Rest in Peace

Rest in Peace

By Madeline Brady

Dedicated to my grandma, for being amazing, and posing for the cover and not making a fuss.

Maple Leaf Book Writing Project

Brattleboro, VT

Copyright 2014

In the days before the end of the world, everything seemed perfectly normal; dawn broke, leaves fell from the trees, and the sky was bleak. Children went to school, adults went to work, and everything was generally ordinary, But most importantly, Catherine Cartwright was alive.

Blackhall Daily Gazette; Friday, February 7th, 2017

New Hampshire- Catherine Cartwright, a 35 year old graduate of the University of Phoenix, was found dead in her apartment by her boyfriend (False-she was found by a teenager on his way to school) at around 6:50am on Wednesday, February 5. This tragedy strikes only weeks after her mother, Janice Cartwright, passed away of natural causes. Catherine was a loving woman who cared deeply for animals, and couldn’t bear to be away from her sister. (Her sister, Lucy, had hated her since the day she was born, as Catherine was their parents’ favorite) No cause of death was apparent. (That part was true, about no known cause of death. She had died of nothing that the naked eye could see, although she did smell strangely of pickles) A funeral is slated for the 8th. Her father is in deep mourning for the loss of his eldest child. Donations can be made to Catherine’s family at 207-349-2361, or 38 Kingston Drive.

George Cartwright, up until reading the obituary, wasn’t aware that his daughter was dead, and that wasn’t his real address.

The real story of her death was a mystery to those who knew about it. Catherine Cartwright was found in Carson’s Field, an empty lot which was sometimes used to hold fairs or weddings. It had snowed the night before she was found, and she was lying on top of the glistening blanket, her light auburn hair messier than she would have allowed anyone to see her with.

That is, when she was alive.

The lone person who thought that an inexplicable death of a healthy young woman was suspicious was Phyllis Walker, a sixty one year old cat lady who read the obituary in the paper and noticed the errors. Catherine used to deliver groceries to those who may not be in the best standing, physical or mental, every week; she made friends with most of her patrons, and had a soft spot for Phyllis in particular .

The hours of conversations she had had with Catherine would mean nothing if she was dead, Phyllis thought. The anecdotes and jokes and discussions would have never happened.

The paper couldn’t be right, Phyllis thought. Catherine would stroll onto the stoop, same as last week, perfectly healthy and alive.

Ideas ran their way through Phyllis’s head. How could she not be okay? Catherine’ was practically invincible, the healthiest person on the planet. Her immune system was made of iron. Unless…… unless someone had brought clams into the house, she was always complaining about hives ... or… or there was some freak accident involving a knife….. or pencil….. or splinter…

As you can tell, Phyllis Walker did not like carpenter shops.

In fact, she didn’t really like anything very much. Anything outside of her house, that is. Phyllis had never been a go-getter; in her younger days she had refrained from going on class trips with some excuse or another, and never did anything with her friends. Without any particular motivation to leave the house, she rarely did.

Mostly because, with Catherine gone, she didn’t have any friends left.

However, this- this was a reason.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

She didn’t mean to get caught up in this, not really. She didn’t mean for this to end with a murder.

It had started off innocently, as most things do. Just being a sympathetic ear to a coworker’s whining and grumbling. Nothing big. Just comforting and patting on the shoulder and I Know I Hated Her Too-ing. And she did hate Catherine, sort of. Beautiful hair, beautiful face, beautiful personality- how could you not resent her, even a little?

But as slowly as water erodes rock, the whining dripped into complaining.

Which dripped into ranting.

Which dripped into schemes much more sinister.

Water droplets changing to blood.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Come on Herbert, get up. I have to go on a walk,” Phyllis spoke to the large cat that had found a way onto her lap.

Throwing on a pair of unused boots, she padded through her threshold.

The office of the Blackhall Daily Gazette was a few miles away, so Phyllis sloshed through the snow-slush on the sidewalks until she reached the bus stop. Her eyes darted nervously from the trees to a bush to the teenager slouching next to her. Anywhere she couldn’t directly control what happened, anywhere something unusual could take place, was somewhere scary and not anywhere to take down her guard. She didn’t like this, no, not at all.

A bus pulled up, spraying the girl beside her. Phyllis meekly watched as the girl butted herself ahead and stomped up the steps, one-two-four, skipping one in her anger and haste to get inside. Phyllis climbed how she did normally-shaking like a leaf.

At her stop she shuffled off and entered the door of a small building going straight to the desk labeled ‘customer service’.

“Hello ma’am. Welcome to the Blackhall Daily Gazette. How may we help you?” A twentysomething droned with practiced formality.

