Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  Paul clears his throat. “Remember that young gal got killed when we were young, Miranda? Left four children behind. Her husband got a thrashing over at the coal camp where I worked—beat within an inch of his life. Never married again.”

  A hard glint creeps into Paul’s eye. I visualize Rose’s slanted writing on the yellow paper: “Paul’s trying to poison me.” Who is this man who looks down on wife-beaters, yet tries to poison his own wife? I stare at him. His half-smile seems honest enough, like he’s seen more than his share of sorrow. I can’t get sucked into it. I need to get Miranda alone, so I can tell her about Rose’s journal.

  Miranda covers my hand with hers. “Tess, your daddy worked in the camp down in Boone County, didn’t he?” Her memory must be slipping—she knows I don’t like talking about Dad.

  Paul jumps on this information. “What’s his name?”

  Great. Just great. My wounds are laid open for the whole table. Charlotte must notice my flaming cheeks. She jumps to my rescue.

  “Good grief! My glass has been empty for half an hour! Do we have to go into the kitchen for refills?” She loudly taps her glass with her fork, but no caregivers appear. Charlotte stands, her towering figure drawing every pair of eyes like a lightning rod.

  She takes the handles of Miranda’s chair. “Well, Mom, I guess the dinner’s over. You ready to get back to your room?”

  Miranda looks at me intently. I nod, trying not to be upset with her. “I’m just going to hit the Keurig in the hall, then I’ll be down.” More coffee is never a bad thing, and I need to be alone.

  Charlotte raises her eyebrows. “Coffee? As in, caffeinated? While you’re pregnant?”

  I nod. “I don’t hold much truck with some of that medical advice. It changes every other year, anyway.”

  Charlotte winks. “I gotcha. Enjoy the coffee.”

  As I walk out of the dining room, Paul follows me, a little too closely. What is his problem? I stop walking and face him, pulling him up short.

  “Could I help you?” My hot cheeks continue to betray my muddled thoughts.

  He wraps his long fingers around my arm, but I control my recoil and hold still. His dark eyes stay on mine. Is he waiting for me to flinch?

  “Tess, I know almost everyone from those camps. What’s your father’s name?”

  I pull away, walking the remaining steps to the Keurig machine. Rifling through K-cups, I act like I have all the time in the world. Finally, I push the button to brew a Raspberry Mocha. I shouldn’t answer Paul, but some deep-seated Southern compunction forces me to speak when spoken to.

  “His name’s Jimmy Lilly. Most people call him Junior.”

  Paul’s angular face softens. “Junior Lilly. I know him well.”

  I focus on the chipped white mug, waiting for him to continue. He doesn’t.

  “Well, I need to get back to Miranda,” I say.

  Paul steps closer. “Could we talk somewhere private?”

  The knife in my pocket seems almost radioactive, I’m so aware of it. Yet Paul seems so intense, so driven to say something. I owe it to Miranda to listen to her fiancé.

  I give in. “Okay. How about that couch in the hall?”

  We walk down the long, dimly lit passageway. You’d think they could afford to replace the bulbs in here. The leather couch barely sinks under Paul, he’s such a lightweight.

  “Miranda told me you’re interested in Rose’s death?”

  Miranda’s been talking a lot lately. Did the overdose mess with her head?

  I look deep into his eyes. I’m going to ice his nosy cake. “Yes, I sure am. I’ve been reading her journal.”

  His face reflects shock, not anger. “She had a journal?”

  My mind races ahead, grasping for explanations. He’s going to wonder where I got it, and I can’t very well say from Doctor Cole. Maybe one little white lie…

  “I found it in your library—recognized the handwriting.”

  He sighs, like he’s Atlas holding the world on his shoulders. “What do you think about what you’ve read?”

  I hedge. He doesn’t need to know about Rose’s pregnancy. “She was a very passionate person, it seems.”

  He leans forward, burying his face in his hands. I manage to make out his muffled, “She never loved me.”

  Well, aren’t we candid today. Still crunched over, he talks to the carpet.

  “Our marriage was like a stale brownie—started crumbling apart the minute we got hitched. She had a miscarriage and it threw her, bad. She never let me get near her after that.”

