Maybe it was just because they had come from Thomas' mess of a house, but Principal Chalmers was, by comparison, organized to a fault. Everything seemed to be placed in precise position as if it was there for a purpose. She was sure that Chalmers would be the type to notice if something was out of place.
"OK, everyone. Don't touch anything. If you do, make sure you remember to place it back exactly where it was." She warned as they crept through the living room.
"What do you mean?" Sophie asked. Beatrice turned to her, and Sophie had somehow already left a trail of destruction behind her; turned over chair, a broken vase and a skewed picture frame on the wall.
Beatrice, letting out a long and audible sigh, just shook her head. "I guess that's out the window. Just keep your eyes out for anything odd." It was about all she could offer really.
Maybe bringing the whole gang along wasn't the best of ideas, now that they were in the principal's house. It just didn't feel right unless all of them were together though. The last few times that Beatrice had been involved in something like this she had all the girls with her. It was her good luck charm, of sorts.
And besides, now that Lucy was going to be an integral member of the group, she wanted her two best friends to get to know her. She was, of course, thrilled when, as she knew would be the case, the two gals instantly fell in love with her.
Stella called her the "downright cutest thing she had ever seen," while Sophie proclaimed that she was so cute that she wanted to "just eat her up," which she then proceeded to try and do.
The house was empty; Beatrice had made sure of that. As it was Tuesday the odds of Chalmers being at school was high. Sure, Lucy was meant to be there too, but Beatrice didn't see much point on her being there three days before the holidays were set to start. Not to mention that she liked to think of this as a life lesson for the little girl; one that couldn't be taught in class.
"I'm going to try the kitchen. You girls spread out, and we'll meet back in the dining room," Beatrice said before stalking into the kitchen.
It was a well laid out room with marble countertops and all new appliances. It looked like the kind of kitchen that one would find in a cooking magazine; built, but never used. Apart from that, however, there wasn't much else of interest in the kitchen. The foods were all standard, except for --
"Meat is murder?" Beatrice muttered to herself as she pulled a flyer from the fridge door. Flipping through the flyer, she found it was a small article on why it was wrong to eat meat – all in the vein of how terrible it was to kill a poor, defenseless animal.
As she looked around the kitchen, she slowly began to notice numerous writings on the same topic. Although there was nothing wrong with being a vegetarian, it did raise the excellent point that a vegetarian who couldn't even eat a dead animal, was unlikely to kill a living human being.
It was as this thought struck her that Beatrice heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Rushing to the living room window, she peered through the curtains to see not Chalmers walking up the driveway, but his nephew, Simon.
"It's Simon, " she half yelled, half whispered as the gals gathered behind her.
"What do we do?" Lucy asked, looking terrified.
Beatrice thought quickly, looking around the room for a means of escape. Unfortunately, there wasn't one. For a house such as this one, she had found it odd that there was no backyard, only a front door. All they could do was hide in the house and hope for the best.
Spotting a door to a side room that she hoped wasn't used too often, Beatrice indicated to it, "hide'," she whispered. In a flash, they all hurried toward the room, Beatrice having to grab Sophie by the arm and drag her.
The door to the side room closed behind them just as the front door swung open, with Simon charging in. He was in such a rush that he luckily failed to notice the small mess that Sophie had made. In fact, he was in such a rush that he didn't seem to notice any of the small changes that the ladies had made to the house.
As Beatrice peered through a crack in the door, she noted that he looked more worried than anything. His face was bright red, and his brow was sweating. And, judging by the suitcase he launched into the middle of the room, which he started filling with clothes, Beatrice guessed that he was going somewhere, and soon.
"What's he doing?" Stella whispered. "I can't see."
"He's packing," Beatrice whispered back. The taller lady was leaning over Beatrice's shoulder, trying to see past her. And then there was Sophie, crouched underneath, also trying to look through the crack.
