“My daughter never calls me either,” Sophie joined in. She was drinking the wine too, but in her own unique fashion. She liked to use a spoon and scoop it into her mouth. “Instead she sends men over to my house every month to make sure I’m still alive.”
“Men? What men?” Beatrice asked. She had never actually heard this story and could only imagine as to what Sophie was about to reveal.
“Oh, they’re lovely really. They claim to work for some sort of asylum and keep insisting that I belong there. It sounds like a lovely place really. I might even go one day.” She scooped another spoonful of red wine into her mouth, licking her lips as she did.
Beatrice shook her head as she made her way across the kitchen, gathering the ingredients for the sponge cake. The secret to making sponge cake was twofold. The first was the way that one mixed the ingredients. The flour had to be sifted and folded into the egg mixture, to ensure that the cake aerated and rose when cooked. The second key aspect was the patience required to do this. Of course, it was only too easy for Beatrice.
“I just wished that she cared a little more. If she wants to hate me, that’s fine. But she could at least care about her own son,” Beatrice exclaimed, cracking the eggs into the bowl. “Heck, if she were arrested tomorrow I would do everything I could to help her… well almost,” she smirked as she whipped the egg and sugar together.
“Have you seen the man that she is with?” Stella asked, trying to sound as innocent as possible. Beatrice should have known better than to mention a man, of any description, in front of Stella.
“No… why?” Beatrice knew why, keeping her head down as she began to sift the flour into the eggs.
“Oh, just wondering. Despite how much of a pain your daughter is she was always quite the looker. I bet she managed to snag herself a real man.” She bit her lip in the act of lust as she said this, her fingers stroking the long neck of the wine glass.
“Just once Stella… just once,” Beatrice shook her head, trying her best to ignore her friend. “My grandson is in serious trouble, and all you can think about is the man his mother is sleeping with.”
“Sorry dear. It’s impulsive. You bake when you’re upset, I think about my next conquest. Simple as that.”
To this statement, Beatrice burst out laughing, unable to help herself. She never could stay angry at Stella for longer than a second or two. The woman had her quirks, and that’s what Beatrice loved about her. In fact, as she looked from Stella to Sophie, she couldn’t help but think about how she had gotten so lucky to have two great gals in her life. Despite their faults, they were more family than her daughter or son had ever been.
It was because of this that Beatrice was so determined to get her grandson off. If there was anything she had come to appreciate lately, it was the importance of family. She had her parrot, Buzz, her cat, Sylvester, these two lovely girls and now a grandson. It wasn’t the most perfect family, but what one is?
Once she was done pouring the mixture into the tray, Beatrice handed the bowl across to Sophie who eagerly grabbed at it, shoving her entire face into the bowl as she proceeded to lick the sides clean. She had seen Sophie do this before and knew that the end result would be a clean bowl and a very dirty Sophie. Sophie, of course, didn’t care one bit. She would proceed to clean herself in the same fashion that Sylvester did.
Meanwhile, Stella guzzled down her third and fourth glass of wine, lampooning the fact that they hadn’t brought more; despite that it was only two in the afternoon. She then went on a tirade about how long it had been since she was with a man, even though it had only been a few days.
And as this happened, Beatrice sat back and smiled.
Yep, this was her family, and she was going to do all she could to keep it together. The first step to that was to rescue her grandson by clearing his name. This was, however, a lot easier said than done. Beatrice just hoped that this time she wasn’t in over her head.
5
The problem with solving murder cases is that one genuinely needed somewhere to start. Evidence rarely fell into your lap, and even when it did, it still needed to have come from some place. That was the problem that Beatrice found herself faced with. She was going to solve this case and exonerate her grandson. She just didn't know where to begin.
Her grandson had disappeared, so she couldn't start there. And she really didn't want to seek out the detective unless she absolutely had to. She knew that talking to him would be a combination of flirtatious advances, laced with cynicism aimed at her not being qualified for such a task.
So with all that, there was really only one place that Beatrice could go to start her investigation, and it was the one place that she hated going more than anywhere else. But she had no choice, but to suck it up. She headed straight into the lion's den.
"Were you crying?" asked Beatrice as Genevieve opened her door and let her in. It seemed obvious that she had been. Her eyes were all puffy and red and her makeup, usually pristine, was running down the sides of her face. But then again, with Genevieve, one never knew what was really going on. She may have been practicing how to cry on cue for all Beatrice knew.
"Oh, I just... allergies," she said, wiping away at her face. It was an act that only served to smudged the makeup even more. "Please come in. Can I get you some refreshments? They aren’t nearly as sophisticated as your delectable desserts or your beverages but..." She hurried away from Beatrice and into the kitchen, leaving Beatrice to close the door behind her.
As Beatrice wandered into the house, she was very quickly reminded of why she hated coming here so much. The whole place was just so... well, just so darn extravagant and self-involved. From the mural of photos that took up an entire wall, all detailing the exciting life of Genevieve, who she knew and where she had been, right on through to the brightly colored walls and richly furnished upholstery. The theme, if Beatrice was to guess, was 'look at me.'
