by Molly Maple
Marianne and I lock gazes, and I can tell we are thinking the same thing: what did Winifred do?
I voice the question in a less condemning way. “What do you mean, Karen?”
Karen lifts her chin sanctimoniously. “Never you mind. Keep reading that drivel and see if you find anything useful.” She hugs my aunt. “It’s alright, Winnie.”
I need to get to the bottom of this. With every bit of evidence, it’s looking more and more like my aunt is the one with blood on her hands.
Marianne keeps reading. “The rest of the testimony says that Robert didn’t see his father on the day of his death. Gerald worked at the restaurant and closed with Helen, who may have been the last person to see Gerald alive.”
Karen shakes her head, letting us know that more information is not helpful at this point.
“Is there an interview with this Helen person?” I ask, desperate for a new lead.
Marianne and I take our time reading through the sheriff’s findings. With every line, I hope to uncover something that leads the chase in the opposite way of Winifred.
“Here,” Marianne points out. “It says Helen is on his list of people to interview still.”
Marianne’s shoulders are just as tight as mine. When we reach the end of the pages, I am grateful we have at least one person to talk to who might have had the opportunity to murder Gerald.
Marianne whispers only to me. “Helen would never hurt a fly.”
My hand fixes to Marianne’s elbow. My hushed reply is meant only for Marianne while Agnes and Karen lead Winifred away from the sheriff’s office. “Well, at this point, she is the only hope I have that Winifred isn’t the one who had the murder weapon aimed at Gerald.”
I love my aunt, but it is clear to me that there is more to her time with Gerald than she would like the world to see.
10
A Thoughtful Gesture
It is three days that I try to push my suspicions out of my head. I don’t want my cooky aunt to be a murderer. I have long since passed pretending I can look at this case objectively.
Burying myself in work would be ideal, but every hour that I wait tables at the diner feels like a slow leak on my soul. My feet hurt and I have messed up two orders already. As my shift nears its end, I fear the French fry oil has seeped into my skin and hair, permeating me through.
My cell phone buzzes when I am in the kitchen, rolling silverware and wishing for a better job. “Hey, Marianne.”
Marianne sounds rushed but still her chipper self. “Can you help me out? I feel bad for Robert Forbine, losing his dad and all. I told them I would pay for them to have a meal at the diner, but I’m stuck at the library shelving books, and there’s no end in sight. They’ll be there in half an hour.”
Her thoughtfulness stops my hands from their mechanical movements. “That’s sweet of you. Want me to start a tab, and you can pay it off later this week?”
“That would be amazing. Thank you.”
I am struck by the kindness in Sweetwater Falls, grateful that I now live in a place that values generosity and looking out for one’s neighbor.
Half an hour later, two customers walk through the door. I don what I hope is a courteous smile. “Robert Forbine?”
The man extends his hand. “That’s me. Marianne sent us over.”
I shake his hand and then snatch up two menus. “Everything is all set. She called to arrange for your meal to go on her tab. Can I get you folks something to drink?”
The man is in his forties, and sits across from a woman his age who has dark circles under her eyes. Her nose is red and her chestnut hair disheveled. She picks up a napkin to swipe it as her eyes turn glassy.
Yes, this is Robert and his wife. No question. He’s the spitting image of Gerald Forbine, complete with mustache. Plus, the woman’s tears are indicative of having lost a loved one.
I know I am supposed to get information out of them, but my semi-professional demeanor crumbles in a flood of fretting when the woman sobs quietly into her napkin. “Oh, no. Let me get you a real tissue. How about some hot tea? That always tends to soothe my insides. You poor thing.”
She nods gratefully while the unaffected man across from her requests a coffee.
I scramble to get their beverages. I return with a tissue and half a dozen honey packets on the side of her saucer. “You can never have too much honey on a bad day,” I explain.
The woman offers me a watery smile through her palpable pain. “Thank you. I like that. I could use some extra sweetness. This whole thing is just…” She waves her hand to indicate that her troubles are too much for her to even talk about them.
Been there, sister.
I note their wedding rings, and ask her husband what he would like to eat, since he seems more capable of speech at the moment.
“Just the number five breakfast. She’ll have the… I don’t know. What do you want?” I can tell he wants her to stop carrying on as quick as possible. He offers her a raise of the eyebrows, which I can tell he thinks means he is smiling reassuringly at her, but it doesn’t even come close. “How about a slice of cherry pie?”
The woman’s face pulls. “No. The pie here is terrible. The crust tastes like the box it came in. Just the tea is fine.”
Ouch. I haven’t tried the pie here to see if that assessment rings true, but I truly hope it doesn’t.
She deserves better than that. No way would I feed a crying friend a pie that tastes like cardboard.
I hand the woman a second tissue. “I know just the thing. Leave it to me.”
I turn on my heel and put in the man’s order. Then I move to my own lunch and pull out a cupcake I brought for myself. The perfect way to travel with a cupcake if you still want the frosting design intact is to drop it into a clear plastic cup, then cover the whole thing with plastic wrap.
I am an expert at few things, but cupcake care is one badge I wear proudly.
