Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  I focus on her hands. Alabaster white, veins slightly pronounced, and covered with age spots. Tears fill my eyes. Whether there’s a killer after us, or whether it’s just that ever-crouching Death, I want to hold it back for my valiant friend. I wish she could go back to that vivacious, mobile woman she used to be.

  Miranda sighs. “I need to think on this. Something’s not right here.”

  I look at my pensive friend’s face. Miranda knew Rose, Paul, Cliff, and the Doctor better than anyone else. Miranda’s at the crux of everything: the notes, the overdose, and indirectly, my flowers. Someone’s figured out I’m helping her. Someone is gunning for her.

  So the question is not Was Rose murdered, but What does Miranda know?

  30

  ~*~

  My mother’s ghost whispered to me in my dreams. “Poison.”

  Every day that long December, I read my book and hid it under my mattress. I set about to prepare just the right dosage for Paul. There could be no mistakes. I wanted to ask Bartholomew for help, but he couldn’t be suspected of anything. That’s why I wanted to use my own flowers.

  Then one morning, Paul brought me coffee in bed. There was strange taste to it, like the half and half had gone bad.

  I sipped at the drink, then yelled for him. It took him scarcely a minute to get in my room, like he was waiting outside my door.

  “Didn’t we just buy this cream?” I set the mug on the bedside table.

  “Yes, just bought it yesterday.”

  “It must be rancid; tastes so bitter.”

  “What?” He grabbed the mug and took a tiny sip. “Tastes fine to me, Rosey.” He stalked back to the door, glancing at me. “You getting up today? I was thinking about taking a walk down by the creek.”

  “Not today.”

  The same minute he pulled the door to with a slight slam, a voice drifted over to me. “Poison.” And then other voices joined it, first singing, then shouting the word, “Poison.”

  A chorus of angels? A rabble of demons? Or just my own mind?

  Didn’t matter. I pulled out my red book.

  ~*~

  I finish addressing Miranda’s cards, then play chess and hang out with her until five-thirty. Suppertime at The Haven is at five forty-five sharp.

  It’s already getting dark as I swing by McDonald’s for a coffee with cream and sugar on the way home. Might not be a grande cinnamon-vanilla swirl from Kelly’s, but I have no desire to go all the way into Point Pleasant for a fancy cup o’joe. Our poor baby is going to come out of the womb fully caffeinated, but I just can’t give up coffee yet.

  Christmas music plays on practically every station, and I’m glad for it. I need to get in a Christmassy mood. Nikki Jo will probably have her house decorated this week. Every year, she chooses an ornament theme for her fake white Christmas tree. So far, I’ve witnessed two: the dove theme, in which an unnatural number of red-eyed, pigeon-type birds were jammed into every possible cranny, and the Little Drummer Boy theme, in which the song played on an endless loop while tippy glass drums threatened to break each time you walked past.

  At home, I putter around the house, looking for the few Christmas decorations we own. Generic red stockings, check. White lights and garland for the tree, check. Ornaments? No idea where those are.

  I venture into the stationary bike closet-room, hot on the chase for my missing ornaments. In truth, we might have a total of about twenty ornaments, five of which say Our First Christmas.

  The dark room smells musty, and we don’t even have a basement. Who knows how long this umber-colored paneling has been on the walls. I should paint it white, or better yet, have Thomas take it down. Not that he has any time to play handyman.

  I flip the light then peer out the window, just to be certain. No one out there.

  Rummaging through the boxes piled in the corner, I hear footsteps in the living room.

  “In here, Thomas!”

  No reply. In a split-second, my heart leaps to my throat. I hit the light and crouch in the darkness, feeling for sharp objects I can use as weapons. I try to replay self-defense strategies from college. There’s dead silence in the house now.

  Then I hear it—loud and clear, coming from my purse—my Doctor Who ringtone. Oh my word. Oh my word.

  Will the trespasser pick it up? Would they even dare?

  Once the phone gets quiet, I peek into kitchen—the only room that’s lit. I’ll wait three more minutes, then I’ll run into the kitchen, grab a huge knife, and scream like a maniac.

