And Death Goes to . . .

by Laura Bradford

  My grandfather straightened his shoulders and peered down at the cookie, making a grand gesture of judging my efforts. It was a routine I knew well as he’d done the same thing about everything I’d ever created from the time I could remember. Every picture I brought home from pre-school, every test I brought home from grade school, every self-assigned advertising project I’d brought home during high school, every guy I ever dated, and every cake I’d ever baked had gotten the same over the top once-over. And, just as I’d always done, I held my breath, waiting for my Grandpa Stu’s reaction even though, at nearly thirty years old, I knew what it would be. It would be what it had always been—pride…in me. It was something I’d been able to count on my whole life, and the thought of one day not having that was more than I could fathom.

  Sure enough, as I stood beside the table, waiting with bated breath, he looked up, gave me the smile I’d loved my whole life, and followed it up with two thumbs up and a bite of the very first cookie. When I saw his eyes roll back in his head, I sat in my own chair and helped myself to a cookie, too.

  While I munched (and maybe even moaned, a little), I tapped my finger atop the notebook Carter had handed me when we parted at our respective front doors. “Carter asked me to give this back to you and to apologize for his handwriting.”

  I followed his eyes to his favorite sleuthing book and then pushed the plate of cookies closer to him. He took one but stopped short of taking a bite. “You found something?”

  “Carter thinks we did.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t know enough about Todd, or about the mechanics behind how that platform Deidre was on was suspended, to really say one way or the other. But I think it’s a stretch, that’s for sure.”

  “Who’s Todd?”

  “Deidre’s husband.”

  My grandfather wedged his second cookie between his lips and, with his now free hand, opened his notebook and flipped through the pages until he came to the one with Carter’s serial killer handwriting. I, in turn, waited as he patted the front pocket of his flannel shirt, and then handed him the magnifying glass Carter had given me back, as well.

  A second later, his full attention was back on me in the way it always used to be, not the way it had been the last few days. I made a mental note of the change and then motioned toward Carter’s note.

  “Carter says the marks on Todd’s hand were rope burns.”

  “And you don’t agree?”

  I broke off a piece of my second cookie and popped it in my own mouth, chasing it down, almost immediately, with a big gulp of milk. “I noticed the marks but I didn’t really pay them much mind. Carter is the one who thought it could be a clue.”

  “If he were involved, that means he killed his own wife,” my grandfather murmured as he flipped back a few pages in his book, stopping as he reached a page with his own notations.

  “But here’s the thing. Remember the newscast that night? Where they interviewed that stagehand guy?”

  “Doug.”

  “Remember what he said that night? He said the suspension cables holding the platform had been loosened. Likely by a screwdriver they found nearby—a screwdriver that had been wiped clean of prints. He made no mention of ropes.”

  “Not that night, maybe.”

  “That night?” I left my chair to come around and stand behind my grandfather’s so I could get a right-side-up view of whatever it was he was reading. Sure enough, he’d written what appeared to be a behind-the-scenes guide for the Callahan Foundation’s annual award show for the St. Louis advertising community. “Where’d you get that?”

  “From Doug.”

  “Doug?” I stopped, blew a renegade strand of hair off my forehead, and waved my hands around until my grandfather looked up at me. “You’re telling me you talked to the guy on the news? For real?”

  He nodded.

  Exasperated, I reached over my grandfather, secured the rest of my second cookie, and nibbled it as much for fortification as something to do with my hands that didn’t involve grabbing my grandfather by his flannel collar. “I’m listening.…”

  The silence continued for a few more seconds as my grandfather continued to consult his notebook. When he was done, he tapped the open page. “From what I wrote here, it certainly looks as if the person behind that platform collapse could have come away with rope burns.”

  The pull of my milk glass led me back to my chair. “Okay, hold on. You’re kind of all over the place right now. Can we get back to the stagehand part first and then work our way out from there?”

  He looked up at me, but only briefly. “Right. I saw him this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “At Fletcher’s.”

  Fletcher’s Newsstand was a staple in my neighborhood. Located at the corner of Euclid and Maryland, the old-fashioned outdoor cart was run by Jack Fletcher, a true gentleman in every sense of the word. Jack had come by the stand honestly after having worked beside his father from the time he was four, counting back change and stacking papers. The pictures that hung from a clothesline beneath the awning told their story to people like me, who hadn’t grown up in this part of town.

  On the days I opted to walk to work, Fletcher’s was a must-stop for me. It wasn’t that I had a burning desire to pick up the day’s paper, but interacting with Jack was always a great way to start the day. Sometimes, we simply exchanged pleasantries—have a great day and you look nice sort of stuff. But other days, especially when the sun was shining and there was a window between customers, he’d share a story from his past with me.

  My grandfather loved Jack, as well. He said talking to him was like spending time in the barber chair—only instead of sharing tales over the buzz of a razor, they shared them over the ping of silver into the same tin bucket Jack’s dad had used when he’d run the stand. The fact that Jack was always asking me about my grandfather whenever he saw me simply proved the feeling was mutual, and I was glad. I liked knowing that my grandfather had a growing cast of people to further connect him to my home. It gave him more reasons to want to come and stay for a while, or, at least, I hoped it did.

