by Molly Maple
My knee-jerk reaction is to delve deeper into her regret. Why should she be sad she dated him? “Sounds like he was a nice guy. What did you two do on your dates?”
Winifred smiles wistfully at me over her mug. “He took me to the drive-in. He’s got an old car he was constantly tinkering with and wanted to show off. It was nice to feel all fancy and desired.” She looks down into her coffee. “His palms were sweaty when he held my hand. It’s been a long time since I’ve made a man’s palms sweat.”
I cast her a mischievous look as I stand and pull the frosting out of the fridge. The cupcakes were too hot to frost last night, but that didn’t stop me from making an epic quadruple batch of butterscotch buttercream frosting. “I’m sure Sheriff Flowers is sweating plenty, now that his keys and his prisoner have gone missing.”
Winifred sniggers into her mug as she takes another sip. I don’t know how people can drink coffee with no sweetener.
I take a spoon from the drawer and scoop a dollop of my homemade frosting from the bowl and plop it into my coffee. I sit back down and give my beverage a stir.
Aunt Winifred recoils. “What did you just do?”
My neck shrinks as I stir the buttercream through the coffee. “I need my coffee to taste like a cavity, otherwise it’s not worth it.”
Winifred blanches. “You just ruined a perfectly good beverage, young lady.”
I sip my newly improved coffee, and my whole body snuggles around the warmth. “Oh, that’s good.” I do my best baking when my mind is preoccupied, so I know this batch of cupcakes is going to be particularly amazing. If the frosting is any indication, I’ve hit a new high, while trudging through a personal low.
When the doorbell chimes, Aunt Winifred stands to answer.
I take my time sipping my hot beverage, enjoying the smack of sweetness that gives me a good reason to wake up. I am sure I look exactly as disheveled as I feel, but that’s the least of my worries. I’m here for Winifred, so that’s going to be my focus today.
After a shower.
I stand to go upstairs to my new bedroom, but the gruff sound of a man’s voice pauses my steps.
“That’s not what I came here to talk about, Winifred. I want to know your whereabouts three nights ago.”
I tiptoe in bare feet toward the living room, noting how strange a police officer looks standing amid her lacy doilies that litter just about every surface in the mauve room. The antique furniture looks too fragile to sit on, so the police officer stands in the entryway, his lips taut with displeasure.
Winifred’s flippant disregard of law enforcement is fascinating to watch. She waves him off dismissively, as if he is a fly meant to be swatted away. “Oh, none of your business. I was in my house, knitting a new doily. Want to see?”
Whatever level of pushover Sheriff Flowers usually is to this town, it is clear that a murder ups the stakes. His square jaw juts out at his dimpled chin. He runs his hand over it as he sighs, exasperated already. “I have it on good authority that you were with the recently deceased.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Gerald, Winifred. I know you were with Gerald Forbine three nights ago. Someone reported they saw you two arguing.”
I want to lunge forward and tell her not to say anything that could be damning, but I keep my strides measured so as not to seem too eager. I desperately want to stave off anything that might paint Aunt Winifred in a damning light. I stand beside her, my hand on her shoulder. “Who reported that?” I ask him, asserting myself where I am probably not welcome.
Winifred straightens now that I am enforcing her stalwart attitude. “Yeah, does this ‘someone’ have a name?”
Sheriff Flowers regards me with a dip of his chin. I can tell already that I am not his favorite person. “That’s confidential. Protect the witness and all that.”
Winifred raises her chin. “Then my nighttime whereabouts are also confidential.”
The sheriff pulls a notepad and pen out of his pocket. “Is that your official statement?”
She pushes a fist to her hip. “It’s my Broadway showtune. Want to hear the chorus?”
I can tell this is going south real quick. I make to steer Winifred away from the living room, but she will not be moved.
“It goes a little something like this: ‘Down with Flowers! Down with Flowers!’” Winifred punches her fist in the air, her soul filled with fire and coffee.
I steer my aunt out of the living room, excusing us as only one can do in a small town, dismissing the sheriff as if he is a schoolboy who has spoken out of turn.
“This isn’t over, Winifred,” the sheriff warns.
But it is for my great aunt. She leans on my arm and turns toward the kitchen, effectively shutting down the conversation.
Aunt Winnie’s limp isn’t as bad as it was yesterday, but it’s still noticeable. I sit her down in a wooden chair at the table and press her mug into her palm. “It’s going to be okay. He’s gone now.”
“Actually,” the sheriff calls from the other room, and then invites himself into the kitchen, “I’m not finished yet. Winifred, I’m going to get some straight answers from you. None of this ‘knitting doilies’ nonsense. I know all about the Live Forever Club. I know everything that you old biddies get up to.” He plops down in the seat I was occupying not five minutes ago and leans forward. “I know who sprang Karen Newby from my jail cell.” He sets his notepad atop the table and presses his finger to the top. “So unless you want me to take you in for that, you’ll start getting real cooperative real fast.”
It’s the only thing that sobers my aunt.
I swallow hard and move my coffee to the counter, pouring him a cup and setting it beside his notepad. Then I do my best to blend into the background while remaining present, in case Winifred needs me to intervene.