"Water would be fine, Genevieve," Beatrice called out as she made her way into the kitchen, escaping the room as quick as she could. "I'm so sorry to come over unexpectedly."
"No, not at all. It's nice to have the company," she said placing the glass of water on a doily. Even the glass was fine crystal. It looked like it belonged behind two-inch thick glass. Not serving up tap water. "I'm assuming you want a little ice?"
"Yes, please." Beatrice took a seat at the table, twiddling her thumbs as she did. The kitchen was, in short, a bit of a mess. Well not technically, only to the eyes of a true baker. It was clearly designed for show, rather than practical use. A little too clean, with the appliances locked out of sight. The chef inside Beatrice itched to fix the place up. But she controlled herself. There were more pressing issues to attend at the moment.
"So, tell me what can I do for you?" Genevieve asked, serving up the water with ice. She used tongs for the ice too, her long painted fingernails too precious to risk getting wet.
"It's just this whole burglary, and murder thing has us all rattled," Beatrice explained. She wasn't actually too sure what she was going to get out of Genevieve. She was only here because she had no other options. Plus she knew that with Genevieve's penchant for gossip, she might have a story or two that could shed some light on the event.
"Tell me about it," she said, her eyes quickly shifting from Beatrice as if she had something to hide. "I can hardly sleep and I... I guess with all that's happened in my personal life it's shook me to the core." She wiped at her face again. This one was definitely for dramatic effect.
"Your personal life? Is there anything I can do to help?" As much as she disliked the woman, Beatrice was a people pleaser at heart. Even for Genevieve, she would go out of her way if she thought it might help.
"I just... men issues," she said, nervously taking a sip of her own water. "Nothing I want to trouble you with. Have they found anything? Have they tracked down that young man in the drawing?"
Beatrice suddenly noticed that for perhaps the first time ever, Genevieve wasn't dressed to the nine
s. She had cried her makeup off and wore an old, stained bathrobe. Maybe she really was upset? But the woman clearly didn't want to talk about it, so Beatrice pressed on.
"I don't think so, but I'm not completely convinced he did it," Beatrice said, trying to sound casual yet assertive. She wasn't ready yet to give up the information that she knew who the young man was. That was best kept until he was off the hook.
"Why not?" she asked, sitting up as if she was alarmed by the conclusion. But more than that, Beatrice could tell that Genevieve was sniffing out for a story. The nose on that woman was incredible. She could take the smallest circumstance and spin it into a tall tale. Beatrice was going to have to tread carefully.
"I just... I guess my intuition. Besides, there hasn't even been a thorough investigation yet. Do you know anything about the victim?" She asked, changing the topic as naturally as she could.
The woman's disposition swung on a dime as she suddenly stood up, fidgeting nervously with her hands. "No, nothing," she said. "I guess she was some floozy though, I'm hearing."
"Floozy?" Beatrice thought that was an interesting choice of words, considering the life that Genevieve was known to have lived.
"Don't tell anyone I said this, but I heard from Beverly who heard it from a reliable source who lived right next to the victim, Sasha, that she was known to date other women's husbands." Apart from the claimed source trail, which Beatrice was sure had been fabricated, the news in itself was rather shocking. What was more, it opened up a whole bevy of possible suspects. There was nothing quite as terrifying as a woman scorned.
"Was that the victim's name? Sasha?" Beatrice asked, not recognizing the name.
"Oh, that's what I heard. I don't know, didn't know her personally, but anyway, women like that have it coming if you ask me. It's only a matter of time before they upset someone."
"So, I've heard," said Beatrice coldly. She was again being reminded of why she disliked this woman so much. Behind all the drama and falsehoods, she just wasn't a very nice person.
But no matter, Beatrice had decided that she'd heard enough. As distasteful as the process was, Genevieve had served her purpose. At least now Beatrice had something to work on. She had a name and a whole bunch of motives. She was about to excuse herself when a sudden knock at the door interrupted her.
"Morning!" A voice called out from the back patio. A second later, without waiting for an invitation, the owner of the voice was entering the kitchen. "Oh, sorry," he said, pulling up when he spotted Beatrice.
The man in question was rather large, and bigger than that still. In the small kitchen, with the two dainty women, he looked positively enormous. Despite having a kind face, it was sagged and worn, with the look of a man that drank just a little too much. He was also wearing a pest control uniform.
"Don't you ever knock?" snapped Genevieve as she forced a smile. "You shouldn't come into perfect stranger's home without knocking." It was odd to Beatrice the way that the man had knocked and then entered so casually suggested to her that he had been here before. It must just be the way that these pest control men operate.
"Oh, sorry ma'am. We have an appointment today," he said, not looking at all sorry. In fact, he proceeded to lean up against the counter, making himself right at home. Again, Beatrice would have sworn that he had been there before if it wasn't for Genevieve's obvious annoyance.
"Well, I won't keep you longer. If you hear anything else, please feel free to let me know. The more we know, the better," said Beatrice as she excused herself, ducking from the room before Genevieve could make up some excuse for her to remain behind. Or worse, to come along.
