Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  I want to inform them that the shop owner has every right to press charges, and shoplifting is not a victimless crime, but I’m guessing this is the wrong audience for that speech.

  “How was work?” Marianne asks, taking the chair on my other side.

  “It was long and unfruitful. I was there six hours, and I made twenty-seven dollars in tips.”

  Winifred shakes her head at my plight. “I’ll draw you a bath tonight. Give you some time to think things through.”

  “Think what through?”

  Winifred brushes what smells like garlic butter over the rolls while they are still hot. “The fact that you gave up on your dream too quickly.”

  My mouth waters at the glorious smells surrounding me.

  “I tried, Winifred. They didn’t want me for the kitchen. I can’t make someone hire me.”

  Though, as I say this, I am guessing if Winifred were in my position, she would find a way to do exactly that. She is fearless and doesn’t settle.

  Which is pretty much the opposite of me.

  I’m glad I came here. Maybe her moxie will rub off on me.

  Aunt Winnie slides the rolls into a basket and sets it on the table in the center. “Maybe your dream wasn’t big enough. If someone else can control whether or not you get what you want, then you’re thinking too small.” She holds up her finger, as if it’s already solved. “Bath after dinner, young lady. Bubbles and lavender can solve a world of problems.”

  Agnes raises her glass of sweet tea in a toast. “Amen!”

  The front door opens without a doorbell ringing to announce the newcomer. I can’t decide if I love the fact that people walk in without permission, or if it is unnerving.

  “Something smells like I didn’t cook it!” calls a woman’s voice from the living room. “Make room for your favorite felon, ladies!”

  Agnes and Winifred hoot and holler. They bang their spoons to their glasses to make as much noise as possible to welcome their friend.

  “Are they always so lively?” I ask Marianne, who munches on a roll. She waves to Karen when the woman enters the kitchen.

  “They’re toning it down for your benefit, so you don’t get spooked and move back to the big city.”

  “And miss out on all of this?” I motion to the women high-fiving, hugging, and then dancing as Winifred turns on the radio and starts to sway her hips.

  The three of them are ridiculous, and I love it.

  Man, I’m old. I am the one who is too tired to stand up, while they have tons of energy and liveliness in their smiles.

  Marianne stands when Agnes pulls her to her feet. Though she is shy and giggles nervously, Marianne dances with the women, celebrating the victory of Karen’s wild misadventure.

  Winifred knows I am tired, but she isn’t one to give up on fun simply because it is practical to stay seated. She takes my hand and tugs me gently.

  “Fun begets fun,” Aunt Winnie tells me. “You haven’t been sowing your wild oats as you should.”

  My rhythm isn’t as jaunty as theirs, but I manage to shake my hips and raise my arms in the air with the best of them.

  This is the life I never knew I needed. These are the friends and family I have lived for far too long without.

  No more. I won’t pass up on silliness anymore. I will get my priorities straight for once.

  When the song ends, we all find our seats in fits of giggles and compliments about who had the best dance moves. Aunt Winifred is an incredible cook, reminding me just how much I have missed a big family meal. There’s no point in cooking a pot roast for one person. But this is a feast meant to bring people together.

  Karen spears a carrot that has been cooked with the roast. It drips beef broth onto her pile of corn. “You wouldn’t believe what they feed prisoners. Sweetwater Falls has to up its game. Eggs with no bacon for breakfast. A club sandwich with no chips for lunch. No snacks. I had to guilt the sheriff’s son into bringing me my morning tea. And dinner?” Karen shakes her head. “Logan brought me what he was having. I don’t understand how bachelors stay alive, eating like that.”

  “What does Logan Flowers eat for dinner?” Marianne inquires while munching on a portion of potato.

  “Microwave meals. Not even ones that smell good. The thing stank like the plastic it came in. I can’t even.” Karen shakes her head. “A man in his thirties should know how to cook. I gave him a piece of my mind and a few recipes, so hopefully he gets his act together. A growing boy needs nourishment.”

