CASE OF THE: SUGAR CREAM SHOOTING
Jessica Lansberry
Copyright 2017 - Jessica Lansberry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Edited by: Keri Lierman
Books in the Cookie Club Mystery Series:
Strawberry Cream Stabbing - GET IT!
Sugar Cream Shooting - GET IT!
Passion Fruit Poisoning
1
Someone was in her house, she was sure of it.
Beatrice had always been a pretty sound sleeper; it took more than a little noise to wake her up. So the fact that she was awake right now was alarming enough as it was. But as she lay in bed, trying to contain her breathing, she couldn't for the life of her recall what it was that woke her in the first place. Was it just the wind, rattling the windows? Maybe it was a door, blowing closed?
Her eyes were wide open now as they readjusted to the light. The room was dark, the half-moon outside barely sharing any of its light for the small bedroom. Sitting up slightly, she began to look for a sign that someone or something had intruded in her home. Her eyes scanned the bedroom, making sure that everything was in place. It was a quaint little bedroom. A four-poster double bed in the center, a single dresser in the corner and an ensuite attachment that her deceased husband had insisted on installing. But, despite the way her heart banged every time she looked to the empty side of her bed, she had to admit that all seemed normal.
So instead, she listened.
It wasn't easy over her heavy breathing, rattling from her chest as she tried to calm herself down. But even still, she listened to every creak and groan the house made, trying to discern if something was amiss. The loudest sound was the air conditioner, buzzing as it worked overtime. She could also hear her cat, Sylvester, softly purring as it napped by her feet. She wondered for a moment if perhaps it was just Buzz, her parrot, that had woken her up. It lived in the living room and was known to carry on when it got bored or lonely, or just wanted attention. Only if it was Buzz, the chances are that it would still be squawking and screeching. It knew that this was a sure fire way of getting her to come check on him. Only now... nothing. It couldn't have been Buzz.
It was then that she suddenly realized what the most likely cause of her suddenly being awake was. It had to be a rodent. She'd sworn she'd seen a mouse earlier that day, scuttling along her table top as it made off with some crumbs from her baking. It was a bizarre sight and one which caught her completely by surprise; which was why the little scoundrel had gotten away in the first place. She had never had pest problems before and wondered at the time why they had chosen now to show up. She knew that her baking was good, but was it so good that it was literally enticing rodents to break in and steal from her?
After seeing the mouse, she had set out a few traps, just in case. She even baited them with some leftovers from the batch of strawberry-blueberry muffins she had been creating. She couldn't afford a single mark against her name when it came to cleanliness; especially with the bakery she ran. If word got out, then it could ruin her.
She continued to listen, slowly becoming more and more convinced that it was indeed just the sound of the mouse, scuttling along her hard wooden floors that had woken her. She sighed to herself, knowing that she'd have to call an exterminator first thing in the morning. But, as it was too late to do it now, she may as well push it from her mind and go back to sleep.
Crash!
Beatrice sat bolt upright, a cold sweat slowly creeping out of her pores as her breathing went from mild to all out chaotic. That was no mouse. No doubt it was definitely a glass breaking in the other room. Someone was in her house.
Her heart pounded in her chest like the beat of a drum; so loud she wouldn't be surprised if the person in the other room could hear. She tried to tell herself to remain calm, that was the best thing to do in these situations. As she did, her hand reached for her phone by her bedside. She would call the police and remain in here where it was nice and safe.
But, as she patted the hard surface of her bedside table, she had to contend that her perfect plan wasn't so perfect. The phone was gone.
Fiddlesticks! She cursed herself at her silliness. She'd left the phone in the other room. She was getting more and more forgetful lately and hated the fact that this was to be her undoing.
Her hand fished for her glasses, also on the bedside table. She rarely used them, and hated it when she did. She tried to tell herself it was because they were uncomfortable, but the truth was that they just made her feel old. The sad part was that she wasn't that old at all; well not really. Sitting on the younger side of sixty, Beatrice heard more often than not that she looked exceptional for her age. The first few times she heard this, she assumed it was just people being polite, but after the tenth and fifteenth person had repeated the line, well she started to listen.
Beatrice had what would be called a natural beauty. Unlike her best friend Stella, Beatrice tried to use as little makeup as possible, letting her natural contours do the talking. She had bright blue eyes, a warm smile and smooth skin that was still managing to fight back the aging process with gusto. In short, she was quite the looker.
When she wasn't wearing her glasses that was. But considering the circumstances, Beatrice resided to wearing them. For what was about to happen, she needed to see clearly.
She spared another glance to the empty side of her bed, sighing as she did. It was times like this that she wished her deceased husband was still alive. If he were, he wouldn't have hesitated about going into the other room and approaching the intruder. Heck, he probably would have taken the baseball bat too, making very short work of the burglar.