  “Okay…” I finally said when it became apparent my grandfather was more intent on mulling something in his head than he was in getting me up to speed on things.

  “I recognized him from the news before he said a word, and I was ready, with my notebook, the moment Jack started asking him about the accident. Along the way, I asked him how the platform had been erected. And he said exactly what he’d said on the news. You know, about the suspension cables…the fact they were loosened…and finding the screwdriver nearby. But he also said there was some roping, too. As a fail safe.”

  “Some fail safe.”

  “It was cut.”

  “Cut?” My fingers, which had been contemplating a third trip to the cookie plate, clamped down on the edges of my two-person table. “Are you serious? He didn’t say that on the news that night.”

  “He said that’s because he didn’t realize they’d been cut until later that night, when he was walking the scene with the police.”

  It was a lot to digest. But even as I tried to, another question filtered through my mouth. “But would a person get a rope burn simply by cutting it?”

  “I guess that would depend on how it was held, how long it took to cut through it, that sort of thing.” My grandfather grew quiet as he pushed his opened notebook off to the side, removed his glasses, and kneaded the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was troubled, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the subject matter at hand or something else.

  “There’s only two reasons I can figure a man would want to kill the mother of his children—especially a mother he’s still married to.” I paused, waited until his glasses were back on, and then slid the plate with his final cookie into his reach. “First, he’s carrying on an affair and doesn�
�t want to go through the drama of a divorce. Second, he needed money for some reason and he decided to get it via her life insurance policy.”

  When he said nothing, I continued. “So I guess we have two suspects for your page now. Todd Ryan and Cassie Turner.”

  “Still thinking Cassie switched the envelopes?”

  “It makes sense. Especially when you add in the history between Cassie and Deidre, and the fact that Cassie wants to leave her job at Ross Jackson and Deidre’s demise leaves an open desk over at Whitestone.”

  Intrigue pulled at the corners of his eyes. “When did you find that out?”

  “Today.” I finished my last sip of milk and eyed my grandfather’s last cookie. “I didn’t tell you about the job part at the time, because you showed no interest in talking and I was trying to process it all. And the other part—the one that had Deidre landing a campaign Cassie wanted—I put together later on at the office.”

  “That’s a lot of motive,” he mumbled.

  “I know. I think so, too. But now, with this rope burn stuff, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not Cassie at all.”

  My grandfather shifted in his seat and then pushed his final cookie back across the table to me.

  “You don’t want it?” I asked, stunned.

  He held out his hand, palm splayed, and shook his head, the same sadness that had hovered around him the past two days beginning to descend across his very being once again. “It’s hard for me to imagine a person going to such measures to get out from under a marriage when I’d do just about anything to have mine back.”

  The lump that always appeared in my throat when my grandfather talked about my grandmother took its place, and I knew the time had come to address the elephant that had been holding court in my apartment ever since I inserted my foot into my mouth on Sunday evening.

  “Grandpa, I want you to know how sorry I am about the other night. I know I was being snarky and that it hurt you, but you have to know you’re the last person on the face of the earth I’d ever want to hurt.”

  His gaze dropped from my face to the plate and lingered there as he said nothing. I swallowed, shifted in my own seat, and reached forward, past the plate, to cover my grandfather’s hand. “I didn’t realize you were standing there when I said what I said. And I’m sorry. Truly.”

  “Thank you, Sugar Lump.” He turned his hand beneath mine, squeezed it softly, and then pulled it out so he could steady himself as he stood. “It’s getting late and you’ve had a long day. I think we need to do a little checking on this Todd fella’s background. Maybe we’ll find something on that Facebook thing that’ll give us a better idea of his marriage to Deidre.”

  He picked up our empty glasses and carried them to the sink. “If you want, I can do that while you look into the leggy blonde some more.”

  “Cassie.”

  He returned to the table, motioned toward the lone cookie on the plate with his chin and, when I took it, carried that to the sink, as well. “Gloria, from the Sexy Seniors group back home, was helping me set up a page. Maybe I can finish it and tap this fella or whatever it is you do on there to see someone’s page.”

  “You don’t tap them, you friend them.”

  “Then I’ll friend him.” He closed the curtain above the window the way I always did at bedtime and then turned back to me. “I’d like to know who did this before I head back on Friday afternoon.”

  “Head back? Head back where?”

  “Home.”

  “Home?” I dropped my cookie onto my napkin, pushed back my chair, and crossed to the refrigerator and the ticket magnetized to the front. “But your ticket says Sunday night. We were going to squeeze in another weekend together before you left!”

  He padded over to the doorway leading to the living room, his slippers making a soft tsk-tsk sound against my linoleum floor. “I’ve been sleeping on your couch long enough, Sugar Lump. And besides, weekends are for romance—time to hold hands, share secrets, and make love eyes at each other just the way Grandma and I did. Don’t you remember the things we used to do on the weekends when your grandmother was alive? The parks we used to walk around? The museums we visited? The picnics we’d have?”

