"Well, we'll deal with that later. Is it true what people are saying, were you breaking into people's homes?" She had to ask. He was weak and sad right now, and it was probably the last thing that he felt like talking about. But she had to know. Once he said no, which she knew he would, then she could start to deal with her daughter.
"No, ma'am. I swear. I'll be honest, I shoplifted a couple of times just because I needed something to eat but I've never broken into anyone's home." He was sitting up straight now, those deep eyes staring into hers. They were so innocent and pitiful.
She held his gaze, studying whether or not she believed her grandson. She'd always had good intuition. Plus, she knew that holding them might cause him to break. It was an old trick that she used to use on her husband, and it always worked like a charm.
"I saw a rat in here before, you know," he said, changing the subject as he looked away.
She sighed to herself, not wanting to believe it. Him changing the topic like that wasn't a sure indication that he was guilty, but it didn't help his cause one little bit. All she wanted was one little bit of proof. That was all.
"It was a mouse and don't you worry about that. We have bigger issues than rodents. You wait right there," she said, jumping up and hurrying to her bedroom.
Whether or not he had been breaking into houses was irrelevant. She knew for a fact that he didn't kill anyone. Not her grandson, not her flesh and blood. And besides, him breaking into houses was more her daughter's fault than anyone's. And for this, Beatrice took responsibility. With this in mind, she decided that the task had now fallen onto her to look after him.
It wasn't much, but she could at least give him a few dollars to help him get by. And while she was at it, she could also give him some of her muffins. He was definitely worth wasting them on and if that didn't change his mood then she didn't know what would. There wasn't a person alive who could resist Beatrice's baking.
But as she rummaged through her room, trying to find her purse, she had to stop herself. Was she really going just to give him some money and send him on his way? What kind of grandmother would that make her? Not the kind that she wanted to be. Yes, she'd let him stay as long as he needed to. That would give him enough time to prove his innocence and start getting his life in order.
She nodded proudly to herself, rushing from the room to tell him the good news. But when she returned to the living room she was shocked to see that he had fled the house entirely, the front door wide open as it blew in the wind.
"Grandson? Where are you?" she looked high and low as if she actually expected him to be there still. But of course he wasn't, he'd disappeared.
She bit her lip as she fell into a chair in the kitchen. Even with her muffins staring her in the face, Beatrice couldn't shake the awful feeling that had suddenly settled onto her shoulders. Maybe her grandson really was guilty?
***
"Well, if you ask me," said her best friend, Stella. "I don't think he did anything at all. I remember him when he was just a young toddler, crawling on your kitchen floor."
"Me too," said Sophie.
With nowhere else to turn and no clue what to do next, Beatrice proceeded to do the only logical thing in her mind; call the girls together. The girls were more than just friends of Beatrice’s at this point; they were family. All three of them were single, lived right near each other and had kids that wouldn’t return their phone calls. It was only natural that they became friends.
More often than not the three of them sat around together baking and drinking wine. Sophie made a joke one day that they were part of a ‘cookie club,’ and since then the name stuck.
It took exactly twelve minutes to get her two best friends, Stella and Sophie, over to her house. It would have been half that time but, as was usual, Beatrice had to give Sophie directions. This was despite the fact that she lived only a few houses away.
When the girls arrived, Beatrice served up her muffins and some coffee and got them both up to speed. It was a lot to cover too, from her grandson breaking in, to the detective stopping by, and right on through Genevieve's intrusion – they also, of course, spent a good deal of time dismissing Genevieve and everything about her; taking great pleasure in imitating and mocking the shrill head of the neighborhood watch. But finally, after all that time, Beatrice had confided in them her deep set fear, that her grandson may have killed someone.
"Now, he's all grown up," Stella said staring off into nothingness with a mischievous smile on her face. "So tall and strapping, and muscular too. He must work out."
