Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  On the way home, in the cocoon of my SUV, I feel some measure of closure. Rosemary’s my stalker. She was the one in my woods and in my house. Did she follow me from the Good Doctor’s house in the blue car, too? There’s no telling what she’s done. I guess she’s figured out that she’s Rose’s daughter, and if she’s figured that out, the next part is self-evident.

  Rose didn’t die on New Year’s Eve, 1973.

  42

  ~*~

  Like Thanksgiving, Christmas meant nothing to me. Bartholomew stopped in, bringing me a bright Hopi scarf from Sedona. I smiled, and he gave me a hug, assuming he’d pleased me. In reality, I was thinking I’d wrap our baby in it.

  Still, his gray eyes were shadowed as I answered his questions. I felt I was saying something wrong, but I had no idea what. Why couldn’t people stop interrogating me—Paul, Bartholomew, even Miranda?

  I decided to ask my own questions.

  “Is everything lined up?”

  Bartholomew nodded, stroking my cheek with his hand. “You know how much I love you, right?” He pulled me into his chest. I felt his silent sobs.

  “Of course I know. What’s wrong?”

  He held me, still shaking. “I’m worried.”

  “About what? Paul? He won’t be a problem, once they get their hands on my journal.”

  “No, Rose. I’m worried about you. You’ll be on your own for a while.”

  That was the whole point. The only way to still the ghosts was to leave West Virginia—to leave myself.

  I draped the scarf around my shoulders, whirling. “I’m more resilient than you think, Bartholomew. Trust me.”

  ~*~

  Roger is burning brush behind his house when I drive up to our cottage. He walks over and opens the car door for me, wrapping me in a big hug.

  “How’ve you been doing? Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  “I was visiting Miranda today. Her daughter’s in from Morgantown.”

  “Isn’t that nice? Good when family comes in. Speaking of family, Nikki Jo’s flurrying around again for Andrew’s visit. But I know she was looking for a Christmas shopping buddy…”

  He gives me a mischievous grin. I read between the lines.

  “I’ll give her a call,” I say.

  Roger beams at me, which makes my day. “Thanks, Tess. I can’t handle malls anymore. Sudden moves just put me back in Iraq.”

  Roger, a retired National Guardsman, had been called into the War on Terror way back in 2002.

  “No problem. Thanks for burning our brush.”

  He pats my back and returns to his work. I can’t believe he didn’t ask about my mud-splattered dress. I think men really do have one-track minds.

  I muck through the slush, griping all the way. “Stupid mud. Not a drop of sunlight. It’ll probably snow tomorrow.”

  Petey emerges from the woods behind our cottage, the ever-faithful Thor right behind him.

  “What are you up to?” I ask.

  He adjusts his lopsided wool cap. “I heard some weird woman was in your tree out back.”

  Where does he hear this stuff? Thomas?

  “Don’t worry about it, Petey. I think it was just my imagination.”

  He spits in the snow. “Not like you to imagine stuff. Anyways, just checking it out.”

  Thor careens into me, jumping up for a pat on the head. I oblige. Why not add his muddy paw prints to the mud on my dress? If we’re going for utter ruination of the thing, let’s just dive in headfirst.

  “Get down, Thor!” Petey bops the little dog out of the way. “Sorry. I see you’re all dressed up. I’ll get him outta here.” He picks up the wiggling dog, holding him tight. “How you feeling, Tess?”

  I won’t dump all my woes on my young brother-in-law. “Doing okay.”

  He grins. “Come over sometime to play Xbox, okay? You need some practice.”

  I tweak his ear. “Keep dreaming, bud. I’ll still thump you soundly.”

  I wave and head into the cottage, suddenly ready to sink into the couch. No one told me pregnancy could make you this tired. But then again, I haven’t had time to read many pregnancy books.

  I have a baby growing inside me. That’s the strangest thing, when you come to think of it. A little person, relying on me for nutrients and care. And the reliance only gets stronger once the baby is born.

  Did Rose have a good pregnancy? Apparently it came to fruition, since Rosemary’s walking around. Rose must have faked her suicide. How do you do that? Bartholomew has to be lying. Did Paul also know she wasn’t dead? Or Miranda? Surely Miranda hasn’t been lying to me.

