Well, Beatrice wasn't going to have it. So what if he had committed a few small vagrancies in his life. There was a huge difference between stealing a loaf of bread to feed yourself and murdering someone in cold blood.
"I can't talk about this now," she said stepping around Rogers. She had had enough of this. Between her own investigation into the case and the way he was currently harassing her in public, she was on the verge of snapping.
"Listen, I'm sorry to upset you. That wasn't my intention, just do me a favor if you see or hear from him, let me know. Harboring a fugitive is a crime, you know."
"I'm well aware of the law, thank you very much," she was just about in the store now, content with the conversation being over and done with. But the Detective had one more little nugget of information that was about to blow the case wide open.
"Just so you know, your grandson wasn't the victim’s only client—" halfway in the store, she stopped short, turning back to face Detective Rogers.
"Client?" She asked, confused by his odd choice of words.
"Yes, didn't you know? She was an escort."
And with that final bomb drop, the detective turned and walked back through the parking lot towards his car. Beatrice watched him go, the hordes of people clearing a path for him like Moses and the Red Sea. The whole while she remained where she was, halfway between the store and the outside world, unable to comprehend what she had just been told.
Why did everything have to be so complicated?
7
The shopping expedition was a complete failure. She wandered through the supermarket aimlessly for over an hour, her shopping basket remaining empty the entire time. She passed the flours; she passed the sugars and creams. But none went into her basket; none seemed to even register with her. Her thoughts were focused entirely on her grandson and nothing else.
Beatrice didn't want to believe any of the things the detective had said. Every word he spoke was just another nail in her grandson's coffin. At this rate, she would have to almost catch the murderer red-handed for anyone to believe her. And the worst part was, as much as she wanted to believe that the detective was exaggerating or lying, her intuition told her that he was telling the truth.
Realizing that she wasn't going to be doing any shopping today, Beatrice gave up and headed back to her car. She would come back tomorrow, assuming that nothing else drastic happened that would distract her again. But really, how much crazier could this whole thing be? Any more reveals like the one she just had and she might have a heart attack.
As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she had no choice; her grandson had grown up. It had happened so fast and mostly without her. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could still see him as a toddler, running down her driveway toward the road as she screamed and bolted after him. She could still see him getting scared of the dark, or laughing as she danced and baked for him. But that was over now. He was all grown up.
She couldn’t help but think that if she had been allowed to be more involved in how he was raised, perhaps he would have turned out differently. She had failed with her daughter. And now it seemed that she had failed with her grandson too.
As she pulled into her driveway, she just hoped that he was all right. He had been roaming the streets alone all day now, most likely terrified. It broke her heart to think of him like that.
She entered her house to the usual greetings from Buzz, her parrot, squawking a hello, and Sylvester, the cat, purring as it roamed by her feet. Smiling, she scooped the cat into her arms as she plopped herself down onto her couch. It had been a long day; she could use the rest.
"Grandma?" The sudden intrusion of the voice, breaking the silence that Beatrice was so used to, startled her to no end. She sat up straight with Sylvester launching himself from her lap in shock.
"Grandson? Where are you? Where did you disappear to?" she asked as she climbed on the couch, rushing toward him. She was about to take him in a big hug and smother him in a series of grandmotherly kisses, but she refrained at the last second. She had to remind herself that he was an adult now, and he didn't always need to be protected.
"Sorry, I kind of freaked. You were asking all those questions and I... I just need someone to believe me." There was something heartbreaking about the way he spoke and stood. His voice was soft and distant as if he hadn't spoken to another soul in years and had forgotten how to do it. All the while he was hunched over with his hands shoved in his pockets. It was a gut wrenching site.
"I do believe you, sit down." And it was true. Seeing him in the flesh again, as her grandson and not some potential murderer, Beatrice had to chastise herself for ever thinking such a thing was possible. What kind of grandmother was she? She was going to start making it up to him right now.
He sighed, taking his hands from his pockets as he looked at her for the first time. His eyes were full of fear, pleading with her. It was times like this one that reminded her of the young boy she used to know.
"I want you to tell me the truth, and I'll know if you're lying," she said to him. That famous intuition of hers gave her a knack for telling lies from truths. It was one she used to use on her husband all the time; much to his chagrin.
"What is it?" he sat down, fiddling with his hands as he did. Beatrice was pretty sure that he knew what was coming.
"Did you have anything to do with what happened to that lady?" There was no emotion in her voice, no forgiveness. There wasn't time for that. She needed the truth, from his mouth. Then, once she heard that, she could work on getting him off the hook. Free of thoughts that he might be guilty.
He didn't answer her right away, choosing to stare at his feet like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "I mean, I knew her but... I didn't ..."
"What do you mean you knew her?" she asked arching her eyebrows. How could a teenager know a sixty-year-old woman? He really wasn't making this easy on himself.
"She was my friend," he said, barely audible. It was said with a sense of remorse. She could hear the emotion dripping off his tongue, especially on the word 'was.'