  The front door opens. Once I get out in the open, I wonder if that crane move from Karate Kid I could actually save me. The element of surprise…

  “Tess!? You in here?” Thomas’ rich voice fills the empty spaces in the house.

  I nearly fall over. “Yes! Here! Oh my lands, where were you?”

  He rushes into the closet-room. “I was at work, of course. Why are you hiding in the dark?”

  “Someone was in the house! I—”

  He stops me, whispering. “In the house?”

  I nod.

  He pulls his ever-present Sig Sauer from his belt holster and starts combing the rooms. I have to snicker, since he looks all serious, like a cop on Law and Order.

  Doctor Who calls, again. This time I sneak out into the kitchen and grab my purse.

  I pick up without checking the caller. My voice comes out as a half-whisper. “Hello?”

  “Tess? Bartholomew. Are you sitting down?”

  Not Miranda, please, not Miranda. I sit on the kitchen chair. “Yes.”

  “A masked person broke into my house tonight and took a shot at me. If the intruder hadn’t had atrocious aim, I might have been killed. The police are here now.” He whispers into the phone, “I wondered if it had to do with what we talked about at the bistro.”

  Why would he assume that? I grip the phone, trying to still my shaking hand. “Someone was in our house, too! It doesn’t make sense—we don’t have anything vaguely valuable, except maybe guns.”

  “I don’t own any guns—just a minute.” The Doctor covers the phone and talks with a police officer. His deep voice cracks when he speaks again. “The officers are wondering if it’s possible the intruder knew I had no guns. Maybe it’s someone we both know. Shall I send the police to your house?”

  Thomas comes down the stairs, gun sheathed. He shrugs. “Nothing’s missing.”

  “No, don’t worry about it, Doctor. Everything looks okay here. Just call me tomorrow and we’ll compare notes. Try to stay calm and decompress.”

  Yes, Tess Spencer, housewife, is giving medical instructions to a physician of forty-plus years. Beautiful turn of events.

  When I put the phone down, Thomas asks, “Who was that?”

  I explain the Doctor’s close call with a masked gunman.

  “You mean someone broke into both houses tonight? And someone shot at Doctor Cole?”

  “Well, technically, they just walked into our house, Thomas. Not really a break-in.”

  “Be serious, Tess.”

  His tone shocks me into silence.

  He continues. “Look. You know Doc Cole. Doc Cole knows the Grande Dame. It’s a circle of danger.”

  I want to say, “As opposed to a circle of life?” but I manage to restrain myself.

  Thomas’ strong shoulder muscles bunch up, and he pulls me into him. I look up into his dark eyes, clouded with anger. He has a little stubble beard, like he forgot to shave this morning. “I used to think you could take care of yourself. But now…now that you’re carrying our child, I’m not so sure.”

  I’m not so sure, either. Yes, I’ve had judo and self-defense and I know how to use a knife. But this perp has a gun.

  Uninvited, a memory washes over me: the first night we were alone after my dad walked out. Me, huddled on my bed, wishing for a nightlight we couldn’t afford. Mom, crying and gasping so hard I thought she’d choke and die.

  Thomas tightens his hug. “I want to take care of you now,” h
e murmurs into my hair.

  31

  ~*~

  I wasn’t sleeping and Paul knew it. I abandoned my room when it grew dark, unwilling to share it with the ghosts. My mother seemed to have friends now.

  Curled up on the couch, I’d watch the gold chair, wishing Cliff could comfort me. Why couldn’t I see his ghost? Maybe he didn’t approve of my idea to poison Paul? But he had encouraged me to stand up for myself.

  I hated myself, because I’d started doubting whether Paul had actually killed Cliff. Yet nothing else made sense—Cliff was a good driver, and I doubted his heavy truck could’ve slid off the road without some kind of push.

  Some nights, Paul sat in the living room, stoking the fire and smoking cigars. Just like a magnet to metal, he wouldn’t leave me alone. He’d be possessive to the bitter end.