But her husband wasn't here, and he wasn't going to pick up the baseball bat and confront the man in the other room. For now, it was just Beatrice, all alone.
With this unfortunate scenario staring her in the face, she tried to come up with another plan, one that didn't involve her becoming tomorrow morning's headline. Her mind immediately went to her best friend, Stella. Stella also happened to be her closest neighbor, living in the small house just across the street. But again, without her phone handy, across the street may as well have been across the country.
Now let's be clear, Beatrice was no chicken. She had already been involved in her fair share of danger laced scenarios and had come out of every single one on top. But, with that said, she was also no fool. She wasn't the type to actively seek out danger, like a death-defying daredevil or anything of that nature. If she could, she would happily live a life of safety and comfort. Leave the danger to the young and able-bodied.
But as of right now, there were no young and able available. As such, Beatrice slowly came to the realization that if anything was going to be done about the unwanted intruder, then she was going to have to do it herself. She'd rather be murdered with her fists clenched, swinging the whole way, that lying in bed like a dainty old lady waiting for the cavalry to show up.
With this in mind, and her confidence slowly making its way through her body, Beatrice threw her duvet off and climbed from the bed.
As she got to her feet, she quickly formulated a plan. She knew that her dead husband's baseball bat sat propped up behind the door, she hadn't touched it since he had died and liked leaving it there as a sort of reminder. Well, now it was going to act as a weapon. If she could just get to it, quickly and quietly
, then maybe she could capitalize on her element of surprise. The intruder was obviously rather clumsy too. A quick whack over the head with a hard piece of wood was sure to send them to the ground.
Her heart pounded in her throat as she reached for the bat, her hand visibly shaking the whole time. She tried to convince herself that she was brave and strong and that this was the right thing to do. But, truth be told, she was scared. There were reports of a lot of break-ins lately not far from where she lived and although they had all ended with nobody hurt, it was just a matter of time. She prayed that she wasn't going to be the first. Time to pull it together, Beatrice, she told herself as she straightened herself up, the bat now firmly in her grasp.
Creak, her bare foot pressed against the hardwood floor as she took a step towards the door. She paused mid-step, holding her breath as she listened. Although the creak was soft and timid, to her ears it was screaming. But still, there was no sound coming from beyond the door. No rushed footsteps, nothing else being broken. The intruder had either left or was distracted by something else. Either way, she had to act quickly.
She slowly opened the bedroom door, very aware of the painfully loud groan that the hinges made as she did. That was another thing her husband used to look after. But still, now that she was committed she couldn't stop, and before she knew it, the door was wide open.
Slowly and carefully, she snuck into the hallway of her home, looking each way as she did. It was always odd how different the house looked in the dead of night. The usually vibrant hallways looked cold and isolated as if no one had set foot in them for years. The portraits on the walls were menacing, the figures in them looking distorted and grotesque. A gust of wind blew through the hallway, rattling Beatrice as the cold seemed to cut down to her bones. A part of her wanted to jump back in her room and lock the door.
She pushed that part down and out of sight. Now was not the time to be scared.
From the hallway she could hear the clear sounds of footsteps, coming from the kitchen – her sanctuary. Now she was really mad. They were soft and careful footsteps, but still very audible. This was no rodent problem. It was definitely a human being, and from the low tones they were making, cursing to themselves, it was definitely a man.
She gripped the bat tighter, her arms shaking now. Even with the bat, she wasn't sure what she would be able to do. She could barely lift this damn thing, let alone swing it with enough force to do any damage.
Beatrice decided that her best bet was to scare him off. Maybe he didn't know who lived here and when he heard a voice he would run. It wasn't a great plan, but it was better than her 'hit him over the head with a bat,' plan.
She cleared her throat, trying to sound tough as she could. "Who's there?" Her voice came out weak and tired; the complete opposite of what she was going for.
The scuffling noises stopped dead. She could picture the intruder frozen on the spot, trying to decide what he should do. Her hands reached around the door frame that leads into the kitchen as she swatted at the wall in an attempt to turn on the light.
With her hand paused on the switch, Beatrice took another deep breath. "Here goes," she said to herself, saying a little prayer as she flipped the switch and stepped in.
She nearly dropped the bat with shock when she saw who the intruder was. Never, ever would she have guessed.
"Hey grandma," said a young man conjuring up a smile.
2
For the second time in only a handful of hours, Beatrice was woken up by external noise. The fact that the sun now shone through the window, lighting her room up with its warm glow, told her that at least it was morning. But that didn't make the unwelcome visitor any more welcome.
After her grandson had broken in last night, Beatrice had had the hardest time getting back to sleep. She tossed and turned, threw her blanket off and then reached to pull it back on. Even Sylvester, the cat, got in on the action, pawing at and climbing all over her as if protesting the new body sleeping under the roof.