I shimmy the dessert out of the cup without denting the frosting in the slightest and put it on a plate.
I don’t wait for the husband’s order to come; she shouldn’t have to be put on hold, waiting for life to bring some cheer to her dismal day.
When I set the plate in front of her, the woman’s shoulders lift at the unexpected offering. “What is this? I’ve never seen cupcakes at the diner before. Is this new?” She looks around for the owner. “I didn’t realize Bill was capable of doing anything new.”
“I made it and brought it from home.” I give her a little wink. “Thought you could use it more than me today.”
The woman rests her hand over her heart. “That’s so sweet. I couldn’t possibly.”
“You can and you will.” I tilt my head to the side, doing my best to emanate the compassion I feel for her. “Rough day?”
“Rough week. Rough month. Rough year.” She squints her eyes, as if seeing me anew. “You’re the new girl in town. Winifred’s great-niece, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you probably didn’t know him, but my father-in-law passed just recently. Very suddenly and unexpectedly. It’s all a bit overwhelming right now.”
I should leave her to her tea and dessert, but I can’t help myself. My body folds itself into the booth beside her. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I did hear about that.”
And I discovered the body.
And I just so happen to have a picture of the man on my phone as we speak.
I swallow all that and offer a timid, “Just awful,” and then wrap an arm around her shoulders.
The woman tears up all over again, but this time manages to keep from sobbing. “Who would kill such a good man? He was a saint, I tell you. An absolute saint. Did everything for his son.” She motions to her husband. “We’ve all worked at the Spaghetti Scarf together since before Robert and I started dating.”
Then it most likely wasn’t a family member who offed Gerald.
I pat the woman on the back. “Sounds like you three were quite close.”
Robert fiddles with the napkins in the holder, keeping his eyes on the stack. “Well, let’s be honest, Roberta. He had less time for us lately. He had his own life, his own things going on. Let’s not rewrite history just because he’s dead.”
I bite my tongue to keep from scolding the man. I mean, what a thing to say. Even if it’s true, this clearly isn’t the time.
Still, I guess if anyone gets to set the tone for how to grieve for Gerald, it should be the man’s own son.
Also, it just dawns on me that they are a married couple name Robert and Roberta. My inner goofball giggles at the cuteness, but the adult woman in me maintains a compassionate demeanor.
I give Roberta another squeeze before releasing her. “Tea. Tea and a cupcake. That’s what the doctor ordered. I’ll keep bringing you tissues as often as you need.”
“Bless you…” Roberta pauses and squints at my nametag. “Charlotte. Bless you, Charlotte.”
I excuse myself and tend to my other tables, who have gone woefully ignored.
At the diner, the waitress is also the person who busses tables and rolls silverware, which I am behind on. I set to work, wishing Sweetwater Falls had just one bakery for me to apply to. I could be spending my days baking cupcakes, instead of scrubbing the bacon grease off of booths because I cannot in good conscience let another customer stick to the vinyl.
Gross.
I bring out Robert’s food and more tissues for Roberta when the order comes up. I expect her to have picked at the cupcake. I mean, she didn’t exactly say she was craving dessert. I just wanted to bring her something sweet as more an offering of human decency, rather than because sugar is the thing she desired. No matter how delicious my cupcakes are, kindness is always what people are hungry for, I have learned.
When I set Robert’s food down in front of him, I notice the cupcake has been reduced to a few crumbs. Roberta is sticking them to her finger so she can finish up those, as well.
I missed the glory of her first bite, which is my favorite part to watch, but this is just as satisfying a sight.
Roberta gapes up at me, her tears dried on her cheeks in streaks. “Young lady, did you say you made this?”
“I did.” I beam at her, unable to hold back my pride. “It’s a vanilla latte cake with a butterscotch buttercream frosting.”
I probably make this a little too often, but I love them.
Be brave. Be brave. Winifred’s prayer for me chimes in my ears.
Instead of clamming up, I lift my chin and bunch my toes in my shoes, bolstering myself as much as I am able. It takes all my gusto, but I manage to speak boldly what I want to the universe. “I was actually hoping Sweetwater Falls had a bakery in the city where I could sell my cupcakes, but it’s looking like cardboard cherry pie is all I’ve found.”
Roberta shakes her head. “Oh, no. Have you worked in a kitchen before?”
“Yes. In Chicago.”
I don’t mention that my kitchen prowess was salad prep, which consisted of copious chopping and zero baking.
She wiggles her finger between herself and her husband. “Robert and I are now the sole owners of the Spaghetti Scarf. It’s the Italian place over on Apple Blossom Street. Maybe this weekend, you could stop by and bring over a few more flavors for me to sample. I wouldn’t be opposed to seeing if we could fit your items on our menu.”
I balk at the good fortune. “Are you serious? I would love that.”
Marianne sent the Forbines over to see if I could gather information from them; I don’t think she was counting on them offering me an audition for the job of my dreams.