I take my time frosting my sixty vanilla latte cupcakes, moving as quiet as possible while still managing to get the rosettes piped with precision. No use putting in a half effort right at the finish line. Sure, the cupcakes would taste just fine if I blobbed the frosting on top, but I’ve never been satisfied with “just fine” cupcakes. If I care about something, I like to go all the way.
Aunt Winnie taps her finger on the tabletop. “Look, Flowers. My business is my business. If you want the details of my personal life, you have to be part of my life, not sniff around the outskirts whenever there’s a scandal. That’s not a friend.”
The sheriff takes her chiding in stride. When he replies, his tone is less antagonistic. “I’m not here as a friend, Winifred. I’m here because someone saw you arguing with Gerald two nights before his body was discovered. What was the argument about?”
Aunt Winnie’s chin firms. “He crochets better doilies than I do, and I was sore about it.”
Man, this woman with her snark. Not even I buy that one.
The sheriff cocks his head to the side. “Winifred.”
My aunt crosses her arms over her midsection. “He didn’t want to go dancing.”
“Winifred.”
“We were rehearsing an argument from a play.”
The sheriff sits back, and I can tell he is gearing up to play hardball.
As quick as I can without looking too eager to interfere, I slide a cupcake before him. I set another in front of my aunt. “You both get to be my taste testers. Let me know what you think.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” the sheriff scolds me, though he unwraps the cupcake all the same.
It’s a guilty pleasure of mine to watch people take the first bite of one of my cupcakes. True to form, Sheriff Flowers closes his eyes when the fluffy cake hits his tongue. A low “mm” noise escapes him, and for a second, he looks younger, like a boy enjoying a snack. He inhales deeply, and on his exhale, he opens his eyes with decidedly less aggression in them. “This is incredible, young lady. What flavor is that?”
“Vanilla latte cupcake with a butterscotch buttercream. My own recipe.”
&nbs
p; “Well, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”
I always love hearing that. My spine lengthens as pride lifts my spirits. “Thank you. I’ll pack a few up to send to the precinct.” I get out a to-go box and set half a dozen inside, sealing it with the sticker that has my logo printed on it, back when I was determined to open up my own bakery.
Back when I had ambition, no bills, and about five fewer years on me.
Back when I was optimistic that life would gift me what I wanted in the form of a bakery all my own.
Aunt Winifred gives me a secret smile because she knows how much pride I take in my baking. I practiced in the kitchen with her when I was younger, baking up a storm and making a mess, while splotching flour handprints along every surface.
She takes a bite of hers, and the same reaction takes place. Even so, I watch it unfold as if it is a standing ovation. The closing of the eyes, the “mm” noise, the inhale followed by the contented exhale.
Every. Single. Time.
Never gets old.
The two pick up their back and forth with decidedly less venom this time around as they munch on their cupcakes.
Sheriff Flowers takes a sip of his coffee. “Winifred, I want to catch who did this to Gerald. I know it wasn’t you, but I need to do my due diligence. What were you arguing about? It might give me a clue that could lead me to the real killer.”
There. That was much better.
I don’t believe in magic. Not really. But I do know that nothing terrible exists in the world when a person eats one of my cupcakes. While they eat, I can see the tension lifting off of them, giving them over to become more amiable with each other.
Winifred sips her coffee and takes another bite. “I broke things off with Gerald, and he didn’t understand why.”
I can tell the sheriff is struggling to not ask her the reason for the breakup. Instead, he goes for empathy. “Sounds like it got heated.”
“Well, not heated enough for me to kill him. Did you ever find out how the person did it?”
“Looks like an axe or some sort of long blade, straight to the sternum.”
She lets a long breath in and out through her nose. “Well, feel free to check my axe for bits of my dead gentleman caller. I didn’t kill him, and I don’t know who did.”
“What about his hands?” I ask, remembering the sight of his hands and forearms painted in an orange hue. “Did he have anything telling on him? That might point you in the right direction.”
The sheriff frowns at me. “Nothing unusual.”
I chew on my lower lip, holding back my protest that yes, his hands were stained orange. Why would Sheriff Flowers omit that detail? It seems like a clear clue. Not too many people walk around with orange painted on their limbs.
When he sees the hesitation playing out on my face, he doubles down. “What? His hands weren’t holding anything damning. It’s the big gash to the middle of his chest I’m concerned about.”
“My mistake.”
I know what I saw. Either Sheriff Flowers is terrible at his job, or he saw the orange staining on Gerald’s hands and arms and is pretending it wasn’t there.
The sheriff stands, jabbing his finger to the top of the table. His attitude is in full swing now that his cupcake has been devoured. “Don’t leave town, Winifred. All signs point to you being the most likely killer. I’d hate to think of how few people would protest me putting away a murderer, no matter how well-liked you are in Sweetwater Falls.”
My aunt puts up a brave front, but I can see the fear when she swallows hard, her eyes rounding with worry.
The sheriff is ignoring the oddity of the man’s hands streaked with orange paint. He is shifting all the blame to my aunt.
Why?
Though I don’t know yet what it means, my lips press together. I keep to myself that I think I may have stumbled upon my very first clue.
