The House on Olive Street Read Free

Eleanor said. “Probably since last night.”
    “It seems to be natural, if death can be natural on your fiftieth birthday,” Sable added.
    Beth had not yet made eye contact with Barbara. A tiny breeze blew through the front yard and one of the tickets tumbled over itself, threatening to get away. Beth pushed herself off the planter box and retrieved them all, muttering, “You’ll probably need these,” in a soft, absent tone.
    “This isn’t funny,” Barbara said.
    The sound of sirens could be heard. “Damn fools,” Elly muttered.
    “It’s not a joke, Barbara. It’s true. Elly called the police.”
    “The police? ”
    “I think it’s what you do,” Elly said. “They might frown on us making a direct call to the mortuary.” She looked up at Sable suddenly. “Jesus, are we going to have to call a funeral parlor?”
    “Maybe Don will do that. Or David. Let’s wait and see.”
    “I’ve got to see her,” Barbara said, lighting off for the house.
    Sable, quick as a fox, had her arm. “Wait a minute. Wait for the police. We’d better not be poking around in there until they’ve had a look. You never know.”
    “But you said natural…”
    “Yes, well, there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious,” Elly said. “Except that Gabby is dead. And Daisy is sitting vigil at her side.”
    “But she can’t be,” Barbara said, trying to talk some reason into the rest of them. “She’s in perfect health. She’s never even had the flu.”
    They all looked at her, watching the flood of realization slowly wash over her as it had each one of them. Her cheeks grew pale, her nose pink, and her eyes glistened.
    “Nonetheless,” Elly said.
    “Well, did you try to resuscitate her?” Barbara demanded in an impatient, tear-filled voice.
    “Barbara, she’s ice-cold,” Elly said.
    “And there’s a smell,” Sable added.
    “Well, she can’t be,” Barbara insisted. “There’s been some mistake.” She shook herself free of Sable’s graspand, with her back straight, stomped toward the opened front door.
    “Let her go,” Elly said wearily. “You just don’t tell Barbara Ann she can’t fix it. She has to see for herself.”
     
    They were a writers’ group, they told the police. Close friends drawn together because of their shared avocation. Eleanor, an academic who wrote nonfiction and reviews, had known Gabby very closely for twenty-two years. It took her a while to count them in her head. Sable, rich and famous for writing women’s fiction, stumbled and hesitated before she claimed to have known Gabby for at least ten years. Barbara Ann, a seasoned series romance writer, reported eight years and Beth, author of mysteries, said six. They gave their home addresses and phone numbers. Gabby had talked to at least one of them every day. Eleanor was the last of the group to speak to her.
    Cowards all, they were relieved when the police agreed to notify Gabby’s ex-husband, Dr. Donald Marshall, who would then notify his children. None of them said anything. All of them were thinking the same thing. Don was in constant conflict with his children—his grown children. What little relationship they had had been held together by Gabby.
    The matter of carrying away the dead took an enormous amount of time, much of it wasted. The EMTs came first, not believing Elly’s report. The police came next and then they called the detectives. The detectives called the coroner. The coroner called for a transport vehicle and announced that there would be an autopsy. The detectives, quiet, depressed, middle-aged men wearing terrible ties, advised that they saw no signs of foul play but would seal up the house in anticipation of thecoroner’s report. The women were asked not to walk around in there.
    Eleanor went directly inside. No one attempted to stop her, if they even noticed her. She had always looked like an anonymous older woman—plain, stern and un-approachable. She went into the kitchen and pushed the button on