Robert looks reluctant, but nods once. “Sure. Now that Dad is gone, we can actually give the menu an update. He never changed a thing. Even the welcome mat is the same one it’s been for the past decade.” He motions to his wife. “Anything that can perk up Roberta deserves a chance to shine.” He glances up at me and extends his hand. When I shake his firm grip, praying my palm isn’t clammy, he fixes me with an expression that’s all business. “I’m in this weekend during the day. Bring your samples and ask for me. I don’t mind taking a chance on the new kid, so long as every cupcake you have can make my wife smile like that.”
Roberta does have a softness to the curve of her lips. As gruff as Robert came off earlier, I do like it when a man goes the extra mile for his wife’s smile.
“Thank you so much. You won’t be disappointed. I’ll see you Saturday with the best desserts you’ve ever tasted.”
I walk away from the table feeling taller than I did this morning when I got dressed. My spirits are lifted sky high because I did it.
I was brave.
11
Cardamom Clumsiness
After I clock out, I don’t go straight home. I get directions from Winifred over the phone to the nearest (and only) grocery store. I zip to the general store in Sweetwater Falls, hoping it has all I need on its shelves. When I pull into the place, the sign overtop reads “Colonel’s General Store”.
Colonel General.
I get a little giggle out of that. I like cutesy names for things.
From the outside, the place looks like a long, one-story log cabin. On the inside, the shelves are made of wood. The place carries everything from tackle for fishing to nylons to actual food for humans.
I grab a cart and hope the stench of burger grease isn’t stuck to my skin as I pass an endcap with perfect lines of canned dog food.
In fact, as I move through the aisles, I find that everything in the store is in perfect perpendicular lines, with the labels facing the consumer.
I like it here.
When I pass the tea and coffee aisle, I throw a box of turmeric tea into my cart, knowing turmeric helps with joint pain and inflammation. If that is what is causing Aunt Winifred’s limp, hopefully the tea will soothe her aches without bringing undue attention to them.
Three sacks of flour, two sacks of granulated sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, eggs, milk, and all the standards for my cupcakes find their way into my buggy. Then I search for the more obscure ingredients that are far easier to find in a big city.
When I don’t find dried hibiscus flowers, because of course I don’t, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I have to remind myself that my best creations come to me when I need to replace my standards with new ingredients. The necessity of stretching myself in the kitchen isn’t always pleasant, but it makes me come alive.
I guess I could use a bit more life in my world. If I am going to keep up with Winifred, I can’t afford to let my imagination go stagnant.
I veer toward the spices, which is a tried and true standard for reinventing the familiar. Cinnamon, cloves, allspice and the like are easy ways to brighten a predictable piece.
But I don’t need this to be easy.
I need to be brave.
I know what easy gets a girl. The easy way produces cherry pies that taste like cardboard. There is no love in that path.
I may not know all the secrets of life, but I know love when it pounds in my chest. I know how to bake a dessert that can make a grown man cry.
I will not take the easy route. There is no reward in playing it safe.
My vanilla cupcake is to die for, but I know that if I open my mind, my kitchen has a new song it is waiting to sing. I only need to let the ingredients have a voice.
Another breath in and out, and my eyes land on the perfect ingredient. I know this is the path before I have even plotted out the recipe.
Cardamom, black pepper and allspice find their way into my cart. I don’t chuck them in the basket, but set them in with love and affection, appreciating them for the song they are about to sing for me. I run my fingers over the labels, smiling softly because together we are about to crack open a whole new world of flavor for this small town.
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“I’ve never seen anyone cradle spices before,” comes a male voice to my left.
I startle, suddenly remembering that I am not in private, but in the middle of a general store, acting like a weirdo. I shrink as I turn toward the other customer.
I mean to say… I’m not sure what exactly. Hopefully I was aiming for something clever. But when the sight of the man with honey-colored neatly cut hair, broad shoulders and a trim waist fills my vision, all words desert me.
When I offer nothing by way of conversation, he peers into my buggy. “Cardamom? I daresay you might be the first person to buy that particular spice in Sweetwater Falls. Might want to check the date.” He glances around. “Though, the Colonel doesn’t tolerate imperfections, so you’re probably safe there.”
His grin is just as charming as his easy demeanor. Doggone it, he has dimples screwed into both cheeks, making his angular jaw and high cheekbones impossibly more impressive.
And I am standing in front of him—the prettiest man I have seen in I’m not sure how long—mute and stupid.
All traces of my earlier bravery desert me in a stuttering breath. He is expecting some sort of reply, but all I manage is an incoherent “mmhmph.”
I am not sure what I was going for there, but he doesn’t appear put off by my ineptitude.
“You’re the new girl, right? Winifred’s niece?” He dips his head in my direction. “Sorry. Not much new happens in Sweetwater Falls. You’ve become everyone’s favorite topic.”
I cannot imagine a more boring topic. “Really?”
There. That was a word. Well done.
I reach for anything to take my eyes off of him, focusing on a jar on the shelf and turning over the label. I’m sure he can tell I was ogling.
I never ogle. I smile courteously. I make small talk. I go on three dates. I politely decline the fourth. I stop returning phone calls.
He nods, flashing me a perfect smile without a hint of mirth. “The girl who found Gerald.”
I grimace. Of course that’s why I’m known around town.