Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  Bartholomew had loved me when I seemed weak and unprotected. When I’d stood up to him, he’d decided to end things. I didn’t blame him. I was a loose cannon rolling all over his perfectly ordered ship, ready to blast off at any time.

  I clung to Pastor Cliff’s words. He planned to come today, after lunch. Nervousness threatened to undo my happiness. What if Paul came home early from work? To be safe, I hid all his guns—all the ones I could find.

  As soon as I heard the familiar cherry-bomb muffler on Cliff’s truck, I relaxed. He brought some kind of peace with him. I wanted more of it.

  Snow still lay on parts of the grass, but most of it had melted into our dirt driveway, churning it up like a muddy pigsty. I knew I’d have to go out and flatten the mud with a shovel, once Cliff left.

  I should’ve canceled our meeting. I knew it would be cutting it close. But I was selfish.

  Cliff never touched a bite of that gingerbread.

  ~*~

  Paul’s dirt driveway winds halfway up the side of a mountain, miles from anyone else. I wonder how he gets out in the winter. He seems to sense my question.

  “Had to get myself a tractor, years ago. State don’t plow these back roads. Got a generator, too, in case I have to hole up for awhile. It’s come in handy a few times, let me tell you. Especially in that windstorm last year.”

  None of us will soon forget the derecho of 2012—that wall of wind that took down trees like toothpicks and barely left a yard unscathed. In those hundred-degree temperatures, our power had been out for five days. After that, Roger went out and bought four generators, just in case.

  Sunlight barely filters through the thick pines, but then a low green hill bursts into view. The craftsman house sitting atop it seems to fit perfectly. Somehow it resembles the magic gingerbread house in fairy tales: its windows, stonework, and dark siding meeting at various unexpected angles.

  Miranda takes a deep breath, like she’s preparing to dive underwater. In a way, she is. The last time she saw her friend alive was probably in this house.

  Paul reaches over and holds her hand. Maybe that’s what she gets from him—a physical connection. Ever since I’ve known the Grande Dame, she’s always been a hugger. She must feel stranded without a husband and no family nearby.

  Paul pulls into the circular drive, right next to the front porch. I immediately notice the six steps leading up to the front door. Miranda’s supposed to live here?

  Again, Paul senses my thoughts, which totally freaks me out. “I’m building a ramp on the side of the porch. That way it’ll be easier for Miranda. I plan to find a van that’s easier for wheelchairs, too.”

  He smiles. Something deep inside me recoils. He’s hiding the truth; I know it. But what is the truth here? We both know the only way Paul can afford a new van is with Miranda’s money. And a great deal of Miranda’s money is Rose’s. I imagine a dog licking its chops, hungry for the food in hand. The Grande Dame needs to grip it tighter, not drop it to the ground for Paul.

  My lips crack as I return a tight smile. It’s time for a little on-the-spot research. This used to be Rose’s house, after all. I’m sure Paul didn’t get rid of all her stuff.

  Paul picks Miranda up and shuffles toward the stairs. Instead of bringing the wheelchair along, I stand at the base of the steps, arms outstretched, in case the thin man drops her. Once he safely reaches the porch landing, I grab the heavy wheelchair and haul it up the stairs in about three seconds. Paul shoots me an inscrutable grin.

  While Paul settles Miranda in her chair, I wander to the side of the half-wraparound porch. The back yard stretches below us with so many flowerbeds, I can’t count them. The yellowed summer stalks lie on the ground, blurring the sharp brick boundaries of the beds. Rows of unkempt boxwoods flank an arching white wicker arbor. Lush grass is visible just beyond it, hinting at even more cultivated space.

  “Never have been able to keep up with the flowers. Rosey had a knack with them. Especially the rosebushes.” Paul’s standing right behind me.

  I glance behind him for Miranda, but she’s not on the porch. Must’ve gone inside.

  “I heard she loved to garden.” My neck hair prickles as I force myself to focus on the flowerbeds again. I’m casual. I’m not worried about who’s standing behind me.

  “I’m going to fix us some coffee.” Paul turns back toward the house. “Feel free to walk around.”