Beatrice rolled her eyes at her best friend's comment. She always found it odd that Stella and Genevieve didn't get along more. The two were so alike that they should have been best friends. Stella looked younger than her age and dressed with the sole purpose of impressing the opposite sex. Even right now she had a tight fitting red number on that left little to the imagination. And she too had a flamboyance about her that bordered on the ridiculous and over-the-top at times.
But then again, Beatrice had to remind herself, that when it was all said and done, that Stella was a sweetheart with a heart of gold. The complete opposite of Genevieve.
"Keep your mind out of the gutter, Stella. That's my grandson you're daydreaming about," Beatrice chided. She knew that Stella was only kidding, most likely trying to get a reaction from her.
"Sorry I can't help myself," Stella smirked, hiding her face behind her cup of coffee.
"You better control yourself, or I'll do it for you," said Beatrice, narrowing her eyes at her playfully. The two women had a lot of history together and were, through thick and thin, friends for life. This kind of back and forth teasing, for Beatrice at least, was as natural as breathing.
"I don't get it," said Sophie, face scrunched up in confusion.
Then there was Sophie. Beatrice also counted Sophie as her best friend of course, but more in the way that her cat or a puppy was her best friend. She was such a kind, loving person who couldn't harm a fly, but she was also beyond daft. She was constantly wearing a blank expression behind her oversized spectacles, and always twisting her brightly colored hair into knots with her fingers whenever she was really at pains to figure something out. At the moment her hair was bright green.
"You don't get what?" asked Beatrice, only half paying attention. It was usually the best way to deal with Sophie. And right now she had a little too much on her mind.
"I forgot," said Sophie, letting out a long sigh before a shadow coming from outside caught her attention, taking her away from the conversation and the moment. But that was Sophie. Like Stella, Sophie was a gentle soul at heart who was just impossible to stay mad at.
"I can't deal with you today, darling," Beatrice said to her best friend as she shook her head. "I don't know what to do. Should I call the cops and have them chase him down?" She had turned back to Stella now, leaving Sophie to stare at the shadows in amusement.
"No, of course not. You don't know what they do to young men like that in prison. All those men, sweaty and aggressive ... makes me want to commit a misdemeanor," she said, chomping into a muffin with a growl.
Beatrice, of course, chose to ignore this last part, trying to keep the conversation centered and in focus. It seemed that right now she was the only one of her two friends capable of that. "You're right, then we're just going to have prove his innocence for him."
"What do you mean?" asked Sophie, whipping her head around, one hand holding her glasses in place, the other reaching for another muffin.
"I mean, if we can find out who was really breaking into these people's homes and who killed that woman, then even if he gets caught, they'll have nothing on him."
Beatrice wasn't really talking to either of them at this point. Between Sophie's daydreaming and Stella's tendency to turn everything into a sexual punchline, the two weren't good for much more than a wall to bounce ideas off of. But right now that was all that Beatrice needed. And it had worked.
It was time for
Beatrice to put down the baking trays and pick up her detective’s hat. Her grandson needed help; she was going to give it to him.
"Good idea," beamed Stella, clapping her hands together.
Sophie, thinking only goodness knows what, had proceeded to mash the muffin into the tabletop, a delighted smile on her face.
Beatrice couldn't help but chuckle. Between the three of them, there was at least one working brain and that brain was going to solve this case. The Cookie Club was at it again.
***
There was only one thing that Beatrice could do really, and it was the one thing that she wanted to avoid doing more than anything. She thought long and hard before coming to the decision that she did. She looked at it from every angle. Measured every choice rationally and calmly. But in the end, she knew that there was only one thing she could do. She was going to have to call her daughter.
Her grandson was missing, and suspected of committing murder. As his grandmother, Beatrice would do anything to protect him. But first, she needed to know where he was. There was every chance that he had run back home, and if not, there was also the small chance that his mother might know his whereabouts.
