Granny Smith Is Dead

by Chelsea Thomas

  Something about Wayne made me feel small. He was tall and strapping, sure. But it was more than his physical size. Wayne put me back on my heels. When I was with him, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were gearing up for a fight. Which I would lose.

  That morning, as we shuffled into Grandma’s, we found six plump, delicious donuts on the surface of our table. Bobbing like cranberries in a bog.

  The first donut I noticed was a classic powdered cake. It looked so airy, coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar. I imagined if I pressed down on the donut, it would have burped a little puff of white, sugary air. The thought brought a smile to my lips, along with a little drool.

  The next donut in line had bright, orange frosting, dusted with metallic gold sprinkles. Swirling, brown frosting formed the image of a cornucopia in the middle. And a kiss of crème spilled out the side, hinting at the bounty hidden in the middle.

  The plate also held a donut shaped like a classic pilgrim hat, and another Teeny had decorated to look like a magical, fairy-tale pumpkin.

  Each treat looked so good, I couldn’t decide which to try first. I reached out to take the pumpkin donut but Miss May caught my arm.

  “Don’t eat those yet!”

  I grumbled. “Why not?”

  Miss May pulled her phone out and opened the camera. “We need to take a picture first!”

  Miss May craned her neck toward the kitchen. “Teeny. Did you make these? Come here and pose with them before Chelsea eats all six in one big bite.”

  Teeny emerged from the kitchen with a big smile. “You found my surprise donuts!”

  Miss May laughed. “Not much of a surprise. You put them in the middle of our table.”

  Teeny nodded. “Well I didn’t want some stranger off the street to eat them! Or worse, Humphrey.”

  Humphrey, Teeny’s oldest and most frequent customer, grunted from his booth nearby. “Why can’t I eat the donuts?”

  “You’ve got diabetes, Humphrey. I won’t be complicit in another insulin emergency,” Teeny said.

  Humphrey muttered and dismissed Teeny with a wave of his hand.

  “I love how autumnal they are,” I said.

  Teeny beamed. “Thank you. I’m taking an online course in pastry decoration. Three more weeks and I get my certificate.”

  “Where did all this motivation come from?” I asked. “You’ve never made donuts before.”

  Teeny demurred. “Nowhere. Nothing. Can’t a girl take a sudden interest in donuts without the Spanish Inquisition?”

  I laughed. “Oh. So this is about Big Dan.”

  “Chelsea! That’s ridiculous,” Teeny said. “Did Big Dan ask me for some donut recipes? Yes. Did I promise to deliver him six different donut recipes, even though I’d never made a single donut in my entire life? Yes. Is that why I enrolled in an online course in pastry decoration and made these super-special autumnal donuts? Not at all.”

  I chuckled. “OK. Never mind.”

  “Will you two stop jabbering already?” Miss May said. “Teeny. I want to get a picture of you with your creations. Say ‘donut time.’”

  “Donut time!” Teeny said, posing by her tray of donuts.

  Miss May poked at her phone. “Oh wait that’s a video.”

  “Donut time.”

  “Nope. That was in slow motion.”

  Teeny grimaced. “Donut time.”

  “Out of focus.”

  “Oh forget it.” Teeny grabbed the pilgrim hat donut and took a big bite.

  Miss May smiled. “It worked! Right in the middle of the bite.”

  Teeny grumbled. “Will you two sit down and eat? I want to watch your faces as you take your first bite of donut.”

  “That’s weird,” I said. “But whatever.”

  I grabbed the powdered donut, took a bite, and tossed my head back in delight. “That is so, so, so, so, so good.”

  Teeny smiled. “How many so’s was that? Five so’s?”

  “I think it was five,” Miss May said.

  “Not bad.” Teeny turned to Miss May. “Now you go.”

  Miss May took a big bite. “Yep. Five so’s good. I might even give it six.”

  Teeny crossed her arms. “Now you’re being sarcastic.”

  Miss May laughed. “They’re good, Teeny. Really. But I want to tell you about the case.”

  Teeny leaned forward. “You’ve got a hot, spanking new update?”