  Too happy to oblige, I power-walk down the steps, into the back yard. Though Paul’s not in sight, I still feel watched. There’s a presence here—it has to be Rose. I don’t give much credence to ghosts communicating with the living. But I can’t help wonder, what would she try to tell me?

  I wish Nikki Jo were here, so she could point to each dead plant and tell me what it was. One thing I do know—there aren’t any roses here. But Paul had mentioned rose bushes. As I pass under the looming arbor, a hidden garden takes my breath away.

  Unpruned rose bushes twine into each other, forming a thorny labyrinth. From the faded blooms on the branches, I can tell Rose had every color of the rainbow—butter yellows, raspberry pinks, icy whites—everything.

  Any income she had must have gone into these bushes. And probably intense physical effort. When I examine the base of the bushes, thin black pipes of a watering system protrude slightly under the disintegrated mulch chips.

  Tucked under a red rosebush, a small pile of quartz chunks catches my eye. Maybe a burial spot for a favorite animal? But what an odd place for it. I turn one over, surprised to see words written in faded permanent marker.

  It says “Mene.” Strange name for a pet.

  I turn over another. “Mene,” again. Another language? Thomas said Rose’s dad was French. I shift the pile of rocks around, poking my finger in the soft dirt beneath. A glint of metal, maybe a pop can tab, loops into the ground.

  Paul calls from the front porch. “Coffee! And cake!”

  I grab a nearby stick, determined to dislodge the tab. With a plink, a dirt-encrusted white gold ring lands near my foot. When I wipe it off, a little rose etched inside shouts to me like a voice from the grave.

  Rose buried her wedding ring.

  The weather shifts, wind ripping at the legs of my chinos and rearranging my bangs, like it’s got a personal vendetta. Blue-gray clouds hang low in a hazy white sky. For late fall, the day’s oddly warm. A weather front moving in…a change we weren’t prepared for…

  I shove the ring in my pocket, figuring Paul doesn’t need to see it yet. I’ve seen those words on the rocks before, in church. Once I get home, maybe I’ll pull out my Bible or ask Nikki Jo about them.

  Now it’s time to go into the gingerbread house. Such a cheery house on the outside. Why do I suspect that evil will emanate from within?

  15

  ~*~

  We talked about heavy things that day, like how my mother pushed me to marry Paul. Over and over, she’d repeated the chorus “He’s such a nice young man.” To the day she died, she’d covered for Paul’s overbearing ways, telling everyone I was some kind of shy recluse. She seemed to think that Paul’s hovering, oppressive demeanor trumped my father’s absentee lifestyle.

  Cliff asked about Bartholomew. I couldn’t explain how much, yet how little he meant to me. Yes, I missed his protection, his willingness to defend me at our dinner parties. I missed the feel of his long, tan fingers as they traced the hollow under my neck. I couldn’t walk under my arbor without imagining his spicy scent, lingering in the air.

  But he’d refused to support me when it counted. So I’d convinced myself he didn’t really love me, not the way I needed to be loved.

  I wondered how Cliff would counsel me—to forget about Bartholomew and focus on my husband? The husband who wouldn’t share my bed? The husband who snarled like a wolf when he didn’t get his way?

  Or did Cliff care too much about me? Did he want me for himself?

  I never found out. Paul came home early.

  ~*~

  Paul’s h
ands tremble as he pours the coffee into navy WVU mugs. They’re so chipped, it’s entirely possible he bought them the year the University was founded. As he sets them on the kitchen table, he gives us an apologetic glance.

  “I wasn’t able to keep Rose’s china, so these will have to do.”

  Miranda smiles. “Oh, I’d forgotten! She had the Old Country Roses pattern. I remember using it all the times we got together. She didn’t worry about chipping her dishes. ‘Might as well use our pretty things while we can,’ she’d say. I’d always tell her she was too bleak…I guess she was right after all.” Miranda ducks her head for a sip of coffee. She’d prefer tea, but Paul doesn’t know that.

  The store-bought carrot cake crumbles in my mouth, like it was made a week ago. I start planning my escape after one drink of the watery coffee.