  Their whole era seems tainted now. It’s an odd world where the younger generations seem more trustworthy than the older ones.

  Rosemary Hogan. I’ve heard that last name somewhere. I flip through conversations stored up in my head and finally latch onto Nikki Jo’s voice saying, “I hear the Methodist church is doing a joint service with that little independent church—you know, Miranda, the one Cliff Hogan pastored way back when?”

  Pastor Cliff—Cliff Hogan. But Rose wasn’t having an affair with him. And he must have been dead before Rose, since Miranda took her to his funeral. Rosemary said she was adopted.

  A string of words tumbles into my mind. “Oh what a tangled web we weave…”

  Someone has laid an elaborate plan, one I’m only beginning to unweave. Each strand of the web leads back to something—something that’s been covered up for forty years.

  I have less than two weeks to figure this out and stop Miranda’s marriage, if need be. But the web is tightening around me.

  This summer, I watched a particularly voracious spider killing bugs on our porch. Once, it caught a bee. Though the bee buzzed its wings for all it was worth, it couldn’t get out. It tried desperately to sting the spider. The next day, I checked to see who won. The bee was dead in the web.

  Only one way to get out of a web like that, with a spider that dangerous. You have to cut the web.

  I call Axel’s shop and leave a message with the girl. Snip one.

  Next, I call Nikki Jo. All this time, I’ve had a wealth of reliable information sitting right next door. Snip two.

  By the time Thomas comes home, pizza and wings in hand, I’m ready to give him my undivided attention. I’m no longer merely a well-armed victim. I’m going to hunt down the spider.

  43

  ~*~

  New Year’s Eve, 1973. What better day to leave my oppressive life behind? I’d beat Paul to the punch. He was waiting for me to keel over from his poison—now I’d give him the pleasure of watching me die.

  All day, I worked to get everything in place. I touched my kitchen towel for the last time, cleaned the bathroom for the last time. Only when I walked into my garden did I hesitate. As I took off my ring and arranged my special stones to hide it, I hoped someone would discover it someday and understand the message. I’d weighed Paul and found him wanting. So I was leaving him forever.

  And I was happy to frame him with my death. Sure, there would be the evidence of poisoned food in the fridge. But I needed to leave more behind: thus the rock message, wedding ring, and my journal. Still, I had just one more bit of information that I needed to drop first.

  Miranda came over halfway through the day. I gave her some gingerbread—the last batch I’d ever make. Charlotte climbed over my chairs and couches with abandon, and Miranda barely noticed. “Girl’s a regular monkey,” she said.

  I wanted to feel that kind of enthusiasm again. I wanted freedom from the vows that had wrecked my life.

  I sat in the gold chair, wishing for Cliff’s presence. I felt fake, even to myself. And I knew the truth.

  Miranda’s wide blue eyes fixed on me. “How’s the baby? Any more spotting?”

  “None.” I shifted in the chair, uncomfortable broaching the topic. “I know how you feel about men who beat their wives. I don’t know how to say this, Miranda. Since we met, I’ve been hiding something from you. Paul hits me.�
��

  Her face went crimson. “He what?!!”

  I nodded.

  “While you’re pregnant, too?”

  “No, not lately. I…I just thought you should know.”

  She rubbed her forehead. “Why are you telling me now?”

  “It’s just…if anything happens to me, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What’s going to happen to you? Do we need to get you out of here?”

  I slouched in the chair, trying to hide from the ghost that hovered on the stairs, a look of riotous glee in its black eyes.

  “No, I’m okay. Bartholomew knows too. Even Cliff knew.”

  “But you didn’t tell me? Your best friend?”

  “I couldn’t. I knew you’d have Russell kill him or something. I know how you hate wife-beaters.”

  She sighed. “Yes, I do. My great-granny, God rest her, got beat to death by her no-good drunk of a second husband.” Her gaze sharpened. “So what does he do to you?”

  I knew this question would come, and I was ready for it.