  Miss May nodded, then launched into the story.

  I enjoyed watching Teeny listen to the story as much as Teeny enjoyed watching us eat her donuts. She was a great listener. She asked tons of great questions. And she always gasped at exactly the right times.

  Twenty minutes later, Teeny had the facts, and we shifted into what I like to call “problem-solving mode.”

  “OK,” Teeny said. “So Beverly claims she was at work when the murder happened. But Wendell claims he and Beverly were in the Catskills looking for a cottage. Maybe they committed the murder together but forgot to coordinate alibis.”

  “That would be a decent theory,” Miss May said. “But neither Beverly nor Wendell seemed like they could have killed Granny Smith. In fact, they both seemed to love her, weirdly.”

  I nodded. “Granny Smith was the love of Wendell’s life. And Beverly Brewster was one of her best friends.”

  “Don’t be naïve,” Teeny said. “Wendell was Dolores’ jilted lover. And Beverly was the husband-stealing friend. There are no better suspects than those two.”

  “What about the resentful, overlooked son?” I asked.

  “Buster?!” Teeny squeaked with disbelief.

  “Shhh,” I said. “Hear me out.”

  “Go ahead,” Teeny said.

  “I’ve only been around Buster twice,” I said. “But both times he was angry. And he seemed impulsive, selfish and mean. I’ve never heard someone speak about their dead mother with such disdain.”

  “That’s true,” Miss May said. “Buster resented Granny Smith. And he hates Ricardo. He talks about it all the time.”

  “If that’s true,” Teeny said. “It seems to me he’d kill Ricardo, not his mom. I mean, that’s what you do. You hate someone, you kill them. Bada boom, bada bing. Problem solved.”

  Miss May and I exchanged a perplexed look.

  “I mean, that’s not what I would do,” Teeny said. “But if I were a murderer and I hated Ricardo, I’d kill him. That’s all.”

  “From the way he was talking, it seems Buster has hated his mom since long before Ricardo was around,” Miss May said.

  “She didn’t seem a loving mother,” I said. “It’s harsh but true.”

  Miss May nodded. “Buster might be our best suspect for this thing. Even if he’s not, it couldn’t hurt to talk to the son of the deceased.”

  “So let’s go talk to Buster and see if he killed his mom!” Teeny took the last bite of the pilgrim’s hat donut. “Big Dan going to love these donuts.”

  18

  Super Duper Sleuthers

  As we drove up to The Heights to check in with Buster and Wendell, I asked Miss May if she planned to stop in to see Dee Dee. Miss May shook her head. “No time for that today.”

  “You just don’t want to down dog,” I teased.

  “You’re right,” Miss May said. “My bones are like peanut brittle. They don’t bend, they break.”

  “My bones are like putty,” Teeny said. “See?”

  She held up her arm and twisted it behind her head. Miss May and I both gasped in horror.

  “Teeny! Put that away!” Miss May yelped.

  “I should have been in the circus,” Teeny said. “I could’ve been somebody.”

  When we pulled up to Wendell’s apartment, I realized we hadn’t discussed our excuse for stopping by. We were there to question Buster as a suspect. But we couldn’t come right out and say that when they opened the door.

  I was about to consult with Miss May but before I could, she was bounding up the steps to Wendell’s apartment, ready
to ring the bell.

  Wendell opened the door. Buster loomed a few feet behind him like a storm cloud.

  “Oh hi girls,” Wendell said.

  “Sorry. We don’t have time for you right now,” Buster yelled from behind his dad. “We’re in the middle of an important conversation.”

  “Oh hush up, Buster. The doorbell rings, I answer it. That’s the way the world works.” Wendell turned back to us. “What are you three doing here? Looking for more information about my dead ex-wife?”

  “Uh, no,” Miss May said.

  Buster pushed his way in front of Wendell. “OK. Bye then. Nice chatting with you, Miss May and company. You seem to be everywhere. Love your necklace.”

  Miss May put a hand to her neck. “I’m not wearing a necklace.”

  “Guess I don’t love it, then. OK, bye!”

