Fatal 5

by Karin Kaufman

  “Charlotte, you can’t go alone. What if he’s wrapped up in weirdness and we just haven’t figured it out?”

  “Like any self-respecting single girl, I carry a handy-dandy can of pepper spray. Try to control your jealousy, you knife-wielding, Glock-waving woman.”

  I laugh. “Okay. My instincts tell me the Good Doctor’s not going to hurt us.”

  “Where’d you get these infallible instincts?”

  I set the wriggling Velvet on the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “Alright, wish me well. Signing off for now.”

  “Call on my cell if you need me. You know I’d get over to Putnam County in a heartbeat.”

  “I know. You’ve got my back. But who has yours, Tess?”

  A question I’ve asked myself many times.

  By the time I give Velvet a little food, I’m ready for coffee. I rinse out the French press, then set the pot boiling on the stove. My eyes wander to our nearly-bare walls. We need more paintings. It feels like we’re not completely moved in, but it’ll be our baby’s first home.

  For some reason, I think back to my last conversation with Paul—his brokenness, his obvious concern for Rose, and his kindness to me. I almost liked him.

  Thomas comes down an hour later, grabbing the last cup of coffee and frying a couple of eggs before giving me a long look. “You sticking around today?”

  I swoop my arms toward the fast-wilting Christmas tree. “Well, you know taking down our tree might take a while.”

  He laughs. “I must admit your tree was slightly more traditional than my mom’s this year.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  He nudges Velvet away as she starts climbing his leg. “We’re going out shooting at the range today. You want to come?”

  The range consists of a bunch of buckets and milk jugs propped against a dirt bunker way out on the family property. “Who’s going?”

  “You know—Dad, Andrew, and Petey.”

  “Sounds like a guys’ day out. No thanks. I’ll chill here. I think your mom will be resting—Helga left already. I saw her rental car pull out earlier.”

  “Poor Helga. Poor Icelandic beauty.”

  “You should talk with your brother. He’s full of marriage questions.”

  “Highly appropriate for him to formulate said questions after he’s dated nonstop for a couple years.”

  I walk over and rub his strong shoulders. “Thomas. You need to go easier on him. Some people just take a little longer to settle down.”

  He kisses me, his breath pleasantly heavy with coffee. Those dark eyes make me want to hold his attention forever.

  “I hope our daughter gets your eyes,” I say.

  “Daughter? Did I miss something?”

  “Oh, no…it’s just that Miranda and this other old woman told me it’s a girl.”

  “Did they really? I’d like that. An itty-bitty Tessa Brooke.” He lays a hand on my stomach. The baby kicks slightly under it.

  “She says, ‘Hi, Daddy!’”

  He takes one last swig of the black brew and gently grips my upper arms. “You know I love you?”

  I kiss him. “Of course I do. You be careful shooting.”

  “Always.” He runs upstairs to change and get the guns ready.

  Hours later, I walk out on the porch, taking in the clean beauty of the fresh-fallen coat of snow. I break off a piece of greenery from my wreath. It’s dying fast. I don’t want to make the correlation to Miranda—her recent heart problems, her shriveling hands—but she’s aged so quickly, just in these past three months.

  Our home phone rings—not the call from Charlotte I’ve been waiting for. Caller I.D. says it’s Paul Campbell.

  “Hi, Paul.”

  “This isn’t Paul, Tess.”

  My heart stops.

  She laughs. “From your silence, I assume you know who I am. Do you think you could come talk with me today?”

  I find my voice. “Why?”

  “Because you have Miranda’s best interests at heart. And because I can clear up a few of your pressing questions.”

  Is she the spider? Or is she trapped in a bigger web?

  Velvet snuggles onto my foot, strangely disconnected with my reality. It’s like I’m in a car wreck, trapped in that slow-motion, fast-motion moment of impact. This is really happening, and I have to do something about it. “I’ll be over in about an hour.”

  56

  ~*~

  She pulls up slowly, easing her red SUV up our long, snow-covered driveway. Smart girl—she knows how to handle our mountain roads.