  I bite back the obvious that if this Logan person is indeed in his thirties, he’s not a growing boy any longer.

  Dessert comes in the form of cupcakes, which I made last night when I was mulling over Amos’ obvious culpability. “Vanilla Swiss meringue on lemon cupcakes,” I tell them.

  I could take a bite, but I wait for my favorite moment.

  One by one, they each take a bite, let out a contented “mm” noise. As predicted, they close their eyes, inhale, then exhale. Just like that, I watch their worries slide away.

  Karen licks her fingers while Agnes reaches for a second. “Well, that’s just about the best cupcake I’ve had in my life.”

  “You said that about the vanilla latte cupcakes that had the butterscotch buttercream frosting,” I remind Agnes.

  “I was right then, and I’m right now. You have a gift, Charlotte McKay. Winnie was right. You gave up on your dream too quickly. These cupcakes need to have their fair chance to shine.”

  I swipe my finger through the vanilla Swiss meringue. “I’m not like you all. You see a challenge and you steal the sheriff’s keys so you can bust your friend out of jail. I see a challenge and I raise my hand and ask politely. When that doesn’t work, I fold.”

  Marianne rubs my back. “I’m the same way.”

  “Were the same way,” Agnes corrects with a knowing look to her. “Now that you know who you want to be, the old you isn’t here anymore. It’s only Marianne the Wild I see at the table now.”

  Marianne’s chest swells with importance. For a second, I see a flash of the wildness in her eyes that that reflects her new title. In that moment, I see how beautiful a person she truly is. I get a glimpse of the freedom she is capable of if she lets go and steps forward.

  Winifred leans over and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your sea legs, Charlotte the Brave.”

  My eyes turn glassy as emotion rises in my throat. I don’t have the words to tell her how much I wish that was true. I know I am not brave. I left the big city in part because I never made the leap to take a chance on myself. I went there to open up a cupcake shop, but I ended up doing salad prep at a busy restaurant. They couldn’t have cared less what my dreams are.

  Maybe I set that precedent by not fighting harder for what I want.

  And here I am, wasting my new start and doing the exact same thing. I didn’t even truly ask Bill at the diner for what I wanted. Not really.

  I didn’t stand up for myself.

  I motion to Aunt Winnie. “You protested. That’s brave. I’m still not sure I’m on board with why, but still, you made signs and a plan to show up for Karen.” I hold Karen’s tender gaze while Agnes and Winifred high-five each other.

  Karen reaches across the table and places her silky hand atop mine. “When was the last time you showed up for yourself?”

  The silence that hits the room is the same that echoes through my being.

  “I don’t know,” I finally whisper.

  Karen lifts her hand in Winifred’s direction. “Winnie, go get me your sign and some paint or a marker or whatever you used.”

  Winifred trots to the garage.

  I try to turn myself invisible so I can escape the shame of a life half-lived without purpose.

  When my aunt returns, Karen takes the sign. She reads the angry orange script with a smile that tells me she is truly moved at the lengths her friends went to for her. She tugs on Agnes’ sleeve and kisses Winifred’s cheek. Then she turns it over a
nd runs her palm over the unblemished white surface.

  In perfect old lady calligraphy, Karen dips her fat brush into the paint and swirls the lettering onto the sign.

  Marianne holds my hand because she knows, as well do I, that we are about to open our minds to a whole slew of possibilities.

  When Karen turns the sign around, it reads “Free Marianne! Free Charlotte!”

  My eyes close in appreciation. A wave of love for the new self I hope to become sweeps over me.

  When I open my eyes, I look to Marianne to see if she is just as moved.

  Her smile is frozen and tight. I can tell she is forcing happiness as she squeezes my hand a little too hard.

  “That’s lovely. Thank you, Karen,” I tell her on behalf of us both.

  I can’t get a read on Marianne’s smile, which looks like fright.

  When Winifred comments on the fact that she is never going to stop eating these cupcakes, Marianne’s wide eyes fix on my face. Her voice is a little too loud, and her cheeriness terribly forced. “Charlotte, you were going to show me that thing in your room.”