"Packing what?" Beatrice didn't respond, choosing to instead swat behind her, whacking Stella in the leg. "Ow," she wailed, covering her mouth just in time to muffle the sound.
Although in Stella's defense, it wasn't her mouth that they should have been worried about, but Beatrice's phone. A second after Stella had muffled her cry, Beatrice felt a vibration in her purse. Her phone must have been leaning against a stick of lipstick as it made a very loud rattling noise.
As quick as a whip, Beatrice went for it, sighing with relief at the fact that Simon hadn't heard. He was obviously in too much of a hurry to hear.
Beatrice looked at the caller ID on her phone, surprised to see that it was Detective Rogers that was calling her.
"Yes?" She whispered into the phone, making sure to be as quiet as possible.
"Hey," Rogers spoke into the phone. "I just thought I'd let you know that... why are you whispering?"
"Oh... no reason," Beatrice said, trying her best to ignore the way that the three ladies leaned up against her, trying to listen in all the while also trying not to make a sound.
"OK then... well, I thought I would let you know that we've put a warrant out for Simon's arrest, the nephew of Principal Chalmers."
"What?" Beatrice said, almost screaming. Again, she had to cover her mouth at the last minute, not wanting to give them away.
"Yeah, we did some digging. It turns out that Simon isn't actually Chalmers’ nephew. He's an old friend from England. More than that, he's here under a false name. Fled the motherland on the back of some assault charges and is here looking for a Green Card. We figure he chose the janitor job because it's low key, doesn't raise much suspicion. That kind of thing."
"Oh," Beatrice offered, suddenly becoming very aware of the position that she was in, and not just her, but Stella, Sophie, and Lucy. Now that she thought of it, she had willingly led them all into the house of a possible murderer and more than that; the murderer was in the house with them and now known to be dangerous.
"I just thought I should let you know and maybe you can let that granddaughter of yours know? We've just been to the school to make the arrest, but he got away, but rest assured, we'll get him."
Beatrice gave her options a quick thought. She could very easily say nothing, let Simon get away and then duck out after him. Although it would mean that he would get away, it would also mean that she and the ladies wouldn’t be discovered with their pants down, so to speak.
But then again, she really couldn’t, in good conscious, let him get away, despite how stupid she was going to look.
"Have you tried Principal Chalmers’ house?" Beatrice offered.
14
It had been two days since Simon, Principal Chalmers' fake nephew was arrested. And, obviously enough, two days since Beatrice and the gang were discovered hiding in a room, at Principal Chalmers' house.
After Beatrice had suggested that Simon was at Chalmers' house, she knew that the only way to get the police over there fast enough was to admit that she too was there. So, she confided in Rogers, kept her mouth shut during the tongue lashing that he proceeded to administer and waited for the cavalry to arrive.
He was not happy with Beatrice, or any of the ladies. Apart from the legal issues surrounding breaking and entering, there was also the fact that Beatrice had put herself, her friends and her eleven-year-old granddaughter in danger. The only silver lining to come out of the entire debac
le was that the police managed to arrive in time to arrest Simon, who of course screamed his innocence the whole way to the police station.
In reality, everything was wrapped up nice and neat. Beatrice had never been closer to Lucy, and Thomas' killer was locked up, with the key deftly thrown away. And yet, something just didn't feel right about it.
Beatrice was world renowned for her instinct. It was one that had saved her hide on numerous occasions and one that used to contribute to her late husband being able to get away with next to nothing. In the past, when Beatrice stumbled upon a clue or a mistake of some kind, her instinct roared inside of her, alerting her to the problem. It let her know if she were on the right or wrong track.
Only now, it kept surprisingly quiet.
There was just something off about Simon being the culprit. Sure, he fits the bill and his motive was there. But a murderer? Beatrice just wasn't so sure. The murder of Thomas was an intricate process, one which was planned out in such a fashion that it wasn't to even look like a murder at all. It would have taken a sharp mind and composed self-control. Was that Simon?
