Granny Smith Is Dead

by Chelsea Thomas

  I nodded. “And what’s the story with Granny Smith’s dueling husbands?”

  KP laughed. “I don’t much about that. But from what I gather, Granny Smith left Wendell after thirty years of marriage for that wily real estate stud, Ricardo. Now Wendell hates Ricardo. Kind of like a 2+2 = 4 situation. Like I said though, I don’t know about all that.”

  I laughed. “I can tell. You don’t find small town gossip interesting at all.”

  KP nodded. “It’s frivolous is what it is. But if I were interested in small town gossip, I would think it’s crazy that an old angry bird like Granny Smith has two men fighting over her. And that Ricardo is a young buck. Who am I to talk, though? Never married, myself. I guess the heart wants what the heart needs or whatever the saying is.”

  There was a soft knock on the stable door. KP and I turned, and there, standing in the doorway wearing denim shorts, cowboy boots, and an embroidered vest, was Germany Turtle. Germany was tall, lanky, with sandy hair and a perpetual air of sophisticated naïveté.

  “Did I hear someone mention the heart?” Like an actual turtle, Germany stretched his neck long and poked his head into the room.

  KP’s eyes went wide at the sight of Germany’s unconventional attire. “Who dressed you, a rodeo clown?”

  Germany hung his head. “It’s not good, I know. I have been trying and failing to dress as a Pine Grove local for months now. This is yet another botched attempt to ‘blend in.’”

  “It’s not working,” KP said, staring at Germany’s weird vest. “Unless you’re trying to blend into the circus.”

  “I think it’s a fine ensemble,” I said, feeling surprisingly protective of Germany. “The vest is...a statement piece.”

  “What statement is it making?” KP asked. “‘I got dressed in the dark?’”

  “KP!” I said.

  “He’s right. My attire gives the impression that my dressing quarters lack light. And a mirror. Yet here I am. Once again. To woo you. Chelsea. Not KP. Although you seem like a fine gentleman.” Germany produced a giant bouquet of daffodils from behind his back.

  I smiled. “Flowers behind the back” was a trademark Germany move, and as much as I wanted to remain immune, the gesture charmed me.

  “I’ll just give you this exquisite arrangement of daffodils and leave,” Germany said. “I need to run home and reevaluate the Pinterest users I’ve been following. I sense their ‘metro-cowboy’ fashion tips have led me astray.”

  KP chuckled. “Ah, don’t leave on my account, Little Turtle. I was just heading back to my cabin.”

  KP gave See-Saw another sturdy pat, then he turned and trudged out of the stable.

  Germany watched KP go, then let out a deep sigh. “It would appear I have failed to impress your surrogate uncle.”

  “KP? No, he likes you. He’s a teaser, that’s all,” I said. “Thanks for the flowers, by the way. What are they for? Is there some holiday I don’t know about? ‘National Daffodil Day’?”

  “Ah yes, the flowers. No. These are not for Daffodil Day. That’s not until June 9th. These flowers are for you. I heard of the kerfuffle on the farm, between the traitorous Brewster clan and the woman they call Granny Smith. I thought the conflict may have ruffled your delicate feather coat. So I wanted to make sure you were OK.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t think feather coat is a term people use. Maybe just feathers?”

  “No. Feather coat refers to the feathers on a beautiful bird.”

  “OK,” I said, my know-it-all streak stunted in the face of such determined assuredness. “But I’m not a delicate bird, you know. I’m a strong, independent bird. I can witness a little argument without needing flowers.”

  Germany rubbed his temples and groaned. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply that your delicacy was a shortcoming.”

  I let out a small laugh. “It’s OK. I’m just saying... I can hold my own. And you courting me like this... It’s a little old-fashioned, don’t you think? I’m not a damsel in distress. I karate chop murderers! It’s me who should be courting you.

  Germany perked up. “That would be wonderful! Would you like to court me?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I mean, I guess. I don’t know. Do you want to go out sometime?”

  Whoa. I did not expect myself to do that.