  “What thing?”

  “The skirt I wanted to borrow.” She grips my hand as if she is afraid that if she lets go, she will fall into a cavern of lava. “Now.”

  Marianne tugs me out of my chair while I excuse our quick exit. We dash up the steps and run to the second room on the right, which has been given to me.

  I haven’t taken the time to decorate it yet, but that hardly matters. The rose wallpaper and matching comforter are homey and cozy, and exhibit more personality than I had in my studio apartment in Chicago.

  “Which skirt did you want to borrow? What’s the rush?”

  Marianne slams the door shut, truly looking every bit of her new title as Marianne the Wild. “What would I need a skirt for?” She shakes her head, her palm still on my door. “Did you see the paint Karen used to make our sign?”

  I shrug, not remembering much of note. “Yeah. What of it?”

  Marianne’s lips press hard together as if she is frustrated having to spell out the obvious to me. “It was orange paint. Your aunt had a tub of orange paint handy to make her sign around the time of Gerald’s death.”

  It takes me a handful of seconds to push out my personal breakthrough as the clues slide themselves into place. “Gerald’s hands and arms were orange when we found his body.”

  I shake my head, unwilling to travel toward the direction the evidence is pointing me.

  Marianne is firm that I will face the truth, no matter where it leads. “You know what this means.”

  “No. No, it can’t be.” I back up until my thighs hit the edge of my bed. My butt plops atop the mattress. “My aunt isn’t a killer.”

  But as I say it, new logic chases in on the heels of my protest.

  Winifred stole keys from the sheriff.

  Winifred broke a prisoner out of jail and laughed about it.

  Dread curdles my stomach, but the fire in Marianne’s eyes confirms that nothing will quell my unease until I get to the bottom of Gerald Forbine’s untimely death.

  9

  Breaking and Entering

  It’s a poor idea to go to the sheriff’s station after hours. In Sweetwater Falls, Marianne informed me that the police support is an answering machine after seven o’clock. After all, Sweetwater Falls is a safe, small town.

  If not for the murder, there would be no need for anyone to lock their door.

  “It’s not breaking and entering if you have a key,” Winifred assures me, though her words make me feel slightly less than certain.

  Karen wedges her way to the front of the scrum. The five of us are not exactly inconspicuous, though at least we are using the backdoor, and not the front entrance, as Karen suggested on the way here. “It’s the longer one.”

  Agnes drops the ring, though I can tell it’s because we are fumbling around by flashlight and not because she is nervous. “Oh, dear. Butterfingers. Marianne, help an old woman out, will you?”

  Marianne and I are tense with apprehension. Winifred, Karen and Agnes might have no qualms about breaking into the police station, but the two of us are terrified of getting caught.

  Marianne dips down and scoops up the ring of keys, searching in the thin stream of light for the longest one. “You have to stop stealing the sheriff’s things, Winnie. One of these days, he’s not going to come peacefully to your house to retrieve them.”

  Winifred bats away Marianne’s concern with a lighthearted scoff. “I didn’t steal them this time. I made copies. These are my keys, I’ll have you know. Made copies for the three founding members of the Live Forever Club. Once you earn your stripes, I’ll get a copy made for the both of you, too.”

  Marianne and I groan in unison. Marianne fiddles with the keys, trying to fit the selected bronze one in the lock. “I hope breaking into the police station earns me lifetime status as a wild woman, because I am never doing this again.”

  Agnes chortles. “That’s what I said my first time.” She leans in, her hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “You only live once. Best take it at a run.”

  Their odd brand of wisdom sits strangely in my stomach, but I don’t brush it away as foolishness. My entire life has been spent calculating risk, which usually edges me out of taking the smallest step forward.

  I was a salad chef in Chicago with a passion for desserts. I had the opportunity to ask for what I wanted out of life, but I was too afraid of being pushy. Too nervous to step out on a ledge and face the possibility of rejection.