She thought back to the way he had interrupted her meeting with Chalmers, already wearing the janitor's uniform. Only an idiot would commit murder and then do such a thing. And she also thought to the mugging of Thomas, where he was stupid enough to speak in his English accent, all but identifying himself, not something an intelligent person would do.
And sure, no one was saying that Simon wasn't a moron, but that brought up the most obvious of points - someone that dumb could not have pulled off the murder the way that he had.
All of this was on top of the fact that the officers still didn't have a clue as to how Thomas was actually poisoned.
Beatrice just wasn't one hundred percent behind the arrest of Simon from England for Thomas' murder.
That wasn't what was important. Beatrice had to remind herself that she had only become involved with the murder investigation to ease the troubled mind of Lucy. As long as Lucy was at ease, then that was all that mattered.
"And how are you feeling dear?" Beatrice asked Lucy later that day as they shuffled around Lucy's kitchen. Following the arrest of Simon, Lucy had invited Beatrice over to bake in celebration. Just the two of them. Beatrice, of course, jumped at the idea.
"I feel a bit better I guess," Lucy shrugged as she cracked a couple of eggs into a large mixing bowl. Her technique was perfect, thanks in part to a little trick that Beatrice had shown her earlier.
"Oh? Just a bit?" Beatrice prompted. She wasn't going to bring up her reservations unless Lucy did first. She had to stand fast to the belief that as long as Lucy was happy, she could let this whole thing go.
"Yeah... I mean, I'm happy that they caught the person who did it. But I'm still sad that Thomas is dead," she sighed as her shoulders collapsed.
"Come here," Beatrice cooed, bringing Lucy in for a tight, grandmotherly hug. Unfortunately, the sadness was one that she was going to have to deal with on her own. It pained Beatrice to know that there was nothing she could do. Only time would make a difference.
At least she was satisfied with the arrest, that was the main thing. At least now she could concentrate on building this relationship. If she were lucky, maybe Dave would eventually become part of the equation.
"I suppose your father is at work?" Beatrice asked as she began to whisk the flour and egg mixture in the bowl. It was a Thursday after all, so even Beatrice couldn't blame him for that.
"No," Lucy responded absentmindedly, whistling to herself. "He's been in bed all morning."
"What? He has?" Beatrice asked, surprised. A man who went to work on a Sunday wasn't the type to miss work on a Thursday. "Is he sick?"
"I don't think so," Lucy responded, her tongue sticking out as if she were concentrating. "He just said he didn't feel like going to work today."
And there it was, that instinct that Beatrice had come to rely on so much in the past. It roared to life at these words, all but screaming at her that something was terribly wrong.
Beatrice didn’t waste any time. She doubled checked that Lucy would be fine to finish up by herself, which of course, she was, and then she hurried to Dave's bedroom, determined to see what was wrong. Deep down she was still his mother after all, and if there were something wrong, she would do all that she could to right it.
"Dave. Dave are you there?" she whispered as she cracked open the bedroom door to his room.
The room was shrouded in darkness; the curtains were drawn closed, not a light on anywhere. It was also laced with the distinct smell of a person who had not showered in days; stewing in their own filth. In short, it stunk of depression.
"Dave," Beatrice tried again, edging closer into the room. She could see Dave's bed in the center of the room and was certain that she could make out his shape, lying on the bed; sheets over his head. "Da --"
"What?" He bellowed back. Well, at least that was what it sounded like he was trying to do. The sound came out muffled by bed sheets and what Beatrice assumed was mucus formed through an excess of crying.
"Lucy told me you were home and I wanted to see if --"
"Go away," he shouted again, this time with a little more force. "I'm sick."
By now Beatrice was well and truly in the room, lurking by the end of the bed. She hovered back and forth over it, trying to decide if it was worth sitting down or not. "I don't believe you," she said.
"Oh yeah?"