  When she gets out, I’m struck by the juxtaposition of old and new with her. Dark twenties-era bob, battered bomber jacket, and scuffed motorcycle boots. Yet her young, fair face is unlined and innocent—fresh as one of my double-bloomed white roses.

  She strides up to my door, full of confidence—formidable.

  I let her knock three times, holding my breath on the other side. I try not to notice the cackles of ghosts that race up and down the stairs. I compose my face and open the door slowly, a poem running through my mind:

  “Out flew the web and floated wide;

  The mirror cracked from side to side;

  ‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

  The Lady of Shalott.”

  ~*~

  Rose is so well-kept, I could be looking at Rosemary. I don’t think she’s had Botox or facelifts, either. What stands before me is an über-specimen of femininity—a modern Eve.

  She smiles without showing her teeth, though I have a feeling they’re still white. She must’ve sold her soul to the devil to stay preserved in time. She doesn’t have one white hair on her head.

  “Come in.” It’s a command. Therefore, I hesitate. But she goes ahead of me and sits in the gold embroidered chair.

  I sit on the couch. “I feel like I’m seeing a ghost.”

  Her laugh sounds strange—almost strangled.

  “I’m no ghost. I’m Marilyn Davis.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Of course you are. Thanks for the roses, Marilyn—I mean, Rose.”

  “Don’t call me that. I left Rose Campbell behind forty years ago.” She says it with conviction. “I sent those flowers to warn you. I even warned Miranda twice. I don’t want her marrying Paul.”

  I brace myself. “And why’s that?”

  “You read my journal—don’t deny it. I understand why you did. You’re looking out for Miranda. But you know why she can’t marry him. He tried to poison me.”

  “So you said. And are you looking out for her? She used to be your best friend.”

  “Of course I am.” She leans back, looking past me to the window, as if she’s soaking up sunrays through its wavery glass. Or is she soaking up some kind of strength?

  “Is that why you brought me over, to have me talk Miranda out of the wedding? You know better than I do how stubborn she is.”

  “I don’t question that, my dear. No, I wanted to know where my Rosemary is living. I’ve seen you poking around and I figured you’d know.”

  “Hm. Here’s what I know—I know you pulled a gun on Claire Hogan, a helpless old woman. Why should I tell you where Rosemary is?”

  Rose looks toward the stairs, smiling sweetly. I turn, feeling someone behind me, but there’s no one there. Goosebumps cover my arms and I shiver.

  She reaches behind her back, pulling out a snub-nose revolver. She lays it on the side table, pointed at me.

  “You must be talking about this gun. I did take it to Claire’s, but I just asked her the same question I’m asking you. Unfortunately, her information didn’t help me much. I was hoping yours would be more accurate.”

  She waves in front of her face, as if batting away an invisible bird.

  Music sounds in my pocket. “It’s my cell phone. I should probably answer it.”

  “Of course, of course.” She swipes again at the air.

  I try to steady my voice. “Hello?”

  Charlotte says,
“You ready for this?”

  “Um, sure. I’m busy…gardening.”

  “Gardening? At this time of year?” She doesn’t wait for my response, whispering loudly into the phone. “I’m at the Doctor’s now. You were right. He’s been withholding something from us—something Miranda and Paul sort of understood, but not completely.”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay? Tess, where are you? Home?”

  “Not mine.”

  Rose leans forward.

  Charlotte’s voice returns to normal. “He’s in the kitchen, but he knows I’m talking to you. Listen, Rose wasn’t sane when the Doctor took her to Arizona—well, maybe long before then. Point is, he put her in a psych ward, Tess. She was certifiable.”

  “Nothing new,” I say.

  “What do you mean? How did you—wait, where are you again?”

  Rose fingers her gun. I hang up, shrugging. “Mother-in-law.”

  She smiles. “I’ve made a special treat for us. It was Cliff’s favorite. Wait, no, it was Paul’s favorite, but I made it for Cliff…oh, everything gets so muddled when you get older.”

  She carries the revolver into the kitchen. It’s the perfect chance to bolt for it, but I feel frozen to the couch. What if I run and she shoots? I can’t risk the baby. I wish I’d taken time to tell Thomas where I was going; to get the Glock from him…instead, I’d decided Rose was just misunderstood, not really dangerous. Famous last thoughts, I guess.