  I didn’t take my passion at a run. I stood still, and Chicago spat me out.

  When the door pops open, Winifred waddles past us. My spine stiffens as a slow beeping warns us that this place has an alarm system designed to tattle on people like us.

  Winifred doesn’t look worried at all as she approaches the small box on the wall. She even smiles at the angry red light that goes on and off to show us we are not welcome. Her crooked finger punches in a code from memory, and the system goes back to sleep. “Alright, girls,” she calls over her shoulder. “Let’s do this.”

  Marianne and I stand still, shocked at the layers of subterfuge. “Have you done this before?” I ask, my hands on my hips.

  Karen makes her way to down the corridor with her flashlight illuminating the path. “Oh, loads of times. But never with my own set of keys. This is far better.”

  Marianne’s hand slides to mine, our fingers locking together. “We are going to be in so much trouble!”

  Agnes bats her hand at Marianne’s worry. “Only if we get caught, which we never do. Come on. The trick is not to dawdle. We’re on the hunt, ladies. Don’t forget why we came here.”

  My insides are churning as I step further into the deceit, Marianne by my side. We follow the Live Forever Club into the main office area, shuffling behind the intake desk. “How are we supposed to find anything?” I wonder aloud as I take in the stacks of forms and files on the front desk.

  Karen, our most recent jailbird, pushes us toward the back room. “Information on Gerald’s case wouldn’t be lying around out here. This is all traffic violations and boring stuff. The open cases are on the sheriff’s desk in his office. That’s where we’re headed.” She takes out her key ring and starts jiggling them one by one in the lock. “I swear, I’m going to have a talk with Flowers about having too many keys he doesn’t use. What could he possibly need all these for?”

  She finally jams the correct one into the knob and opens the door. Marianne and I stand outside the office until Agnes gently pushes us inside.

  I should not be in here. Anything that must be done by cover of darkness is most likely a bad idea.

  Yet still, I’m doing it. Adrenaline races through my veins. My hands find themselves trembling as I leaf through the pages atop the desks.

  “Make sure to keep them in the order he had them!” Marianne frets.

  Agnes clucks her tongue, shaking her head at the mess. “You call this order? This
is shameful. I’m going to have a talk with him about this.”

  I can’t stop my quiet laughter. Maybe it’s part hysteria, but picturing Agnes lecturing the sheriff over the state of his disorganized desk after we broke the law to get here strikes me as comical.

  Though I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Winifred holds up a form. “Here! Is this what we’re looking for?”

  “We don’t know what we’re looking for!” I remind them all. “Clues are nebulous. There might not be anything worth finding in here. We might already know all that he does.”

  Still, I peer over Winifred’s shoulder, leaning over Karen’s stooped form. A hush falls over all five of us as we scour the pages one by one. I take in some typed information, and some journaled in an untidy scrawl.

  Agnes shakes her head. “Poor boy always did have sloppy penmanship. Good thing his son wasn’t also cursed with the same penchant for scribbling. Beautiful handwriting, that one.”

  Karen sniffs at the page. “Start with the day of Gerald’s death. That’s probably the day before his body was found. I watch crime shows. They always talk about what he did the day he died.”

  Winifred flips to the next page, locating details gathered thus far. “He was at the restaurant. Says here Gerald’s son was interviewed.” For my benefit, she adds, “Robert is his name. They work together at the restaurant Gerald owns.” Then she catches herself. “Owned. I supposed the Spaghetti Scarf belongs to Robert now.” She points to the statement taken by Gerald’s son.

  Marianne reads aloud, still clutching tight to my hand. “It says Robert didn’t see his dad the day before Gerald’s body was discovered, which is the assumed day of death. According to Robert, Gerald seemed upset about a fight he had with Winifred the previous might, so he went in to the restaurant to work, giving Robert the day off.”

  Winifred stiffens and then shoves the papers into Karen’s hands. “I don’t need to hear that.”

  Karen cups Winifred’s shoulder. “No, you don’t. You had every right to do what you did.”