5
Waitress
Winifred needs me for precious little. She has a full schedule that has nothing to do with me.
I am not sure how I feel about this. I like being useful, and I was under the impression from my mother that Winifred needed a helper. To have her spry and energetic with direction and a lively social group? I hope I can be useful at all around here.
I vacuum and wash the dishes, then cast around for any other way I can be helpful.
When Aunt Winnie shoos me toward the door after finishing her morning dusting, I take her advice to heart. “Go enjoy the town. You need to get used to the sites.”
Even though I am freshly showered and dressed in my black skirt and a pink blouse, I worry that being away from the house is a bad idea. After all, the last time I went into town, I discovered a dead body.
“I dunno. Are you sure you don’t need my help with anything? Mom made it sound like you needed me here, but I’m starting to think she was worrying too much.”
Winifred sniggers as she fishes through her knitting bag. “Well, that always was your mother. She’s not worried about my health. She knows I’m right as rain. She’s more worried about the things I get up to. My behavior is ‘not befitting a lady of my age,’ I think were her exact words.”
“So I came here to keep you out of jail?”
Winifred touches on the end of her nose. “Bingo. Bang-up job you’re doing, too. I haven’t been arrested once since you got here.”
I mime an exasperated laugh, and then point to her leg. “What about your limp? I can tell it’s an effort for you to get around. How can I help?”
Winifred narrows her eyes at me, and I know I have touched on a sore subject.
Tough. Pride doesn’t matter as much as being healthy and safe.
“It’s a little sore, but it’ll heal up in a week or so.” Winifred raises her hand without a hint of sass. “Honest. You’re going to age prematurely, worrying about me like this. Go have fun. Something tells me your life before Sweetwater Falls wasn’t filled with a whole lot of the stuff.”
I swallow hard, knowing she couldn’t be more right. “I suppose I could look for a job in town.”
Winifred rolls her eyes at me, smiling with exasperation. “Well, that’s one interpretation of ‘go have fun.’”
“Where are you off to?”
She jangles a key ring. “I need to go drop the sheriff’s keys in the parking lot of the precinct, so he thinks he had a clumsy moment and lost them.”
I giggle airily through my nose. “You have a problem, Aunt Winifred.”
“I’ll take my problems over yours any day.”
I guffaw at her good-natured jab. “Is that so?”
“My problems got my dear friend freed from jail and gave me a handful of fun nights with a lovely gentleman before he passed. Your problems are far more serious.”
I cross my arms and tilt my hip to the side. “And just what is my problem?”
Winifred points to me with pity in her eyes. “You don’t know how to have fun.”
I gape at her, but when I make to argue, I realize I have no rebuttal.
I don’t know how to have fun. I think big city life squashed that desire out of me altogether.
Winifred blows me a kiss and ambles out the front door. She steps into her golf cart, which I’m learning is how most of the elderly community in Sweetwater Falls gets around when they don’t trust themselves behind the wheel of a car.
I take my time talking myself into getting into my red sedan. I spend even more time parked outside of Bill’s Diner, convincing myself that this was a good idea. The neon sign is old. The “B” isn’t lit, making it look like I am about to step into “ill’s Diner”.
Even before I step inside, I am convinced that the inside has not been updated in decades.
Maybe they will let me bake here. I cross my fingers and wish my most excellent wish that after they taste my cupcakes, they have to let me put some of my creations on the menu. It’s a long shot, but I have to try. I don’t want Sweetwater Falls to hold misery for me because I didn’t give it my
all.
I get my hopes too high, because I realize that the moment I set foot into the 1950s establishment, the only reason I want to work here is so I can use their massive ovens. There is no other reason why I would want to work here. I am four steps in, and my skin feels coated in fry oil. The tang of ketchup pricks my nose and the oldies station plays some whiny song about falling in love.
There are ten tables, five of which are occupied.
I don’t want to wait tables, as Marianne suggested. I want to bake.
Please, let me bake.
When the teenaged hostess greets me with a lackluster “Table for one?” I offer up a pleasant smile.
“Actually, I was hoping to see if you had any job openings. Is there a manager I can speak to?”
The teenaged girl pops her pink gum and scratches a spot on her nose. “Um, sure. Bill?” She turns and raises her voice toward the kitchen. “Bill? Some city woman is here to see you.”
Bill comes out with a towel in his hands, stopping short when he sees me. “We’re up to code,” he says, as if we are in the middle of some argument of which I am unaware. “I cleaned out the grill last night. No need for an inspection.”
Bill is sweating at the sight of me. His mid-fifties skin is weathered and reddened from either the sun or too much time spent standing over the grill in the kitchen. He stands just over six feet tall, with long arms that seem disproportionate to his pooched torso.
I clutch the box of cupcakes in my hands, hoping they speak for me when I start to clam up. “I’m not a health inspector. I was hoping you might have a job opening. I’m new in town, and looking for work.”
When my words start to sink in, Bill’s bulbous nose scrunches. “What? You’re sure you’re not here for an inspection?”
“Pretty sure.”
He motions to my clothes. “Then why are you dressed like that?”