  “Of course I do. I remember everything.” I followed him into the living room and over to the couch and the pile of bedding he kept tucked inside the first of two storage ottomans I’d purchased during his last visit. The other ottoman, I knew, kept some of his clothes so he didn’t have to live out of his suitcase. “But I was always with you.”

  “Which is exactly how we wanted it.”

  I watched as he rolled the ottomans off to the side, transferred the couch cushions to a spot along the east wall, and then grabbed hold of the handle that would unleash his bed. “And having you around is exactly the way I want my weekend.”

  “You’re not the only one in the romance, Sugar Lump.”

  “Hey…wait, right there.” I stepped in beside him as the legs of the sofa bed snapped into place. “If you’re insinuating that Andy doesn’t want you around, you couldn’t be more wrong. He thinks you’re great.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wants me around all the time.” He stepped around me, opened the first ottoman, and pulled out the fitted sheet he made sure was always on top of the pile. With practiced hands, he snapped it open a fold at a time, until it was ready to be attached to the standard sofa bed mattress. “And who can blame him when he’s got someone as cute as you by his side?”

  I knew I should help him with the sheet, but I had a point to prove and only one way I could think to prove it, so I went in search of my phone. When I found it in the kitchen alongside the box of Cocoa Puffs I’d indulged in while waiting for the cookies to bake, I made a beeline back to Grandpa Stu.

  “I’m going to call Andy right now so he can tell you himself.”

  I opened my contact list and was just about to press Andy’s name, when my grandfather’s hand stopped me. “Don’t call him, Sugar Lump. It’s late. He’s probably sleeping.”

  “He’s not. And besides, he told me to call him before I fall asleep.”

  “So the two of you can have time alone, Tobi…not so he can talk to me or about me.” Grandpa Stu held my gaze until I lowered the phone to my side, and then returned to the business of making his bed. “Besides, I have my routine there. My friends. People to sit and laugh with over lunch. And before you say something about meeting me for lunch more, that’s not what I’m saying. Sometimes it’s nice to pass the time with other old farts just like me. There’s a camaraderie there that makes me feel like I belong.”

  I dropped onto the ottoman that housed his clothes and splayed my hands across my lap. “Don’t you feel like you belong here? With me and Carter and Mary Fran and Sam? Because you should. Heck, your bus back home is never more than a block down the road when one, if not all of them, are hounding me about when you’re coming back.”

  A hint of a grin played at the edges of his mouth as he slipped his pillow into a case, fluffed it up with his hands, and then tossed it onto the bed. “And that’s all well and good, but it’s still nice to be around people my own age.”

  “Rapple is your age! And you have fun with her!” I tossed him the second of his two pillows and watched as he slipped a case onto that one, too. “Just about every member of our little crew here has commented on how much fun the two of you seem to have together.”

  He tossed the newly cased pillow alongside the first and then pointed at the ottoman on which I was sitting. I didn’t budge. “You’ve cooled it with her because of me, haven’t you?”

  He said nothing.

  “Oh, Grandpa.” I looked up at him the way I had a million times in my life. Only instead of waiting to hear a life lesson or a silly joke, I knew that it was me who needed to do the talking. “I didn’t mean for you to end your friendship with…” I stopped, swallowed, and looked away, t
he bitter taste kicking off a veritable furnace effect in my cheeks.

  Crap.

  “It’s okay, Sugar Lump.” Grandpa kissed me on the forehead and then reached around me to retrieve his SpongeBob pajama pants. “Your grandma was the love of my life, and we had almost sixty years together. That was a lot of happy, Sugar Lump—a lot of happy. I’d be a fool to forget that.”

  “Being happy now doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten Grandma.”

  “But I have no business carryin’ on like a damn fool. Your grandma deserves better.”

  “Whoa.” I thwarted his trek to the bathroom with a firm hand. “You don’t really think Grandma would begrudge you your happiness, do you?”

  He waved the question away with a twinge of disgust. “Of course not. I’m sure she’s laughing along with me when I’m sitting around with my friends back home, telling those jokes that always made her smile and roll her eyes all at the same time. And I know, when I’m spending time with you, she’s glad.”

  “That’s because Grandma loved you. She loved your smile, your laugh, your kindness, your gentleness, even your mischievousness. She wouldn’t want you holding that back. Ever.” Desperate to get through the doubt I saw clouding his eyes, I tried another road to get through. “In fact, I think denying yourself happiness in her name would actually hurt her, Grandpa. She loved you. And when a person loves someone—really loves them—they want that other person to be happy.”

  He tucked his pajama pants under his left arm and pulled me in for a hug with his right. “Then you understand why I needed to put a stop to it before it went any further.”

  I stepped back. “A stop to what?”

  “My time with Martha.”

  My confusion must have been written all over my face because he led me over to the edge of the sofa bed and sat beside me. “It’s like you said, Sugar Lump. When a person really loves someone, they want that other person to be happy. And that’s how it is with me…for you. I should’ve considered you when I was thinking all those thoughts about Martha. I should’ve considered how seeing me with someone other than Grandma might hurt you. I only hope you can forgive me and we can get past this in a way that gets us back where we belong and doesn’t ruin your friendship with Martha.”