Vanilla Vengeance

by Molly Maple

  Sheriff Flowers sighs. “Alright, bring her in. Might as well join the party here. Did you know we have a town of sleuths, Logan?”

  I glance up just in time to catch Logan’s smirk, which is still directed at me. “I know better than to underestimate the women of Sweetwater Falls.” Then he swings the door open wider, letting Helen inside the now crowded room.

  I hope and expect for Logan to leave, but he snicks the door shut with himself included in the cramped interrogation room.

  All the breath sucks out of my lungs. I had so many well thought out points to tell the sheriff, but I can’t call upon a single fact. The soft indentation of Logan’s chin dimple is too distracting, and apparently requires all of my focus.

  Luckily, Marianne has my back. “Helen, tell the sheriff what you told us.”

  Helen obliges, noting that Gerald was alone with his son at the Spaghetti Scarf the night before the man was found dead. She confirms that Robert was the last person to see Gerald alive.

  Gotta love a woman who knows how to tell the truth, because she has nothing nefarious to hide.

  The sheriff scribbles on his notepad, taking down every word because it is pure case-cracking gold. He pauses to look up at Helen. “You mentioned they were arguing, so Gerald sent you home. Since Robert lied about being there at all, I highly doubt he’ll be forthcoming if I ask what they were arguing about.”

  Helen shoots me a warning look, and then jerks her head toward Winifred.

  Though my brain is partway scrambled because of the beautiful man in the room, I miraculously understand why Helen is hesitant to answer the sheriff’s question.

  “Logan?” My voice is suddenly dry and quiet, reeking of uncertainty. I think we are both a little surprised that I am addressing him directly.

  Bravery. Bravery. Bravery.

  “Yes, Miss Charlotte?” Logan replies, his tone laced with a tease.

  My heart hammers. I fight as hard as I am able against the crush that threatens to leave me wordless and hapless. “Could you… Could you please… Would you mind taking my aunt for a walk? This is a lot, and she could use some water.”

  Agnes and Karen snap to life, seeming to understand that whatever Helen is about to say, Winifred should not have to hear it. “Absolutely. That’s a great idea, Charlotte,” Karen says.

  Agnes loops her arm through Winifred’s, even though my aunt does not look certain that she wants to leave the room right in the thick of the action.

  Logan dips his chin in my direction, looking like a dashing gentleman about to lay a kiss on a fair maiden’s hand. “As you wish, Miss Charlotte.” He straightens and proffers his arm to my aunt, completing the picture of civility. “Let me get you some fresh air, Winifred. It’s too stuffy in here for me. Plus, I haven’t heard your take on whether or not my desk is organized properly. Maybe you can help me with that.”

  A shiver of attraction rolls through me, noting that his sweetness only makes him more desirable.

  I need to get far away from this lovely man, or I will never have another coherent thought for the rest of my days.

  Karen and Agnes follow behind, but Agnes turns to wink at me before she shuts her and the rest of the Live Forever Club out of the interrogation room.

  Helen’s shoulders deflate. “Gerald and Robert were arguing about Winifred. They usually argue about how the business should be run. Gerald wants things to stay the same, while Robert wants to cut corners.”

  “I see.” Sheriff Flowers scrawls a few more sentences on his notepad. “What else can you tell me about the argument?”

  Helen swallows hard. I can tell she doesn’t like involving herself in controversy. Still, she knows this is the right thing to do to honor her deceased boss. “Gerald waited ten years after his wife died before dating anyone. Apparently, that was too soon for Robert to accept.”

  “Tell me more,” the sheriff prods.

  I take that bit of wisdom and pack it away in my memory. If he wants to know more, he asks for it, then he shuts up.

  I can do that.

  The sheriff comments little now, only speaking to gain more information. I like that.