The problem with his mother, Beatrice’s daughter, was that she was, to put it nicely, a bit of a handful. As a child, she was fine, albeit a little bit of a brat, but Beatrice had always treated her as a mother should. If anything, she was too generous to her and too loving. That may have even been where she went wrong. Never saying no.
This only escalated into her teenage years where she became a downright handful. By the time she hit adulthood, she was near unrecognizable. And when her husband left her, of course, it became Beatrice’s fault. In fact, Beatrice couldn’t remember a time the two had spoken for longer than two minutes since her husband left her.
But it was time to suck it up and call her. Her grandson’s life and freedom were at stake. That wasn’t to mention the fact that her daughter was also a lawyer. Sure it was real estate law, but it was still a start. Surely once she learned her son was in trouble, she would do everything to help.
Somehow Beatrice doubted it. She remembered how she had acted when Stella was arrested; about as apathetic as one could. Would this time be any different?
The only real problem and one that Beatrice had tried to use as an excuse for not calling her were that Beatrice didn’t know how to reach her. She called the home phone before remembering her grandson saying something about her daughter being on a cruise. But that was all the information she had. There were literally dozens of cruise options, and her daughter could be wasted on any one of them.
It was lucky then that Beatrice was just starting to hit her straps as a detective. The old Beatrice may have struggled here. She may have even given up. But the new Beatrice? The idea that this might cause her any sort of problem was almost laughable.
She started by calling her daughter’s work. Beatrice actually had a contact there of her own that she could milk for information. When her daughter had first started working, Beatrice would bring baked goods over every Friday (back when they were on speaking terms). One gentleman, a Mr. Prior, was particularly fond of Beatrice's peanut brittle.
“You can eat a lot; you can eat a little. That’s the joy of peanut brittle,” he would sing in his booming voice whenever he saw Beatrice. She was so pleased by this praise that she even made special trips to his house every now and then just to drop some off. Well, that and she knew that it never hurt to have an ‘in’ at your daughter’s work. She was glad that she could finally cash in on that.
As such, when she called the office, Mr. Prior was more than willing to provide her the name of the cruise line that her daughter was on. The only condition, of course, was that she brought over some peanut brittle the next time she was in the area. It had been a while, and he was, as always, craving it.
Beatrice promised that she would do just that, as she relished the way that he squealed in delight on the other end of the phone. If there was one thing that Beatrice loved, it was people admiring her cooking.
When Beatrice looked up the cruise line, it turned out that it had actually docked two days earlier. This was good news as it meant that her daughter was on dry land and it should, therefore, be easier to get her to come see her son. Unfortunately, it also meant that she was most likely holed up in a hotel somewhere, smashed on mojitos and champagne.
Sometimes Beatrice hated being right.
She managed to get the address of the hotel off the cruise line, thanks to some innocent flirting on her part — Stella wasn’t the only one who could use her womanly charm for good measure. And then, before she knew it, Beatrice was calling her daughter’s hotel room, praying that she picked up.
But on top of that, she was praying that when she did, her daughter was in a reasonable state and willing to listen for just once in her life. And also, just to pile onto the perceived difficulties, she hoped that she was able to control her temper. Beatrice had a very short fuse when it came to her daughter.
“Hello,” the slurred voice of her daughter echoed through the phone. Beatrice sighed to herself. She could almost smell the booze through the call. This was going to be difficult.
“Hello, daughter. It’s… it’s Beatrice,’ Beatrice said carefully. She was going to say ‘it’s mom,’ but didn’t want to scare her off. Their relationship had actually become that rocky that this was a legitimate fear on Beatrice’s part.
“Mom?” Her daughter spat, “what…” Every word seemed to be a struggle for her. Beatrice made sure to hold her temper. Whenever they spoke, one of them went flying off the rails, always ending the conversation prematurely. Beatrice had to make sure that this did not happen. For her grandson’s sake.