  She comes back quickly, bearing a tray of carefully-iced gingerbread men in one hand and her gun in the other. “I put my special ingredient in there—see if you can guess what it is.” She holds one out to me.

  I make a last-ditch effort. “My stomach is off—I’m pregnant.”

  Her eyes widen. “You are?”

  “Yes. And I get sick easily.”

  A sudden knock startles us both. She looks to the stairs, asking someone I can’t see, “Should I answer it?”

  Apparently, that someone says, “Yes.” Rose walks to the front door, gun in her sweater pocket.

  The door opens before she reaches for the knob. Paul steps in, looking not the least bit shocked. “Rosey…I had a feelin’ you were around.”

  “No. I’m not Rosey. I’m Marilyn.”

  He grabs her arms. “You’re Rose. Remember me? I’m the husband you left in the lurch forty years ago.” He pushes her toward the chair. Her legs give and she sits. “What did you go and do that for, Rosey? I had to watch you die!”

  She’s so close to me again. All I can think of is that revolver.

  “Just like you took Cliff from me?”

  “I swear, I never saw he’d run off the road. The only thing I was guilty of was trying to find some love at a bar that night. The coroner ruled the pastor’s death an accident—you know how icy our road gets!”

  Rose ignores Paul’s reasoning. She picks up a cookie, handing it to Paul. “Here…it’s your favorite.”

  As he takes it, she pulls the gun, aiming it at me. She quickly regains her composure. “Paul, you were dead to me the first time you hurt me.”

  He grips the cookie. “When did I hurt you? When you had that first miscarriage? I didn’t touch you after that, Rosey.”

  “Lies! Lies!” She gestures to the stairs. “They know you’re lying.”

  “Rose, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I loved you. You were the one who stayed away from me. You didn’t let me near your bed—”

  Her eyes nearly shoot sparks as she looks from me to Paul. “You hit me, Paul. From the time we got married.”

  Bit by bit, he’s moving to the right, beginning to block me. “Now, look here, Rose. You know that ain’t true. Never once did I lay a finger on you that way. And what were you doing with that poison book? Weren’t you planning to get rid of me?”

  I lean to the left, thinking of nothing but my child as Paul distracts Rose. He’s moving into place as my human shield. At some point, I need to run.

  She stands, gun extended. “I won’t say I wasn’t.” She turns, as if listening to something over her shoulder. Paul chooses this moment to knock her arm straight up. The gun clatters to the floor. “Run!” he shouts.

  I jerk my body up through what feels like layers of sand, running into the bathroom. As I slam the door, locking it with trembling fingers, a single gunshot rings through the gingerbread house.

  57

  ~*~

  He’s a stupid fool, isn’t he, Mother? A liar. Bartholomew and Cliff knew Paul beat me. Everyone knew I was right. Everyone except Tess Spencer, asking all her nosy questions. She deserves to die, doesn’t she? She should join Paul.

  Blood seeps from his head onto my rug. Once again, you’re dirtying up my rugs, Paul Campbell. The ghosts laugh at my joke. Like sharks in the water, they want to see more blood.

  “Tess?” I shout. “Come on out! He was lying, honey!”

  I walk toward the bathroom, then stop short. My old stringy-haired nemesis is perched above the door, wielding a sword, back and forth, back and forth.

  Her eyes are still hollow and her mouth doesn’t move. But her screeching command fills my head. “Too late to be a mother, Rosey. Time to eat the gingerbread.”

  I turn, dropping the gun. The curse has come upon me, brought by a flower-fresh girl with an old soul. A girl who wouldn’t stop asking questions. A girl who summoned my death angel from the pit of hell.

  I choose a gingerbread woman from the tray, with yellow hair and bright eyes. I’ve died before, so this shouldn’t hurt one bit.

  ~*~

  I claw at the library window, trying to open it. It seems to be glued shut. The bathroom doors that stand between us are too flimsy. Rose is calling to me, so I know she must have shot Paul. Poor Paul. All that time, I should’ve trusted him. Of course Miranda was right to love him.

