Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  I gave him one.

  Sitting bolt upright, I dug my long fingernails into the exposed flesh on his thigh and dragged them straight down, like a cat. He yelped, then turned and fled up the stairs, shouting all the way. “Crazy! Woman, you’re plumb crazy!”

  Pure energy coursed through my veins, and my pulse pounded in my wrists. As the ghosts cackled at the sight of blood under my nails, I sank to the floor. I didn’t deserve to live.

  ~*~

  I hang the wreath on our front door as a talisman of Axel’s good will. The frosted needles, interspersed with blue and silver twigs and baubles, give it a fairytale effect, like something out of The Snow Queen. Axel really is good at his job. I wonder if he trained in the US or Germany.

  I chop up an onion and drain the beans I’ve soaked overnight before filling a pot with water and adding a little oil. Brown beans, wilted greens, and cornbread are my favorite comfort foods, and the only thing I feel like eating tonight.

  Thomas opens the door, giving the wreath a cursory glance. Circles shadow his eyes, and I feel horrible for ruining his day. He deposits three brand-new locks on the kitchen table.

  “I’m installing these tonight. Where’s my drill?”

  No kiss. I point to the closet room. “In a plastic bin in there, I think.”

  The bean water finally starts bubbling, filling the cottage with its familiar heavy scent. The Good Doctor never returned my call. Maybe I’ll have to take the journal to his office? Where is that, all the way over in Putnam County? I should probably read a little more tonight.

  Thomas lays the drill on the table and winks at me. Has a man ever looked so ripped in a dress shirt? As he walks upstairs to change, I’m tempted to follow him. Instead, I mix up the cornbread and grease the cast iron pan.

  When he comes down, looking more delicious than ever with his old Pac-Man T-shirt, I wave my spoon at him. “You’re a handsome man, Thomas Spencer.”

  He manages a grin. “Thanks, babe. How was the rest of your day? Anything of note?”

  “Nothing.” I smile, trying to repress how I welcomed Axel with a gun.

  The phone rings, and I hand the spoon off to Thomas. “Could you stir?”

  Miranda’s on the other end. “Hi, Tess. Just wondering if you could come over tomorrow for the Christmas dinner? It’s in the dining room. You can dress up a little if you want.”

  I hadn’t really planned on it, and I’m still reeling from the encounter with the blue car from Putnam County. A million excuses run through my mind as Miranda continues.

  “My daughter’s driving in tonight, so she’ll be here. So will Paul. I thought it’d be a good chance for you to get to chat with them before the wedding.”

  Ugh. Charlotte. I’ve heard so much about her, and none of it impresses me. Charlotte is a vegetarian. Charlotte loves to travel to Europe, since she’s footloose and fancy-free with no husband or kids. Charlotte likes Jimmy Choos. I wonder if she’ll wear them to the party. Still, I owe it to my friend to meet her daughter.

  “Okay, what time does it start?”

  Thomas has ditched the spoon, and stands poised by the front door, drill in hand. The minute I hang up the phone, he starts up a ferocious racket. I run over to the oven, checking my cornbread and stirring the beans lightly, hoping they aren’t stuck to the bottom of the pot.

  In between drills, he shouts over to me. “Royston isn’t happy that I keep leaving work early. He’s afraid when you have the baby I’ll turn into some weakling who runs home to change diapers.”

  “Oh, whatever, Thomas. You work harder than he does, and he owns the place. Besides, I’ll probably be a stay-at-home-mom, considering the fact I haven’t been job-hunting for a couple months. Good grief.”

  He drills a couple times, then stops. “What’s that? You said you’re thinking about staying home?”

  I hear the hope in his voice. He’s always wanted me to stay home with our kids, just like his mom did. I’ve balked at the idea, until now—now that I’m some kind of target. Besides, it seems nice. Staying home, cooking, snuggling with your baby…I don’t even have a proper rocking chair yet. We don’t have any baby furniture yet! What kind of parents-to-be are we?

  “Yes, you heard me right.” I flip the cornbread pone onto a plate, then slather it with butter.