  Buster reached to close the door but Wendell stopped him. “Buster. We have guests. Try a little respect on for size. It might be a tight fit but you can make it work.”

  Buster threw back his head and laughed. “Respect. Now he’s talking about respect. After he just watches me look all over the house for my video games and doesn’t bother to mention that he moved them. And here’s the kicker! He doesn’t remember where he put them. How is that a man who can stand there and talk to me about respect?”

  Miss May took a step back. “Maybe we should come back another time.”

  Teeny nodded. “I agree. If I hear this kid yell at his dad anymore one of my eyeballs will pop out of my head. What kind of grown man plays video games, anyway?”

  Buster scoffed. “Shows how old you are, Teeny. Video games aren’t just for kids anymore. The game play is advanced and helps to keep your brain sharp. Maybe you should try playing some.”

  “She’s not old,” Miss May and I said, once again in practiced unison.

  “Oh-ho-ho, you want to talk trash, boy?” Teeny rolled up the lace cuffs on her sleeves.

  Wendell turned on Buster. “Buster. That’s enough. Go to your room.”

  “I don’t have a room. I have a recliner. When are you going to order me a real mattress for the living room?”

  Wendell chuckled. “Real mattress for the living room. Oxymoron straight from the moron himself.”

  Woof. Talk about dysfunction.

  Wendell held the door open. “Ladies. Come on in. Buster was just on his way out. He needs to cool off.”

  Miss May took a step back toward the apartment but Buster blocked her path. “Oh no. You’re not coming back in here and accusing my father of killing my mother. He’s had enough of that!”

  “I think he can speak for himself,” I said.

  “Chelsea Thomas. Why are you talking?” Buster planted his hands on his knees and got down on eye level with me. “You need to take your old lady friends and get the living heck off my dad’s property.”

  “Technically not my property,” Wendell said. “I’m renting.”

  “No, Dad. You’re not. You bought this place and you keep forgetting.”

  Wendell cringed. “I do? What? Why?”

  Buster turned on us. “He forgets more and more when he’s under stress. I wonder maybe if you’re stressing him out. Can you let the old man lose his mind in peace?”

  “I’m not losing my mind.” Wendell shuffled into the kitchen and routed through some cabinets. “I forgot to take my medicine today. Yesterday. I think.”

  “Ha! You say you don’t want me to live with you? You can’t even remember to take your medicine. You keep sending rent checks to the lady who sold you this apartment. Every time you get an email from a Nigerian prince you think it’s your old friend Eddie. It’s ridiculous.”

  Buster crossed into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of pills from the drawer. “Your pills are here, Dad. In the drawer where we keep them.”

  Wendell scratched his head. “Should I take seven? Or eight because I’ve missed so many?”

  Buster sighed. “Are you trying to OD? Take your normal amount. I’ll call the doctor.”

  Wendell looked small and vulnerable. He took the bottle from Buster and couldn’t get it open. “What’s my normal amount? How do you open this darn bottle? Why do they make these things childproof if they’re full of old people medicine?”

  “Maybe because the old people take seven or eight to make up for lost days.”

  As Buster and Wendell argued, Teeny leaned in and whispered. “Guys. I think Wendell’s a few appetizers short of a Friday night sampler.”

  I looked over at Wendell, bumbling around the kitchen, and nodded. Poor Wendell seemed to suffer from dementia. When I played back our previous conversations with him, it made sense. The songs. The mess. And he hadn’t stopped obsessing about the past, despite confusion about the present.

  In the kitchen, Buster grabbed the pills and opened them. Little white tablets spilled everywhere. Like the world’s most depressing confetti.

  Miss May crossed into the kitchen to help Buster collect the pills. I followed her. Wendell retreated to his recliner, mumbling about the pills and the darned child-safe bottles.

  “Buster,” Miss May started. “Can we talk for a moment? That’s all I want. No conflict. No argument. Just a conversation. We want justice for your mom. I know you want that, too. Right?”

  Buster exhaled. “Fine. What?”

  Miss May swallowed. “Uh if it’s okay, maybe we can start by discussing your parents’, uh, complicated love lives.”

