Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  My nose has always been especially deft at picking out notes and details. In the kitchen, that’s a gift. When standing next to a pile of rotting food, it’s a curse.

  I lean toward Winifred. “What did Karen get arrested for?”

  “Shoplifting. Can you believe it?”

  I can’t help but ask the obvious. “She didn’t do it, right?”

  Winifred blinks at me as if I’m crazy. “Of course she did. Karen’s got the stickiest fingers in town. Everyone knows that. But she’s never been arrested for it. Sheriff Flowers is out of control. On a total power trip.”

  I balk at the logic. “So she stole and got caught, and now she’s being held accountable for it?” I lower my voice, knowing I’m not leaning toward the popular side. “Why are we protesting the sheriff doing his job?”

  I can tell this is the wrong thing to say.

  Winifred turns to face me, her frown fixed firmly on her face. “You don’t understand, honey cake. That could be me locked up in there.”

  I guffaw at her. “Do you shoplift?”

  “On occasion.” She waves off my shock. “We always leave money in the spare change jar for whatever we take. It’s all for fun. Keeps us young.”

  My brows furrow as I try to keep up. “So Karen stole something but paid for it by leaving money in the jar by the register? Why?”

  “It’s all part of the Live Forever Club. Karen, Agnes and I have no intention of fading quietly to our graves. We’ve got lots of living left to do. Spent too many years being good.”

  “I didn’t realize being good was a bad thing.”

  “It is if you forget who you are along the way.”

  I let her words sizzle in my chest a moment before poking at them. “I can tell you love them—Agnes and Karen.”

  Winifred nods succinctly. “I do. They are my best friends. If one of us is in jail, the other two figure out how to get her out.”

  “That’s oddly sweet.”

  Winifred chortles. “That’s me: odd and sweet.”

  I have no idea what to do with this new information. I still feel as if I am catching up while people file out of the barn. They are all jovial and amped up, now that they are about to make their demands known.

  “What exactly is the Live Forever Club?” I ask Winifred as she waves at her friends.

  “Oh, nothing you’ll need to worry about. You’re not ready to join.”

  I chuckle at her moxie. “Is that so?”

  She regards me with good-natured pity. “You’re a rule follower.” Then she reaches up to pat the top of my head. “That’s okay. We can fix that in due time.”

  I mean, I guess it’s true that I like following the rules, but it’s never been looked on as a bad thing before. “You are something else, Aunt Winnie.”

  Winifred lifts up onto her toes and waves over a woman who looks to be around her age. “Over here, Agnes!”

  “Winnie, I thought you’d deserted us! Thank goodness you’re here, sugarbean. Without you, it wouldn’t be a protest.” The woman has short white hair, her curls pinned back to reveal a rounded face with pink cheeks to match her lipstick. She throws her arms around my aunt with gusto.

  Agnes doesn’t have Aunt Winnie’s bubbly exuberance, but their smiles are the same—warm and welcoming without an ounce of judgment. Her green eyes dance with acceptance.

  Aunt Winnie sifts her fingers through her shoulder-length silver curls, tossing her head back as her posture straightens. “I wouldn’t have missed it. Don’t you worry. Karen will be out of that cell in time for supper.” My aunt keeps her arm looped through her friend’s as she turns her to face me. “This is my great-niece, Charlotte McKay. She’s staying with me. Charlotte, this is Agnes. She knitted my favorite scarf.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I offer, extending my hand to her.

  “Needs some looking after, this one?” Agnes asks Winifred, foregoing the handshake and going straight for a hug.

  I love being hugged. It’s not something I ask for often. Living on my own in Chicago didn’t lend itself to many heartwarming moments. But as Agnes holds me close, part of my heart that felt unattached and drifting now slides into place. Perhaps affection is the thing I’ve been missing from my life.

  I fight the urge to tell Agnes that actually, I am the one looking after my aunt. I’m twenty-eight years old, and haven’t needed looking after since I graduated from culinary school.

  Of course, I don’t say that. I merely smile at what I hope is a joke.

