Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting

by Jessica Lansberry

  What Sophie really needed was a plate.

  The thought of a plate sent Beatrice's mind to her Qing Dynasty plate sets that she had at home, that the pest control man had been so interested in. And just like that, everything fell into place. It was like the large iron gate that she had been trying to scale for the last few days, had just magically opened to her. And with the open gate, she could see, as clear as day, who the other woman was.

  So excited, she was about to share her theory with her two best friends when her phone rang. "Detective?" She answered and thought about sharing her idea with him but decided against it. Best prove herself right first.

  "Good afternoon Ms. Fletcher," he said over the phone. "I found something you might find interesting. It seems like your grandson was telling the truth. Someone did call 9-1-1- that evening reporting a threat. The dispatcher thought it was a prank call because the caller had used a voice disguiser."

  "That's what he said, that exonerates my grandson," she said, letting out a huge sigh of relief. At least now she could sleep a little easier at night. There was just one more thing that needed to be done. "But what about the real killer?" She probed, curious to see if he was on the right track.

  "So, it seems there were a quite a few phone calls to the victim that week including one that evening that lasted quite some time."

  "I knew it," she said smugly. She was glad that this was a phone call because as of that moment she was beaming so much that her smile threatened to tear through either side of her face.

  "But the call was from a blocked number. All except one that was seconds before. Seems like she forgot to *69 seconds before she hung up. But after blocking her number, she called again."

  "Do you know who it was?" Beatrice asked eagerly. As much fun as it was knowing who it was before the police, having the evidence to back her theory up would obviously go a long way in securing the arrest. It was time to end this.

  "As a matter of fact, we do."

  ***

  Beatrice should have been thrilled; her grandson was coming home.

  When he was accused of murder, she vowed that she would not rest until his name was cleared. Thanks to some serious detective work on her part, that was now happening. With the evidence that he had in fact called the police around the same time that she was thought to be murdered, the local prosecutor had a hard time keeping him behind bars. Especially as it went against the cold, calculating killer angle, they had been working against him. Consequently, he was soon to be released. And yet, for some reason, Beatrice was was still upset.

  “What’s the matter, darling?” Stella asked as she scooped Sylvester into her arms, making for the lounge room. “I thought you’d be thrilled?”

  “Yeah, me too,” Beatrice admitted, plopping herself onto the lounge. Her energy had been zapped, and she was pretty sure that it had something to do with her current mood.

  “Is it because Golden Girls got canceled?” Sophie asked as she poked at Buzz’s cage.

  “Sophie, that show was canceled years ago,” Beatrice said, barely having the energy even to care.

  “I know, but even so, I still get upset every now and then when I think about it — ah!” With her finger through the cage, Buzz snapped at it with his beak, just nipping the end. Usually, Beatrice would have gotten up and chastised the bird for such an act, but right now she really couldn’t care less.

  “I think… I don’t know,” Beatrice concluded, throwing her hands in the air in defeat.

  She actually did know what was wrong and it started right about the time that Detective Rogers told her that her grandson was being let go. At first, she was thrilled by it. Her grandson was coming home after all. But then she started to think about that word, ‘home,’ and what it meant.

  Really her grandson should have been going back to his own house, to his mother. She should be down there right now, waiting for him to be released. She should have been wrought with worry the whole time, unable to sleep until her son was free. But no, she wasn’t. Did she even care?

  “I know what’s wrong,” Stella said, falling in next to Beatrice. She was in an annoyingly good mood and in Beatrice’s current mood it was starting to grate on her nerves.

  “Oh do you now?” Beatrice said skeptically. Although truth be told, she should have known that Stella would have some idea. What were best friends for after all?

  “You should just go and talk to her. Apologize if you have to. Do anything you can to make up.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Beatrice said stubbornly, refusing to look at her best friend.

  “Oh really? You mean you aren’t frightfully upset that your daughter isn’t here right now? And you’re not in this funk because you wish that you could call her and see how she is doing? Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Beatrice shot her friend a look that could have frozen the earth over. But Stella didn’t buckle, not for a second. Instead, she continued to pet Sylvester, eyeing Beatrice knowingly; an annoying smirk on her face.

  The worst part was that she was right of course. The last few days Beatrice had begun to feel this way the more she thought about her grandson and the idea of family, and how fractured hers was. And then, at that birthday party, watching the father and daughter be so happy and cute. It tore at Beatrice’s heart like a vindictive beast.

  She didn’t want a perfect relationship with her daughter. That was impossible. But she did want some sort of relationship. The kind of one where they sent cards to each other on the holidays or called one another every few weeks to make sure that everything was OK. Nothing fancy or groundbreaking. But something.

  But in order for that to happen, a miracle would have to transpire. Either that or Beatrice would have to apologize. And that in itself was beyond miracle status.

  “Why should I have to apologize?” Beatrice suddenly said. “I’m not the one that divorced her. I just told her it was going to happen — which it did! She should have thanked me, not exorcised me from her life!” Beatrice was on her feet now, pacing back and forth. She had found her lost energy; she just didn't know what to do with it.

