As she made her way to her car, she walked past the restaurant she had just escaped from and was able to see Michael in the back, arguing with a member of the staff; his arms waving about maniacally. She shook her head, unable to believe what she had just been through. If it wasn't for the attempted murder this would be the worst thing to happen to her all year, but as it were, it could only be a close second.
She instead chose to take relish in the fact that in time to come it would at least make a funny story. Well that and the look that Stella was sure to make when she saw what had become of her dress.
17
Why did it always rain at funerals? It was a question that Beatrice had as she put on her one and only funeral outfit. It was a loose fitting black dress, black flat shoes and black hat. She even had a black umbrella for days such as this one, but the more funerals that Beatrice went to, the more it seemed that that umbrella was as much a part of the outfit as the rest of what she wore was. It accompanied her every time. And this only brought her back to the original question of, ‘why does it always rain at funerals?’
“How do I look?” She asked her grandson as she walked into the living room.
“Ah… good?” He answered. To look good at a funeral wasn’t really the primary objective, and Beatrice knew this. She asked purely out of habit more than anything.
In truth, this was a funeral that she had zero urge to go to. Not counting the awful sleep she had had last night following her bizarre date, there was a far more pressing reason for why she had no desire to go. It was the funeral of Matthew Anderson, the man that had been killed while on a date with her. The man that took a figurative bullet for her, as it were. She didn’t want to go because she just knew that all eyes were going to be on her from the moment she walked in.
She just couldn’t wait to meet his family, and shield questions about how he died, where she was and why she didn’t help. She was sure that by the end of the affair she was going to come out feeling worse than going in.
The only reason she was going in the first place was that it felt right. She had gotten an invitation and thought it might be a little tacky to decline. As she stepped out the front door, looking up to the storm clouds that were brewing, she prayed to whoever would listen to make this funeral as painless as possible and for the rain to hold off until after the funeral was over.
–
The rain pelted down on Beatrice’s umbrella as she stood in the busy graveyard where the funeral was being held. It was the kind of rain where an umbrella just wasn’t enough to keep oneself totally dry. A veritable gale blew the rain in from all sides, soaking her dress as the heavy splashes of each drop ricocheted off the ground and covered her bare ankles and feet. In short, it was a very miserable experience. And that was without counting the context for why she was in the graveyard in the first place.
Beatrice estimated there to be anywhere between fifty to two hundred people at the funeral. All wearing black, all looking miserable and nearly all of them being women. In fact, the more that Beatrice surveyed the scene, she was having a hard time finding more than five men in the crowd. It was just a wave of weeping girls and ladies; all distraught over the death of Matthew Anderson.
The sermon itself was as miserable as any that Beatrice had attended. These things had a habit of making the deceased out to be a godlike figure with zero flaws to speak of. The way that this particular minister carried on, you would swear that Matthew had cured cancer, ended world hunger and discovered the meaning of life. And the way that the women nodded along, sobbing as they did, implied that they all agreed with him.
It wasn’t until the sermon was over that Beatrice was able to mingle with the others at the funeral. It was the moment that she had been dreading most. This was the part where the young ladies would ask how she knew Matthew and she would have to confess that she barely did. She was there because she was the last person to see him alive. She figured it was best to leave the part out where the poison was meant for her. No need to ruin the mood even more.
“So, how did you know Matt?” The first lady asked. She couldn’t have been any older than sixteen years, but oddly enough she was one of the oldest there.
To this Beatrice sighed, preparing to dish out an answer that she had prepared that morning with the help of her grandson. “Oh, you know...” She spoke to a twelve-year-old girl who looked distraught over the passing of Mr. Anderson, “just old friends from the neighborhood,” she continued to another teen a few minutes later. “We used to see each other out jogging and would stop to chat,” she finished up later to who was perhaps the oldest woman there – in her early twenties.
One thing that Beatrice did notice when talking to all of these girls was that they all had a similarity to them. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was definitely something about them that all seemed… familiar. She dismissed it for the fact that they were all wearing black sunglasses and big black hats.
It was just then that, finally, the rain chose to stop. The sun didn’t come out, but at least it was no longer bucketing down, threatening to drown them all.
“Oh that’s better,” the young lady she was talking to blustered, closing her umbrella. “I thought it would never end.” With the umbrella down, the young lady proceeded to take her hat off, near throwing it off as she threw back her bright red hair.
In fact, all the young women chose this time to take their hats off. As if synchronized, all the hats came off at once, red hair flying about in every direction. Beatrice had never seen so much red hair in one place before. It was uncanny to say the least. It was as if they were all… and like that, it hit her.
“How exactly is it that you know Mr. Anderson?” Beatrice asked. She hadn’t asked this of any of the ladies she had spoken to today. It had all been too much of a whirlwind, plus she didn’t much feel like giving them an excuse to keep the conversation flowing.