  Helen wipes her palms off on her shirt, summoning her confidence to come forward with the whole story. “‘You’re dishonoring Mom’s memory, dating anyone at your age. She deserves to rest in peace, knowing no one else has your eye.’ It was stuff like that. Robert didn’t want his father moving on. Robert is a yeller in the kitchen, and he didn’t hold back. Gerald didn’t back down, though. He doesn’t yell to get his point across, but he’s just as stubborn. ‘You don’t think a decade is long enough? I’m getting on in years, Son. I don’t want to live another day with my best days long gone. Winifred makes me laugh. Don’t you think I deserve a little laughter?’” Helen shakes her head. “Heartbreaking, the whole thing. I had to get out of there. When it was clear Robert wasn’t going to let up, Gerald told me to clock out early, and they would lock up for the night.”

  When it seems Helen has run out of steam, I guide her to my next bit of evidence. “Helen, are you missing any knives from the kitchen?”

  Helen’s eyes widen. “Yes, but…” Horror dawns on her features, her mouth popping open in shock. I can tell this is the piece of the puzzle that truly guts her. “Oh, not one of my knives! That sweet man was murdered with my chef’s knife?” She cups her mouth, catching a sob that comes out unbidden. She shakes her head, her eyes pooling with moisture. “Oh, Robert. How could you?”

  I don’t have the stomach to sit down when a woman is crying. Just like when Roberta was upset at the diner, my heart moves my body closer to Helen. My arms curve around her, holding her tight because no one should have to cry alone.

  I lock eyes with the sheriff and nod, letting him know I have come to the end of my pitch.

  The sheriff’s mouth firms as he continues scribbling in his notebook. “Thank you, Helen.” He fixes his stare on her anxious state. “You look like you’re coming down with the flu.”

  “Oh, I don’t…”

  The sheriff interrupts her, but I forgive him instantly when I hear his reason. “It might be a good idea for you to call in to work and tell them you can’t come in. You look like you might have the flu for the next two hours, actually. After that, you’ll probably experience a miraculous recovery.”

  Helen exhales. “Thank you, Sheriff. Come to think of it, I do feel like I’ve just come down with a two-hour flu.”

  He smiles at her, which is an expression I did not think him capable of. “Thank you, Helen. I’ll take care of it from here.”

  Helen squeezes me and then moves toward the door. She all but dashes out the exit, no doubt aiming to rush home and lock her doors.

  Marianne grips my hand. “Robert killed his father.”

  The sheriff stands, his few superior inches of height seeming to tower over me. “It seems to be that way. You girls shouldn’t have involved yourselves.” A small smirk chases on the heels of his mild scolding. “But I’m glad you did.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff extends his hand, shaking mine with a firm grip. “Welcome to Sweetwater Falls, Charlotte McKay.”

  22

  Attack

  Marianne and I have all but worn a hole in the living room carpet, pacing back and forth. “We should have heard from Sheriff Flowers by now,” I say again.

  “You would think we would get an update, at least.” Marianne’s brow is furrowed in the same immovable way mine has been for the past hour.

  Winifred’s chamomile tea has done nothing to settle my soul. I need to know that Robert has been locked up. I need to know this whole thing can finally be over. Still, my aunt refills our teacups that rest on the end table by the sofa. “Girls, you’re going to make yourselves sick, worrying like this. Sheriff Flowers has it under control.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t believe it was Robert who killed Gerald. His own father. What is the world coming to?”

  Karen calls to Winifred from
the kitchen, where she, Agnes and my aunt have been playing cards in silence for the past hour. “Robert is a child who never grew up. All I can hope is that it was an accident, that he didn’t actually mean to murder poor Gerald.”

  Though Winifred was escorted out of the room when Helen divulged that Gerald and Robert had been fighting over whether or not Gerald should be dating Aunt Winnie, it’s clear everyone knows that is exactly what the fight was about.

  Winifred’s hand shakes as she pours the tea. “Murdered with one of his own kitchen knives in his own restaurant? I can’t. It’s too tragic.” She moves back into the kitchen with surprising grace.

  “Hey,” I say, pointing to my aunt as I follow her into the kitchen. “You’re not limping anymore. Did the turmeric tea I got help you?”