  “Just little things that bruise me. He’s never punched me, but I always worry about it. Especially when he drinks his moonshine.”

  Her eyes widened. “He has moonshine? You have to get rid of that.”

  “Then he’d hit me.”

  “Oh, right.” She bit her fingernails. I knew she’d look for a solution—it was her nature. She didn’t talk through problems; she looked for ways to solve them. “Okay. I’ll talk with Russell and get back to you next week. We’ll figure something out.”

  I gave a half-smile, more to the ghosts than to her. “Thanks, Miranda.”

  ~*~

  Thomas finally consented to leave the journal at home so I could pass it off to Charlotte today. The minute he walks out the door, I start skimming it, hopeful for a clue I’ve missed.

  Instead of reading each entry, I focus on the flower doodles. If I look closely enough, each flower resembles a face—a face with warped features. In fact, they look downright evil. Why was the lovely Rose scrawling demented flowers?

  My phone rings and the Fabled Flowers number pops up. I grab it.

  “Hello?”

  “Ja, Tess. You asked something of me. I traced the Arizona card back to Marilyn Davis. Do you know this woman?”

  “No, I don’t, but I’ll look her up. Thank you, Axel.”

  He doesn’t speak.

  “Axel?”

  “Ja, I was just thinking that perhaps you need my help?”

  I smile. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

  Another pause. I ask, “You still there?”

  “Ja. I must return to Deutschland soon. More training for the flowers.”

  “You’re going all the way to Germany for that? I mean, you’re so good at it, why do you need more training?”

  “It is hard for me. Your West Virginia mountains and forests are like a small Schwarzwald—Black Forest. But also I have family, and there is sickness at home.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’ve truly helped me so much. Thank you. Vielen Dank.”

  “We will meet again, Tess Spencer. Come to the flower shop to find me someday.”

  After our bittersweet goodbyes, I sit and ponder why Axel came back into my life at the exact time I needed his help. I never got to ask him why he moved to West Virginia. And yet…I feel oddly certain I will see him again at some point.

  Finally, I pull out a notebook and write Marilyn Davis in large letters at the top.

  Nikki Jo gave me a name, too. I write it at the top of the next page: Claire Hogan. Cliff’s mother. She moved out of Buckneck, but one of Nikki Jo’s church friends knew her unlisted number. If Cliff faked his death, surely his own mother would know. And she must know something about Rosemary.

  I dig my favorite trouser jeans out of the bottom of my drawer. The top button doesn’t close anymore. “Getting big, are you?” I pat my stomach and receive a small flutter in reply. I can’t wait to see this baby on the ultrasound. Thomas doesn’t want to find out if it’s a boy or girl, but I do. I want to know everything about our child.

  I drive into Buckneck, parking next to the curb in front of Miranda’s three-story, light green house. Charlotte comes out onto the porch barefoot, waving at me.

  “Get in that house! You’re going to freeze out here!” I climb the steps and rush her inside.

  She laughs. “Thanks for your concern, Momma Hen, but it’s probably forty degrees outside. I dated an Iditarod racer—lived in Alaska one summer. This doesn’t begin to be cold.”

  “Oh, excuse me. Whatever, girl.” I look around the familiar living room. It’s dusty and most of the knick-knacks are gone, but it’s retained its homey feel.

  Charlotte follows my gaze, misinterpreting it. “I know—it’s a wreck. I’m cleaning everything with Pine-Sol. You can imagine how long that takes in a house this size.” She walks me into the kitchen, where the smell of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon rolls greets me. She pours the coffee and heats a roll for each of us.

  We sit at the round table where I had so many heart-to-heart conversations with Miranda. “So, what are we up against?” she asks.

  I toy with my silver hoop earring. “I think we need to talk with your mom first.”

  “You think she knows something important?” Charlotte takes an oversized bite, then a big gulp of coffee. For a city girl, she’s astonishingly uninhibited.

  “I know she does. She just doesn’t know what’s important. I have to figure out the right question to stumble onto the right answer.”

  Charlotte giggles. “I feel like George—you know, Nancy Drew’s tall friend? And you’re Nancy. We need to find a Bess.”