"Trust me; a mother always knows when her son is ill. It's one of our powers." This time she took the plunge, seating herself on the end of Dave's bed. As she did, she placed her hand on his leg, which was still under the covers. She was thrilled to see that he didn't recoil.
"You haven't been my mother in a long time," he responded, his voice still thick with tears.
That one hurt a little bit, but Beatrice chose to push through it. Something was wrong, and she would get to the bottom of it. She was a part-time detective after all. "I'll always be your mother. No matter what Dave. And I've dealt with you in much worse situations than this."
"OK, well, how about you tell me what's wrong?" He said. "If you're so good..." Every word he spoke sounded forced, and it broke Beatrice's heart. He was hurting, and she couldn't remember a time she had seen him like this.
"Well, if I were to warrant a guess, I would say it was work related." It didn't take a genius to work that one out. The last five years, Beatrice couldn’t remember a time where Dave wasn't preoccupied with his job. Him being here right now could only mean one thing. "And if I were to further my guess, I would say that you were fired."
There was a long silence that followed, and Beatrice could feel the earlier tension pouring from Dave ease up just a little. Then, ever so slowly, he sat up in his bed, turning to face his mother for the first time. He looked terrible too, red-faced, swollen eyes, and mucus clogging up his nose. It was a sad sight.
"How did you know?" He asked, wiping his nose on his bed sheet.
"An educated guess," she responded, patting him on the leg again. "Now, how about you tell me what happened?"
"Why," he asked. "What's the point? It's done. I'm fired, and there's no going back."
"Oh, I don't know about that," Beatrice smirked to herself. There was a reason for her smirk of course, and it had nothing to do with seeing Dave this broken. No, it had to do with the situation she currently found herself in. One that she was sure she could fix.
"What would you know?" He blurted, throwing himself back down in his bed.
"I'm your mother; I know everything. I also know that I can fix this... if I so choose." She received a muffled scoffing from her son. "What, you don't believe me?" She asked.
Again, Dave sat up, looking right at Beatrice this time. "You think you can fix it? You think you're that good?" The amount of skepticism in his voice was tremendous, but to Beatrice, it was music to her ears.
"I think I can."
"OK. Go for it," Dave said, falling back down in his
bed. "Please, get me my job back." Again, it was said almost as a joke, and she was sure that he was just trying to get rid of her.
"If I do though, you have to promise me one thing."
"One thing?"
"That you come to Thanksgiving dinner with Lucy. I'm making the biggest feast yet, and your sister and nephew will be there. It would be great to have the whole family together for once."
There was another pause this time, longer than the last. Beatrice wondered if he were weighing up the benefits of getting his job back versus spending Thanksgiving dinner with her. It hurt a little to think that the two were even comparable.
"OK," he finally let out. "If you get me my job back, I'll come to dinner."
Beatrice didn't say another word. Instead, she patted him on the leg again, rose and left him to his own self-misery, for she knew it was going to be short-lived. The whole way out she couldn't hide the smile on her face. It wasn't because she knew that she was going to get her son's job back for him, but because she couldn't wait for Thanksgiving dinner. For once she was going to spend it with her whole family.
--
The first thing that Beatrice did after leaving her son's house was swing past her bakery and whip up an orange meringue pie. She already had all the ingredients there and knew that it would be foolish of her to turn up at her son's boss' house without one.
A few hours later, with the pie in hand, Beatrice made her way to the boss' house. She didn't know what she was going to say, but she was also sure that it wasn't going to be a problem. Last time she had seen Ron, he had specifically told her that if she ever needed anything, all she need do was ask. Well, now she was asking.
Ron's house looked exactly how she would have expected someone of his career level to look. It was a very modern, two-story suburban home. This wasn't just any run of the mill suburbia either, but the kind where you just knew everyone that lived here slept on piles of cash at night. Almost every house had a large front gate, blocking off the entrance and every house almost certainly employed a gardener; or they were all occupied by green thumbs.
Case of the Butter Cream Cookie Hanging Page 7