“Hey, honey. Yep, it’s me. I was hoping we could talk —”
“Whaddya want calling me fa?” It was barely audible. Heck, it was barely English. She was clearly very intoxicated and less than coherent. For a moment Beatrice considered calling her back but knew that, knowing her daughter, that wouldn't make a difference. Catching her sober was about as likely as catching fish in the desert.
Beatrice took a deep breath, ready to power through her point “It’s about your son. He’s —”
“What’s tha’ liddle punk gone and done now?” She cut Beatrice off, not even letting her finish. Did she really care so little for her son? Or was it just the booze talking?
“Is that brat in trouble again?!” A male’s voice called out from inside the room that her daughter was in. Beatrice could only assume it was whatever guy her daughter was currently dating. She was sure that he was a real catch. “Lock him up I always said!”
“Will you shut the hell up?!” He daughter yelled back. Beatrice heard a crash and naturally assumed that it was the male passing out; hopefully hitting his head on the way down. Her daughter then spoke back into the phone, addressing Beatrice again. “Well? What he gone and done?”
Beatrice could feel her temper rising. She was right of course. Her daughter could care less about her own son. “As a matter of fact, yes he is in some trouble. Although this time it isn’t his fault. He’s been wrongly accused and I… Hello? Hello?” Beatrice listened, but couldn’t hear a thing. “Hello? Are you still there?”
Although the phone was still off the hook, there was no response. Beatrice sighed before very softly hanging the phone up. She was going to slam it down but didn’t want to admit that her daughter had gotten to her, again. She knew what had happened, of course, her daughter had passed out. It wasn’t the first time that had happened.
What a family she had raised, Beatrice thought to herself. Where had she gone wrong? But then an even more chilling thought hit her. Was there any way to come back from this? Somehow Beatrice doubted it.
—
It was after her less than productive phone call with her daughter that Beatrice called her other family, Stella, and Sophie. It was time for the Cookie Club to get together.
Whenever Beatrice was in a bad
mood, she baked. And whenever she was bored she baked… and really whenever any mood struck her, she baked. Right now her mood was dreadful. Baking was the only reasonable answer.
“At least your daughter answers the phone,” Stella all but shrieked as she poured three glasses of red wine for the ladies. “I’m convinced that my good-for-nothing spawn has her phone set to send my calls straight to voicemail.”
“She’s still that mad at you?” Beatrice asked although she knew that she would be. There was a very good reason that Stella’s daughter didn’t speak to her anymore. Of course, she wasn’t going to tell Stella this.
“It was one time!” Stella insisted as she handed the glasses across to Beatrice and Sophie. “And we didn’t even go all the way. Just a little fooling around is all. You’d think that she’d blame him as much as me,” she huffed, taking a sip from her glass.
“They did get a divorce though, didn’t they?” Beatrice chuckled as she too had a sip. In truth, Stella and her daughter’s issues went back a lot further than that, even though they all had the same theme. For some reason, Stella couldn’t help but steal her daughter’s boyfriends. It was as bizarre as it was funny, at least from where Beatrice was sitting.
“Well yes. And now he calls me every two weeks. You would think he’d be able to take a hint?”
“And…” Beatrice prompted, wanting to hear how the story played out.
“Well, usually I don’t indulge him. Unless it’s a Wednesday and my pilates class has been canceled.” Her smile was wicked as she took another sip.
The three ladies of the Cookie Club were in Beatrice's kitchen, drinking wine and baking a delectable chocolate sponge cake. Well, they weren't so much baking as there was drinking. This was usually how their baking sessions went down. Stella and Sophie would drink while Beatrice would bake.
Beatrice, of course, didn’t mind. She loved to bake and was by far the best of the three. They were there to provide the entertainment more than anything. Right now Stella was regaling them of the time she slept with her daughter's husband and how that was the reason that they no longer spoke. It, of course, came off the back of Beatrice filling them in on her own daughter’s brief phone call.
Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting Page 3