"Hmm ... friend?"
"Not like that," he said, blushing. "She understood me. She didn't judge me. There was a lot more to her than people realized."
"How so?" He had peaked her interest now. The way he spoke of her wasn't as some sort of lover, but of genuine friendship. It sounded like he really cared for her. The whole thing was odd to Beatrice, as she knew it would be to anyone else.
"She wasn't just some... woman for hire. She was smart, she was funny. Did you know that she had a degree in science?" He hurried through his words as if he were in a rush to defend his point. She was sure that he had already been chastised in the past about this 'friendship,' and was used to making his case.
"Science?" she asked, though she wondered what kind of science he meant exactly. Instead, she kept her mouth shut. It wasn't kind to speak ill of the dead. This was especially true when one didn't have all the facts.
"I wish you could have known her like I did. She was like a mom to me to be honest, more so than my own mom."
That comment hurt Beatrice because she knew that it was probably true. She knew that her daughter wasn't the ideal mother figure. But that wasn't what hurt the most. It was the fact that her grandson had to seek out friendship with another woman, rather than his own grandmother. What could she have offered in terms of companionship that Beatrice couldn't? It stung and only made her more determined to help him free his name. It was time to start repairing this relationship.
She sat down by his side, taking his hand in hers. Giving it a squeeze, she was delighted to feel him squeeze it back. "If you say you had nothing to do with this, then I believe you. We will find a way out of this—"
He suddenly released her grip, his eyes widening in fear at something behind her as his face turned pale.
"What is it?" she asked. But there was no need. As she turned around, she saw exactly what it was that had terrified her grandson so. And rea
lly, she should have known all along.
"Freeze," said Detective Rogers, gun out and pointed at her grandson. She swallowed hard when she saw the gun. Would it be too much to throw myself in front of it, she thought to herself.
"What are you doing in my house?" She all but screamed. Getting into a temper wouldn't help anyone, she had to remind herself. Best to stay calm and work through this situation... there would be time to get angry later. And Detective Rogers would run when that happened.
"You left the back door open. I was going to close it for you when I heard the other voice," he said it so justly as if he was in no way in the wrong. She wanted to know what the hell he was doing by her backdoor in the first place.
"You have no right," she said, her voice shaking. She grabbed her grandson's hand again, giving it a squeeze. She had to let him know that she was there for him.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, young man," said the Detective keeping his eye and his gun on her grandson. One wrong move and this situation could become very messy.
"Grandma?" he said, his voice shaking with fear. And just like that, he was a toddler again. He had scraped his knees and was looking for his grandmother to do something about it. To take the hurt away. Only this time there was nothing she could do. She had failed as a grandmother.
"Just... just cooperate with him," she said. "We'll find a way out of this." What more could she say? She was sitting between a gun and a hard place. Right now she would just be relieved if she got her grandson out of this alive.
He looked at her with eyes of sadness, pleading as Detective Rogers proceeded to handcuff him. And as the detective put him in the back of the police car, he stared out the window, those eyes only getting more and more desperate as the gravity of the situation confirmed itself.
The car then took off, taking her grandson with it.
Beatrice sat back down on her couch now, Sylvester was gone, Buzz napping. For the first time in a long while, she was very aware of the silence that greeted her. It was a cold silence, a haunting silence. It spoke of failure and regret. It seemed to serve the sole purpose of reminding her that she had failed in helping her grandson. She had failed as a grandmother.
***
After her grandson had been arrested, Beatrice sat alone for a very long time. She wasn’t tired or in need of a rest, but sad. She could not believe what had just happened. She was so sure that once she tracked her grandson down, she would somehow be able to help him. That having him by her side would somehow make everything better.
But it was the complete opposite of that. Everything was now worse, so much worse. Her parrot squawked at her from its perch. Her cat tried to climb onto her lap, desperate for some attention. But she wasn’t in the mood. All she could think about was what she was going to do next.
She knew that she had to press on with the investigation. Solving the case and proving her grandson innocent was the most important thing right now. And in doing so, it would free him from prison.
But as the word ‘prison,’ rung out in her head, she shuddered at the thought. Her grandson, her little baby, was locked away in that cold hell-hole. Even just thinking about it seemed to make the room descend into darkness. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like for him in there.
Part of her wanted to rush down to the jail cell right now and hold his hand, telling him everything was going to be OK. She wanted to stay with him there forever until everything got sorted out. But she knew she couldn’t do that. That would be time wasted. She needed to get on with the case.
However, just because she couldn’t go down there, did mean that someone else couldn’t. And really there was only one person who could, and by rights should be down there right now. Her daughter of course. His mother. Hell, she probably had no idea he was even arrested.
Beatrice took a deep breath as she reconciled with herself what she knew she had to do. It had been hard enough to call her daughter earlier. Now she was going to speak to her, face to face. She was going to tell her, plain and simple, to get her act together and start acting like the mother she ought to be.
