“Hey,” Beatrice began, closing the door behind her as she took a hesitant step into the room. “I was hoping I could borrow your ear for just a moment?” The tension in the room was palpable as the men watched with curiosity; their eyes flicking between her and her daughter as if there were about to witness an epic showdown. Beatrice found herself wishing that she had waited until later.
“What the hell are you doing here?” her daughter all but spat, obviously both shocked and disgusted. “And how did you get in?”
“Mr. Prior never could say no to my peanut brittle,” she answered. To this, there were a few chuckles from the men at the desk. They all remained where they were, of course, not saying a thing as they watched in curiosity as Beatrice and her daughter squared off.
“You always had a way in the kitchen. But seriously, what are you doing here?” Beatrice got the sense that she was doing all she could to control her temper in front of her work colleagues. Beatrice was going to have to take advantage of this fact.
“It’s about your son. He’s —”
“Please! Can this not wait until later? You have my number. Call me.” She was being short and to the point. There was no doubt that she wanted Beatrice out of there as soon as possible. Catching her in work mode probably hadn’t helped either. Beatrice got the sense that she had built herself up to be a rather commanding figure here and work and wasn’t going to be pushed around. Especially by her mother.
“I did call you. And you were… less than receptive.” She could feel the tension mount in the room after that little comment. She got the distinct impression that the men watching on knew only too well about her daughter's drinking habits. She felt like she was putting on some sort of performance for them.
“What I do in my own time is my own business,” she snapped, clenching her jaw. Her eyes then flicked down to the seated men, as if daring them to say something. None of them did.
“Not when it involves my grandson. When he’s in trouble, I could give a fig about your own time. You’re a mother; you don’t have that luxury.” Beatrice wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the men catcalled all of a sudden. It really felt like it was going that way.
“In trouble? He’s always in trouble. That’s what he does. If it’s not this, then next week it will be something else. Trust me. He’s best left alone. That’s the only way he’ll learn.”
“I don’t think you believe that for one second,” Beatrice pressed on.
“And how would you know? Mother of the year, coming in to ruin someone else's life now. What? Just your daughter's wasn’t enough? You need to ruin your grandson’s too?”
That one hurt a little more than Beatrice would have liked to admit. Did her daughter really think of her that way? That she had ruined her life? How could she possibly...
Beatrice closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She couldn’t get lost in thoughts of her and her daughter's fractured relationship. This wasn’t about them. She had a point to make, and she was going to make it. She was pretty sure that she was very close to being thrown out. “Yes, he might get in trouble every now and then. But did you ever think why that is? If he had a mother, who listened to him, rather than drowning her sorrows in the bottom of a cheap bottle of whiskey…”
A hush fell over the room as that last part slipped out. Beatrice hadn’t meant to say it. She had, in truth, gone to see her daughter with every intention of being civil. They were both adults and should have been able to speak to each other as such. But her daughter had a way of bringing it out of her. And vice versa. They were like bulls in a ring, daring the other to attack first.
Her daughter shook with physical rage. “Hamish. Call security. Now!” She snapped at one of the men sitting nearest her.
He had been watching the showdown in absolute delight, taking a few seconds to realize that he was being spoken to. But once he did, he hopped to it, grabbing the phone in the center of the table and proceeding to dial.
“Don’t bother. I’ll leave,” Beatrice confirmed, taking a step back. “I just came here to tell you that your son is in jail for a crime he didn’t commit. I thought, incorrectly, that he could use his mother by his side. He is still just a child after all.” And with those words, Beatrice turned and left the room, escaping the silence that followed her final admission.
As Beatrice made her way down the halls of Deloitte & Sons, she couldn’t decide if that little run-in had been a success or not.
She had never expected her and her daughter to make up, especially not then and there. As much as she hated to admit it, those days were long past. There was once a time where she was so certain that sooner or later, the two would get over their differences and get back to being a mother and daughter. But those days had long past.
Yes, she would give anything to be able to call her daughter on a Sunday night and see how her week was. To hear a knock at her door and wonder if her daughter had come to pay her a visit. That was what being a mother was all about. But Beatrice was also stubborn, and she wasn’t about to go crawling on her knees. Unfortunately, her daughter was just as stubborn. So this was an impasse that neither were likely to get over.
What Beatrice really wondered was whether the message she had gone there to deliver had gotten through. Her goal was simple, to get her daughter to realize how much her son needed her. Going in, Beatrice was supposed to be all sugar and honey. She was going to be sweet and kind, hoping that in doing so she could at the very least get her message across.
But true to form, her daughter had enraged her and Beatrice had taken the bait. Sure she got those final words in, but she couldn’t be sure as to their effectiveness. If they were effective at all.
She had failed as a mother. She knew that. All she could do now was hope that her daughter didn’t make the same mistake. There was nothing worse than having a broken relationship with your family. If Beatrice were to die tomorrow, she would die happy knowing that her daughter and grandson had gotten over their differences and made up.
