He follows me into the kitchen. “No, I don’t. I want you to promise you’ll get that journal back to the Doctor. Let him figure out what to do with it.”
“Okay, tomorrow then. I’ll have to figure out a place to meet him.” That means I need more coffee so I can stay up all night reading it.
Mollified, Thomas smoothes my hair and kisses my head. “Thanks, beautiful. I enjoyed waiting for a surprise on the couch—too bad it was just the gun.”
I smile as he goes upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Poor boy, so easily distracted. I suspect men don’t make the best detectives.
I pour the hot water and yell up to Thomas. “I’m going to run over and see your mom’s tree.”
He laughs. “It’s the craziest one yet!”
As I crunch along the gravel, the rain starts—first a light mist, then heavier drops hit me square on the face. Serves me right. I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off for weeks now. It’s about time I extricate myself, as Thomas said, and start celebrating Christmas. Yes, that journal is out of here.
On Nikki Jo’s front porch, Thor rushes over to greet me, barking every bit as furiously as his tail’s wagging.
Petey cracks the door. “We can’t let Thor in here. He knocked off two glass balls jumping around. Mom said he has to stay outside, then go straight to his crate at night.”
“Where is your mom?”
“She’s upstairs—just got back from the gym. She’s starting her resolutions early. Hey, come on into the sitting room!”
The sitting room reminds me of the Conservatory in the Clue game—full of windows, plants, and linoleum flooring. But every year, Nikki Jo clears a spot for the tree right in the middle.
Petey pushes the French doors open and I stop short. Bowling-ball sized hot pink, turquoise, and green balls hang on the white limbs. Pink candy canes and sock monkeys festoon every level of the tree. Green monkeys dangle sideways. Yellow monkeys climb the branches. And on the tippy top—a fluorescent orange monkey with a green tie flexes his arms.
Petey watches me, waiting for a reaction.
I clasp my hands behind my back. “I…there just aren’t words.”
He makes a face, scrunching up the freckles on his nose. “I know, right? What was Mom thinking? She said it was some kinda deal at Belk. You should’ve seen Dad when he saw it!” In a more subdued tone, he adds, “I can’t even bring my friends over till after Christmas.”
Sock monkeys at Christmas. Fluorescent sock monkeys as tree-toppers. I chuckle, then chortle, then fall into a full-on, snorting fit of laughter. Petey starts laughing at me.
I wipe my eyes and straighten up, clamping my hand on Petey’s shoulder. “Petey, my boy, you cannot ever tell your momma I just did that. Because honestly, on some level, I think she’s brilliant. Why shouldn’t we get a kick out of Christmas?”
35
~*~
Paul was getting up early, making his own breakfast and bringing me food in bed. He probably thought I stayed in bed all day, since the laundry had piled up this last month of marriage. It was a mercy on my part—I was preparing Paul for life alone.
I still hadn’t found my red poison book, which heightened my fears. Every time Paul set a food tray in front of me, I hesitated to eat it. I just gave him a smile and a peck and shooed him out. Then I dumped the food in the toilet, or waited until he was gone to throw it out in the woods. Who knows how many forest animals died from his poisoning attempts. I was fairly certain the poisoning motivated all his feigned kindness and concern. He wanted me dead as much as I wanted him dead. I wondered if he still thought I’d left him everything in my will.
The ghosts became a part of me. It seemed my mother had gone somewhere else, leaving me with ghosts of murdered wives. They shared stories of chokings and stabbings and even one particularly gruesome one about a beheading. I lost more and more sleep, as the ghosts were only too happy to supply me with images to back up their tales. They hadn’t come to me for justice or for comfort. They came to torture me.
Some nights, I’d lie in a fetal position, clinging to my tiny stomach. I wanted to pray for my child, but I couldn’t even pray for myself. I tried to remember the Bible verses I’d learned in Sunday school, but they’d been erased from my mind. When I opened the family Bible, the words were a jumble of symbols on the page. If only Cliff were still around, he’d steer me to the right verses and make sense of my life.