  I focus on the tremor in his voice and hands. He’s brittle—a glass man, ready to break into shards at the slightest bang. Unwanted compassion floods me. Only a woman could make a grown man this fragile; hurt him this deeply. My dislike for Rose grows as he continues.

  “She had a book on poisons—I didn’t know what she was going to do with it, so I hid it. Then she started seeing things, talking to people when she thought I wasn’t around. I think they were haints, but she never came out and said it. She’d wake up screaming on the couch.”

  I carefully probe into the gaps, feeling like a psychologist. “So she didn’t let you near her? How did you deal with that?”

  He looks at me full-on, and I could swear there’s no artifice in his answer. “I did think about other women—how could I not? I almost acted on it one day…I thought Rose was having an affair with a pastor. I’m ashamed to say I went to a bar, hoping to find someone. If she could enjoy her life, why couldn’t I? But I didn’t want a loose woman. I just wanted my wife. She was prettier than all those roses she grew.” He drops his gaze, wringing his hands.

  I sip the cold dregs of my coffee, taking in Paul’s worn jacket, his scuffed shoes, and his mismatched socks. Could Miranda’s strength heal him?

  I stand. “I need to talk with Miranda. Thanks for sharing with me, Paul. You’ve helped me understand some things.”

  He stands alongside me. “Miss Tess, I know what your daddy’s like. You ain’t nothing like him. God bless you.” As he walks toward the front doors, my stomach flutters. I cover my baby with my hand, and I’m met with another flutter, like butterfly wings. The first kicks.

  40

  ~*~

  For the first time in a couple weeks, I pulled on my boots and gloves and walked into my woods. I soaked in every detail—the icicles blanketing the sides of rocks, the frozen ferns poking through the melting snow, the deer droppings near the iced-over creek.

  I wanted to shout loud enough to fill the woods and sweep the ghosts away. Where was my angel now? I had none. God had abandoned me.

  My feet seemed to move of their own accord, right along the creek bed, to where Cliff’s truck hit the ground. I stared at the drag-marks where they’d pulled it out with a tow-rope. Paul had done this and more. He’d stolen my life from me.

  I put my hand on my stomach, hoping for movement. I thought I’d felt something in the night, but it could have been hunger pangs. I wasn’t eating enough, but I could never be sure if Paul had put poison on my favorite foods in the refrigerator. I’d forced myself to subsist on foods I knew Paul ate—things I hated, like olives and tuna. I felt nauseous almost all the time.

  I closed my eyes, imagining the snow swirling up into solid walls around me, like when Moses parted the Red Sea. I wished it would swallow me and take me to another world, one where I had a healthy baby and no regrets.

  ~*~

  Miranda’s tastefully decorated suite brings back memories of her classy home in Buckneck. As I finger an antique Mrs. Claus on her tree, I remember the two Christmases I spent in her huge home in town. That next year, I got married, and Miranda had a stroke that landed her in a wheelchair.

  I glance at Charlotte, who’s stirring something in a wooden bowl in the kitchen. Why didn’t she come home from China to sit with her mother that year, instead of shuttling her off to The Haven?

  Miranda sits on her blue couch, looking at pictures of flowers in a wedding ma
gazine. She holds up a picture of a bouquet of red and white roses. “Do you like this one?”

  Roses? Not so much. I remember the ivy on her invitations. “Maybe more greenery? And a different type of flower?”

  She groans. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  Does she mean planning her wedding or getting married in the first place?

  Charlotte comes in, dusting flour off her apron. “I told you, I like those white mums, Mom. They’re more like you somehow.” She motions to me. “Would you mind helping me roll out my dough? This counter is miserably small.”

  I nod, pecking Miranda’s head first. “It’ll be beautiful, whatever you decide.”

  Charlotte stands by the sink, pounding at the dough with all her strength. This could qualify as a gym workout for her. “Honestly, I’m not at the rolling stage yet, but I wanted to talk with you. What are your theories? Mom showed me her note. Who would do that?”

  Should I take her into my confidence? My face must give away my conflicting thoughts, as she rushes in to fill the silence.