  “Ha!” Buster snorted like a pig. “Complicated. My mom was like a dumb bimbo with that slick real estate agent, Ricardo.”

  Miss May and I exchanged glances. Not a nice way to talk about your mom.

  “Those are strong feelings,” Miss May said. “How did you feel about your father’s relationship with Beverly Brewster?”

  Buster shook his head, scooping spilled pills into his hand. “What a sham. That Brewster lowlife took advantage of my dad’s crumbling mental state.”

  “Was it her idea to buy the place in the Catskills?” I asked.

  Buster stared at me. “My dad wasn’t going to buy a place in the Catskills. What part of your deranged little brain churned out that gem of a lie?”

  I blanched. “Your dad told us he was shopping for cabins in the Catskills with Bev on the night your mom was, uh—”

  “Stabbed in the back? Yeah, no. Dad hasn’t had a driver’s license in years. Hard to drive when you can’t remember where your face is.”

  “Beverly could’ve driven them up to the ‘skills,” I said. Weird time to use an abbreviation, Chels. “Did you know the suffix ‘kill’ means creak or stream?”

  “I’m telling you he didn’t go to the Catskills!” Buster’s nostrils flared. “My dad was watching TV that day. Sitting in that chair. Just like every Saturday and Sunday and week day. I guarantee it.”

  “Where were you?” Teeny asked.

  “Where was I...” Buster looked confused. “Where was I, when?”

  “When your mom died.” Teeny said.

  “Oh I get it,” Buster said. “Now I’m a suspect in your little pretend investigation.”

  Miss May glared at Teeny. “No one said that, Buster. But we’re asking natural questions.”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” Buster said. “I was at my house. Not this one. My original home. The one from which King Ricardo expelled me. Playing video games.”

  Wendell sang a loud “la-la-la” from his recliner and began to sing his familiar tune about “cleaning up slop.”

  Buster sighed. “Can you three leave now? I need to get the song bird his stupid medicine.”

  Miss May picked up one last pill and placed it on the counter. “Sure. Sorry to bother you.”

  Miss May turned toward the exit, and Teeny and I followed. My aunt paused by the front door and reached her hand into a bookcase, fishing between two dusty encyclopedias. “Buster?”

  Buster looked toward Miss May.

  She extracted a video game console from the bookshelf and h
eld it out toward him. “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Wow. You really are a super duper sleuther. Bye!” Buster snatched the video game console and slammed the door in our face.

  The force of the slam rattled the roof above us, and it rattled my soul.

  Could that man have killed his own mother?

  19

  Breakfast for Dinner

  When we arrived home from our altercation with Buster, Miss May sighed and flopped onto the couch. I could tell she was feeling worn out by our investigation. And I wanted to cheer her up. But Miss May was typically so self-reliant, I wasn’t sure what I could do to help.

  I asked if she wanted to go to the movies or try a new restaurant for dinner. But Miss May said no. I suggested a walk out in nature. Miss May was not interested. Then I remembered how I used to cheer Miss May up when I was kid — “Breakfast for Dinner” — and I smiled big.

  The first time I had ever cooked Miss May breakfast for dinner, a bad review in a local paper had upset her. Later, it turned out that the reviewer had secretly been working for a rival bakery a few towns over. But on the day that Miss May had read the critique, it had devastated her.

  She hadn’t had the energy to make us dinner that night, or even think about it. So I had whipped up a quick batch of pancakes and eggs. And I’ll never forget how happy Miss May had been when I rang the dinner bell and she saw the breakfast spread I had made.

  The pancakes had been rubbery. The eggs had been runny. And also rubbery. And OK, way too salty. But Miss May had still eaten two big plates of food and thanked me over and over. And I could tell by her soft smile, she had meant it.

  When I remembered “Breakfast for Dinner” that night after talking to Buster, I plopped Miss May down by the fire with a Poirot novel and I told her to wait right there.

  “Relax,” I said. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

  Miss May looked up with a tired smile as soon as I sat her down. She knew what was coming, and she was excited. “Do we have any of that Vermont maple syrup?”

  I grinned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not having ‘Breakfast for Dinner.’”