But Cliff would never come back. And I knew I could never join him.
~*~
Once I hug the freshly-showered Nikki Jo and rave a bit about her humorous tree, she invites me to a new women’s Bible study starting up in January. It’s called The Weeping Prophet: The Life of Jeremiah. Doesn’t sound too cheery, but I promise to think about it.
I follow her into the kitchen, where she pulls out a red Fiestaware plate and starts cutting into some delicacy on her counter. “Now listen, sugar. I just whipped up this tiramisu Yule log last night and I want to know what you think. Take that on down to your cottage. By the way, is Thomas home early? I thought he wasn’t off this week.”
Love the casual lead-in to her real question.
“Yes, he came home early.” How to explain this? Maybe it’s time to let Nikki Jo and Roger in on some of the insanity. Especially since they already know about the traps, although they thought Petey was doing some kind of science project.
“Mom, we’ve been having a little problem. It has to do with Miranda.” I take a deep breath. “Well, anyway, somebody’s been stalking me. I’ve been checking into Rose Campbell’s death, and someone doesn’t like that too much.”
Nikki Jo’s hand flies to her chest. “Good lands, honey. Why didn’t you tell us? You know your dad will do anything to protect you and the baby.”
I take a moment, savoring the sound of “your dad.” Roger is my dad now, and he wants to protect me, not run away from me. I send up a silent thank-you to God.
But some deep part of me doesn’t want anyone else fighting my battles. Of course, Thomas would say this isn’t even my battle; it’s Miranda’s, or even Charlotte’s.
I finger the cedar boughs on the counter. “We’ll let you know if we need help. I’m going to stop nosing around during Christmas break.”
“Good, that’s smart. Did I tell you Andrew’s coming in for Christmas? It was last-minute. His fraternity was supposed to do a ski trip, but they canceled for some reason.”
“Is he bringing Kelsey?”
She chuckles. “Oh, he’s bringing his girlfriend, but it’s not Kelsey.”
“What? What was wrong with Kelsey? I thought she seemed sweet.”
Nikki Jo gives me a long look. Apparently she wasn’t as endeared to Kelsey as I was.
She pinches a bite off her half of the Yule log. The creamy swirled center makes my mouth water. “It’s some Norwegian girl—Helga, I think. Can you imagine someone named Helga? Goodness only knows if she even speaks English.”
I smile. “Mom, I’d better get this Yule log over to Thomas before he heads back to work.”
“Okay, honey. You call us if you need anything.”
Once I take one step out the front door, Thor jumps all over my legs, leaving tiny pawprints on my dark jeans. Someday, I will get a real dog that will put you in your place, crazy squirt.
I walk slowly down the brick path, soaking in the trim beauty of Nikki Jo’s back yard. Boxwoods have been pruned to perfection, despite Roger’s crazy clipping at Thanksgiving. Dead butterfly bushes have been lopped off for next year’s purple display. Next summer, I will make our yard look gorgeous. I’ll plant some things our baby can enjoy.
When I was in fifth grade, I got a free packet of wildflower seeds at school. I remember running home, so excited to take my old metal shovel and dig up the dirt in front of our trailer. I scattered the seeds and watered them, just like the instructions said. But the trailer was tucked so tightly in the valley, the sun didn’t even hit the front of it. Black mild
ew was the only thing that flourished in our yard. Every one of those seeds died. I’d promised myself to have flowers galore someday, and a house positioned so it could drink in the sunlight.
As the brick path trickles away, I stop at our driveway. I look over our little white house with its green metal roof. Our cottage faces north, so we get only the purest sunlight—the sunlight artists love to paint by. Yes, there’s much to be thankful for today and every day. Our little one will come into the cozy Spencer world, wrapped in closeness and love and wonderful food.
Thomas’ car is gone. I carry the Yule log in to our kitchen counter, cutting off a generous piece before I look around for the note. Thomas always leaves a note.