  Thomas runs around the corner, embracing me. “I’ve been praying about this! I just knew you’d come around!”

  Not exactly the most romantic thing to say, but I’ll take it. He’s excited as a little boy opening Christmas presents. I peck his cheek. “What else have you been praying about, my man?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” He darts back into the living room.

  After supper, and after Thomas gets two locks on the door, he goes upstairs to unload some of his guns. I sit on the couch, resting my hands on my miniscule baby bump. Yes, little one, I’m going to stay home with you, even if it means we’re poor for a while.

  I think I kept one of my old baby blankets somewhere—maybe the closet room? I walk in, rummaging through the boxes. The box of Christmas ornaments still sits on the floor where I dropped it when our house was invaded. We need to find a tree, even if it’s just a little Charlie Brown scrapper from the woods out back.

  This room has nothing but bad memories. Faces in windows, hiding from intruders…I need to cheer this room up. I wonder if we could extend it out the back and make a play room.

  I peer out the window at the oak. Such a big tree—I breathe a quick prayer it’ll never fall, because it’d turn our cottage into splinters. The thick limbs sprawl every which direction. But there’s something on the lower limb.

  That something is a woman, a halo of long blonde hair floating around her face. It’s a face I’ll not soon forget. Her slitted eyes focus on me, and her mouth hangs open at a weird angle. I must be seeing things. She can’t be real.

  I back away from the window. “Thomaaas!”

  He rushes downstairs. “What? What is it?” The Sig’s still sheathed in his holster.

  My hand shakes as I point to the window. “Someone was sitting in our tree, staring at me. How could anyone get up there? Am I seeing things? Am I going crazy?”

  38

  ~*~

  Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat…

  Dame, get up and bake your pies…

  God rest ye, merry gentlemen…

  I finally dragged our flocked Christmas tree out of the attic. After straightening some of its oddly-bent branches, I draped multicolored lights and green garland around it. It wasn’t an impressive display, but Paul and I would be the only ones to see it.

  I decided to get creative with the decorations. I drew foxglove, hellebores, and belladonna, laughing as I used colored pencils to make them realistic. Then I cut them out, glued them to cardboard, and hung them on the tree.

  When Paul got home that night, he walked in a slow circle around the tree, fingering the ornaments I’d made. I could tell he wanted to say something.

  “Cat got your tongue?” I asked.

  “Naw. You’ve got a real knack for drawin’, Rosey. Maybe you ought to draw pictures for catalogues or magazines or something. You know, advertising.”

  “And how would I get to work? You take our only car with you.”

  “I don’t know. I reckon we could buy a new vehicle, if that’s what you need. I been talking some with Miranda. She thinks you need to get out more.”

  And what other things has Miranda been telling my husband on me? Tattler.

  “I haven’t left this house in months. You know that, and you know why.”

  He walked over to me, his warm breath tickling my face. “That’s just it. I don’t know why. Used to be we’d go to parties, visit your family. We’d even go to church.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Only thing I can figure is that things changed when you—”

  “Don’t you dare mention it, Paul Owen Campbell.”

  I stalked over to the tree,
ripping off each of my handmade ornaments. I had wanted to hurt him, figuring he’d recognize the flowers from my book he’d hidden. I didn’t want to consider getting a job or take a walk down memory lane.

  Christmas was coming and the goose was getting fat. Paul had no idea what was coming to him.

  ~*~

  After a sleepless night, in which Thomas alternately peered out the window and checked the newly installed locks, I have to pinch him awake. He managed to miss three snoozes on the alarm clock.

  I go downstairs while he’s in the shower to brew some strong coffee for both of us. I need to get my act together to go to a Christmas dinner at The Haven, which I’m quite certain is an extravagant affair. Guess I’ll be pulling out the red dress again.

  Thomas looks wasted as he pads to the bottom of the stairs. His eyes are glassy and he gives some short coughs.

  “You getting sick? You look like you have a fever.”

  He feels his forehead. “I don’t know. I can’t keep up this pace.”

  I feel reprimanded. “It’s not my fault someone’s after me, you know. I didn’t plan for this to happen when I started helping Miranda.”

