by Molly Maple
My heart yanks in my chest as Agnes pries my aunt’s hands from the officer’s waist. The poor guy freezes, fumbling because clearly, he has no idea what to do when handed raw human emotion. “There, there, Winnie. Have you seen who it is? Can everyone just back on up? This is a crime scene now. You all need to leave so I can do some actual police work. Only stick around if you have useful information.”
This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. Every single person has their variation of a “Boot Sheriff Flowers Out of Office” sign in one arm while throwing conjectures at the befuddled man as if they are actual facts. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone’s two cents must be heard at that exact moment, before the man has even had a chance to identify the body.
Agnes helps Aunt Winifred through the crowd. While the two were barely upright on their way to the sheriff, they move surprisingly quick toward us.
“The car! The car!” Aunt Winifred scolds us.
Marianne and I are still standing around, trying to find a way to be helpful or supportive in Winifred’s time of crisis. I forgot about bringing the car around for them.
Marianne and I spring to life, skittering into the parking lot like two naughty children caught sneaking out of bed in the night. I trot to my car and pull it around, getting out so I can help Aunt Winifred and Agnes into the backseat.
Their tears dry as if they were mere figments of my imagination. “Go! Go!” Aunt Winnie urges the second I get back behind the wheel.
“We’ll get you home, Aunt Winifred. Don’t worry.” I turn onto the main road, pretty sure I am going the right way to get to her house, but Agnes directs me to go the other way. I comply, now completely turned around.
Even Marianne seems confused. “Where are we going, Agnes? I think we should get Winifred home.”
But neither woman in the back is interested in our opinion. Instead, they feed me directions, devoid of all mourning. In fact, they look excited, as if we are going on a thirty-five mile an hour chase.
Agnes grips my headrest. “Is there any way you can speed up? We have to hurry!”
I point to the sign. “I’m going the speed limit. What’s going on?”
Agnes only gives me directions, finally pointing me to the police station. My shoulders lower. “Oh. You want to report the crime and give your statement. That’s good. But I’m sure Sheriff Flowers could have taken it just fine.”
Winifred reaches around my seat and pats my shoulder. “This is better. Keep the car running.”
I pull to the circular entrance of the rundown police station, which is missing the “r” in “Sweetwater Falls”. I shrug to Marianne, who mirrors my actions. We stay put, because those are our explicit instructions given by Agnes and Winifred.
The two old friends amble at a brisk pace into the police station. Aunt Winnie’s limp is visible even as she opens the door.
“They’re acting weird, right?” I ask Marianne, pointing to the women as they disappear into the building.
Marianne conjures up a mildly exasperated smile. “I’ve given up trying to keep up with them. The Live Forever Club does their own thing. I’m just lucky to be along for the ride.”
I search for small talk, because I genuinely enjoy Marianne’s company. “Agnes is your grandma?”
Marianne shakes her head. “My friend. We look after each other.”
I tilt my head to the side. “I like that. Have you lived here long?”
“My whole life. Sweetwater Falls a good place to put down roots. I work at the library.” She fixes me with a smug sidelong glance. “Head librarian,” she says with her shoulders rolled back. I can tell she takes pride in her position.
I like her.
“Impressive. Must be nice, being in the quiet, surrounded by all that great literature.”
She inhales with a precious happiness to her dainty features. “It really is. When there is nothing to do, I get to read to pass the time. It’s Heaven.” She turns in her seat to face me. “What do you do?”
“Well, nothing right now.” I really hate saying that. “I was working at a restaurant in Chicago. I suppose I’ll poke around later this week to see if there’s anything available in Sweetwater Falls.”
“Chicago? Sounds exciting.”
“Meh. Exciting is another word for expensive. It was good timing for me to relocate.” I thumb the steering wheel. “Know of any bakeries that are hiring?”
Marianne chews on her lower lip. “We have a diner, but there isn’t a bakery. They do sell pies at the diner. That counts, right? That’s baking.”
My optimism begins to fall. “I guess I’ll have to look for something else.”