Get it together. It’s just a man. A boy, really. Phyllis had to psych herself up sometimes. This wasn’t a new scene for her. You can do this. You’ll answer on the count of three. One, two…

“Hello? Anybody home?” You could tell he wasn’t amused.

Three.

Big gulp. “Ah. Uh. Catherine Cartwright?” It came out as more of a question than an answer. “Who wrote her obituary?”

He closed his eyes, sighed, and clicked away on his computer for a few moments. “Her friend Mara Whelan wrote it, with the assistance of Ed Graves, who runs the funeral home.”

Hmmmm. Mara Whelan, thought Phyllis. A little innocent for a murderer’s name, but hey.

“Oh. Well. That’s all?” The man stared up at her with annoyance- he had better things to do, like text his girlfriend, or test his aim by throwing paper in the trash from across the room. Anything but wait on this nervous old granny.

“Um…” She walked out, quicker than anyone watching would think possible for someone of her age.

Sitting outside on a bench (which was an accomplishment, because someone was sitting at the other end, and just being in the presence of another person was almost overwhelming) Phyllis let the name turn over in her head. Mara Whelan.

She didn’t know what to do, so she got up and followed another one of her mottos- “When in doubt, go home”.

Phyllis caught the first bus she saw.

When she entered the door, words invaded her head; you couldn’t even call them thoughts, really. They were just words, connecting and breaking apart, twitching and vibrating, making Phyllis’s head pound.

They were words like I’m don’t know what I’m doing and I can’t believe she’s gone and I don’t know.

And she liked knowing.

Phyllis pulled at her hair and bit her lip, feeling uncomfortable in her own skin.

She got out a pad of paper and curled into her armchair, wracking her mind for information on the death of Catherine Cartwright,

So….. What do I know so far? It’s hard to think when you have too many things going on at once. Well… The only person with a connection is that Mara Whelan girl. Phyllis wrote ‘Mara Whelan’ parallel to the word ‘suspects’. She’d heard Catherine speak that name before, come to think of it. Mara was her best friend, although they hadn’t spoken in a while. But why would someone kill their best friend? If best friends were in the running for Killer, why not add family too? Phyllis knew that Catherine’s sister, L-something or another, absolutely despised her. Why not add her too? Why not add the creepy man that worked at the deli? Why not add everyone to the list?

Phyllis scratched Mara’s name out. She was in over her head.

She groaned and glanced at the clock, flashing 6:47 and telling her that she was seven minutes late to heat up a can of soup, and lay down on the couch to watch the in home shopping channel (even though she could never muster up the courage to call and buy anything).

Scrambling to catch up with her routine, Phyllis almost missed the letter being dropped off outside her door.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Making the poison was easy, with Lucy directing her on what to buy and how to mix it and how not to breathe; if it weren’t for the masks, their eyes and throats would be burning. Chlorine dioxide gases are quite nasty when inhaled.

The plan was simple- lure Catherine into a field under the pretense of catching up. Sneak up behind her with a bleach and vinegar soaked rag. Gag her. Wait until she passes out.

Run for the hills.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Ding dung!” The offkey doorbell chimed. She would have to fix that.

Phyllis opened the door cautiously, as she didn’t get anyone to come to her house, well, ever.

There, on the browning doormat, lay a mint envelope with soggy corners.

All that it contained was a scrap of paper, probably ripped from a sketchbook, with four hastily written words on it.

We know about you.

Phyllis’s breath hitched. Her pulse quickened. Her pale eyes darted around, back forth back forth back forth. Phyllis could feel her pulse rising, as it so often did. A soft thumping in her temples and ribs and a place she couldn’t quite pinpoint, somewhere near and far away from the back of her neck at the same time. Her whole body was buzzing, in one way or another, like a machine with the wrong kind of oil.

Or maybe the perfect kind of oil.

All Phyllis knew was that she had to get inside and lock the door and calm down.

And eventually she did, after hours of frantic sobbing and screaming and shuddering and clawing at her sheets and arms and legs.

Eventually she did.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Today was the day. Catherine’s funeral.

She and Lucy had gotten away, sped off on a stolen motorbike. The body had been found. No one suspected the girl who called herself Catherine’s best friend. Guilt and a sense of obligation were what sent her sneaking back to Blackhall, arriving just hours before the actual service. t wasn’t too late. She could still chicken out.

However, in the end it was grief that dragged the blonde girl into the old church.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

Phyllis woke up at 4:58 am, after somehow falling into a fitful sleep the night before.

Today was the day. Catherine’s funeral. Where all the eyes were on someone who couldn’t see.