  She’s walking toward the bathroom. Dear God, I want to know you better on earth. Please don’t take me to heaven yet. I want to see my baby. Thank you, Amen.

  She stops, talking to someone. A rescuer? I hold my breath, cracking the inside bathroom door to hear better. She walks back toward the couch. There’s some kind of scuffling, then a gagging sound, then silence. Maybe Paul isn’t dead?

  If only I could sneak out and get my phone, but who knows what’s going on out there? I pull my knife from my pocket—leave it to me to bring a knife to a gun fight.

  I wait. Should I shout? What if she’s waiting for me? As if on cue, the baby kicks me, hard. No way I’m risking your life, little one. I’ll stay in here as long as I can.

  Shadows play off the walls. It's an ordinary, sunny day outside this gingerbread house. But inside…I don’t want to think about who Rose talked to on the steps. Someone I couldn’t see…

  I sink to the floor, resting my head on a bookshelf. Funny how you never wake up knowing it’s your day to die.

  In the dark stillness, I try to relax. Instead, my restless legs force me to jump up and pace the room. Something has to happen…

  After what seems like an hour, after I’ve worn a trail in the rug, the front door opens. Someone rushes into the house. “Tess! Where are you, Tess?”

  It’s Thomas. Thank you, God.

  “Here,” I croak, stumbling through both bathroom doors. I’m not braced for the grisly scene in the living room.

  Paul lies near the couch, dark eyes open. A pool of blood, darker than what they show in movies, puddles beneath him.

  Rose lies crumpled next to him, a piece of cookie still gripped in her hand. She’s left a bloody footprint trail, leading to the bathroom door. What halted her from shooting her way in?

  The Good Doctor pauses in the open doorway, stoically surveying the scene. Then he moves quickly, touching the necks of this tragic couple. He shakes his head at Thomas’ police officer buddy standing by the stairs.

  As the Doctor turns to go back outside, his detachment falters for one instant. Recognizing the raw look of disbelief in his soft eyes, I can’t hold back my sobs.


  Charlotte seems to materialize out of nowhere and hugs me. “You’re in shock. We’ll get you back to Nikki Jo’s. She’ll know what to do.”

  “You…figured it out? From the call?”

  “Yes, the minute you said you weren’t home, I knew. I brought the Doctor, called Thomas, and we all came here.”

  Thomas and Charlotte each hold an arm, walking me outside. The Good Doctor stands on the side of the porch, staring at the flowerbeds.

  “Wait!” I pull away and stagger toward the Doctor. I fish deep in my jacket pocket, finally finding what I need. I press Rose’s wedding band into his palm. “Give this to your daughter, Rosemary,” I say. “We’ll make sure she finds you.”

  The Doctor grips the ring, recognition lighting his weary eyes. “You don’t mean…”

  “You did have a child, Doc. And she looks just like her mother.”

  I lean against the wall as a wave of lightheadedness hits me. Charlotte and Thomas again close in on me, ready to walk me to the SUV.

  A sad smile plays on the Doctor’s lips. “Thank you…for getting to the truth, Tess.”

  When I collapse into the seat, Charlotte gives me a hug. Her warmth seems to pour fresh light into my heart. “Don’t worry, it’s all okay now.”

  I remember Axel’s confident words: “Do not fear. All will be well.”

  And so it is.

  58

  ~*~

  Dear Mom,

  Thanks for your letter. It came to Nikki Jo’s mailbox. My new address is on the envelope.

  I hear you’re in the Women’s Prison over at Alderson. That looks like a decent place—shoot, if it’s good enough for Martha Stewart, it’s good enough for my momma!

  Been thinking about you a lot. We found out we’re having a girl. She’s doing great, kicking away something fierce. Still thinking about names.

  I just want you to know that I’m starting to realize how hard it was, having to raise me with Dad gone. I don’t know how you made ends meet with that hotel housekeeper job. I know you felt like you had to help pay my way through college. I wish you hadn’t gone about it the way you did, but I know your heart was in the right place.