“For what it’s worth, the diner is hiring for waitresses. Maybe you can start there and wait for a bakery to open up.”
I can tell Marianne is trying to be helpful, but my spirits are starting to plummet. “I love to bake. Ever since I was little, coming up with new cupcake flavors was a fun way to pass the time. No bakery in Sweetwater Falls?” I shake my head. “It would be like a library with no books.”
Marianne gasps at the scandal and places her hand atop mine. “I can’t imagine how lost you must feel. We’ll solve this. We’ll find you a place to bake.”
I am endeared to Marianne’s plucky can-do attitude, even when the situation is clearly hopeless. “It’s okay.” I try to salvage our camaraderie and rescue it from the gray cloud that has passed over our introductions. “What is there to do for fun around here?”
“There’s a drive-in movie theater.”
I give a one-noted airy laugh through my nose. “No kidding. I didn’t know those things were still around.”
“Yep. We have events at the barn all the time, too. Dances, plays from the theater troupe, craft fairs, and things like that. Next month, there’s a Twinkle Light Festival in the park.” She presses her thumb to her chest, and I can tell she’s proud of herself again by the way she gets this cute smirk. “I’m in charge of hanging the lights. Fifty-three thousand lights, and I get to be in charge of them all. It’s a big job.”
“Impressive.” I share her smile because I can’t not. “Do you need any help?”
Marianne bounces in her seat. “Really? That would be great. My volunteer list is a little thin. I mean, it’s the Twinkle Light Festival. How could people not want to be part of making the magic happen?”
“Count me in. You tell me where to hang stuff and I’ll, you know, hang stuff.”
Marianne claps her hands. Even though she is probably my age, she looks like a teenager when she gets all giddy like this. We exchange phone numbers, and just like that, I have made my first real friend in Sweetwater Falls.
Murder aside, I like it here so far. I lived in Chicago for two years, and all I managed to acquire was debt. I’m in Sweetwater Falls for an hour, and I have already met my first friend.
I straighten in my seat when the door opens again. Winifred and Agnes come out, looking winded and gleeful beside a third little old lady who is cackling like a madwoman. “Who is that?”
Marianne covers her mouth. “Jiminy Cricket! They sprang Karen Newby.”
Panic strikes my features. “What? The woman you all were protesting the sheriff over because she got arrested for shoplifting?”
Marianne snorts. “I know. Can you believe that?”
Though, something tells me Marianne (like Winifred) is more exasperated with the sheriff taking action than with Karen’s actual criminal offense.
The back door pops open, and the three shuffle into the car. “Go! Go!” Winifred urges, shutting the door and banging on the back of my seat.
I peel out of the police station’s circular drive. I follow their directions because to question them would give me more information that I am certain I don’t want.
Marianne turns in her seat. “I can’t believe you did that. How?”
Winifred laughs as she dangles a set of keys in the air. “Old Sheriff Flowers isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Comforting a grieving wo
man can be dangerous business in this town.”
I gasp at the scandal. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t steal the sheriff’s keys!” Fear rushes through me at being part of something so illegal.
“It was a team effort,” Agnes adds, frowning that she is devoid of credit for this criminal act.
Karen’s cackle sets my teeth on edge. Her white hair is short. Her dentures are perhaps too wide for her thin and wiry face. “Wonderful! Drop me at home, please. I’ve got a library book that’s overdue.”
“No, you don’t,” Marianne says with a wink, holding her palm over her shoulder for Karen to high-five.
Sweetwater Falls is a strange place, that’s for certain. But I can’t dismiss the thrill that races through my veins as we drive down the dirt road, nor the smile that creeps onto my face at the jailbreak in which I just unwittingly participated.
I think I am going to like it here…
…If I don’t get arrested first.
3
Cupcake Therapy
The last time I moved, I did all the packing and unpacking myself, which turned out to be whatever the opposite of a labor of love is. But with Marianne’s help, the entire process is mostly done by the time Aunt Winifred changes into her pajamas. I still have to unpack a few boxes, but for the most part, I am moved in—officially a resident of Sweetwater Falls.
