha
t French and classy—a navy sailor-striped tunic and straight-leg white jeans. I comb my hair out, then fluff and spray it. Finally, I add a dash of lipstick and a couple swipes of blush. I might feel like I got hit by a truck, but that doesn’t mean I have to look like it.

  Downstairs, I dump liberal teaspoons of sugar into the peppermint tea and take a swig. Wow, this stuff might wake me up more than coffee. I’ve just finished buttering a toast when there’s a knock on the door.

  Who would knock on my door?

  I grab one of my biggest kitchen knives and hold it behind my back. When I open the door, it slips from my hand and nearly stabs my ankle.

  Nothing says Get Well Soon like an oversized German florist standing on your porch, gripping a large bouquet of black roses.

  Axel shifts on his feet, looking sheepish. “Another delivery. Do not worry. I checked the card—Arizona.”

  I don’t know if I want to take the flowers. Axel seems undecided about whether he wants to hand them over.

  “Black roses,” I say.

  “Not so gut,” he replies.

  I don’t have to look it up in The True Meaning of Flowers. The message is all too clear. Someone wants me dead. I touch an open petal—silk. “They look so real.”

  “I am good at this work.” Axel smiles, his long, nearly white bangs falling over one eye. His lips are surprisingly full. I think Axel could’ve had any number of girlfriends in college, if he’d just been more personable.

  I take a great, sucking breath of fresh air. Smells like rained-on gravel…and some sort of powerful pheromone.

  “What do I do?” The words slip out before I think about how vulnerable they make me look. Well, who cares? I am vulnerable! For the love of goodness, I’m a pregnant woman, and some maniac just sent me death flowers.

  Axel pulls the bouquet back. “Nein, you do not keep them.” He steps closer, his eyes wandering down my body as if he can imagine his hands on it. “You want for me to locate this person?”

  What Axel’s tone says is this: “I will cut this person into little pieces if I find them. What do you think?”

  I have to stop him, sweetly protective though he may be. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thanks for bringing these—uh, for taking them away. It’ll work out.”

  His cheekbones look like they’re made of steel. If I punched his face, I’ll bet he wouldn’t even feel it.

  “You call me for help,” he says. It only takes about three of his giant strides to propel him from the porch to his van.

  Nikki Jo calls the minute I step into the house, which means she’s been watching out her window. I pray she doesn’t breathe a word of this to Thomas.

  I wouldn’t deliberately lie to Nikki Jo, but if I tell her I’m getting black roses from an anonymous weirdo, she wouldn’t want me staying alone in the cottage. In fact, she’d probably move me up to the big house, better known as the armory when anything dangerous comes along.

  I tell Mom the flowers were a mistaken delivery—not far from the truth, since she probably noticed Axel took them back to the van.

  Besides, the mystery person did just make a mistake. When you push me one direction, I’m quite likely to go the other. I’m going to dig deeper and push harder until I figure out what really happened to Rose. No scaredy-cat stalker, hiding behind a black silk bouquet, is going to stop me now.

  29

  ~*~

  Revenge was the best slave-driver. It promised everything and required next to nothing on my part—just hatred. And I hated my husband.

  Who else did I hate? Possibly I hated Bartholomew, for asking me to do the unthinkable. But I loved him, too, for his willingness to protect me at all cost. If I was truthful, I hated my father for never being there to hug or encourage me.

  Still, I was alone in my hatred. There were days I wanted to call Bartholomew so I could lie in his arms and wrap myself in his comforting presence. But my comforter was something of a threat, so I couldn’t call him. I wanted to share more with Miranda, but she knew all she needed to know. My mother stayed around, but I knew better than to speak to her aloud anymore. She seemed to almost read my thoughts.

  So I poured all my venom into my journal, knowing it would tell the tales I could not.

  ~*~

  I wait a couple of days before I go visit Miranda—I don’t want her to catch my stomach bug on top of her heart problems. In the meantime, she’s called me twice—once to ask about flowers for her wedding, and once to ask if I’d like to be her wedding coordinator.

  Um, that would be a resounding No.

  Unfortunately, I can’t extricate myself from my debt to the Grande Dame. The woman is a saint, and I’m not going to begrudge her the happiness of remarrying in her later years. So I didn’t say no to her directly. I just fell back on my typical run-myself-down routine: I’m not crafty; I’m not good at decorating; I haven’t attended a wedding since my own. Thankfully, Miranda bought it. She’s supposed to be asking around at The Haven for any leads on reputable wedding planners. Charming juxtaposition—asking around an assisted living home for marriage tips.

