Case of the Butter Cream Cookie Hanging

by Jessica Lansberry

  To Beatrice’s delight, Ron’s house did not have a gate blocking off the driveway. She was worried that she was going to have to be buzzed in, and therefore lose her element of surprise when she turned up on his doorstep. She was, therefore, able to take the long, winding driveway all the way up to the front door.

  Knocking on the front door, she had to wait all of three seconds for someone to answer as if they were waiting on the other side for her.

  "Hello," Beatrice beamed pleasantly as Ron himself answered the front door. He was dressed in a casual attire of shorts and a polo shirt, suggesting that he didn’t make it to work that day.

  "Oh, Ms. Fletcher? How.. How nice to see you," he responded, a mixture of surprise and curiosity. He was a businessman, a successful one at that, so Beatrice knew that he would be sizing her up the moment that she arrived; trying to deduce what the heck it was that she was doing there in the first place.

  "Ron, I hope I'm not intruding... pie?" she offered, holding the pie up for Ron to take.

  "Is that... is that orange meringue again? You really didn't have to --"

  "I wanted to, especially after you told me how much your wife loves them. And how was the anniversary?" She asked, maintaining her sunny disposition. The idea was for her to act as if being here was the most natural thing in the world.

  "It was perfect. Thanks to you of course – did you... did you want to come in?" He finally offered, stepping aside and waving her into his house.

  "Yes, thank you," Beatrice accepted, entering the large house. The inside was just as nice as the outside. Marble floors, chandeliers, and open spaces. It was a decorator’s dream. "This is a lovely place you have for yourself."

  "Thank you," Ron said, gesturing her toward the living room where they both took a seat. "So, I'm curious Ms. Fletcher. What is it that I can do for you?"

  "What? You don’t think I came over just to say hi and drop off some baked goods?" She asked. "Or are you a straight-to-the-point kind of man?"

  He offered her a knowing smile. "Please, Ms. Fletcher. I know people, and I know that you are after something. So, come on, out with it." To her relief, he didn't seem upset or angry that she had come barging in like this, but curious.

  "OK, I was maybe hoping that you would have tried my pie first to put in in a better mood, but here goes, it's about my son."

  "Your son?"

  "Yes. I believe you know him. Dave."

  "Dave Fletcher is your son? Of course, he is," Ron sighed, finally catching on. She was surprised that he hadn't already figured this out. It wasn't a very large town. How many Fletchers could there possibly be?

  "He is my only son," Beatrice pressed. "And I just came from seeing him."

  "You're kidding, aren't you?" Ron asked, smirking as if he couldn't believe it. "You're here to ask for your son's job back?"

  "Ron if there is one thing you need to know about me it is that I never kid when it comes to my children and their well-being. And right now, it's not just my children, but my grandchildren. I'm afraid that all kidding is well and truly out the window, as it is." All the warmth had gone from Beatrice's voice now. She needed Ron to know that she was here for business.

  Ron leaned back in his chair, watching Beatrice for a long time. There was a look on his face that she couldn't quite read. It was either admiration or disappointment. "Tell me, Ms. Fletcher, how exactly did you think this conversation was going to play out?"

  "So far it is right on track. You were going to think I had lost my mind, you were going to turn me down, and then I was going to remind you of the favor that you promised me."

  "But surely you didn't think that this falls into that category? I meant something along the lines of accounting advice or something of that nature."

  "And why would I need accounting advice? My son is an accountant. What I do need is the favor that was promised. One that came about after I saved your wedding anniversary. You didn't forget about that, did you? I'm certain that your wife didn't?"

  What this was, was a battle of strength. Beatrice did her best to stare down Ron, all the while trying to remind him of what he owed her. Ron wasn't the average male. He was a CEO, a man's man used to getting what he wanted, and he wasn't the type to be pushed around by some old lady. In fact, there was only one lady that he could be pushed around by.

  "Honey, who's this?" A voice called from the adjoining room.