  Winifred nods seriously. “I worry we might be too late with this one. She’s a rule follower.”

  Agnes closes her wrinkled eyelids as if my aunt has just announced I have contracted a deadly disease. Another hearty hug finds me, settling my soul in ways I never knew possible. “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll set you right. You’re in good hands with Winnie. If anyone understands life, it’s her.”

  I haven’t been hugged in ages. I try not to cling too desperately to this woman I am only just meeting, but my heart won’t let go quite so easily. There is real love in her grip, and I feel it flowing into my body because she grants it freely.

  I miss my mom.

  I miss having real friends.

  Life in Chicago was a busy bustle of trying to stay afloat while working a job that did nothing to satisfy the yearning of my heart. One bill after another began piling up, and soon enough, I found myself calling my mom, asking if I could come back to live at home.

  Mom and Dad informed me that they are in the middle of putting my childhood home up for sale, but Great Aunt Winifred was in need of a live-in helper, given her advancing years.

  Though, as I look at Agnes and Winifred, I wonder if I am the one who is old and slow, and in need of help.

  My rigid schedule didn’t leave much time for hugs and girlfriends. Even though Agnes is probably triple my age, I can tell in an instant that I like her.

  When she kisses my cheek, I decide on the spot that Agnes is my new favorite person. “You’ll be okay, honey.”

  I fight the urge to confess how very not alright I feel. I left a life that never really felt like I lived it. Now I am heading into a new phase where I don’t truly understand my purpose yet. I manage a modest, “Thank you. I think I needed that hug.”

  “Well, I’ve always got plenty.” Agnes’ head turns and she catches the eye of a woman who looks to be around my age. “That’s my girl over there. You’ll like her.” She waves over the brunette, who has wide eyes and a sweet smile. “Marianne, this is Charlotte McKay, Winifred’s girl.”

  I like my new label. Winifred’s girl. It makes me feel part of the town. My aunt winks at me, and I can tell she is enjoying the sight of me mixing in with her friends.

  Marianne is petite and peppy, with olive skin and her brown hair worn in two long braids. She smiles easily, and apparently doesn’t believe in handshakes either. She’s got a sign in her hand that’s half as big as she is, glued to a yardstick. “So great to meet you!” she bubbles, keeping the sign in her fist as she throws her arms around me with surprising strength.

  I giggle at the greeting as her sign bangs on the top of the compost pen behind me, and catches on the black tarp. “Nice to meet you, Marianne. Oh, I think you’re stuck. Let me help.”

  She giggles as we untangle ourselves so I can turn and use my few superior inches of height to wobble the yardstick. I do my best to free her sign from the ratty edge of the tarp.

  Agnes and Winifred laugh at us, because somehow, we only manage to get the sign stuck more as we wiggle it to one side, and then the other.

  “I knew I would have a clumsy moment,” Marianne frets with a self-flagellating smile. “The second I saw you were a cool city girl, I had a feeling I would make a fool of myself.”

  I chuckle at her assessment of me. I was anything but cool back in Chicago. I spent most of my time being invisible while in plain sight. “I think this qualifies as both of us sharing the clumsy moment, if you ask me. Almost got it.” />
  I grit my teeth and twist the yardstick, hoping it will untangle itself from the frayed edge of the tarp.

  I grimace when all I manage to do is pull the whole cover down, which I know is going to set the stench free.

  Miss Popular, indeed.

  My nose crinkles as I finally manage to separate the tarp from Marianne’s sign. “Here you go. It’s…” But Marianne’s expression is far from relieved.

  Her eyes are impossibly bigger as she gapes up at the compost pile, pointing to the top. “Is that… Is that a human hand?”

  I blanch as I turn, along with everyone else, and see what is indeed, a man’s hand extended out from atop the compost.

  One of the protestors screams so loud, my spine stiffens at the ear-piercing sound.

  What was supposed to be a protest has instantly become a murder scene.