  At least Paul didn’t get rid of the furniture. The house is chock-full of ornate mahogany pieces that would probably be worth a small fortune. Why would he hold onto them? Or to this big house? Has he been gunning for Miranda all along, hoping to have something to offer her?

  A crumb lodges in my throat, starting up a fully-fledged coughing spasm.

  “Tess honey, you okay?” Miranda reaches for me across the table.

  I point to the nearby bathroom and rush out, hacking as I go. The crumb’s long gone, but I’m buying some time. When I came in, I noticed the bathroom had a back door. Maybe it opens into the master bedroom? If not, I can always sneak out and upstairs for a little spying.

  Sequestered in the bathroom, I check the old aqua medicine cabinet. My controlled substance pill-spotting abilities are keen, since Mom was addicted to painkillers. There’s nothing in the cabinet besides regular old-person medications: eyedrops, laxatives, vitamins, and heart pills. But the heart pills are Rose’s prescription. I pull out the bottle—sure enough, it’s Digoxin, exactly what Doc Cole said she overdosed on. Surely Paul didn’t keep the bottle? How twisted would that be?

  I test the loose knob on the back bathroom door. It opens into a dark-paneled room. Once my eyes adjust, I can make out bookshelves lining the walls. A library. The thick dust nearly chokes me, bringing on a sneeze I barely manage to stifle.

  Obviously, Paul hasn’t been in here much, if at all, in the forty years since Rose died. If I were Rose, where would I hide something? She was a recluse who loved flowers and gardening. If only she’d had a potting shed—you always find evidence in potting sheds in Agatha Christie books.

  The library would be the next obvious place. If she hid something in the kitchen or bedroom, Paul would likely go through it when she died. And, assuming she committed suicide, she knew she was going to die. Maybe she needed to hide something personal.

  I look at the worn bindings, wiping some with my finger to read the titles. Encyclopedias; classics; cookbooks. I drag the step-stool over to reach the top shelf, admiring the hand-carved built-ins. If someone polished up the wood, these burled-wood shelves would be amazing.

  One large book spine sticks out from the rest. The Language of Flowers. I tug at a couple books near it: Care and Maintenance of Roses. Rose Pests.

  I don’t know why I’m so certain Rose hid something, but I feel connected to her somehow. The more superstitious part of me says it’s her ring in my pocket. Yet if I’m honest, all I know about her is that she was friends with Miranda, she was married to a guy I can’t stand, and she had an affair with a handsome doctor.

  The Language of Flowers seems the best place to start. I pull it all the way out, flipping through the pages. Several corners are turned down, but I need to hurry, so I set it down and go back to rummaging.

  One small red book catches my eye, so I take it down. There’s a skull and crossbones on the cover, entwined with flower vines. The cursive title reads: Deadly Blooms: Flowers that Kill.

  My stomach clenches. Or is it the baby? I have no idea what the baby’s kicks and movements are supposed to feel like at this stage.

  I take the books and sneak back into the bathroom, coughing a little for effect. Where on earth can I hide them? They won’t fit under my shirt and I didn’t bring a jacket. The cabinet under the sink looks hopeful. Sure enough, it’s full of towels. I arrange the books between two ratty, avocado-green wonders. Miranda’s used to fresh, super fluffed towels, and this is what Paul has to offer? This impending marriage is heading for an epic fail.

  The kitchen’s been evacuated by the time I get back. Miranda’s laughter carries in from the living room, so I follow it. She’s sitting by the stonework fireplace, holding a glass framed picture.

  The sunlight picks out the whites in her salt-and-pepper hair. “Good gracious, dear, I wondered what happened to you! I almost asked Paul to go knock on the door, but we both agreed that wasn’t good manners.”

  “So sorry! Just took a lot of coughing to clear my throat for some reason. What’s that picture you have?”

  “Oh honey, it’s an old one of Rose and me, at a dinner party a long time ago. Look at how we were standing—didn’t we just think we were the stuff?”

  My eyes range over the young Miranda first. Hands on her hips, chin set, snazzy tweed pants and vest, she looked like a Hollywood glamour girl.

  But once I see Rose, I nearly drop the heavy Waterford frame. Full lips, full hips, and huge wide-set eyes. Creamy skin with peachy undertones. Long strawberry-blonde hair. I’ve seen this woman before.