Aunt Winifred’s house is clean. There isn’t much clutter, other than her excessive penchant for doilies, which cover nearly every surface in the front room. It looks like a little old lady lives here. Judging by the mauve and cream décor, one would never guess that a prisoner-liberating, key-stealing woman lives here.
I should be tired, but I’ve got too much on my mind, so I’m unnaturally wired as I pace the kitchen. “We broke a woman out of jail today,” I say to Marianne.
She takes my cupcake pans out of a box and shelves them in the cupboards Aunt Winifred previously cleared out for me. “We did. You never know what’s going to happen with the Live Forever Club. Last week, things got real bad with their poker night. When I came to pick up Agnes, Gerald and Amos Vandermuth were hollering at each other something fierce.” She lifts her fist and imitates one of the old men with a baritone to her voice. “‘You shorted me thirty quarters!’ ‘You’re blind, Amos! The only shortening that’s happened to you is because of your crooked spine.’”
I grimace. “Yikes. Sounds like Gerald and Amos needed to hug it out.” It’s partly a joke, but also partway sincere, being that these people are such huggers.
“Ho, no. Not those two. They’re always finding something to argue about.”
“You’d think two people who don’t get along wouldn’t play poker together.”
Marianne blinks at me as if I’ve said something strange. “Of course they play cards together. They go every month. They’re best friends.” She shakes her head. “This is going to be hard for Amos, losing Gerald so suddenly. I’ll stop by later this week to check on him.”
I do not understand these people, but I do my best to keep up with the town gossip. “I’m sorry to hear that. Losing your best friend must be horrible.”
Not that I would know firsthand. I’ve never had a best friend before.
Marianne nods. “That, sure. But Amos is a real penny-pincher. I know they never settled up after that last poker match. Amos won’t get his thirty quarters back. It’s really going to eat at him.”
“Are you serious?”
Marianne nods solemnly as she puts my spatulas and spoons into a drawer. “He’s an odd duck.”
“Seems that way. If someone close to me died, I would focus on the whole ‘never seeing them again part,’ rather than the fact that they owe me seven dollars and fifty cents.”
My hands start to itch, as they always do when I know I’m about to be up all night baking. “Hand me that pan you just put away?”
“The muffin one?”
“Yeah. When my mind starts to work overtime, my hands can’t help themselves. I have to bake something, or my brain gets stuck and I won’t be able to sleep.”
“That’s a yummy way to process things.” Marianne complies, and continues shelving my other items, handing me my mixing bowl when I request that, too. “When my mind gets overloaded, I usually eat all the ice cream in the house.” She ducks her head, like she’s confessing a dirty sin.
I cast a smile over my shoulder in her direction as I fish through the cupboards to see what ingredients I have to work with. “Feel like switching to cupcakes instead of ice cream?”
“Deal!” Marianne’s grin is endearing, if not infectious.
I brought most of my own ingredients, but I am always looking for new inspiration, so I pilfer Winifred’s spice rack. It gives my hands something to do while my brain shuffles through the facts as we know them. “So Gerald had a big argument about money with his best friend, and then dies a week later. That’s something to think about.”
I start by combining my dry ingredients, unpacking them from the box and adding them to a big bowl before putting them in the cupboards. The kitchen is yellow and cheerful, even in the middle of a conversation about a murder.
I pause. “We’re sure it’s a murder, right? I mean, he wasn’t a farmer who… I don’t know, forgot how to properly compost?”
Marianne snickers. “I don’t think a body gets that high up by mistake. Yes to the murder, no to the farming angle. Gerald ran the Spaghetti Scarf.”
At this, I pause. “Let me get this straight: Sweetwater Falls doesn’t have a bakery, but it has an entire store dedicated to selling scarves and spaghetti? How does that even work? A boutique on one side and an Italian eatery on the other?”