  Beatrice smiled as a beautiful young woman who could only be Ron's wife came into the room.

  "Hello, I'm Ms. Fletcher," Beatrice said, standing to shake her hand. "Just an old friend of your husband’s."

  "Hello, Ms. Fletcher, It's nice to meet you. Ron has never mentioned you. How do you two know each other?"

  It was the exact moment that Beatrice had been waiting for. As Ron's wife asked the question, Beatrice caught his expression out the corner of her eye. It was one that suggested that he didn't want his wife knowing that he had waited until the last moment to pick up her wedding anniversary dessert. It was also one that suggested that he didn't want Beatrice answering the question truthfully.

  Beatrice did her best to hide her rueful smile as she told his wife that they had met through a work function as her son worked for Ron. And from there, well, the rest was rather simple.

  Beatrice was in her car, driving home ten minutes later. Once the wife was out of the picture, Ron conceded and retracted on his firing. He would give Dave another chance, just so long as Beatrice promised to never come back around again and to have another orange meringue pie ready next year; free of charge.

  It wasn't the first time that her baking had saved the day and it wouldn't be the last. All Beatrice could think of now was how delightful her turkey was going to taste on Thanksgiving because food always tasted better when it was being shared with the ones you love.

  15

  It was time for Beatrice to start preparing for Thanksgiving. She had been putting it off over the last couple of days, due to extenuating circumstances, but she couldn't put it off any longer.

  The thing about Thanksgiving dinner was that it wasn't a one-off, foot to the pedal, baking session. It was more akin to a marathon than a sprint. Because there were so many dishes to prepare, some of which needed time to sit, it was always best to start several days early. That would give Beatrice plenty of time on the day to concentrate all her skills into the preparation and creation of the most important dish – the turkey.

  Before she could even think about starting, she had to do the obvious thing and clean out the fridge. For Beatrice, this was always the hardest part. As a round the clock baker, there were always bits and pieces of foods left over in her fridge. It might be a single scone, or half a cake or a batter that she had been experimenting with. The fridge was never empty and always full.

  Opening the fridge door, she spotted the first thing that she knew could go. Sitting on a plate, right at her eye line was the single buttercream cookie baked by Ms. Elwin – the one that she had snatched from Thomas' janitor’s closet. Beatrice had never gotten around to tasting it, and as she held it a little closer, studying the cookie, but she decided that maybe now wasn't the time. It had been over a week after all, and the cookie was starting to show signs of not being edible.

  As it was a sin to waste food, she realized that there was one soul in the house that would benefit from what most described as the best cookie in the world.

  "Sylvester," she called out to her stray cat turned domesticated animal. Beatrice had come to love the feline. She would not have guessed six months ago when it turned up on her doorstep that it would eventually become an integral part of her family.

  The moment she called his name he darted into the kitchen, leaping up onto the counter where it knew that food was going to be served up. Even though this wasn't its regular feeding time, it seemed to recognize the tenor in Beatrice's voice that suggested a treat was on the way.

  Sylvester was a scruffy cat, with an ear torn off and puffs of missing fur. It was
funny, but these little imperfections always made Beatrice like the cat even more. It was a broken animal that needed fixing. It was almost a case in itself – one which Beatrice solved over time with love and care.

  "Here you go," she said, placing the cookie in front of the cat. "Just promise me you won't enjoy it too much."

  She laid it down in front of Sylvester, with the cross insignia facing up. That little blemish still intrigued her to no end. By now she had seen dozens of Ms. Elwin's cookies, and none of them had that same cross marking. In fact, it was only the handful on the plate in the janitor's closet that bore them. It was weird. Maybe he was religious, and they were made just for him? Then again, Beatrice couldn't recall seeing any other religious imagery in his house while she was there.

  Sylvester looked down at the cookie, his fur bristling as he gave it a lick and then turned his tail up in protest. If Beatrice hadn't loved the cat before, she absolutely adored him now. Sylvester was the first living being to turn down Ms. Elwin's cookies.