As she ducked out, she looked at the two of them again, side-eyed. Yes, the more she thought about it, the more the whole thing seemed fishy. Had an appointment, eh? With no pest control equipment? Plus who comes through the back door when it's your first time entering a property?
Beatrice didn't doubt that the two had an appointment. But she would bet her bottom dollar that it had nothing to do with getting rid of rodents.
6
Even with the murder investigation, Beatrice still had a life to lead. For her, that life revolved around baking. That batch of muffins she had made the previous night was all but gone now, and what was worse, she had used the last of her supplies to make them. Something told her that pretty soon her baking prowess was going to be needed to help with the case, for bribes and such, so after visiting Genevieve, she decided to pop down to the shops.
The whole drive down she was in her own world, totally preoccupied with thoughts of Sasha, the murder victim. The fact that she was a bit of a floozy, known for sleeping with married men, gave Beatrice a whole bag of ammunition to use against her. All she had to do was track these men down, one by one, and find out what their wives thought of the arrangement. One of them had to be the culprit.
So excited with the idea that she had finally gotten her big break, Beatrice didn't even notice the cop car, pulling in behind her in the parking lot.
"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Detective Rogers as Beatrice stepped out of her car. She clutched her chest in shock at the sight of him, standing over her. He was alone this time, no silent officer with him. And he looked a little mad.
"You startled me," she said as she turned back to lock the car. "Tell you about what?" She tried her best to act aloof as she made her way through the busy parking lot, Detective Rogers being forced to hurry behind her.
"About your grandson," he said, running in front of her as he forced her to come to a stop. He had a stern look on his face as he pulled out his phone, showing her a photo of the sketch of the culprit. Seeing the sketch again, there could be no denying that it was her grandson.
"What about him?" she asked feigning innocence as she stepped around him, continuing her way to the shops. The parking lot was rather busy for that time of day, and Beatrice had to sidestep quite a few people in order to stay ahead of the detective.
"Please, don't act stupid with me, Beatrice," he said, clearly trying to contain his anger. He walked by her side now, the throng of people more than happy to move out of his way rather than him moving out of theirs.
"My name is Ms. Fletcher, and I beg your pardon," she said, pulling up suddenly as a very rude couple of kids cut in front of her, totally blocking her path. They didn't even seem to notice her, laughing as they carried on their way.
"May I ...?" he said, stepping in front of her as he attempted to clear a path through the people.
"No, you may not, and I don't appreciate you following me and bombarding me with such ... such accusations—" Even still, she made sure to use his generous offer to her best advantage, hurrying through the path that he had created. The doors to the store were right in front of her and she very much intended to enter them alone.
"Listen," he touched her on the arm as he stepped in front of her, totally blocking her access to the store. "There's no secret that I like you, but that doesn't mean you're going to get preferential treatment in a case like this."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said earnestly. And she meant that too. She wasn’t the type to try and use her sexuality to get what she wanted; she had baking for that. And as she had found out in life, a plate of brownies goes a lot further than a wink and a smile.
"This is your grandson. I have enough corroboration from your neighbors who have seen him around over the years. And with his criminal history—"
"Criminal history? My grandson doesn't have a criminal history. How dare you!" she snapped, not sure why she was. It was a gut reaction, and she knew that Detective Rogers wouldn't be telling her it was the case unless it were true. But still, hearing it said like that hurt. Not just as a grandmother, but as a mother in her own right. It was salt in the wounds of her failure.
He let out a deep sigh as if he really didn't want to say what he was surely going to. "Shoplifting, running away, breaking and entering—"
She took a step back to steady herself as her mind began to
spin. She really wished she could get a hold of her daughter now and talk to her about this. She had tried calling her several times already, but she hadn't answered or returned any of the calls. Where had she gone wrong as a mother? She and her husband had tried to be the best parents they could be. They had given their kids everything they had ever wanted and more... maybe that was where she had gone wrong.
But she was such a good girl growing up too. Sure, a little needy, but all kids are like that. It wasn't really until her husband started getting sick that she had begun to get distant and cold. She used to blame everyone she could for it, including Beatrice. That was one thing that Beatrice wouldn't put up with, and ever since then, their relationship had been on a downward spiral.
But still, that wasn't her grandson's fault. She knew her daughter to be a bit much, but never a criminal. So there was no way that she could raise one either. It just wasn't in her blood. "He doesn't... where did you hear such-?"
"Hear? Ms. Fletcher, you're forgetting, I'm a cop," he said matter-of-factly before having to quickly duck out of the way of an oncoming cart being pushed by a mother who had no time for politeness.
"Well, there must be some mistake. That doesn't sound like the grandson I know." She didn't know why she was arguing. It was something that she had been trying to deny herself since he came back into her life. The breaking into her house, the self-admission that he had committed small acts of crime to survive. Plus the police sketch. Even as she tried to deny it, the evidence was slowly mounting against him.
"Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do. He's a young man now, not a boy and the older he gets, it seems the more extreme his criminal activity is." From his tone, Beatrice could tell that Detective Rogers had already made up his mind. That was always the way these kind of people were. They looked at facts and figures without ever looking at the person. Her grandson was nothing more than a statistic to him.
Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting Page 4