But now, in light of what just happened, that seemed unlikely.
All Beatrice could do now was try and free her grandson. Maybe it was time for Beatrice to give up on her daughter entirely. She hated to admit it, and it stabbed at her heart the more she thought about it. But sometimes relationships just had to be let go of, no matter how hard it was to do.
8
Following her run-in with her daughter, Beatrice had near forgotten just how grand the news of her grandson being arrested would be to the small neighborhood she was from. Not a lot happened in her town, so when it did, no matter how small, everyone knew about it.
From the moment that she arrived home, both Beatrice's front door and telephone didn’t stop. If it wasn't a nosey neighbor banging on the front door, it was an ever noisier one calling on the phone. It seemed that it took exactly eight minutes for word to spread through the small community that she was home, and only ten seconds after that for people to start digging for more information.
The first call was from Stella, which was one that she could handle. This was a call that was genuine, asking if there was anything she could do. Beatrice hung up from that call feeling relieved that her best friend had her back.
The next call was from Sophie, although Sophie hadn't called about her grandson. She had called to make sure that Beatrice had an umbrella because the weatherman’s predictions over the next few days. When Beatrice asked if she had any questions about her grandson, Sophie acted like she had no idea what Beatrice was talking about... or that she even had a grandson. Beatrice thanked her for the warning and hung up, sighing to herself.
That was when the neighbors pounced. Like hyenas circling a dead carcass, they came at her with no remorse. First, it was the Parkers from across the road. They came across under the guise of borrowing flour. Only to bombard her with questions about her grandson and then leave without any flour to speak of.
Following that was a series of phone calls from the old gang at the neig
hborhood watch, each call getting less polite and more to the point. The final caller, Mrs. Potts from down the road, all out accused her grandson of committing the murder and asked when his sentencing was.
It was surprising to Beatrice, after getting through these calls, that one neighbor, in particular, hadn't rung yet. Or visited. Genevieve should have been the first to call, and the last just so as to get the last word in. Beatrice was about to count her blessings when her phone suddenly rang again, and of course, it was Genevieve. That shrill voice was blasting through the phone speaker.
"I'm so sorry to hear about your grandson," said Genevieve, sounding anything but empathetic.
"I... Thank you," said Beatrice, trying her best to sound sincere but failing miserably. She didn't care. The long afternoon had all but drained her.
"Well, if there's anything I can do... it must be hard having a criminal in the family." It was the way she said it that burned Beatrice the most. There was no question or hint of remorse. It was a flat out statement. Your grandson is a murderer.
"He's not a criminal, but... I appreciate your concern," Beatrice said as she tried to keep her cool. It wasn't easy though. No one could work her up like Genevieve could. It was almost a gift really.
"Maybe we can have a bite to eat or something, I can bring over some casserole," she said, sweet as pie, as if she hadn't just insulted her own flesh and blood. Beatrice rolled her eyes at the suggestion; she didn't trust the woman as far as she could throw her. And she knew that the only reason that Genevieve wanted to come over was so that she could do some more snooping and maybe even get the first scoop on a story.
"I appreciate that, but actually I have a pest control visit today." She hated admitting it to the drama queen, but at this point, she would do anything to get her off the phone. And at least she was using the one that Genevieve recommended. That might keep her in her good books.
"Oh?" she said, sounding even more interested. Beatrice could just imagine her sitting upright in her chair; phone pressed to her ear so she wouldn't miss a thing. She was quite possibly even salivating.
A loud knock on the front door rang through the room, and Beatrice mouthed a silent thank you to whichever god was listening.
"In fact, I think that might be him at the door," Beatrice said, heading toward the front door.
"Let me know how—" But Beatrice hung up on her before she could finish her sentence.
She rushed to the door to let the visitor in, the knocking continuing in one endless streak. Looking through the peephole, she was relieved to see that it was the pest control service and not another neighbor, here under the guise of needing something.
The pest control man was the same one that she had met at Genevieve's the other day too. The number had been forced on her, and as she did need the service, she didn't see any point in not calling him, even if it was helping Genevieve out.
"Please, come in," said Beatrice letting the large man inside.
"Absolutely, ma'am. Do you want me to take off my shoes?" he asked, looking around the house. It wasn't the politeness of the request that surprised Beatrice the most, but the fact that the request was made at all. She could distinctly remember him walking right into Genevieve's house the other day as if he owned it. Either he'd had a crash course in manners, or he was lying that day about it being his first time in the house.
"Please, do," Beatrice confirmed, indicating his dirty shoes. "That stuff you're using, it won't be harmful to my cat or my bird will it?"
"No, not at all, completely non-toxic to domestic animals. Only unwanted critters. I've been doing all your neighbors, and they've been pleased." He kicked his shoes off, revealing very smelly feet. Maybe it would have been better to leave the shoes on.
"So, I've heard," she said, watching him like a hawk.