  The way he watched me, so intently, I wondered if my malevolence was leaking out into my face. But my mother had always said I looked like an angel, with my cloud of light hair and fair skin. I practiced my innocent, helpless look in the bedroom mirror, so I could turn it on Paul at any time. I hoped it made him feel like the predator he was.

  ~*~

  I wait until Thomas is snoring to check the house for missing items. I find only one—Miranda’s photo album.

  I don’t know which of my fears was greater: that the footsteps were all in my head, or that the intruder was somehow connected with Miranda and the Doctor.

  When I finally climb back into bed, chilled outside and in, Thomas shifts in his sleep and lays his hand on my leg. I love these little expressions of love, even when he’s half-conscious. I still remember Roger’s quiet words right before I walked up the aisle: “There’s not a man alive that will love you more than Thomas.”

  I sleep late and wake to a cup of now-cold coffee Thomas left for me on the night-table. He also left the Glock in the chair next to our bed. I have no doubt it’s loaded. He’s always telling me not to pick up the gun unless I’m prepared to kill someone with it. I might have reached that point.

  My cozy, broken-in slippers beckon, a respite from the cold wood floors. I could use a new pair, but who can afford it? I already feel bad that my in-laws have to pay my obstetrician bills. Every necessary purchase just makes the law school debt loom bigger.

  I take the Glock and my coffee cup and pad downstairs. While the coffee heats in the microwave, I check my cell phone. I turned it off before bed, so the ringer wouldn’t freak me out like it did last night when the intruder was creeping around, stealing the album.

  I missed an 8:30 call from the Doctor this morning. He sounds unnerved in his message: “Hi, Tess. Sorry for calling so early. I wonder if you were able to sleep at all—I know I couldn’t. I couldn’t find anything missing, but we need to talk. Call me.”

  I hesitate. Wouldn’t he be working today? I’ll just leave a message.

  I call, and after one ring, the Good Doctor answers.

  We’re very familiar with each other, calling on cell phones. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I can visualize him all too clearly in his nerdy glasses and gray arm-patch sweater.

  His deep voice is soothing. “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.” I focus on my scuffed slippers.

  “You got my message?”

  “Sure did. I did find something missing, Doctor—uh, Bartholomew. Miranda’s photo album.”

  “That confirms it. We need to talk, somewhere private.”

  My face flames. “Okay.”

  “Could you come over today? I don’t know your schedule, but I took today off work.”

  I agree, and he gives me directions to one of the tonier sections of Putnam County.

  While I’m showering, I wonder if I should tell Thomas where I’m going. I decide against it. Miranda might understand, but then I’d have to tell her about the break-in. Not an option until I’m sure her heart’s back to normal.

  I step on my porch to figure out the weather. Nikki Jo waves from her back yard, where she appears to be stringing lights from her red maple tree. I wave back, determined not to get into a discussion in which I would undoubtedly spill all my secrets.

  Bucking against my need to look hoity-toity for the Doctor, I don my bomber jacket instead of my dressier peacoat. I slip the Glock into the pocket where it fits so neatly. Since I don’t have a concealed-carry permit, things could get complicated if I get pulled over. I determine to drive carefully. Only a fool would go meet the Good Doctor unarmed, since it’s still unclear if he’s actually trustworthy.

  Sure, he says he got shot at by some masked gunman. But I’ve read enough mysteries and watched enough police dramas to know that could be totally faked. In fact, he could have been the one sneaking around my house the same time he was allegedly attacked.

  I ease the SUV out of the driveway, trying to make as little a spectacle of myself as possible. I wave again at Nikki Jo, who seems preoccupied with her project. Still, I know she sees all, which is comforting on some level. How did someone sneak into our house, anyway? They couldn’t have pulled down the drive without Thor barking like a fiend and Dad, Mom, and Petey all peering out the windows. Maybe the intruder parked somewhere off the main road and walked down through the woods?