  Winifred blinks at me, confused at my comment. “That’s why you bought the tea? I didn’t realize. Honey cake, I don’t have joint pain or inflammation. I was limping because of this.” She hikes up the hem of her khaki shorts and displays her thigh to the room.

  My mouth drops open in time with Marianne’s screech of astonishment. “Is that what I think it is?” Marianne points at the scandal.

  Winifred’s chin lifts with pride. “It sure is, and it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. I always wanted a tattoo, so the day before you moved here, Charlotte, I took the plunge. Do you like it?”

  I rub my forehead, taking in the very good reason for her limp. I can’t believe I ever thought my sweet and crazy aunt could ever murder a man in cold blood.

  “It’s beautiful.” I migrate to her side so I can get a better look. My hand flutters to my chest. “It’s got your three names! Oh, and I love this swirly pink design around the whole thing. Wow! You really got a tattoo?” The script isn’t too hard to read, but the calligraphy is still quite dignified.

  Winifred looks at her two best friends. “I went and got mine done first. Karen is next, whenever she conjures up the courage.”

  Karen bats her hand at Winifred. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it.”

  Marianne grins, her hands clasped in a swoon. “You’re getting matching tattoos? That’s so cool!”

  Karen stands and smacks her bony left buttock. “I’m getting mine right here. Give the tattoo artist something to dream about when he goes home.”

  It’s exactly the hearty laugh I need, and I feel it down to my toes.

  Karen sits back down and picks up her hand of cards. “I’ll need ample recovery time, though, so feel free to wait on me round the clock. I plan on being a pain in the butt, since, you know, I’ll have a pain on my butt.”

  Marianne and Agnes share a laugh, but something about Karen’s phrasing sticks in my brain.

  “You’re right,” I point out, making my way to the front door. “You shouldn’t be alone while you’re recovering.” I meet Marianne’s gaze. “And we shouldn’t have sent Helen home by herself. Does she have anyone there with her to make sure she’s safe?”

  “Safe?” Agnes echoes.

  “Robert knows,” Marianne points out, freezing as she puts the pieces together. “We were talking with Helen about him being there the night of the murder, which conflicted with what he told the police. Robert came into the kitchen in the middle of the conversation. If he suspects Helen went to the police…”

  I’m already pushing my feet into my heels. “Without Helen’s testimony to put him with his father and undo his lies, there is nothing substantial sticking him to the crime.”

  Marianne is right behind me, grabbing up her keys. “I’ll drive.”

  I spin around and point at the three old women who are coming toward us. “No way. You three stay here and bolt the door. I mean it. Don’t open the door for anything. Got it?”

  Agnes puts a hand on Winifred’s shoulder and the other on Karen’s, acting as the responsible adult. “Be safe, girls.”

  I dash out the front door and shut myself in the passenger’s seat of Marianne’s rickety beige sedan. I barely buckle myself in before she is flying down the road, a wild gleam in her eyes.

  Marianne’s worry comes out in a mess. “I can’t believe we let Helen walk out of the precinct without going with her. She’s a sweet person. If Robert does anything to her…”

  I take a deep breath and do what I can to keep my cool. “For all we know, Sheriff Flowers has already arrested Robert.”

  “For all we know, he’s dragging his heels on this, like he always does, giving Robert plenty of time to go after Helen.”

  My eyes close as I flinch at a flash of memory. “The sheriff told her to call in sick to work. Robert knows she’s at home.”

  Marianne stomps harder on the gas, bypassing the speed limit until it is a mere suggestion to be batted away at will. Her car’s engine roars as if it has not known oil in months.

  I don’t know the way or how long it will take, but I am certain we are already too late. I mentally prepare myself to see my second dead body since coming to the cute little town of Sweetwater Falls.

  When Marianne peels into the driveway ten excruciating minutes later, she shouts at the blue coupe parked down the street. “That’s Robert’s car!”