  It’s the waitress, Rosemary.

  16

  ~*~

  The minute I heard Paul’s car coming up the driveway, I told Cliff to hide. Of course, it was foolish. His orange truck sat square in the middle of the drive. Even traveling salesmen never came up that far.

  “Tell him it was an emergency of some kind,” I begged Cliff. But what? My parents were dead. “A miscarriage. Tell him I had a miscarriage.”

  “Have you even been with him lately?” Once again, Cliff knew me better than I thought. He was right, Paul would never buy that.

  “Okay. We’ll say…I wanted to get baptized. You had to nail down the date and talk through my decision. Surely he can’t oppose a baptism?”

  “A baptism it is. Someday, you’re going to have to stand up to him, though. And I’ll be there to back you up. I’m sure Bartholomew will help, too.”

  The front door opened and slammed into the wall. Things moved in slow motion as Paul strode over to the couch where I sat.

  “And what have we here?” He didn’t even look at Cliff as his eyes fixed on mine. A flush started at my chest, but I tried to repress it. I had to believe my lie.

  “Paul, this is Pastor Cliff, from church. I’ve been thinking about things, and I decided I need to get baptized. He came over to talk about it and get the details ironed out.”

  Paul rotated his head slowly to Cliff, who looked relaxed in the golden chair. My husband extended his hand. “Well, right nice to have you, Pastor.”

  A fake smile spread across Paul’s face. Hypocrite. Maybe my mother fell for that smile, but Cliff wouldn’t.

  The pastor stood a good five inches taller than Paul. “Appreciate this chance to talk about spiritual things with your wife, Paul. We’d love to have her in church every Sunday.” Cliff’s words meant nothing to me—it was his tone that spoke volumes. It was the tone a leader uses, or a king. Someone who would be obeyed. I wanted to follow that leader to his truck and ride away from my house and my empty marriage forever.

  Paul’s smile froze, exposing only his upper teeth. I hated those teeth. I wanted to smash them with a baseball bat. I wanted to—

  “I’ll think on that, Pastor. In the meantime, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get my supper.”

  It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, and Paul knew full well I didn’t have supper ready at this hour. He was going to throttle me. With my eyes, I begged Cliff not to leave me alone.

  But even though Cliff could practically read my mind, he didn’t stay. He didn’t ask me to join him. He simply said, “Alrighty then. See you at church so
metime, Rose.”

  I couldn’t tear my eyes from Cliff’s red hair and plaid shirt as he walked out the door. He was leaving me alone with my husband.

  His loud muffler roared to life, and I listened as it faded into the distance. Paul would definitely wait until the Pastor was gone to start hitting me. I turned to see where he was standing, so I could get a head start. I would run up the long drive, deep into the woods, anywhere to get away this time.

  But Paul was gone. Maybe he was looking for his guns? Or a knife in the kitchen. I stood, frozen like a stalked deer. Cowardice flowed through me, and I loathed myself.

  The sound of car tires sliding in the muddy drive brought me to life. Paul was leaving. Why? In jerks and starts, Paul’s car headed all the way out the driveway, then vanished from view.

  I put on my warmest coat and gloves and hid in the woods for two hours, watching the house. The car didn’t return. Finally, cold and mentally drained, I trudged back. Paul’s pistol was waiting where I’d hid it, so I loaded it and stashed it under my pillow. I didn’t expect him to come to my room, but if he did, I was ready.

  After a sleepless night, I went downstairs at sunrise to pack Paul’s lunch. He was sitting at the table, sipping coffee. He looked up from his paper with a smile.

  A creeping premonition came over me—something that tasted like bile in my mouth. He was never happy, unless he knew I was unhappy. So he must know something…where did he go in that car? As I puttered around the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

  After he left, I sat by the phone and waited. I called the church, but no one answered. Finally, at three o’clock, the phone rang, yanking me from my unwelcome nap.

  “Rose?” I recognized Cliff’s mother’s voice, with its hint of brogue.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Her voice cracked. “There’s been an accident. I wouldn’t have called you, but I saw on Cliff’s calendar he was supposed to meet with you today.”