The Death Catchers Read Online Free Page B

seventy-four-year-old woman, Bizzy fell down some stairs a few years ago and now she mostly gets around using one of those combination walker-stools. But it’s not just any old walker-stool. When she got it, she had it painted fire-engine red so it sparkles in the sunlight. It has extralarge wheels, a cushioned seat in the front, and patriotic streamers on its handles. She also attached small side-view mirrors to each handlebar so it was “highway ready.” By far, though, the best part is that Bizzy named her walker-stool: Dixie. Strangely enough, almost everyone in Crabapple refers to Bizzy’s walker by name as well.
    There is one last thing about Bizzy I’m sure you don’t know that is a key piece of this story. When I was younger, Bizzy used to tell me she was part fish. For a while, I believed her. See, each morning, Bizzy ignored the warning signs posted all along the beach below our house and went for a swim in the dangerous waters of Crabapple Cove. Sometimes, as a little kid, I would stand on Lookout Point on the cliffs above and watch Bizzy.
    Her ritual was always the same.
    First, she stripped off her sandals, slacks, and blouse, revealing an old black wet suit underneath. While the thick mat of coastal fog slept lazily on the shallow waters of the cove, Bizzy waded into the surf. She swam out, ducking under the large surface-skimming water logs rolling in from the Pacific. Then, she flopped over and floated on her back, her legs and arms stretched out to her sides. She let the waves crash over her and toss her body like a rag doll in the surf, slowly returning her to shore. When Bizzy reached shallow water again, she walked up to the beach, her hair looking like a janitor’s old mop. When she reached her pile of clothes, she wrote in a journal she always brought along.
    Dad guessed Bizzy’s ritual had something to do with the death of her older brother, Henry. Bizzy was five years old when she witnessed Henry clonk his head on a rock and drown in the swimming hole near their house. He was much bigger than she was and there was no way for her to save him. Dad says Bizzy never got over it.
    Her morning routine never changed … until recently. I first noticed that Bizzy had stopped going for her swim at the beginning of this past October. Mom chalked it up to Bizzy getting older. Dad was simply relieved that she wasn’t putting herself in danger every morning. After she stopped, I detected a lingering sadness in Bizzy’s face—like something important had been taken from her.
    When I thought about what Miss Mora had said about Bizzy visiting Agatha, I began to wonder if there was a connection between her visits and why Bizzy stopped swimming. The two changes coincided with each other almost exactly. That night, I worked up the courage to ask her.
    Bizzy’s room was on the first floor of the house. I knocked on the door. Bizzy opened it.
    â€œWhy, hello, Sweet Pea!” When Bizzy smiled, you could see every wrinkle on her face.
    â€œHi.”
    â€œWhat brings you to my door on this fine evenin’?”
    â€œDo you know Agatha Cantare?”
    â€œWhat’s all this now?” Bizzy leaned on Dixie and stared at me blankly.
    â€œAgatha from the cemetery … are you friends with her?”
    â€œWho’s askin’?” Bizzy scanned the hallway. I couldn’t tell if she was scowling or smiling. Her lips formed a straight line across her face.
    â€œMiss Mora said that you’ve been visiting her lately.”
    â€œOh, I see,” Bizzy said. I could sense her body relax. “Can’t say Agatha and I got much in common ’cept the aches and pains of old age, but every so often, I go over and play a little gin rummy. Some older folks ain’t as fortunate as me, Lizzy-Loo. They got no family around.”
    â€œShe’s not crazy, is she?” I asked.
    â€œAgatha? Heavens no! She’s just a mite lonely. And not much