  I pull out my phone and call the police station, but Marianne is too determined to wait for the grownups with guns to get here. She bolts out of the car—my sweet librarian come to life—and tries to open the locked front door. The curtains of the big picture window are closed, even though it is the middle of the day, so we cannot see if there is peril inside.

  The phone rings forever as I leap off the front porch and sprint after Marianne, knowing there is no scenario in which everything ends peacefully. “Around the back!”

  She trips over an errant tree root, but I manage to catch her arm before she falls.

  I am leading the way now as we race past the row of petunias. I zip around a few gardening tools along the side of the sweet little ranch-style home.

  Finally, a person at the police station picks up. My words spill out in a rush. “Hello, send the Sheriff to Helen’s house.” When the dispatcher doesn’t seem to grasp the severity of the situation, or even the case to which I am referring, I all but growl under my breath while I race to the backdoor.

  “Locked!” Marianne moans.

  My heart drops when I hear Helen’s scream coming from inside the house.

  I explain the situation to the person on the phone in as few clipped sentences as possible, and then end the call. Breathless, I cast around for anything that might look like a hide-a-key.

  Marianne resorts to pounding her fists on the door. “Helen! Helen, you’re not alone! We’ll get you out!”

  I don’t know if some of Marianne’s signature wildness is leaping onto me, or if my bravery has taken a turn for the worst. But as my feet move back the way we came, I don’t hesitate to grab up the shovel that is propped on the side of the house.

  I race to the porch, but I don’t go for the door. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve held a baseball bat, but even if my grip is wrong, my swing carries enough force from my adrenaline that I am certain I have just hit a home run.

  The end of the shovel crashes into the glass, spidering the clean surface with the first blow.

  The second blow sends a handful of shards into the front room of Helen’s house.

  I silently apologize when the third hit shatters enough of the window for me to climb through after I discard the shovel. My arm snags on a jagged edge, and my shin is sliced on a sharp shard, but I barely feel any of it.

  Helen’s scream fills the house, but I don’t see her. I race down the hallway, realizing I made a wrong turn when her subsequent shout makes it clear she is in the basement.

  I catch a flash of Marianne climbing through the window, shovel in hand in my periphery, but I don’t slow. I take the steps to the basement three at a time, all but flying down to face the man who never learned to keep his childish tantrums under control.

  “Helen!” I cry, racing toward my scared and bleeding friend in the corner.
>
  I have no plan when Robert turns to face me, steak knife in hand. I recognize his weapon of choice, as it is the same utensil I used to make apple coleslaw alongside Helen when we first met.

  I should have brought the shovel to use as a weapon.

  I should have waited for the police.

  I probably should have a better plan than to throw myself at Robert, foregoing the eminent danger of the knife clutched in his fist.

  I missed my calling as a football player, apparently, because Robert hits the concrete floor when I pummel him as hard as I can.

  “Charlotte, careful!” Helen shouts.

  Careful doesn’t get the job done. I have been careful my whole life. I can’t resign myself to a life lived carefully a moment longer.

  I have to be brave.

  Robert is strong, but I am in no mood to lose this fight. Years of pent-up frustration belts out of me. I refuse to play it safe for another second.

  Robert rolls so he is on top of me, knife poised dangerously close to my cheek. “Perfect,” he says, spitting through gritted teeth. “Save me the trip of having to track you down next.”

  There is no fear that hits me, only renewed determination. Gerald will be the only person to die at this man’s hands.

  This very day, his killer will be locked up.

  The edge of the serrated knife drags along my cheek. My hand cups his wrist, holding it at bay as well as I am able. His strength is making mine seem laughable as my hand begins to shake under the effort of trying to keep him from cutting me.

  I barely put together the actions of my sweet best friend in my periphery. There is true terror in her eyes as she raises up the shovel I had left on the porch. Her two braids fly out as brings the thing down on Gerald’s head with a sickening crack.

  The man who believed in my cupcakes and took a chance on my business lets out a loud bray of agony, and then goes limp atop my supine body.

  The knife drops from his grip, giving me the opportunity to escape from underneath his form.