  Stella stood up, walking to her best friend. When she reached her, she took Beatrice by the hand, looking into her eyes. “You know what I wish for more than anything? That I said sorry. I look back on the fight I had with my daughter, and that was the one thing I didn’t say. I made a mistake and was too stubborn even to say sorry for it. My relationship with my daughter is broken and can’t be fixed. Yours still has a chance. I would give anything for just a chance.”

  Beatrice could feel the tears coming as she looked away from her best friend. She didn’t want to admit that she was right. That all it would take was an olive branch. Darn it if she wasn’t so stubborn.

  Then, most unexpectedly, Sophie came up behind Beatrice and wrapped her arms around her. “Imagine what your grandson would say if he came home tonight and his mother and grandmother were both here. Holding hands. Imagine how nice that would be.”

  Beatrice couldn’t fight it anymore. In a rare moment of clarity, Sophie had managed to hit the nail on the head. She was right of course. This was bigger than Beatrice and her daughter. This was about her grandson. For all her preaching about family dynamics, she wasn’t willing to do the one thing that she knew she could to fix it.

  Well not anymore. It was never too old to change, and Beatrice was about to prove that.

  “OK, OK. You’re both right. I’ll go to my daughter and say I’m sorry. At least that way I’ll know whether or not there is any chance between us.”

  “Yay!” Sophie squealed, clapping her hands together as she jumped up and down.

  “First though, I’m going to need to see you two ladies in the kitchen.”

  “The kitchen? Why the kitchen?” Stella asked.

  “If you think I’m going to my daughter's house unarmed then you’re crazier than I know Sophie is.”

  ***

  Beatrice was at her daughter’s house t
wo hours later. All she had with her was an open heart and a container filled with buttercream cookies; her daughter’s favorite.

  She stood staring at the door for a few moments, willing herself to knock. When she finally worked up the courage, she gave three, long, loud knocks, immediately hearing a shuffle coming from the other side of the door.

  As she waited, she wondered what she was going to say. She really had no idea. She had spent the drive there contemplating the possibilities. On the one hand, she could launch into a tirade, deconstructing how they had gotten to that point and what they could do to make it all better.

  On the other hand, she could simply use her grandson as an excuse, offering him up as the reason why they should both make-up and overcome their differences.

  The only problem with both of these possibilities was that neither of them was really an apology. In fact they both kind of laid the blame at her daughter’s feet. Beatrice knew that she was going to have to tread lightly here, unless her daughter flies off the handle. And if she did that then Beatrice was sure to follow.

  The front door suddenly flew open, her daughter filling up the frame. She looked rather haggard actually like she hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was all frumpy, her clothes were wrinkled, and her eyes were red and swollen.

  “Mom?” She said, sounding surprised. Her voice was croaky, and Beatrice knew that she had been crying.

  Beatrice froze, still not knowing what to say. She was about to snap. She was about to tell her to get her act together and come see her son. But she didn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, in almost a whisper. She threw herself forward, pulling her daughter into the biggest hug she had ever given her. And her daughter, surprisingly, returned it.

  The two women, mother and daughter, remained where they were for what felt like eternity, hugging in silence.

  ***

  After the epic hug, her daughter invited Beatrice inside, delighted by the buttercream cookies.

  The house was, of course, a wreck. All the blinds had been pulled closed, giving it a very dark, dirty feel. And this was only compounded by the piles of clothes, cardboard boxes and other pieces of trash that littered the floor.

  The tension started out strong too, taking a long time to melt. The two women sat in relative silence for most of it, chewing the cookies and sipping on the coffee that her daughter made. They exchanged bits and pieces of conversation every now and then, slowly warming back up to each other.

  It had been such a long time since they had spoken in earnest that it was bound to take a while.

  It turned out that her boyfriend had left her only a few days ago, and that was why she looked so terrible. It also turned out that things weren’t going so well at work either. When she found out that her son was in jail, she had all but lost it. Like Beatrice, she wasn’t so great at saying sorry and chose to ignore the problem.

  “He’d be so happy to see you,” Beatrice tried to tell her. “I know he would.”

  “You only say that because you don’t know him. Trust me; I would only make it worse.” She sounded like she really believed it. It reminded Beatrice of the way she had been when they had first started fighting. She was so convinced that things could only get worse that she never even tried to make them better.

  “Does that mean that you aren’t going to come back with me?” She asked, hopeful. As odd as it sounded, they had really made some serious ground, and Beatrice thought that maybe there was a small chance that her daughter would agree to come over. If for no other reason than to see her son. “He’ll be home in a few hours.”

  “No I… I can’t. He’ll be better with you. Even I can’t argue that fact.” She looked at the floor, clearly ashamed. Beatrice sighed, taking her hand. She was her daughter, and Beatrice knew how hard that admission must have been. It was only a small step, but it was something.

  Their relationship was a long way from being fixed, and even further than that still. But at least a start had been made. As Beatrice left her daughter’s house, she promised that she would let her know how her son was coping when he got home. It was a small thing, but that was all that Beatrice wanted. Those small steps would add up to big ones.