Once Beatrice's heart had settled down, and she was able to register that it was indeed her grandson who had broken in, there was very little chit chat between the two. She gave him a warm, grandmotherly hug, tried to feed him and then put him to bed. Every attempt to conjure up a conversation, or probe what the heck he was doing there in the first place, was met with an excuse or just a blank wall. After being rebuffed three times, Beatrice decided that perhaps it was best that they get some sleep and maybe in the morning she could try again.
Only sleep never came. There was definitely something troubling the young man; it didn’t take a genius to work that out. She had always known him to be so full of life and happy, but that night he was just so closed off. He could barely look his grandmother in the eyes, and when he did, they didn't look like they belonged to the grandson that she remembered.
It was this worry that kept her up well into the early hours of the morning and the reason for her being so darn disgruntled by the continued knocking on the front door.
She wondered who it was and prayed, for their sake, that the person knocking on the door wasn't a bible salesman. They had been haunting the small community that Beatrice lived in for a while now like a bad smell. She wasn't feeling very Christian at the moment and worried what she might say when confronted by them. She was sure that whatever it was, it wouldn't be very Christian of her.
Still, in her nightgown, her graying hair held back with an old headband, she hurried from the room toward the front door. Whoever was knocking wasn't going away until she answered. With this thought, she decided to stop by the spare bedroom and take a quick look at her grandson. He was still there of course, out like a log. Whatever had happened to him, or whatever he was running away from, had evidently tired him out.
Such a handsome young man, Beatrice thought to herself as she watched him sleep. With a square jawline, cleft chin, deep-set eyes and very broad shoulders, Beatrice was sure that he was the kind of guy that had the young girls chasing him. Even right now, if she squinted, Beatrice could have sworn that she saw a bit of her dead husband in him. He too was always quite the looker.
Poor boy. She would let him sleep in. Then, once he was awake and well fed — what were grandmothers for after all – she would get out of him what was wrong. She hated thinking that something might be troubling him. If there was anything she could do, then she would do it. No questions asked.
Knock-knock-knock.
The door was damn near going to come flying off its hinges at this rate.
She sighed, composing herself as she made her way to the front door. Looking through the peephole, she sighed again when saw, Genevieve Fisher, standing on the other side. Good lord, not this woman again. Beatrice almost half wished that it had been a bible salesman; that she could handle.
This woman had been a nuisance ever since she moved into the neighborhood three years ago. She was the self-proclaimed mayor of the neighborhood, sticking her beak into everything and anything that she could. From the time that Beatrice got new ornaments for her front yard, which apparently weren't 'regulation,' right on through to the time that Beatrice had gone away for the weekend without telling her. Everything was her business, or at least she acted like it was. She annoyed Beatrice to no end, and what was worse, she seemed to get a kick out of it.
"Good morning," said Beatrice as she unchained the door and opened it. She was trying her hardest to be polite; warm smile and open body language. But in the face of Genevieve, it was almost impossible.
"You won't believe what happened," said Genevieve in her always high, shrill voice. Without waiting for an invitation she pushed Beatrice to the side, sweeping through the house like a storm.
She was such a drama queen. Everything she did or said was accompanied by over-the-top hand movements, batting eyelids and gasps and moans that would make a soap opera star blush. And it wasn't that Beatrice wasn't used to drama, her best friend was Stella after all. But even Stella, with her constant antics, didn't hold a
candle to Genevieve.
"Won't you come in?" said Beatrice sarcastically as she shut the door behind them; locking herself in with the witch.
Already Genevieve was making herself at home. As she stalked back and forth through
Beatrice's modest house, she touched, moved and rearranged everything that she could get her hands on. It was her way of telling Beatrice that she thought she was better than her. Not that she needed these actions to confirm that. Genevieve told her only too often how much better she was than... well, than everybody.
Beatrice racked her brains, trying to think what she could have done to warrant such an unwelcome guest. The only time Genevieve ever stopped by was to complain and issue orders. It was the famed 'dirty car,' incident of May all over again. This was an incident in which Genevieve had decided that Beatrice's car was too dirty to be parked on the driveway. It had to either be cleaned or parked indoors. This was told to Beatrice too, not asked. It resulted in a heated fight, a little bit of name calling and finally, a clean car.
The only thing that Beatrice could think of was the small chance that Genevieve had heard about her rodent problem. She had already been trying to push a pest control service that she used on everyone in the neighborhood, for god knows what reason. If she somehow found out that Beatrice actually had pests that needed to be controlled, well she would have no choice but to agree. But how could she have found out?
This constant snooping was one of the reasons why she had stopped going to those dreaded Neighborhood Watch group meetings. They were always in everyone's business, trying to push one thing or another. If it wasn't Amway or some multi-level marketing program, it was some local service provider. Usually, a cousin or friend of a friend; a discount promised but never received. Lately, it had been the pest control service. It was a particular favorite of Genevieve's, and Beatrice could only wonder at the connection.
Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting Page 1