  On my way to the Doctor’s, I only get lost twice. As I pass a Dunkin’ Donuts, I plot a victory stop for coffee when I retrace my steps out of this small town. At the Doctor’s gated drive, I pull in slowly, marveling at his Italianate stone house with terracotta roof tiles. He couldn’t have chosen a more atypical house to plop in the middle of West Virginia, land of Depression-era homes and trailer parks.

  And how did an intruder get in here? He’d have to throw a rope over a tree branch and scale the metal fence. Curiouser and curiouser.

  The Doctor stands on his white gravel drive, waving me forward. When I park, he walks over, opening my door.

  He looks slightly rumpled. A couple pieces of his white hair stand out at odd angles—probably cowlicks like my own. His black turtleneck wasn’t ironed. Other than that, he’s handsomely intimidating as ever.

  Walking past stone walls and marble urns, I feel like I’ve stepped into the Old Country. Impulsively, I ask the Good Doctor if he’s Italian.

  “Mostly boring English. But it’s rumored my mother was partly Sicilian. That might explain why I’m drawn to opera and pasta. What nationality are you? Your coloring is so rare—the pale skin, blue eyes, and dark hair. Much like Miranda used to be, except her hair was a dark red.”

  I slow to a near crawl, hoping I’ll lose him in the driveway.

  He stops right alongside me. “If it’s not too forward, I’ve noticed you never mention your parents. Yet you’re from around here, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Boone County.” That’s all I want to say on that.

  “Coal country.” He smiles. I don’t smile back. Yet he continues probing.

  “I can’t help but think you have so many similarities with my Rose. She was like a Botticelli, only so fully alive.”

  This strikes me as indecent, coming from an abortion-pushing murderer. I don’t want to know just how lively Rose was. I push open the wide, carved front door. The dark wood flooring immediately captures my attention.

  He motions to the rough-edged planks. “Reclaimed from a barn that used to sit here. Amazing what they can do with wood these days. Please, come into my den.”

  An all-too-clear flashback of our trapped bear flies into my mind. I shiver.

  “Here, I’ll turn on the fire.” I absorb the room’s details as the Doctor starts the gas fireplace. Leather chairs flank the fireside. Medical books are neatly stacked on dark bookshelves, and Murano glass vases add color to the space. I recognize some very convincing Modigliani prints on the textured walls. I’ve always loved his paintings of elongated women with their classically irregular features.

  I feel the Doctor’s eyes on me. “A stark change from Botticelli,” I remark. “You value imperfections, then?”

  The worn leat
her creaks as he sinks into his chair. Taking a pipe from a black lacquer box, he fills it, lights it slowly, and takes a long puff. “I do.”

  He gazes into the fire. Maybe that’s all he wants to say about that. We’re dancing around the key issue here, but the earthy smell of pipe smoke and the warmth of the fire lull me into a relaxed state I haven’t felt in weeks. The Good Doctor puts people at ease—a handy talent for a doctor. For a moment, I even feel an urge to open up and tell him about my childhood.

  Something holds me back. He can’t sort out all my emotions. I have to do that myself. I wish I could talk with Thomas about the things that move me most, but I don’t want to look like a blubbering fool.

  I wonder if Rose was similar to me in this way, too?

  32

  ~*~

  Bulb catalogues arrived in the mail, cleverly scheduled to make housewives start salivating mid-winter. This year I pitched them into the trash. My future in West Virginia died with Cliff. It died when Bartholomew asked me to kill our child. It died the day I opened my mind to my mother’s ghost.

  Pregnancy was hard; harder than I’d ever guessed. Miranda came over often, sharing her prenatal advice and books with me. Many days, her words seemed to flow right past me. Miranda had always been strong—probably why Paul had found her attractive when they used to come for dinner. That indomitable strength he knew he couldn’t crush—couldn’t even get close to.

  One time at dinner, we’d been discussing a local man who’d beaten his wife to death. Miranda had declared, “If any man laid one fist on me, he’d be a dead man next morning.” No one doubted she meant it. How did she luck into a good man like Russell, when I had to cringe and bow to Paul?

  Not much longer. The ghosts told me so. I wanted to tell Miranda about the ghosts. About Paul. About everything. But she would never understand.