  And I am standing right in front of it, holding the tarp like the girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

  I try to shove the tarp behind my back, but it is clear I am the one who uncovered the dead body.

  Just when I thought the worst thing in the world could be attending a protest of the sheriff on my first day in town, I realize I have stumbled upon something far worse.

  Yes, I am blending in perfectly.

  2

  Crime in the Compost

  No, no.

  Maybe I am not seeing what my eyes are telling me is real and right in front of my face. A man’s hand stretching out over a pile of compost that reaches taller than me isn’t something my brain knows how to process.

  Maybe I am seeing it wrong. I mean, perhaps we are all overreacting. The people around us are doing a dance of inching closer, then backing away, then inching closer again. Everyone wants to know who it is, but no one actually wants near the dead body.

  I am standing near a dead body.

  Revulsion, sadness and curiosity overwhelm me.

  Winifred’s eyes are huge with worry. “Is someone really dead up there?”

  I can’t imagine any other explanation, but that does seem the thing to confirm.

  Since I am closest to the body, and it will affect me less because I won’t know the person in question, I take it upon myself to investigate. I set my hands on the wooden pen and climb up so I can peer over the top.

  Now I know why everyone is in shorts and overalls. My navy pencil skirt doesn’t lend itself to climbing compost piles.

  Still, I manage.

  I cringe at the sight of a man, perhaps in his eighties, hefted high and in a clear state of decomposition. His wrinkled face and mustache are frozen in a forever frown, as if the man wore no other expression in his long life.

  “Who is it?” Winifred calls up to me.

  I turn my chin over my shoulder in her direction. “How would I know that?”

  “Take a picture.”

  I grimace at the disrespect involved in that request.

  Someone else calls for the same. There are various noises of assent that rise toward me, as if, because I’m tall and can climb a fence, I should automatically be the weirdo taking a picture of the dead body.

  “Maybe someone should call the sheriff?” I suggest.

  Aunt Winifred jabs her finger toward the top of the pile. “Someone already did. Take a photo, honey cake. We want to know who’s dead.”

  The nickname sinks into my chest, leveling my discomfort with a heavy dose of familial sweetness. I was always baking up new creations, so the family joke was that I smelled perpetually sweet, and came bearing desserts.

  That’s a far better reputation than “grown woman who takes pictures of dead people.”

  When I reach for my cell phone and slide it from my pocket, I realize that my family truly owns me. All my aunt has to do is fix me with a precious nickname, and I will do the unthinkable.

  Plus, no one else seems willing or physically able to get up here on the ledge of the wooden pen, so I guess it is to me to identify the body before the cops get here. I can’t bring myself to truly look to see if the photo is in focus or if I am getting the best angle. I just want to get away from the dead body and the ensuing stench.

  I pocket my phone so I can climb down ungracefully, grateful to be away from the pungent odor. At this point, the stench feels stuck to my skin.

  All at once, everyone starts talking.

  “Let’s see!”

  “Hold on, Gretchen.”

  “Back up, Tom, she’s my niece.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Out of the way, you’re stepping on my bum foot!”

  I do my best to ignore the clatter of people, handing my phone instead to Aunt Winifred after opening the screen for her and sliding to the picture. “Do you know who this is?” Even though I’ve just been face to face with the deceased, I turn my chin in the opposite direction of the picture, so I don’t have to see it all over again.

  But the second Aunt Winifred lets out a bleat of distress, I’m jerking my attention in her direction. I reach out, hoping to steady her in case she feels faint at the sight.

  Aunt Winifred pales, her mouth firming in a taught line. “I don’t believe it.” Then she looks up at me. “How could this have happened?”

  I have no response, except to hold her hand.

  Agnes looks over Winifred’s shoulder at the picture. “Oh, my. Come, let’s sit you down. You don’t need to see that.” Agnes takes the cell phone and hands it back to me.

  I follow after the two. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Winifred. Let’s get you out of here.”

  It’s an effort, but Agnes, Marianne and I maneuver the growing crowd, who are all speaking in a dull murmur about the scandal that is…

  …whoever this dead man is. I still have no idea.