Sure enough, it’s on the coffee table.
Hi Gorgeous,
Had to go back in—will work late tonight. Guns loaded on the bed upstairs. Don’t forget the 12 gauge kicks, so lean into it if you use it. Stay up at my parents’ if you want. Don’t forget to call the Doctor and get that journal out of here tomorrow.
Love, Thomas
So. He didn’t forget about Rose’s journal.
I grab my cell phone and scroll down for the Good Doctor’s number. I love the picture I loaded next to his name: the fifth Doctor Who.
The phone rings several times then turns me over to voice mail. I hadn’t really planned a speech.
“Doctor, it’s Tess. I have to get this uh…thing…out of my house. Like tomorrow. So let me know where I can drop it off. Thanks.”
Pretty inept, but I’ve done my duty. Time to make coffee, curl up in our upstairs arsenal, and read over the journal. I wish Thomas would finally install a real lock on our front door. I might be armed to the teeth, but anyone could sneak up those stairs before I got a grip on a gun.
36
~*~
Miranda was getting nosier and nosier. Every time she came over, she wandered around the house, a perpetually-smiling Charlotte on her hip. She was searching for something, but what?
Finally, I broke down and asked her. “What are you looking for?”
She was nothing, if not completely transparent. “Well, I checked out a book from the library for you, and they want it back. Apparently it’s been gone for months. It’s a book on poisonous plants. I remember it had a red cover with a skull and crossbones on it. Have you seen it?”
I was able to be completely honest for a change. “I remember that one. I haven’t seen it anywhere.”
Miranda sat on the couch and bounced Charlotte on her knees like a personal trampoline. I had no idea where she found the energy. I’d been tired for months.
She looked closely at me, her eyes taking in everything, from the circles under my eyes to my stomach, which seemed to be shrinking instead of growing. Her next question was abrupt. “You seen a doctor yet?”
“Of course. Bartholomew’s been over.”
She continued prying. “When? When’s the last time he checked you?”
I hadn't said he’d checked me. Just that he’d been over.
I shrugged.
Miranda hit the roof. “You’re going to get yourself checked out. Are you embarrassed to have him do it? I’ll find another doctor for you. But something isn’t right. You need vitamins, or…I don’t know what. You’re looking as peaked as a dead possum.”
She dragged a chuckle out of me. “Okay, Miranda. I’ll let you find me another doctor in January, how’s that?”
“Alrighty. But in the meantime, I’ll bring you the rest of my vitamins so you can get started.” She turned back to Charlotte, squinching up her eyes at her plump, healthy girl. “Can you believe you’ll be a mother before Christmas next year?”
I swallowed to stave off tears. Yes, I was going to give birth before then, but I’d be no mother to this unfortunate child.
~*~
Creamer always makes my coffee cool too quickly. I take a sip of my lukewarm Amaretto-flavored brew before cautiously moving the guns to the floor. Before I get under my fake-down comforter, I arrange all the gun barrels so they’re pointing at the bedroom door. Then I lay my Glock on the table next to me. Retrieving Rose’s journal, I prop up on my pillows to read.
The first page, covered with quips written at random slanting angles, looks almost biblical. Each sentence talks about judgment on the wicked and oppression of the innocent. It’s like Rose created her own handbook of verses. Strange, and not at all what I expected from someone involved in an adulterous relationship.
I skip over a handful of blank pages, then stop short at a roughly scrawled drawing of a skull and crossbones. Four familiar words line the bottom of the drawing: MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. I replay Thomas’ words: “Weighed in the balances and found wanting, something like that. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it.”
Vindicated—it seems like Rose felt vindicated, having an affair on Paul. What did he do to deserve it?
I turn the page and squint. She’s written in pencil here, and I have to read the first sentence three times to register what it says.
“December 2, 1973. I have a delicious secret. I’m hiding it from Paul, because he doesn’t deserve to know it. The first time he hurt me, he ended our relationship. My mother understands this.”