  “Oh, I don’t blame you for keeping things to yourself. It’s just…she’s my mother. I worry about her.”

  “You do? I wouldn’t know it.” My bluntness startles me. Where did my manners go?

  Charlotte stops mid-punch, setting the bowl on the counter. “I’m so sorry you think that.”

  She doesn’t explain herself, like I would. She just stands her ground, sticky dough on her knuckles, waiting for me to say something.

  I put my hands on my hips and oblige her. “You were in China when Miranda had her stroke, right? How hard would it have been to come home and take care of her, do you think?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, it would’ve been pretty hard. The colleague I was traveling with had a miscarriage over there. I had to stay with her in the hospital and make sure she was okay. I knew Mom needed someone to take care of her immediately, so I looked up all the assisted living homes in the area, and this one had the best reviews.” She pushes a strand of dark hair behind her ears. “Besides, I knew you didn’t live far away. She loves you like another daughter.”

  I’m speechless. Charlotte dusts more flour into the dough, punching it into a fluffy round lump. She’s so self-contained, it’s intimidating. Was Miranda like her as a young woman?

  Pulling out drawers, I find a green rick-rack trimmed apron and tie it around my waist. I wash and dry the counter, then lightly flour it. “What are you making?”

  “Cinnamon rolls—Mom’s favorite,” she answers, smiling.

  “Count me in.”

  As we work on rolls together, I tell her everything. By the time we’ve put two pans into the oven, Charlotte’s come to the same conclusions I have.

  “Can you get the journal to me?” she says. “No one would think I’d have it.”

  I untie my apron. “I don’t see why not. Are you staying here?”

  “No, I’m in Mom’s old house. She never sold it. I’m trying to clean it up—had some mice.”

  Back in the living room, Miranda’s fallen asleep on the couch. “She’s so tired now,” Charlotte whispers. We prop up her feet and cover them with a blanket.

  I make my vanilla butter cream frosting for the cooled cinnamon rolls. Charlotte covers a pan with tin-foil for me to take home. As I put on my jacket, I promise to drop off the journal tomorrow.

  Outside, the fast-melting snow soaks the thin, fake leather of my boots. Most of the dinner guests have already gone. Realization hits me—God’s answered a prayer I hadn’t even voiced. I needed someone who understands my urge to protect Miranda, to get to the bottom of Rose’s death before the New Year’s Day marriage. God answered it with the most unlikely of people—the citified girl I’d despised for no real reason. Turns out, Charlotte isn’t a vegetarian and she doesn’t wear Jimmy Choos to Christmas dinners. But she’s tres formidable, just like her mother. And she’s an ally I can trust, unlike the Good Doctor or Paul.

  The SUV skids a little in the slush as I head out the drive. When I adjust my rearview mirror, something catches my eye—a dark-windowed black truck parked flush against a storage building. It’s conveniently tucked behind a bigger red truck. I shift into reverse, rolling backward until I come up next to it. Peering at the windshield, I can’t see anything. In a complete stroke of déjà-vu, the truck’s engine revs. I pull the SUV directly in front of its large chrome grill and open my door, determined to thwart a repeated escape attempt.

  The driver gets out, too. “Lady, you’re crazy! Can’t you see I’m trying to pull out?”

  I walk toward the familiar strawberry blonde. “I can see just fine, Rosemary Hogan. But I can’t let you go anywhere until you answer my questions.”

  41

  ~*~

  I called Miranda in the middle of the night. Russell, ever the gentleman, answered the phone before handing it to her.

  I only managed to say, “I need you to come over right now.” She hung up. I prayed God would bring her to me quickly. Paul wasn’t even home yet from work—or drinking, I wasn’t ever sure which.

  The bleeding had started early in the evening. I couldn’t figure out what to do to stop it. Finally, I lay on the couch, stretching the phone cord taut so I could reach it without moving around.

  I should have called Claire, but couldn’t risk arousing Paul’s suspicions. If he came home, I could easily explain Miranda’s presence.

  Around one-thirty, Miranda rushed in the door, which I’d neglected to lock. She must’ve been freezing in her thin gown and housecoat.

