The Death Catchers Read Online Free Page A

“I know. Thanks again, Miss Mora.” I took one last look at Jodi, to see if there was any trace of whatever it was Vivienne had done to us. Jodi appeared to be completely normal. I knew I couldn’t stand there and watch her all night. “See you tomorrow,” I added, reaching back into my pocket. I set the wad of one-dollar bills on the counter. I jumped toward the door, cradling the quart of orange juice.
    â€œBut—,” I heard Miss Mora object.
    â€œKeep the change!” I shouted as the door to Miss Mora’s closed behind me. I sped home in the soggy Crabapple night, sure that Bizzy was the only one who could explain what had really happened in the cemetery.

 
    The Protagonist
    Here’s the first curveball in my story, Mrs. Tweedy: this story really isn’t mine. Like a lot of narrators, I kind of found myself caught in the cross fire. The real driving force of this story is my grandma, Beatrice Mildred Mortimer.
    Nobody calls her that, though.
    People call her Bizzy Bea or just Bizzy because she’s always buzzing around when strange things happen in Crabapple. She’s the town gossip who knows everybody’s business. Bizzy Bea is more a term of endearment than anything else, though, and my grandma doesn’t seem to mind it. She’s had the nickname since she was a teenager.
    Bizzy is a better protagonist than I am. She’s the real center of the story. Even if you’re convinced the main character of this story is me (I’m pretty darn sure it isn’t), there are still a few things you need to know about Bizzy before I tell you what happened when I asked her about Agatha and the cemetery.
    Now, Bizzy was born in 1936 in West Monroe, Louisiana, which is right smack-dab on the Ouachita River. I guess that’s only important because she’s got this great southern accent that makes everything she says sound better. Like the word “for” is “fow” and when she says “golf” she just drops the “l” completely and it’s “gof.”
    My grandma loves to tell me that I remind her of an “adolescent Beatrice Mortimer.” This, of course, just means that I remind Old Bizzy of Young Bizzy. Bizzy has this habit of talking like she’s the narrator of a documentary about her own life. For instance, when describing herself growing up she once proclaimed, “In her teens, there were two words most often used to describe Beatrice Mildred Mortimer: ‘wild’ and ‘child.’ ” Only the way she said it, “wild child” sounded more like “while” and “chi-ull” (and as far as I can tell, Bizzy still is a bit of a “while chi-ull”). Whenever Bizzy tells me I remind her of herself, I try not to be rude and frown. The truth is, I love Bizzy, but she’s not exactly the person I want to grow up to be. Now that I know we share the same curse, I may not have much choice in the matter.
    But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
    As the most opinionated person in our small town of Crabapple, Bizzy has quite a few critics, ranging from Mr. Primrose, the head of the Historical Preservation Society, to Mrs. Frackle, the owner of the Camelot Theater.
    Also, Bizzy looks different, to put it nicely. Her hair reminds me of a large mound of crumpled Kleenex. It’s always a messy pile of white. But she has these magnificent eyes that resemble blue-green algae at the bottom of two pools of crystal clear water.
    Bizzy loves wearing pearls (she wears a string around her neck and so many around her left wrist that they cover half her palm and look like a thick pearl wristband); fishing off the Crabapple Cliffs (I swear she hasn’t caught anything living or larger than an index finger in four years); and putting Konriko Creole Seasoning in just about everything she eats (she even sprinkles some into her morning coffee).
    Though she moves pretty darn well for a