  “I’ve been asking you out once a week, every week for the past two months. And you’ve been stalling. Delaying. Holding out for your man-hunk detective Wayne. Now... finally... are you saying yes?” Germany smiled.

  “No,” I said. “I’m asking you. It’s different.”

  “Terrific!” Germany said. “When would you like to date? How about tomorrow? Not to seem over-eager, but I’m very eager.”

  I pretended to check the non-existent schedule in my brain. “Tomorrow? Hmmm. Tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Sunday, right? Hmmm. Sunday... Let me think...” Finally, I couldn’t stall any longer. “OK. Sure.”

  Germany turned away and pumped his fist, excited. It was thirty seconds before he turned back with a straight face. “Sunday it is. 6 PM?”

  “Great. I’ll see you then,” I said.

  “Terrific.” Germany stood. “I’ll go home now. Before I do something silly like sing you the song I wrote you earlier today. That seems like it might ruin the moment. But please know... I wrote you a song earlier today.”

  “I look forward to hearing it someday,” I said.

  “Not as much as I look forward to our date.” Germany did a little bow, then hurried away. I looked down at my daffodils.

  What had I just done?

  3

  You Bet, Buster

  Miss May felt bad for refusing to let Beverly Brewster purchase donuts at the bakeshop. So the next day we brought Beverly a fresh baker’s dozen as an apology.

  Beverly’s house sat all alone at the end of a wooded, dead-end road. And as we approached, I recognized the Revolutionary War-era architecture. The home was an old, white colonial. It had a large front porch, and a shackled roof. A rust-red chimney jutted up from the rear, a stark and beautiful contrast to the white house.

  Although the front yard had overgrown and a crumbling stone walkway led to the front door, the place was timeless. I felt like I was walking through a page of Ivanhoe as crossed under a colonial-era American flag and rang the doorbell.

  Seconds later, Beverly answered the door with a smile. She was wearing one of her American flag T-shirts and black jeans with another flag embroidered on the pocket.

  “Miss May. How did I know you were going to bring me donuts today?”

  Miss May smiled back. “Could it be because this is exactly what I did the last time I kicked you off my orchard?”

  Beverly laughed. “That was over ten years ago. But it feels like yesterday. Time moves like a tweaker on the dance floor.”

  Miss May laughed pulled a box of donuts out of her purse and handed them to Beverly. “Here. It’s a baker’s dozen.”

  “The amount of baked goods you hold in your purse will never cease to amaze me. You’re like Santa Claus but with donuts and pies instead of presents.”

  Miss May laughed. “Donuts are better than presents.”

  Beverly accepted the donuts, opened the box and took a big sniff. “No need to bring me donuts, May. I shouldn’t have gotten so riled up in your bakeshop. But I can’t stand by and let that horrible woman talk dirt on my family.”

  “Apology accepted,” Miss May said. “Even if your relatives helped the Brits—”

  “They did no such thing!” Beverly glared.

  Miss May put her hands up in surrender. “OK. I’m not trying to start anything. I’m just saying the Brewsters are good in my book. No matter what.”

  “Thank you.” Beverly took a big bite of donut, and after a few more minutes of chatting, we headed back to the VW bus.

  Miss May sighed as we drove away.

  I looked over at her. “What’s wrong?”

  Miss May shook her head. “Nothing. Just... Now I feel bad
that I brought Beverly donuts but not Dolores.”

  “Granny Smith started the fight,” I said. “She smacked Beverly in the face, right in the bakeshop! She doesn’t deserve donuts.”

  “Still,” Miss May said. “If Dolores finds out I brought Beverly donuts, she’ll be mad at me forever. Will you check the kitchenette for me? See if we have any pies or other goodies back there.”

  I climbed into the back of the van and opened the refrigerator in the kitchenette. “Looks like you’ve got three pies. A dozen cookies. And what appears to be a Bundt cake.”

  Miss May smiled. “Great.”

  Granny Smith’s home was also clearly from the Revolutionary War-era, but it was a different style than Beverly’s white-sided cottage. The Smith house was a simple yet elegant stone construction. Two stories, with a number of small windows. It almost looked like a small castle or fortress.