Although maybe a little more gentler than that. Beatrice knew that the most important thing here was her grandson. She would need to, despite how difficult it would be, keep her temper in check.
—
The first thing that Beatrice did was cook up a quick batch of peanut brittle. It was a recipe that she actually wasn’t a big fan of making, truth be told. The thing that Beatrice loved the most about baking was the textures and flavors that she could produce. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than the way a well-made scone crumbled when bitten into. Or the way that a properly constructed cake could be lighter than air.
Peanut brittle was just so, rugged. It was pure sugar that broke, cracked and fell apart in the most unappealing of ways. But she also knew that if she was going into the lion’s den, then she would need allies. And there was one ally that she knew she could manipulate like a puppet on a string.
“Don’t tell me that’s the Bee Keeper,” the voice of Mr. Prior boomed down the hallways of Deloitte & Sons. “I thought I could smell you!” The ‘Bee Keeper,’ was a pet nickname that a few of Beatrice’s daughter’s colleagues had developed back in the day when she used to make weekly visits. It was based in part on her name and in part on the fact that her visits were always ‘sweeter than honey.’
Beatrice was currently roaming the halls of her daughter’s work, Deloitte & Sons. It was a legal firm, specializing in real estate law. As it was a Monday, she was sure that her daughter would be back at it — in fact, she had even called up and checked before coming in.
Her goal was simple of course, track her daughter down and convince her to visit and try and help her son. She hadn’t been here in years though and was pretty sure that her daughter’s office had since moved. She was going to need some help. As luck would have it, that help just happened to be charging up the halls toward her.
“My goodness. After you called the other day, I went home and prayed to every god I knew that you would come in soon. I only wish I knew which one answered my prayers. I’d rush home tonight and make a sacrifice in his name if I could.” Mr. Prior was Beatrice’s daughter’s supervisor. He was a very tall, very rotund gentleman who near worshiped Beatrice, or at least her cooking anyway. He had a big bushy mustache and bright red cheeks which always seemed to shine.
“Mr. Prior. It’s so good to see you,” Beatrice said earnestly. “After that call, I thought to myself, you know what I haven’t made in awhile…” She was currently holding a small container in her hands, which she held up to the large man. His eyes near burst from his sockets when he saw it.
“It’s not… you didn’t…” She nodded her head as he let out a girlish squeal of delight. “You can have a lot; you can have a little. It doesn’t matter because it’s peanut brittle,” he sang merrily.
However, as he reached forward to take the container, Beatrice pulled it away. “Ah, I was actually hoping first that maybe you could help me?” Beatrice could already tell from the way he had begun to sweat that she had him.
“Anything,” he said, rushing through the sentiment as he kept his hungry eyes on the container.
“It’s my daughter. I really need to speak to her. I was hoping you could show me where she is?” Beatrice, of course, did her best to play up the kind, doting motherly role. All the while holding the container of peanut brittle just out of reach.
“Ah…” he responded, scrunching up his face as if trying to come to a decision. “I can show you her office. But she’s in a meeting right now, and I really shouldn’t interrupt her…” Beatrice could tell that the words were perhaps the hardest he had ever had to say. The whole time he kept his eyes on the brittle, never blinking.
“Please.” Beatrice pouted. “I will be quick. I really need to see her immediately.” And as she said this, she popped the lid, letting the strong scent of the brittle waft through the gap.
She coul
d near follow the smell as it rose from the brittle and hit Mr. Prior dead in the nose. His knees buckled as he let off a small shudder. Even his eyes closed as he smelled the goodness of the brittle. “OK, OK. If you promise to be quick.”
“So fast you won’t even know I was here,” she smirked, thrilled with how easy it all was. Mr. Prior should thank his lucky stars that she was only asking to see her daughter. God knows what she could have gotten the hungry man to do if she were so inclined.
Mr. Prior damn near ran down the hallways as he led her to the meeting room. He pointed out the door, his hands shaking as he did. Beatrice offered him a curt nod in thanks, handed off the bribe and watched, delighted, as he skipped and jumped his way down the hall, out of sight. She wondered just how long that container of brittle was going to last.
Once he was gone, Beatrice took a big, deep breath, bracing herself for what she knew was going to be a struggle of gigantic proportions. She then slowly pushed the door open, creeping her way into the room.
“...the general rule when a twenty-something tries to break lease is that… mom?”
Her daughter was currently speaking to a group of eight men. They all sat at a long table as she stood at the end, addressing them all as if she were a teacher and they were students.
It had been a while since she had last seen her daughter and Beatrice couldn’t help but be impressed with how good she looked. She actually looked a lot like Beatrice had at that age. A lithe figure, with long blond hair that fell over a square yet pretty face. And, wearing a black power-suit as she addressed the men, she looked every bit the strong, confident lady that Beatrice had raised her to be.
In truth, it actually made Beatrice a little proud to see her daughter obviously doing well for herself. Maybe she hadn’t failed at being a mother as much as she had initially thought. At least not in every aspect.
Case of the Sugar Cream Shooting Page 5