  "I agree," she cooed as she scratched behind his ears. "Horrible cookies made by a horrible person," she chuckled, turning back to the fridge.

  As she did, she again thought of Thomas. He had a habit of popping into her mind every now and then. She tried to tell herself that the case was closed, but she wasn't so sure. Even now, going through her fridge, she thought about his fridge and how awful it had been.

  It was packed to the brim with sweets, cakes, cookies and other delights. Then she remembered how Lucy had told her that he was a diabetic and was always eating sweet things.

  Just like that, it hit her. The shock of the moment was so great that she almost banged her head on the fridge shelf as she went to stand. She could have for all she cared; it wouldn't have mattered because Beatrice had just figured out how Thomas was poisoned.

  The first thing she did was snatch the cookie out from Sylvester, in case he changed his mind and decided to eat it. Then again, there was no way that he would. That was the reason he didn't in the first place. Sylvester could smell it.

  The cookie was poisoned, she was sure of it. Not wanting to throw away the evidence, she put the cookie on a plate, placed it back in the fridge, accompanied by a piece of paper that read 'DO NOT EAT.'

  It all made perfect sense now; the diabetes, the dead rats that she had seen lying around the empty plate on the night that he had died and the markings on the cookies. They had been marked so that their baker wouldn’t mistake them for normal cookies. They were marked so that they could be slipped specifically to Thomas and no one else.

  Ms. Elwin, for whatever reason, had baked up a batch of poison cookies and fed them to Thomas. Beatrice knew it, and if there was any doubt in her mind, her famous instinct was alive and roaring its approval inside of her. This was the feeling that she had been missing when Simon was arrested. This was that feeling that came when she knew she was on the right track.

  There was now only one question she needed answering, and it would be the final piece to the puzzle and allow for her to confront Ms. Elwin and have her arrested.

  Why would Ms. Elwin want to poison Thomas? At the moment she couldn't for the life of her come up with a reason that made sense. And until she answered that question there was no way that anyone in their right mind would believe her story.

  16

  I still don't understand what we are doing?" Sophie complained from the front seat as the three ladies sat in the parked car; waiting. As usual, Sophie was regulated to the front seat while Stella was in the back. This was because Sophie couldn't be trusted in the back alone.

  "I've already told you three times," Beatrice snapped, trying to keep her cool. She wasn't angry at Sophie at all, but more the situation at hand. After three hours of being cooped up in her car, with little to show for it, she was starting to get testy.

  After stumbling across her brilliant theory that Ms. Elwin was responsible for poisoning Thomas, Beatrice realized that she still had to prove it. The first step to proving such a thing was to come up with a motive and to come up with a motive, she had to know the suspect, inside and out.

  That's where she was now, with Sophie and Stella. The three ladies had spent the entire morning following Ms. Elwin through town as she completed her daily chores.

  Beatrice had for a brief moment considered inviting Lucy along too but then decided against it. Lucy was for the moment content in thinking that the murderer of her friend Thomas was behind bars. There was no need to put doubt in her head until she could prove anything. She was trying to alleviate the stress in her granddaughter's life, not add to it.

  Beatrice called on the always reliable members of the Cookie Club to come to her aid, although now she was seriously starting to regret it.

  "Beatrice, darling," Stella whined from the backseat like she had been all morning. "Can you please turn up the air conditioning? I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West back here," she finished, fanning at her face.

  "You don't look that bad," Sophie said, scrunching up her face in confusion. "I mean, maybe you look a little older than usual but --"

  "That's not what I meant!" Stella snapped.

  "Is it because your skin is green?" Sophie continued. "I think that's just the lighting. If you want, I can take a look. I used to be a registered nurse before I --"

  "It's because I'm melting! From the heat!" Stella blasted. "It's as hot as Hades back here! And what do you mean I look like I have green skin?" She wailed, holding her hand out in front of her face as if expecting to see green skin.