Should she or shouldn’t she go? She might not be able keep it together for the whole thing. God, imagine if she started shaking during a speech (Phyllis shuddered at this thought). On the other hand, if she didn’t go, she would feel like she had somehow betrayed Catherine. Going, she decided, definitely going.

Phyllis took her time rolling out of bed. This was going to be a long day.

After a quick check on the world wide web, she found that the funeral was at 3:00 pm sharp, giving her plenty of time to ‘get ready’- as in mope around and waste time.

The day passed in a blur of tears, nerves, and showers.

Suddenly it was 2:51 and Phyllis was rushing out, not knowing how she lost track of time. The bus ride was unusually quiet, no screaming babies or sick businessmen. At her stop, she glanced out the window. The church was flooded with figures in black, spilling over the lawn and through the entryway. Phyllis got out and adjusted her shawl, preparing herself for the impending tidal wave of emotions- just as the clock struck 3:00.

The throngs shuffled through the oak doors.

“Good afternoon, friends and family.,” a voice boomed once everyone was seated in the pews. Phyllis in the middle of the middle pew- it was horrible, being surrounded by people on all sides, but it was something she would have to do. It was for Catherine . The minister stepped out of the shadows.

“We are gathered here to help each other mourn the loss of a very special woman,” he paused, “who touched the hearts and souls of everyone she encountered. Catherine Cartwright was a gift from God, and He now has her back.”

Phyllis wasn’t particularly religious, but the words hit her all the same. If there was a God, then of course He would want Catherine back as soon as possible.

The robed man talked some more about how dearly she would be missed, and a stereo system was brought in to play a slow song that apparently was Catherine’s favorite- although it was nothing like the hard, loud, horrible music that Phyllis knew she had adored.

“Catherine’s close friend, Mara Whelan, would now like to say a few words.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Catherine’s close friend, Mara Whelan, would now like to say a few words.”

She stood up, nauseous at the thought of lying straight to the faces of the friends and family of the woman she killed. Mara smoothed out her black dress and walked shakily to a podium. prepared to spew filth out of her mouth. It’s all she would ever do now, when she had to talk about Catherine.

But after locking eyes with a trembling old lady in the precise middle row, all thoughts flew out of her mind but one- she was going to tell the truth.

“I’ve been Catherine’s best friend since we were in the second grade and the teacher made the mistake of putting us at the same table.” She smiled at that, but then remembered why she was speaking, and what she was going to confess to.

‘“We were together through tutoring and awkward phases, first crushes and first boyfriends, dresses to Doc Martens. We grew up by each other’s sides, and it’s a shame we didn’t die by each other’s, too.” Mara looked at the middle row. The older woman looked slightly puzzled by that.

She continued, “The death of my best friend was my fault. I let myself get pulled into this mess, and I’m going to take responsibility for it.” She took a deep breath. “I killed Catherine Cartwright.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

So many things going on in Phyllis’s head that it was hard to distinguish one thought from the last. There was certainly elation in there somewhere, but it was piled under confusion and disgust and fear and all sorts of unpleasant feelings; but yes, there was definitely elation in there somewhere.

Women were sobbing, men were yelling, a child was crying- a scene as loud and chaotic as Phyllis’s mind on a good day . A burly man ran up and pinned the killer down, her hands behind her back.

Welcome to the end of the world, Phyllis thought hazily.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

She deserved it, she thought as she was being brought into the parking lot and into a car (the man restraining her was an off duty cop, going to bring her to the station). She deserved everything she was about to get. ……………………………………………………………………………………………………

EPILOGUE

The following months were hard for those living in Blackhall; for the ones that didn’t leave, at least.

It seemed like anyone who had interacted with Mara tried to scrub her off, to remove even the smallest trace. Her close confidants swore that they weren’t even friends, her old teachers added that they always knew something was off about the girl with the blonde pigtails. Multiple charities were also set up, and the amount of community service skyrocketed.

They scrubbed hard, and their skin was raw.

Lucy fled to a town down south, hiding, as Mara had confessed everything, and that, although she was the one that physically killed Catherine, she was really only the accomplice. She was only the brawns to a plot that a brain had been planning for years.

Mara pled guilty to proxy murder (killing at someone else’s will) and was sentenced to life in prison, without parole.

Despite the authority’s best efforts, Lucy was never found.

Phyllis got better, slowly and gradually. She took things day by day, as you should. There were certainly ones that were better than others. If she broke down a bit, who can blame her? Recovery takes time.

Eventually, though, she could ask for things in stores and restaurants and not feel like her throat was going to cave in.

It felt pretty good.