  Just like the Brewster front yard, Granny Smith’s property boasted a sturdy flagpole out front, waving an identical colonial era American flag. Funny, I reflected, how much these two women had in common. Sometimes the most kindred spirits end up the worst enemies.

  Miss May parked the van at the end of a cobblestone walkway that led to the front door and we got out.

  “Nice house,” I said.

  “Too bad it’s filled with such unhappy people.” Miss May cupped her ear and leaned toward the home. “Do you hear that?”

  I squinted and listened. I could hear the faint sound of yelling from inside the house.

  “That sounds like... men arguing. Wendell and Ricardo again?”

  Miss May shook her head. “Sounds like Ricardo. But I bet he’s fighting with Buster.”

  “Buster?”

  “Granny Smith’s son,” Miss May said. “There he is now.”

  Buster Smith emerged from the front door, holding a large moving box. He was in his 40’s. Bald. Wearing a collared shirt half tucked-in to a rumpled pair of pleated khakis.

  “This is ridiculous,” he yelled. “Mom! I can’t believe you’re letting this guy kick me out!”

  Ricardo yelled something back at Buster from in the house. Buster stormed back inside. I couldn’t make out the rest of what they said, but their voices got louder and louder with each passing second.

  “Seems tense,” I said. “Maybe we should come back another time.”

  Miss May shook her head. “We’re here now. Let’s get it over with. Come on. We’ll go up there and pretend we’ve heard nothing.”

  “They’re screaming with the door open!”

  Miss May shrugged. “So we’ll pretend hard.”

  Ten seconds later, Miss May and I stood at the open front door. As soon as we rang the bell, the argument stopped.

  Ricardo entered the foyer with an annoyed look on his face. “May? What are you doing here?”

  “Ricardo! So wonderful to see you. I come bearing treats!”

  Ricardo sighed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me arguing with Buster, May.”

  “Well,” Miss May said. “I was trying to focus on the positive.”

  Buster stomped into the foyer. He had his mother’s frown etched onto his face. It was an eerie resemblance, offset by the strong waft of cheap cologne emanating from Buster’s every pore. “What are you talking about? What’s positive? My evil stepfather is kicking me out of my home!”

  “I don’t know about all that,” Miss May said. “But I’ll tell you what is positive. Chelsea and I brought you a fresh-baked Bundt cake!” From two days ago. “We wanted to apologize to Granny Smith, er, Dolores, about what happened back at the bakeshop. Is she home?”

  Ricardo shook his head. “First day of the historic home tours. Remember? That’s what the whole Brewster brouhaha was about.”

  Miss May smacked her forehead. “Right. Beautiful day for it, don’t you think?”

  “Yup.” Ricardo glared at Buster. “It’s a beautiful day for house tours. And it’s an even better day for moving to a new house altogether.”

  Buster put his box down. “Will you stop nagging me? I said I’d go! I already got an apartment in the Heights. I’m going to go there and watch TV as late as I want.”

  “You know what,” Miss May said. “Why don’t we all have a slice of apple Bundt, try to relax a little? Falls apart on your fork but has a funny way of bringing people together.”

  I didn’t expect that kind of a line to work on Ricardo and Buster, but oddly they both seemed to soften. Maybe they were hungry, or maybe they were tired of fighting. Either way, Ricardo took the Bundt cake with a little smile. “Thank you. Smells delicious.”

  “Agreed,” Buster said.

  “Maybe I’ll head over to the house tour to chat with Dolores,” Miss May said. “If we’re lucky, we might catch a few minutes of her presentation. Do you know which house is the first stop?”

  “Tour starts at that big colonial up on Beacon Hill,” Ricardo said. “If you leave now you’ll definitely catch her. The tour doesn’t begin for another few minutes.”

  “Perfect,” Miss May said. “You enjoy that Bundt now, okay?”

  Ricardo nodded. “We will.”

  Miss May smiled and exited. But I lingered for a few seconds at Granny Smith’s front door.

  I didn’t know why, but I had a bad feeling about the house tour. Like some history was better left buried in the past.