It wasn't personal. And she hated to be that suspicious of everyone, but you never could be too careful nowadays. And besides, that famous intuition of Beatrice's was practically singing in her head. There was something very fishy about this man. She just couldn't put her finger on it.
"Well, shall I start in the kitchen?" he asked, waddling toward the kitchen.
"Yes, please," she said. As he made his way into the kitchen, she scooped up the birdcage, placing it in her bedroom. She then tracked down Sylvester and threw him in the room too, much to his protests.
When she did finally get back to the kitchen, she was surprised to find that the exterminator wasn't there. Instead, he was still in the living room, picking up a few of her priceless antiques and examining them.
"See anything interesting?" she asked. Her voice was accusatory. She meant it to be. Even she didn't touch her antiques when she could help it. The last thing she wanted was a complete stranger manhandling them.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm just... I love stuff like this," he said, not putting the antiques down. But rather, picking another up.
"Stuff like that is quite expensive, so if you don't mind." She hurried into the room, taking an antique dinner plate from his hands. It was one of her favorites and although she hated to be rude, times like this called for it.
"But of course," he said. "Is that, an original? Diego Rivera painting." He pointed to the painting on the wall. There was a hunger in his voice as he stared at it.
"As a matter of fact, it is. You know art?" She couldn't help but be a little impressed. It was so rare for someone to know art like that, especially in these parts. Even Beatrice had come late to it, her dead husband being the real aficionado of the two.
"Just enough," he said, his eyes working the room over. "It's a rare find. And that plate, is that from the Qing Dynasty?" He took a step toward it; his hands held out. It was only at the last second that he stopped himself as if suddenly realizing how it must look.
"Were you going to start in the back of the kitchen or the front?" she asked, changing the subject. It was becoming odder by the second, the way he devoured the precious items in the room. Sure, she had bought them to be admired. But the way he looked at them was different. It was a jealousy as if he were mad that she had them and not him.
"I apologize, the back actually. You said you saw mice earlier?"
"I didn't say that at all in fact. How did you know?" She eyed him suspiciously. She was certain that she hadn't mentioned anything. Who had he been talking to?
"Oh, your neighbors have been complaining about mice, so I only assumed." He was hurried in the way that he spoke, his eyes looking everywhere but at her. There was no doubt that he was lying. The only question was, why?
"How resourceful of them," she said, arms crossed. It was just then that something very poignant came to her mind. She had been trying to work out what the connection between he and Genevieve was, and she had just thought of one. Another angle that she hadn't seen before. "Tell me, are you single?"
"I beg your pardon?" He sounded a little put off by the question as if it were the most bizarre thing in the world to ask.
"A handsome man such as you, I can't imagine you being single not for long, not in this town."
"Well, I'm... yes, I find it best to focus on my career at this point." It was clear that the conversation was making him very uncomfortable, more than it ought to. There was something he was hiding.
"As a pest control man?" she asked curiously. "You know Genevieve is single too. It seems she is an attractive woman." By now the pest control man was visibly sweating as he continued to look everywhere but at Beatrice. Why was this conversation making him so uncomfortable? Beatrice just knew that it was important.
"Is she? I hadn't noticed." What a lie. Even Beatrice had to admit that Genevieve was attractive, as much as it pained her to admit it. She couldn't think of a time when a man hadn't been throwing himself at her.
It was then that another, very juicy idea came to mind. "And it is women that you're interested in, aren't you?" She smiled a wicked smile as she asked the question. Even if it wasn't the case, his reaction would tell her all she needed to know.<
br />
"Yes, of course," he said with a forced laugh. "You should probably wait in the other room, the fumes may be non-toxic but they can irritate respiratory issues."
"Good to know. Let me know if you need anything," she said walking away.
If her suspicion was peaked before, it was positively explosive now. There was definitely something going on with that pest control man. And what was more, Beatrice was sure that Genevieve was in on it. Past lovers maybe? Or possibly a case of unrequited love? Whatever it was, she was going to find out. Something told her that it just might be the key to freeing her grandson.
9
Beatrice searched the house high and low after the pest control man left. She started by scanning all the countertops and open cabinets. Then she made her way through the closed cupboards and into the rooms that he wasn't meant to be cleaning. She even got onto her hands and knees a few times, just to double check that nothing had been dropped.
But after an hour of thoroughly combing through her house, she had to admit that indeed he hadn't taken anything. Maybe he was just an admirer?
But she wasn't so sure...
She had spent the last few hours racking her brains to try and work out a connection between everything. There was her grandson, the apparent murderer. There was Sasha, the unknown woman who was murdered. And finally, there was Genevieve and the pest control man. They were all linked, she was sure of it. But linked by what was anyone's guess.
After searching the house, she fell back on the couch, thoroughly pooped. Her legs hurt from all the walking and her head hurt from all the overthinking. Maybe she had to contend with herself that she was looking for answers in places where they didn't exist. She did have a fondness for TV mysteries, and maybe one too many of them had gotten to her head.
Maybe this case was cut and dry, and she just refused to believe it.
Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting Page 6