  “I know, I know. Are you getting that journal back to Doc Cole?”

  He’s lucid enough to remember that niggly detail.

  “No, he hasn’t called me yet. I could take it with me today—maybe I’ll give it to Miranda. Wait, that’s stupid. That would make her a target again.”

  “Maybe you should just burn the thing,” Thomas suggests.

  “I can’t do that without asking the Doctor first.”

  Thomas grabs his favorite UVA coffee mug and fills it with some of my black brew. “Then give it to me.”

  All in all, I have to admit this is the best suggestion yet. We decide to make a public display of the journal handoff, in case we have an unseen audience.

  As Thomas leaves, I slowly follow him, then hand him the legal pad through the open Volvo window. If he’s willing to relieve some of my stalker stress, more power to him. I won’t stop him from being my hero.

  After my second cup of coffee, I attempt to curl my hair with the curling iron. Since only certain pieces are long enough to wrap around the barrel, it comes out resembling a bad perm. I rewash it before trying to spruce up my red dress with my big fake pearl earrings and bracelet.

  The SUV is a great place for mulling things over. Today I ponder that waitress, Rosemary. There’s just no logical way she can resemble Rose so perfectly unless she’s a blood relation. An immediate blood relation. She’s around the right age to be Rose’s child, and her name is so similar to Rose’s, it can’t be a coincidence. The Doctor was convinced Rose had an abortion. Miranda was convinced she was pregnant. Is this what Miranda knows that’s worth killing for?

  Maybe Paul doesn’t want a daughter getting in the way of his money—all that money he’ll be getting when he marries the Grande Dame. Still, it doesn’t make sense he’d switch Miranda’s pills before they get married.

  The Haven looms ahead of me too quickly. The front porch is awash in white lights: an exorbitant display reflecting the income level of its residents.

  A caregiver greets me at the front door, ushering me into the long, rectangular dining room. Forest green damask tablecloths have replaced the usual paper placemats at the round tables. The lights are dimmed, and short glowing candles adorn each table centerpiece. Not a good idea for the residents with waning eyesight.

  Miranda waves me over to her table. Her hair is done up higher than usual, and she’s wearing her pearls and an elegant black cashmere sweater. Paul sits on her right, fiddling with the lemon in his water glass and looking uncomfortable in an outdated sport coat.

  It takes me a minute to place the woman on Miranda’s left as her daughter. Sure, she has the same chocolate-cherry hair color Miranda had when she was younger. But she’s quite tan, not pale like Miranda. Instead of wide blue eyes, she has darker eyes that angle slightly upward, like a cat.

  As I come closer, she stands to shake my hand. She must be a full four inches taller than me. It’s interesting to extrapolate how Russell looked from the variations between mother and daughter.

  “Tess! I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a Godsend to my mother.”

  We both sit. As I tuck my feet under the tablecloth, I catch a glimpse of Charlotte’s retro black pumps under her long skirt. They actually look like something I’d buy, and I doubt they’re Jimmy Choos.

  “Thanks. Thanks so much.” I wish I could say the same about her. “Where do you live again?”

  “I’m right outside Morgantown, so I’m across the state from you. I teach over at the college.”

  WVU. Did Miranda ever tell me that Charlotte’s a professor?

  “What do you teach?”

  “Ceramics, actually.” She smiles. “Are you from around here?”

  That question again. Miranda jumps in. “Tess grew up in Boone. But she moved here after college—you would’ve been over in China then. Then she married that charming Thomas Spencer. You remember, Roger and Nikki Jo’s boy?”

  Charlotte smiles. “Oh my land, he was such a cutie as a kid! I remember him in church. Little tow-headed booger who liked to climb under the pews!”

  I snort. So my sophisticated Thomas was a bit of a whippersnapper as a kiddo. I’ll have to tease him later.

  Miranda looks around impatiently. “When on earth are they going to serve us? I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”

  Charlotte and I both jump to the rescue, waving down caregivers. Meanwhile, Paul maintains his silence on the other side of the candle.