  4

  Gone Granny

  The house on Beacon Hill was a white, L-shaped, two-story Georgian colonial estate that sat on ninety acres atop the biggest hill in town. As Miss May and I drove up, my mind wandered to an architecture course I had taken in college.

  Georgian colonials were popular during the reign of King George the First, Second, Third and Fourth in England. At that time, the classicism of Greek and Roman buildings informed British design. Architects focused on symmetry, geometry, and proportion in their work, and the style made its way to America through books brought to the New World during Colonial times. The White House — in its original form — was a Georgian home. And the house on Beacon Hill looked like a smaller White House replica. Big columns. Several porticos. And a stark white paint job that stood out against the green lawn.

  I had been to the house once before, on a field trip as a high school student. Back then, I had been more impressed by the interior design than the architecture. The home had functioned as a museum in those years. Preservationists had stocked the place with authentic 18th century British furniture and art. Although most of my peers in high school had been bored senseless, I had found every tiny detail of the home to be fascinating and alive. Probably explains why I ended up studying design and art history.

  In fact, when I’d opened my design business in New York City, I’d often revisited my memories of the house on Beacon Hill for inspiration. I had photos of all the rooms bookmarked on my Internet browser, and I’d often referred to the images in my work. Although that day of the historic home tour was the first time I had been to the house on Beacon Hill in almost 15 years, I knew the place well.

  When we pulled up, I noticed a small crowd gathered on the walk. Gigley paced near the front door. Brian, the proprietor of the Brown Cow coffee shop, stood hand-in-hand with his husband, Mr. Brian (yes, they had the same name). And Brian’s favorite employee, Rita, tried to feed her adorable baby from a bottle, but the baby was too busy crying to eat.

  Miss May hopped out of the van and walked toward the group with a smile and a wave. “Hey everyone! What are you all doing out here? I thought the tour already started.”

  Gigley shrugged. “Granny Smith never showed up. I’ve been here 15 minutes. We all have! I’m going to report this to the town board. These tours should be prompt. I don’t have all day!”

  “That’s odd.” Miss May looked over at me. “Granny Smith never misses these.”

  “That’s what I said,” Brian said. Mr. Brian nodded. “It’s so weird. But her car isn’t here or anything.”

  Miss May approached the front door and nudged
it open with her elbow. “Unlocked. That’s odd. Has anyone been in or out?”

  Brian shook his head. Mr. Brian shook his head, too. “We noticed the door,” Brian said, in his slow, So-Cal drawl, “but none of us were brave enough to go inside without Granny Smith. Don’t want to invade her turf.”

  “Plus,” Rita said, covering baby Vinny’s ears, “that place seems haunted. Like there’s ghosts in there waiting to eat people.”

  “Ghosts don’t eat people,” Gigley said. “They steal souls.” Well that’s better.

  “Maybe we wait five more minutes then leave,” Brian said. Mr. Brian nodded again.

  “No way,” Rita said. “I’m out.”

  “It’s 12:15 anyway.” Gigley turned to the others. “What do you say everybody? Head to Grandma’s for lunch? My treat.”

  The crew nodded and murmured support. I felt a pang of jealousy. Grandma’s was my favorite restaurant, and Teeny’s hashbrown lasagna was calling my name. It sounded way better than a ghost-fest at the house on Beacon Hill.

  I turned to Miss May with pleading eyes. “Maybe we could go to the restaurant, too? It seems like this house tour might be a bust.”

  Miss May shook her head. “We should stick around at least a few more minutes. Thanks though, Tom.”

  A minute or two later everyone had left except for me, Miss May, and those eerie Georgian columns. Clouds covered the sun. A breeze whispered across the lawn. The open door thudded shut in the wind.

  Miss May narrowed her eyes and looked around. “Something is off here.”

  “You think? Giant mansion. Open door. No Granny Smith... I’m not a big believer in ghosts, but—”

  Miss May waved me off. “I’m not talking about ghosts, Chelsea. Come on. Let’s check inside.”

  Miss May headed toward the house.

  I hung back. “I don’t know. “Do you think we should...”

  But it was too late. Miss May had already entered the house. And I had no choice but to follow.