  I grip Winifred’s elbow, supporting her as best I can while trying to distance myself as much as possible from the scene. I try to catch Marianne’s eye to silently ask her who this man is, but she is fanning Aunt Winifred, so I’m left guessing still.

  Winifred starts to cry, so I scramble for a tissue or anything that might be helpful. “I can’t believe it. He had so much time left.”

  We lead her into the barn and sit her down. Agnes has tears sparking on her wrinkled cheeks as she sits beside her friend, her hand on Winifred’s arm. “Not Gerald. It just can’t be. We just saw him last…”

  But Winifred puts her hand on Agnes’ to still her words. She shakes her head while they cry together.

  Marianne loops her arm through mine, keeping her voice hushed out of respect for the somber moment. “That was Gerald Forbine. He was courting your aunt.”

  I haven’t heard the word “courting” in a long time, but it seems to suit this town well. I can picture my aunt sitting on the front porch, sipping sweet tea with…

  I’ll need to get a decent picture of Gerald so I can imagine him without the bloated features, orange hands and flies littering his body.

  I cannot conceal my shudder, which sweet Marianne mistakes for emotion. She hugs me tight, even though I am a stranger. She knew the man, not me.

  That’s when it dawns on me that I should be hugging her, so I slip my arms around her dainty waist, offering comfort as much as I am able.

  We sit together in somber silence until Agnes starts pouring out her heart. “He was so sweet. He brought you roses, Winnie. Roses with no thorns. Only a romantic does that.”

  Aunt Winifred nods, but doesn’t add to the sharing time.

  When the sound of commotion hits my ears, I stand and move to the barn door to see what has further developed. “The police are here. That’s good.”

  Aunt Winnie stiffens, her eyes widening. “We should go.”

  “Go? Are you sure? Should we talk to the police?” I suggest, my hand on the door.

  “Sheriff Flowers? Not a chance.” When Aunt Winifred stands, I take her hand, making to lead her toward my car, but she pauses. “Actually, give me a minute. Stay here.” Then she messes up her silver curls, making her look more on the edge of
deranged when coupled with her reddened face and glassy eyes. To Agnes, she asks, “How do I look?”

  Agnes gives her friend a thumbs-up. “Old. Do it, sister. I’ll be your wing-girl.”

  I look to Marianne to see if she knows what they are talking about, but Marianne merely shrugs.

  “You girls wait here. Actually, bring the car around and be ready to roll. Marianne and I walked, so we could use a ride home,” Agnes tells us as she waves us toward the exit. “We’ll be a minute behind you.”

  My mouth draws to the side with uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

  Agnes’ hands gesture more emphatically, practically shoving Marianne and me out the door ahead of them.

  Everyone is crowding around the policeman, who looks to be in his sixties. He is in his blue uniform, his notepad out as he tries to write down what everyone is saying to him. To me, all the chatter sounds like a bunch of hysterics with no actual information.

  Poor guy.

  Moving through the crowd is slow going, but Marianne links her arm through mine. She herds me halfway through the mass of people. They are all clambering to give their two cents of who they think it is, and what they are sure must have happened.

  True to their word, Winifred and Agnes follow behind, but they veer toward the police officer. I turn toward my aunt when her grief pushes her to throw her arms around the officer’s waist while she blubbers into his shoulder. “Oh! I can’t believe he’s dead. What a world! I’ll never be the same again.”

  “Oh, goodness!” Marianne tugs on my arm, making sure I see exactly how distraught our little old ladies are. “She hates Sheriff Flowers. She must be completely out of sorts to be leaning on him right now.”

  I nod, grateful I have someone next to me when this place has me completely thrown. “I need to get her back home.”

  “Agnes and I will help you.”

  I squeeze her hand in thanks.

  I like Marianne. I can’t help it. The wide eyes and long brown hair make her look like a cartoon princess, complete with an innocence to her higher-pitched voice. It makes me want to sweep the street in front of her, so she doesn’t trip on an errant pebble.