Marianne shakes her head as if I’ve said something ridiculous. “No, no. It’s just spaghetti. It hasn’t been a scarf store since Gerald’s mother died, like, back when I was a kid. He doesn’t know a thing about scarves, so when his mother passed, he used the building to open up a spaghetti place. I guess it was cheaper to add ‘Spaghetti’ to the sign, rather than take ‘Scarf’ down, too.”
I blink at Marianne, searching for a smirk or some sign that she’s kidding, but she keeps unpacking as if nothing odd just popped out of her mouth.
Marianne sets the baking soda on a shelf in the cupboard. “Gerald’s wife died probably a decade or so ago, and he kept the Spaghetti Scarf going. Kept true to her recipes, too. Makes me sad that he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry, Marianne.”
“Thanks. He never dated anyone in all that time, until last month when he took up with Winifred. I had high hopes for that relationship.” She gives a long inhale and exhale, as if cleansing the grief from her soul as best she can.
I busy myself creaming the wet ingredients, taking my time with the strokes while I think through the information I have. “So it could have been Amos. Anyone else?”
Marianne shrugs. “No idea. Everyone in Sweetwater Falls is so nice. I can’t believe anything nefarious would occur to anyone here.” Her mouth pulls to the side. “I know Amos isn’t exactly Mister Popular, but I like him. He helps me on occasion when I get stumped balancing the books for the library. I can’t believe he would murder Gerald.”
Marianne is certain, but given we just sprang a shoplifter from jail, and I uncovered a dead body my first day here, I am positive that Sweetwater Falls has a dark side.
4
Two Nights Ago
Aunt Winifred wakes me with a kiss to my cheek. I startle, sitting up only to realize I fell asleep at the round kitchen table after my fourth batch of vanilla latte cupcakes came out of the oven. “Oh! Did I… Oh, man. I fell asleep down here.”
“Never made it to your bedroom.” Aunt Winifred pinches my cheek and then blows a puff of air at me, rattling particles of flour loose and scattering them atop the table. “Poor thing. You had a wild first day in Sweetwater Falls. You’ll need your beauty sleep if you’re going to keep up with us.”
“No kidding.” I feel awful. I have been little help t
o her at all. After I finished unpacking, I baked myself to sleep. It’s not the first time I have done this, but it is the first time I had a murder on my mind that kept me from my down pillow.
I notice Winnie’s limp as she goes to the coffee pot, which has been brewing for who knows how long. She pours me a cup of black coffee, which to me, is only something I drink under duress.
She is fully dressed and looks showered, complete with her makeup on as she sips from the mug she poured for herself.
I sit up more fully. “What time is it?”
“Nine in the morning. You sure do like to sleep in.” Her head tilts to the side. “You want to talk about it, honey cake?”
I run my hand through my blonde curls, shaking some flour loose. “I should ask you the same question. It’s your boyfriend who passed. Do you want to talk about it?”
Winifred sits down in the chair, repositioning a few times to accommodate her sore leg. “First off, a woman my age doesn’t have boyfriends. I have gentlemen callers.”
I dip my head in her direction. “Well, then I’m sorry you lost your gentleman caller. Was he a good guy?”
“He brought me roses,” she replies wistfully. Then she straightens and waves off my concern. “But we had only just started dating last month. It was no torrid love affair. Still, I was the first woman he took out since his wife passed. It felt special to me, even if it was brief.”
My eyebrows rise. “A decade is a long time not to date anyone.” When Winifred looks surprised that I know this detail, I add, “Marianne mentioned last night that Gerald’s wife died a decade ago.”
“Yes, well, it’s true. Gerald stayed single ten years to the day from when his wife passed. Ovarian cancer.” She shudders. “Horrible thing to go that way. She was a good woman. A good friend.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “He asked me out the day after the ten-year anniversary of her death, and I didn’t hesitate.” She looks down into her mug. “Maybe I should have.” Then another thought chases in on the heels of that one. “No, no. No regrets. That’s not how a member of the Live Forever Club acts. Dating Gerald was a good thing. We had a handful of happy dates before he passed.”