  She knew that one day, maybe a week from now, maybe a year, the three of them would be able to hang out as a family again. It was a day that Beatrice couldn’t wait for.

  14

  Her grandson had been through hell and back. When he knocked on her door later that night, and she answered, Beatrice hardly recognized him. He was still wearing the same old dirty jeans and a black t-shirt. But that wasn't it. It was his hair, greasy and messy. It had a beard, no longer clean shaven, but scruffy and unkempt. And it was his disposition in general. He looked and acted worn out like he'd just run a marathon.

  This was confirmed the moment he entered the house, collapsing on her couch the second he did.

  "I can't believe you're letting me stay here after all I've put you through," he said as he slowly climbed from the couch, making his way to the guest room. It was all ready of course. She had gone out of her way to fluff the pillows and soften the blankets before his arrival. She was his grandmother after all.

  She kissed him on the forehead as he slumped into the room. "You're my grandson; I wouldn't have it any other way.” She decided that it was best to leave out the part about how she had gone to see his mother. In time she would let him know. Hopefully, by then his mother would be ready to finally let him live with her again.

  He smiled at her as he climbed into bed, his clothes still on. He was so exhausted that he couldn't even be bothered to take them off. The moment he was in bed, he was out. His face planted into the pillow, not even climbing under the sheets.

  She watched him for a moment, a smile on her face. She may have failed with her own daughter, but with her grandson she had succeeded as a grandmother. She had kept him safe.

  She flicked the light, throwing the room into darkness. About to turn and leave, she pulled up when his voice broke the silence. "Grandma?"

  "Yes?" She said back, keeping her voice at a whisper.

  "He didn't do it, you know. That pest control guy." His voice was sad, yet earnest. Her heart broke for him. Even after all he had been through, he was still worried about the fate of others. She knew that he had a kind soul. This all but confirmed it.

  "I know darling," she said, speaking softly.

  "I don't want someone going to prison for something they didn't do." She had never been so proud of him. She knew that despite the petty thefts and the odd vagrancies, he was a good kid; her own flesh and blood.

  "Neither do I," she confirmed.

  "I saw her, dead you know." His voice was broken as he said this and she was sure that he was crying. But she remained where she was. If he wanted her to hold him, he would let her know. If this experience had taught her anything, it was that he was no longer the little boy that she thought him to be.

  "What?" Even though it was dark, Beatrice's eyes shot wide open.

  "I didn't want to tell you because... she said that if I did—"

  "Who said what?" Her heart was beating fast now. She had not expected this, not now. She all but knew who the killer was. Her grandson it seemed was about to confirm it.

  Through the darkness, she could see her grandson sit up in bed. "The woman that killed her. She said if I said anything she'd kill you but ... that's why I came to your house that night. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

  "Grandson, what are you saying?"

  15

  What her grandson had told her had confirmed exactly what she thought. But more than that, it had provided her with evidence. She now knew without a shadow of a doubt who the killer was and even better than that; she could prove it.

  What Beatrice did next wasn't the smartest thing. In fact, it was the exact opposite of that. After she had put her grandson to bed, her blood was pumping hot. She paced the house back and forth, trying to decide what she should do. She could call Detec
tive Rogers and tell him everything. But what if he didn't believe her? What if the killer got away? What if...? What if... ?

  She couldn't justify a reason not to call the detective, and she had to admit that it was the right thing to do. So, admitting this to herself, she picked up the phone to call. But, as luck would have it, or at least she saw it that way, the call went straight to his voicemail. She left him a quick message, explaining the situation. Then she waited. And after that, she waited some more. In truth, it may have only been two or three minutes of waiting, but it felt like forever.

  And the more she waited, the angrier she got. This woman, she had attacked Beatrice personally, right where she lived... at least in a symbolic sense. And there was every chance that she knew that they were on to her and was escaping right now, all as Beatrice sat around, waiting. This whole thing was beyond simple law and order; it was personal. Or at least that's what Beatrice told herself.

  So with that in mind, Beatrice threw on her old bathrobe, grabbed a freshly made cheesecake from the fridge and stepped outdoors, ready to do something that fell right into that category of periodically stupid.

  Genevieve lived just down the road and, with the lights still on, was obviously home. Beatrice hurried to her front door, knocking furiously.

  —

  "I'm so sorry to intrude like this," said Beatrice dabbing her eyes as Genevieve sat her down at the kitchen table.

  It was only too easy to get indoors. There was no reason for Genevieve to expect a thing. And with Beatrice playing the upset victim, Genevieve was a shoe in to let her in. Not because she would want to help Beatrice, but because she would be able to sense the drama and would without a doubt want the first scoop.

  Genevieve joined her at the table a second later with a hot pot of tea. Beatrice eyed it, knowing she'd use it to defend herself if need be. The thing about drama queens was that they were prone to over-the-top acts and that included throwing boiling hot tea into your neighbor's face when provoked.