  The day I finally get over to visit, the beautician is hard at work on Miranda’s still-thick hair. Miranda waves me to the couch, and we chitchat while the frizzy-haired woman rolls each section on hot rollers. I wonder if I’ll get my hair fixed when I’m nearly seventy, or if I’ll just let it go au naturel.

  “I’d play you a game of chess, but I’m afraid it’d be discouraging for you.” Miranda’s in fine form today. “You keeping your food down now?”

  “Yes, sure am. I’m able to eat more every day. And how are you feeling? Having any weak spells?”

  “A couple here and there. Last time I had one, Paul was over. He gave me the nitro pill right away, and it seemed to work.”

  She says it like I’m supposed to stand up and clap. Hopefully it’s not obvious I still don’t approve of Mr. Paul Campbell. In the lull that follows, I finally speak. “Fast thinking on his part.”

  She smiles. “I thought so. He’s already ordered his tuxedo. Can you imagine—a tux at his age! It seems very romantic.”

  Romantic was not the word that sprang to mind.

  “Oh, and Tess, I got the invitations in the mail today! Go over and look in that box on my bed.”

  Feigning enthusiasm, I walk into her bedroom. Sure enough, they’re very proper wedding invites—all white, with scrolling dark green cursive letters. Green ivy forms a border around each card.

  I read over them, feeling a bit nauseated. Welcoming the New Year as Husband and Wife—Paul Campbell and Miranda Michaels. Isn’t the wife’s name supposed to be first? I know she’s waiting to hear my reaction.

  “Classy-looking!” I shout.

  Miranda shouts back. “Could you address a few of those cards for me? The guest list’s sitting right next to the box. My handwriting’s so shaky now.”

  “I might could.” I pick up her rough-scrawled list of names and addresses—probably twenty, tops. “I’ll just address all of them, Miranda.”

  “Oh, honey, I hate to have you do all that.” She rolls herself into the room, hair perfectly coiffed—a true Southern Belle. She pats at her hair. “That NonaBeth never sprays my hair enough. This thing’ll go flat by afternoon.”

  I peek out the door. “We alone?”

  She nods. “What’s on your mind?”

  I’ve spent two long nights wondering if I should be straightforward with Miranda about her second anonymous note, not to mention my cryptic bouquet. I still don’t know. I won’t be responsible for giving her more heart palpitations.

  “Can we talk about Rose? I met with the Doctor—you know, Doctor Cole.”

  I wait, hoping the Grande Dame will delicately fill in the blanks. She doesn’t. I try a different tack.

  “I took your photo album when you were sick—trying to figure out who would hurt you. I saw the pictures of Rose and I noticed something. Turns out, she was pregnant. Did you know?”

  Miranda sigh
s. “I swore I’d never tell anyone. But she’s been dead all these years now. Yes, she was pregnant. I couldn’t believe she wasn’t more excited about it, but it was like something was hanging over her head.”

  I don’t want to be the one to tell Miranda about the abortion. Smoothing her luxurious, dark red velour bedspread, I wait and hope she’ll continue.

  “She had me over one day and told me it was Bartholomew’s baby—wanted to clear Cliff’s name. That was only about a month before she died. So I always figured the baby died right along with her.”

  I can’t hide the truth from Miranda. “That’s what I was asking the Doctor about: if she was pregnant when she died. He said she wasn’t.”

  It only takes a second for Miranda to read between the lines. Wheeling herself to her night-table, she takes a tissue to dab at the corners of her eyes. Then she discretely blows her nose. “Was it a miscarriage, or did she get rid of the baby?”

  Not the most politically correct way of phrasing things, but sadly true. “Yes, she got rid of it.” I sit in a nearby wing chair and start addressing and stuffing envelopes. I can’t handle Miranda’s tears.

  My mind whirs. Maybe Rose made that will before she got the abortion? Or is the Doctor lying, and she was pregnant when she died? That points to murder, since I doubt a pregnant woman would kill herself.

  Miranda absently twists at her tissue. “Such an ugly end for that poor child. There’s so much I don’t understand…I can’t explain.” Her voice trails off, then gathers strength. “Tess, you think someone deliberately changed my pills?”

  “Honestly, I do. I don’t know why yet, but I don’t think it was an accident.”

  “But I only got the one note. I thought that was it, just a warning.”

  She leaves the door wide open for me to fill in the blanks. “There was another note, that same day you had the overdose. I found it on your counter.”

  She wheels closer, the spicy, vanilla scent of her perfume wrapping her much like the Black Cashmere it’s supposed to represent. She leans toward me and takes my hand. “Look here, I don’t want you worrying over me, Tess Spencer. Whatever that note said, don’t let’s think about it.” It’s just like her to be comforting me over her own threatening letter.