  “Is it the baby?” She ran over to me, kneeling by the couch. I nodded.

  She touched my stomach lightly and I yelped. “Rose, we have to call Bartholomew. Something isn’t right.”

  “He can’t know…he can’t know.” Lights flashed on the edges of my vision.

  “Is there blood?”

  I nodded again.

  “Lots of it?”

  I shook my head.

  She sighed. “Good. That’s good, I think. Has it slowed down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  By the time Paul clomped in the front door at three, Miranda had me cleaned up and tucked snug in my bed. The bleeding had stopped, but I saw the haggard ghost’s face peering at me from my closet.

  “Will you stay?” I grabbed her hand, holding on for dear life. When she was nearby, the ghosts hid.

  “Of course.” She snuggled on the bed next to me, wrapping my extra quilt around herself. “Let’s pray.”

  Her words flowed over me, touching the God I’d felt isolated from for years. My heart joined her as she pled for the health of the baby. For one night, I fell asleep with no hateful faces and words tormenting me. For one night, I forgot my hate and my fear. Surely heaven was hemmed tight with friendship.

  ~*~

  Rosemary leans against her truck, one pale hand on her curvy hip. It’s possible her navy caregiver shirt is a full size too small. No wonder Anthony was impressed with her hotness.

  I point at her. “You’re following me around.”

  She sighs. “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes, I do, actually. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She salutes me. “Yes, ma’am. What’s the bee in your bonnet?”

  “For starters, I’m very interested to know why a waitress from Point Pleasant would suddenly start lurking around an assisted living home in Buckneck.”

  She purses her lips. “Okay. I’m going to lay the cards on the table—I have nothing to hide. I was adopted, okay? I’ve always wondered who my parents were. Then I had these customers from Buckneck who were always saying I’m the spitting image of a dead woman over here. I decided to look into things.”

  My wet toes are frozen. “By ‘look into things,’ what do you mean exactly?”

  “I knew her best friend lived in The Haven, so I volunteered here, hoping to find out more.”

  “And that’s it.”

  She smiles. “I didn’t say that
.”

  Don’t smile yet, girlie. “You were outside in my woods, weren’t you? You came into my cottage that night!”

  The Haven’s heavy front doors close and someone moves toward us. I glance over to see Charlotte plowing through the slush in her heels.

  “Tess, what’s going on? I saw you out the window!”

  Rosemary turns to face her. As she gets closer, Charlotte gasps.

  “Why do I always have that effect?” Rosemary laughs.

  “Has my mother seen you?” Charlotte grabs my arm to stop her own forward motion, eyes fixed on our intrepid waitress.

  “Who, Miranda? Of course not—I’m not a total idiot. I don’t want to give her a heart attack. I stay out of the way, washing sheets and mostly working in the basement.”

  “What about Doctor Cole?” I ask.

  “I don’t think I’ve met him. But why does it matter?” Rosemary kicks at the slush. Cold muddy water splats my good red dress.

  “Hey, knock it off!” Charlotte steps in front of me.

  “Try and stop me.” In one surprisingly fluid movement, Rosemary jumps in her truck, starts it, and backs up. Charlotte pushes me out of the way as Rosemary tears out to the side, scraping the red truck as she goes by.

  We lean against my SUV for a few minutes. Charlotte brings an abrupt end to our breathless silence. “She can’t get anywhere near Mom.”

  “Agreed.”

  “She’s stinking crazy.” Charlotte examines her mud-splattered skirt, then my dress. “Hope our outfits aren’t wrecked. You were right; she’s a dead ringer for Rose. Her daughter, you think?”

  “Has to be. There’s no other explanation. She must be in her late thirties, maybe forties?”

  Charlotte grins. “Do I look that good? I’m forty.”

  “You look better. She only thinks she looks that good.”

  She laughs. “You go home, pregnant momma, and get some sleep. I’ll take that journal off your hands tomorrow.”

  I sigh. I’d forgotten the journal. Hopefully Rosemary will keep her curious self in Point Pleasant tonight. I’d hate for her to get shot creeping around the Spencer property, but she must realize that trespassing around people’s homes isn’t a formula for safety.