She’s doodled several flowering plants on the pages before the next entry. From the realistic details on them—stamens and pistils and other plant names I’ve forgotten—she seems to have been talented at drawing.
“December 5, 1973. Miranda knows about B. She thought it was C. Doesn’t matter. I know what Paul did to C, and I know what he’s trying to do to me. I think he must suspect something.”
The phone jangles downstairs, making me jump. I should run down and answer it, but it’s so comfy sitting on my bed, surrounded by a sea of guns. Straining my ears, I barely make out Nikki Jo’s voice when the answering machine beeps. She’s probably sending something over for supper again, bless her.
I dive back into the now-familiar handwriting.
“December 6, 1973. Paul has stolen my book. He’s trying to poison me.”
I re-read that last sentence. What? Paul was trying to poison his wife? For how long? Maybe this explains her affair? I read on.
“Every morning, he brings me breakfast in bed. I pretend to eat it, then dump it out. Mother’s given me insight into his underhanded plans.”
Why does Rose keep talking about her mother, when she never left her house? Did her mother live with them or nearby? Was she aware of the illegitimate pregnancy? I’ll have to ask Miranda.
“December 8, 1973. B came over today. I can’t believe I’ve tricked him—a doctor! I guess it’s because I’m eating next to nothing. He’ll help me get out of this marriage.”
A deep voice carries into the house from the front doorway. I freeze, listening.
“Tess? It is I, Axel.”
Nikki Jo must’ve been calling to tell me the flower truck was outside. I’m such an idiot—I should’ve picked up the phone. Even if I pretend I’m not home, he might barge right in. He acts like he’s concerned about my welfare. But what if he knows the one sending me flowers? Or what if he’s sending them himself for some warped reason?
“Tess?”
Even though I probably can’t trust Axel as far as I can throw him, I go downstairs. Sometimes my inner voice might be muddled, but right now, it’s saying, “He’s okay.”
Downstairs, Axel’s peering into the fast-darkening living room. His blond hair looks phosphorescent in contrast to the twilight outside. He’s holding some kind of wreath.
I step boldly into the room. “Yes? I’m here. What do you need, Axel?”
He smiles in my direction, but I don’t think he sees me clearly yet. I hit the light switch and wait for his gasp.
I’m pointing the Glock right at him.
To my bewilderment, he acts like the gun is perfectly natural. He takes another step, holding up the greenery. “I have brought to you this wreath, since you are full with child.”
I continue aiming at him. �
��Please put it next to the door.”
He continues smiling—a psychopathic thing to do when a gun is aimed at your chest. Then he says, “Do not fear. All will be well.”
With that, he deposits the wreath on the floor and walks out, firmly pulling the door to. He leaves behind him a heavy spruce scent and a growing conviction that my inner voice might just know what it’s talking about.
37
~*~
Ghosts don’t obey rules. They’re awake all hours of the night. Between my weight loss and my sleep loss, I was a jittery mess. Sometimes I thought it would be better to eat Paul’s poisoned food, taking the child and me out of our haunted house.
But Claire called faithfully, planning for the big day. Just like her son, she gave me hope. She was so excited, buying baby clothes and cleaning up her old wooden crib.
Bartholomew called, too. I peppered him with questions about poisoning, instead of the pregnancy questions I really wanted to ask, like: was it normal to feel nauseous all day? Was dizziness okay? How much weight did I need to gain?
To distract myself from the ever-hovering fiends, I read up on flowers. I wanted to choose a name for my child that would link it to me. The baby should know I would remember it forever, regardless of the fallout from my plans.
Sleeping on the couch proved difficult since it made me more accessible to Paul. I’d refused him for so long, I knew it was only a matter of time before he forced himself on me. Unfortunately, I was still his wife.
Sure enough, one chilly night he snuck downstairs. I felt the heavy quilt lighten as he moved it to the side. He stood in the dim light in nothing but his boxer shorts. “Rosey?” he whispered. His words were too quiet—he didn’t expect a response.
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