“Oh, he’s my father,” the redhead said.
“And your mother is...” Beatrice asked as she looked around the funeral.
“Not here. Her and my father weren’t exactly close, if you catch my meaning?”
Oh, Beatrice caught on very quickly. She bounced around the funeral for the next twenty minutes, confirming with each of the redheaded ladies what she suspected; that they were all the daughters of Matthew Anderson. And what was more, they were all the product of birth out of wedlock. It seemed to Beatrice that Matthew made a habit of spreading his seed without the intent of sticking around to see it flower.
The age of all the women was another piece of the puzzle. They were all so young because Matthew had only started this new lifestyle with the death of his first wife twenty-eight years ago. The oldest girl there was twenty-five.
It was then and there that Beatrice finally realized why she had been struggling on this case for long. She had been looking at it from the completely wrong angle. This whole time she had assumed that she was the target, that the murderer was after her for whatever reason. What she now realized was the complete opposite, it wasn’t her that they were trying to kill at all, but her date.
And what was more than that, the redheaded waitress, the one that she had been trying to find a link to, was clear by this point; she was his daughter. His oldest daughter by the sounds of it. And daddy’s little girl seemed to have quite the grudge.
18
She knew exactly where Robert, the chef, was, she just had no idea how to get to him.
The funeral changed everything. Once it was over, Beatrice all but stormed home, wiped the white board clean and started again. However, this time it took far less time to come up with an angle. In short, the red headed waitress had killed Matthew Anderson and for some reason, still to be determined, the chef at the Mon Chere Café had helped her.
Of course, this was all but theory at the moment. If Beatrice was to take this angle and present it to Detective Rogers, she was going to need proof, and the only way she saw herself getting any of that was v
ia the chef’s own mouth.
Word on the street was that the new restaurant in town, the Creme de le Creme, was going to be the hottest, most exclusive restaurant in town. It was going to be one of those places where someone had to book months in advance, and even then, it wasn’t a guarantee that a table would be free. It was the kind of place that rock legends and movie stars would go to, if any lived in the area.
The restaurant was due to open in a week, and currently, it was way behind schedule. Beatrice, being a baker herself had her sources, and these were only confirmed by Stella’s sources, which were far more reputable and higher up in the circle. As it turned out, a whole host of chefs were called in to help with the final stages of preparation for the opening of the Creme de le Creme. One of those chefs just happened to be Robert, the very same who she was now sure had a hand in poisoning her.
She wanted to confirm this theory of course, but was unable to as the chef spent every waking hour, and many sleeping ones, embroiled in the Creme de le Creme. To see him, Beatrice would need a plan.
The first thing she did was speak to Stella. She hoped that with Stella’s contact at the Culinary Union, she could maybe get a free pass into the restaurant while it was still under construction, but even Stella couldn’t swing this. She claimed that she begged and pleaded all that she could, but this was the one place that even he couldn’t grant access. He could get Stella a table on opening night, but that was as far as it went.
Beatrice had walked by the closed doors of the restaurant on more than one occasion and they were all but impenetrable. There was always at least one guard posted; a mean looking one with arms the size of tree trunks and a barrel chest as round as a water tank.
On the inside, it would only be worse. There were bound to be floor inspectors, managers, investors plus a whole host of people who would kick her out at the drop of a hat.
For Beatrice, this wasn’t an inconvenience, but a challenge. The moment that she hung up the phone from Stella, she instantly knew what she was going to do. And as always, it involved the kitchen.
Beatrice had talked her way into ‘off limits’ places in the past thanks to her baking prowess. Usually a single batch of brownies or muffins was more than enough to get the job done; one bite into their fluffy goodness had the lucky eater's taste buds singing and hearts melting, but Beatrice knew that one batch of something as simple as brownies wouldn’t be enough. She was heading into the lion’s den of culinary kings. Nothing, but the best would suffice.
So, without further ado, Beatrice got to work. She started with her famous peanut butter brownies. These were a must at any function and had been titled by most as her most delicious treat, but it didn’t stop there. She also whipped up twelve peach-crumble muffins, an entire tray of rocky-road samplers, two strawberry-filled cream cakes and the wood-fired banana cake that she had gotten from the very chef she was about to interrogate.
Once it was all baked and ready, and sampled by her grandson, she was ready to go. She loaded all the desserts into the back of her catering van and headed to the Creme de le Creme, hoping that her plan worked.
–
There were two guards on door duty that day. Beatrice guessed that this was because the restaurant was nearing completion and the owners wanted to be extra careful about letting spies and prying eyes inside.