  "Ladies, please!" Beatrice cut in. The two had been bickering for hours, and it was starting to grate on her nerves. "Here Stella," Beatrice turned the air conditioning up. "That should be enough. And Sophie, her skin looks green because your hair is dangling in front of your glasses."

  "Oh yeah!" Sophie beamed, pushing her bright green hair out of the way.

  Beatrice let out a long sigh, turning back to look out the front window, watching the door to which Ms. Elwin had disappeared behind thirty minutes earlier.

  It had been a long morning, and with every stop that Ms. Elwin made, Beatrice could feel her theory slowly falling by the wayside. The problem was Ms. Elwin was just so good like squeaky clean good. The kind of good where she could almost be caught red handed in a murder and people would still scramble to come up with reasons for why it couldn't have possibly been her.

  Ms. Elwin's first stop was the local thrift shop. That was only for about five minutes, and she wasn't buying, but dropping off. From the back of her station wagon, she lugged a good three or four trash bags, full of what Beatrice guessed to be used clothes.

  After that, she made her way to a local soup kitchen. When she pulled up there, the staff ran from the front door to greet her, showering Ms. Elwin in hugs and kisses like she was some celebrity. Beatrice suspected, from the way that Ms. Elwin surveyed the soup kitchen, she was making sure that it would be ready for Thanksgiving.

  From there it was more of the same as every stop that she made seemed to be in service of someone else. Whether it was pulling over to give some change to a homeless man, or stopping to give lunch to some construction workers – who seemed to know that she was coming, suggesting that this was a regular affair. Everything she did was sickeningly sweet and worse than that; everywhere she went, people called out to and cheered for her.

  "Face it, darling," Stella said. "She's just too good." By now Stella was spread out on the back seat, her legs spread as far apart as possible to try and cool her body.

  "You think I'm wrong?" Beatrice asked, surprised. She would never have expected Stella to disagree with her, especially when it came to something like this.

  "It doesn't matter what I think," Stella countered. "You're going to need a photo of this woman committing murder to convince anyone else. You'd have more of a chance of convicting Jesus."

  "Not Jesus!" Sophie shouted, shock and horror on her face at the very thought.

  Beatrice let out a long, audib
le sigh. Stella was of course right, and she hated to admit it. She didn't even know what she had hoped to find by following Ms. Elwin today. She only knew that it was their only chance.

  Just then, Ms. Elwin bustled from the store that she was in, heading straight for her car.

  "Here we go again," Beatrice said, starting the car up as she pulled it from the parking lot, following Ms. Elwin.

  They had been following Ms. Elwin for well over fifteen minutes this time. Beatrice was getting rather good at tailing other cars, far better than anyone should be. She knew how to keep the perfect distance without looking suspicious, but without also being spotted. She also knew how to read where a car might be going, so that she could drop back and not be so close.

  However, this time Beatrice had no idea where Ms. Elwin might be heading. They were well out of town now, twisting through suburbia. It wasn't even the same side of town that Ms. Elwin lived on. She must have been on her way to visit somebody.

  "I know that tree," Sophie mused from the front seat, pointing out a large oak. "And that one... and that one... and that one..."

  "Do me a favor and drop me off at one of these houses," Stella begged from the back. "There might be a lonely stay-at-home husband that can keep me company while you finish up."

  Beatrice bit her tongue, keeping her eyes on Ms. Elwin's car, which was slowly coming to a stop outside a small, single story house.

  "We’re here," she said, watching as Ms. Elwin jumped from the car. What was interesting though was that she didn't go to the house that she had parked out the front of, but rather to the one down the road.

  "Where is she going," Beatrice mused to herself.

  "If I didn't know better, I would say that she is on her way to having an affair," Stella offered, leaning over Beatrice's shoulder. "And trust me, I should know."

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous," Beatrice said. But even as she dismissed the theory of Stella's, it slowly became the likely scenario.