  Turns out, the food is going to be served buffet-style. The head honcho gives some kind of hand signal and the caregivers release the tables one at a time. Charlotte picks up her mother’s plate, shooting a quick, disgruntled look at Paul. That look tells me everything I need to know.

  We walk up to the buffet together, leaving Paul in the dust. I decide on a blunt approach. “So…what do you think of this marriage?”

  Charlotte stops mid-scoop on her mashed potatoes. “He’s okay, I guess. Not like my dad, though.”

  I put a slice of ham on my plate, surprised to see her deposit a piece on each of her plates. So much for the vegetarian lore. “How was your dad different?”

  She shrugs and some of her perfume drifts my way. It smells like roses and citrus—probably Parisian. “My dad joked a lot. He was quiet, but fun.” She jerks her head toward Paul, who’s pulling up the rear about five people behind us. “He’s just quiet. But I haven’t gotten to know him yet.”

  Obviously she’s the kind of woman who gives people the benefit of the doubt. I prefer to assume bad stuff first; correct it later.

  Charlotte takes a couple of yeast rolls and a handful of butter packets. She turns to me with a calculating look. Her unusual eyes remind me of the polished smoky topaz stone in my childhood rock collection. “Did Mom say you’re looking into Rose Campbell’s death?”

  I nod. Why does she care?

  Charlotte dips her head toward me, whispering. “Let me tell you something. I’ve never believed it was a suicide, either. Count me in on your quest.”

  39

  ~*~

  One face repetitively visited me as I went to sleep. Dragging blonde locks, empty eyes, twisted smile—the misshapen ghost shared my own face. When I screamed at her, she’d disappear—just like I was going to.

  I made it a point to write in my journal, ridding myself of all the thoughts I wanted to peel off like a discarded snakeskin. Paul was right—the miscarriage early in our marriage had changed me. We'd only been married for three weeks when I lost the baby, but I’d been pregnant for months. Paul had taken advantage of me when we were engaged. It was his fault I’d lost the baby, with his obsessive, hovering ways.

  When I’d told Miranda about it later, she’d tried to comfort me with words about how the baby was in heaven. But the loss of the child had twisted something deep inside me. I wou
ldn’t have strapped myself into our loveless marriage if I hadn’t been carrying Paul’s baby.

  Then Bartholomew came along, giving me the one thing I wanted most—another child that had no connection to Paul. I was determined to give this child the future my first baby had lost.

  But I had to keep the ghosts at bay. For the past week, Paul had been asking specific questions. If he knew I was seeing ghosts, he might tell Miranda. And if she told Bartholomew, my whole plan could be thwarted.

  I got to where I responded to Paul with nods or shakes of my head. The concerned look in his eyes should have been touching, but it made me hate him more. He should’ve been more concerned when he pushed me around as a girl. I was a woman now—a woman who would not be stopped.

  ~*~

  Miranda, Paul, Charlotte, and I form a surprisingly jolly group. The other residents seem a quiet, stolid bunch compared to us. Miranda and I joke throughout the meal—about the tough ham, the governor’s new gun regulations, even her lopsided artificial Christmas tree. Charlotte’s laugh is rich, almost musical. Even Paul gives an occasional dry laugh, making a rasping sound like he hasn’t done it in ages.

  Somehow, we get around to discussing racial relations in West Virginia. Miranda straightens the napkin on her lap and leans closer. “I’m going to tell you something about the Klan. You know what? My momma and daddy were in the Klan way back when. They’d put the pillowcases over their heads and wear sheets. But it wasn’t to get rid of colored people. No sir. Daddy had plenty of close colored friends. It was to put the fear of God into men who beat their wives. They’d burn crosses in their yards—a symbol that next time, they’d come and kill them. Once word got out a woman was getting beat, the Klan went to work. Too bad it went the other direction by the time I got bigger, otherwise I would’ve joined up. As it was, I must have heard of three or four wives who got beat to death, just in Mason County.”

  We all sit, speechless. The Ku Klux Klan used to be more about wife-beaters than racial prejudice? This was something I’d have to Google for sure. Was Miranda’s memory slipping?