“A little help,” Beatrice cooed at the two guards as she approached them. She was currently balancing a tray of muffins and a tray of the peanut butter brownies in each hand, while over-exaggerating her inability to balance them.
“Stop, where do you think you’re going,” one of the muscular guards puffed. He didn’t try to help her with the trays, instead stepping forward to block her off.
“Where do you think? I’ve been hired to provide some snacks for the workers inside. I was told they had been hard at it all day and could use the surprise.”
“We didn’t hear anything about it,” the second guard said. He was equally as tall and vicious looking, staring down at Beatrice like some great giant from folklore.
“Oh...” Beatrice began, already knowing where she was going with this. “Well, truth be told, I was actually instructed to not let the guards on the front door know what I was bringing in. I was told that these weren’t for them, only the people inside.”
“What? How come?” The first guard whined, flexing his arms as he did.
“Beats me. They probably think you don’t deserve what I’ve made,” Beatrice shrugged, acting casual.
“And what’s that?… That you made?” The second guard asked curiously, leaning over now to see what she was carrying. Beatrice could practically see the scents from her desserts drifting up from the trays and swirling through the air as they carried into the nostrils of the two guards. And she could see their knees buckling and their mouths salivate.
“Just some peanuts butter brownies. Oh, and some muffins, and a few cakes, rocky road, banana bread… that kind of thing.” The two guards were about to object when she cut back in. “You don’t… want some, do you? I mean I was told not to, but seeing as no one else is around.”
She handed over a muffin each and a slice of peanut butter brownie and the two guards were putty in her hands. She could have asked them to change the tires on her van and give the engine a clean and she was sure they would have obliged. So, they really should count it as their lucky day that all she wanted was entry to the most exclusive restaurant in town. Entry which they were only too happy to provide.
–
The inside of the restaurant was the size of a basketball court. She would imagine that the waiters would need to wear roller blades to get around the thing, once it actually opened. Right now, it was a hodgepodge of every kind of worker one could imagine. There were painters, builders and electricians working on the physical structure. There were decorators and designers working on the layout. There were chefs and caterers carting half-finished dishes around. And a whole host of other people that Beatrice could only guess at. In short, the place was a mess.
Beatrice hurried through the half-finished restaurant, making for a large table in the very center of the room. Both her hands her laden with trays, and the two guards had even offered to carry the rest of her baked goods in for her.
Reaching the table, she placed the baked goods on it, making sure that they were all uncovered, so the flavors could escape and fill the room. She then thanked the guards, took a step back, breathed in with all her might and bellowed ‘Desserts on!” at the top of her lungs.
The effect of instantaneous.
Beatrice had never been on a safari so she had never experienced a stampede first hand, but the effect that followed her announcing the arrival of baked goods, was about as close as one could ever come. No sooner had the words left her lips that dozens of hungry and overworked employees charged the table like a hoard of ravenous beasts. All decorum and common courtesy for fellow man was out the window as they pushed and shoved to get to the stacks of the mouthwatering goods.
Beatrice smiled with delight for a multitude of reasons. The first was that she just loved seeing people enjoy her cooking. There was no greater pleasure than watching the commotion caused by her own hand. The second reason for her currently sunny disposition was that, as the men dug into the treats lain before them, the floor to the restaurant was left completely empty. Using the distraction, Beatrice hurried across the room toward where she assumed the main kitchen was.
She found the kitchen less than five minutes later and to her delight, the chef was in there by himself, cursing as most chefs do.
“Hello again,” Beatrice said as she stepped into the kitchen.
Robert near jumped out of his skin at the sudden appearance of Beatrice. “Oh, it’s you,” he managed, not stopping what he was doing as he hurried across the kitchen, pulling random sauces from the fridge. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to see you actually,” she said pleasantly. “But more importantly, I came to see
why you have been lying to me.”
The chef stopped what he was doing, looking at Beatrice for the first time. He was clearly nervous as his eyes darted from her to the only exit behind her. And as a trickle of sweat broke through his forehead, Beatrice wondered if it was caused by her or the extreme heat in the room. “What do you mean?” He finally managed.
“You lied to me last time we spoke,” she said, her voice now hard like iron. She took a slow, calculated step toward the chef, delighting in the way he mimicked it, only stepping backwards instead.
“I didn’t, I swear. I never tried to kill you!” He all but yelled. This was actually much easier than Beatrice had been expecting. She thought he was going to yell and scream for her to leave. It seemed the stress of the opening was getting to him. As such, Beatrice pounced.
“Oh, I know you didn’t try to kill me. Not directly anyway,” she said, taking another step in. As she did she leaned across the butcher block, dipping her finger in a random bowl, filled to the brim with a dark creamy sauce. She licked her finger, grinning with delight. “Delicious.”
Case of the Passion Fruit Poisoning Page 9