  I wish I shared Charlotte’s excitement. But I’m married, almost in my second trimester, and sick of getting stalked. She just signed up for this gig.

  “I can read your face,” she says. “I know this is dangerous. Listen, it means so much to me that you care about Mom like I do. We’ll wrap this up before she marries Paul—or doesn’t marry him.”

  I pull Rose’s journal out of my quilted bag. “Read over this and see if you can make more sense of it than I did. My takeaway was that Paul hit Rose and that Rose was obsessed with poisonous flowers.”

  “Paul beat Rose? But he talked like he was part of the coal camp chain gang that took out wife-beaters.”

  “I know. Nothing fits.”

  “Let’s ask Mom.”

  44

  ~*~

  After Miranda left, I called Paul’s supervisor at the coal camp and left a message that I felt lightheaded. I hoped it’d be enough to bring him home earlier. He didn’t leave then, but he did get home around six that night—definitely earlier than usual.

  A strange nostalgia swept over me as Paul pulled off his dirty boots, walking across my floor in his work-blackened pants. He knelt by the gold chair where I sat in my favorite rosebud-cotton gown.

  I offered him my hand. “I’m feeling some better, but I’m still a little lightheaded. Could you bring me something hot to drink?”

  Paul stared. He wasn’t used to my touch, much less a direct request from me. And I knew this request left the door wide open to poison me.

  “Sure—sure thing, Rosey.”

  As he walked into the kitchen, I hoped he felt the full weight of his murderous thoughts. He’d be alone for life, but he’d chosen that. He didn’t deserve happiness any more than I did.

  Bartholomew was on his way over. I’d called him the moment I saw Paul’s car. He had a trumped-up excuse ready. In reality, he had to arrive before Paul started examining me.

  Smiling like a cat staring at an open fish tank, Paul came back, holding the full mug in front of him. I wished I could stand and punch his face. Instead, I smiled back as he handed me the swirling, bubbly cocoa. I touched the liquid, dropping the pills in as I blew on it. What goes around comes back around, Paul Campbell. You reap what you sow. I took one gulp, then another.

  The effect wasn’t immediate, but qui
ck enough for Paul to see it. My hips and legs lost their strength. The room was too hot, so I let go of the mug, its spilled contents warming my lap. When the stringy-haired blonde ghost shot toward me from the stairway, yawning black eyes ready to swallow me whole, I knew I’d succeeded.

  ~*~

  The temperature’s dropped by the time we get to The Haven. I pull my bomber jacket tighter, then fixate on Charlotte’s light hoodie. “What is it with you and underdressing, Iditarod Groupie?”

  I really hope Rosemary’s not here today. I wouldn’t mind talking with her again, asking more questions, but today we need to focus on Miranda. Maybe if we let her see the journal, it’ll float some important detail to the surface.

  We knock on her door, and the Good Doctor opens it. My thoughts scatter, then realign with proper Southern manners.

  “Doctor Cole. Nice to see you. This is Charlotte, Miranda’s daughter.”

  Charlotte reaches out to shake his hand. As her warm, flashing eyes meet his calm, sea-gray gaze, the words Fire and Water spring to mind. I hadn’t thought of it before, but the Good Doctor is very much like water, fitting in wherever he needs to. Ever-present, but never obtrusive. Calming, comforting, yet inescapable. My arms get goose-bumps. No matter how earnest and open he seems, Bartholomew is far from transparent.

  He leans over to me, spicy scent once again disarming my negative thoughts. That stuff is like Kryptonite. “How’s it going?” he whispers.

  I lean into the doorframe for support. “I’m hanging in there.”

  “Good. I’ll be home today if you need anything.”

  He walks down the hall, his long, tailored black coat swirling around him like a cape. Charlotte stands motionless in the doorway. When he turns the corner, she says, “If you need anything? What’s that all about?”

  “Nothing…seriously, nothing.”

  She huffs. “Okay. He’s fair game, right? I like older men.”

  “I think he’s taken—by a dead woman. Or at least she used to be dead. And he’s in his sixties, just like your Mom.”